The Stud

When a Santa comes by to entertain at a party, Avery assumed he’d be busy all night. But a need for a clean shirt brings this Santa entertainer to Avery’s den, where this stud just might let Avery take a swing on his jolly meat. Can Avery handle his alpha male manhood?

Read it now as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here

Avery loved his nieces. They were beautiful little girls, and he wanted to spend as much time with them as possible.
But he did not want to attend their Christmas party. It sounded boring, and not only that, but since Avery was a cool, funny, outgoing uncle, his nieces would mob him, demanding he do silly voices and give them piggyback rides as soon as he got there.
It was, unfortunately, difficult to avoid because Avery lived above the garage at the same house as his sister, her husband and their three daughters. So he was invited, and he heard the little girls running around excitedly with their friends (the idea of spending time with more than a dozen little girls sounded exhausting, just thinking about it made Avery want to take a nap).
That was, after all, the nice thing about not having kids — you didn’t have to spend time with them when you didn’t feel like it. Today was definitely a day when Avery didn’t feel like it.
But it would be rude not to go at all. It was the day before Christmas Eve after all. He needed to make an appearance. He decided to bring his Christmas presents for the girls. They were all wrapped and ready to go, so he could put them under the tree and his nieces would forget that he wasn’t at the party — the only thing they would remember was that Uncle Avery had brought them their presents.
He was just about to head down there when he saw a ramshackle Chevrolet pull up outside. It was powder blue but speckled with gray flecks and the passenger-side door had been replaced with a red one from a different car. A man in a Santa costume got out and headed for the door. He walked with a swagger-heavy gait, but he stopped and steeled himself before knocking on the door. He plastered a jolly smile on his face.
Avery put his presents down. He didn’t want to compete for attention with a Santa. He scoffed — when his sister first got pregnant, she said that she was not going to fritter away money on nonsense, and here she was throwing a child’s Christmas party (which isn’t even a tradition) and hire a Santa for it, when they could just go to the mall and do the same thing for nearly free. Sounds like money frittered away on nonsense to me. But then, Avery’s sister had also sworn that she wouldn’t buy her daughters “girls’s toys”, and that lasted until her eldest daughter was old enough to ask for specific toys. Avery’s sister had sworn she wouldn’t let them wear makeup until they were sixteen, and they started playing with makeup last year, when the youngest was only eight.
Not that Avery really cared about any of these things, he just thought it was funny that his big tough sister’s resolve failed when her daughters batted their eyelashes and asked nicely. She never could tell them no.
Eventually Avery stopped hearing the Santa’s ho-ho-ho — whoever it was, he had a great deep booming Santa-voice — and heard the now-familiar tune of the Frozen soundtrack.
Let it go, let it go. Wish they could let Frozen go.
He went downstairs and headed over to the main house. That must mean the Santa was done. Avery hadn’t seen him leave yet and his car was still out front, but the Santa show seemed to be finished. Avery could hang out with the adults until the movie was over, then make a big deal of bringing the girls’s presents to the tree. It wouldn’t take very long, and he’d look awesome in front of his nieces.
Avery’s sister and a few other moms were in the kitchen. He came through to say hello. The girls sang along to the movie in the other room. Santa was nowhere to be seen. Avery wanted to find out if his physique was as grand as it had seemed from the window. It was hard to be sure given the fat suit and the distance.
“Oh, hi, Avery, merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas!”
“Happy holidays!”
Groans emanated from some of the other moms. Avery wasn’t interested in quibbling over “holidays” vs “Christmas”, so he just smiled and nodded and small-talked with them until he thought he had done enough. Nobody really was interested in him anyway. Uncle Avery was not the star of Christmas, Santa was.
“What happened to Santa?”
“Oh, the girls got a little over-excited. There was some throw-up,” Avery’s sister said with a wry smile. “He’s taking a shower.”
“A merry, jolly North Pole shower!?”
“No, a normal shower in our bathroom,” she said. The other moms giggled. “I think he might need some men’s clothes, something to wear under the Santa suit. Probably just a t-shirt or something. Do you have anything? You know… that might fit him?” She was a little awkward because her tremendously overweight husband was in the next room, watching football. He pretended he wasn’t sensitive about his weight, but he was.
“Your husband’s clothes…? I just thought… You know… Santa?” Avery pantomimed a large belly.
“Oh no, this Santa’s not fat. He’s got a fatsuit on,” said one of the other moms. “I think he might be… He’s a well-formed young man.” The women all giggled, the same sound their daughters were generating in the next room.
He went upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. The shower was running, so he opened the door just a crack. “Hey, uh, I live above the garage, man, do you need some clothes?! I can give you some of mine if you need it!”
The shower turned off. “What?” A man’s face appeared poking through the shower curtain.
“Oh, hi, I’m Avery…” His voice trailed off because this Santa was more handsome than he had any right to be. He had a thick shock of black hair, a square jaw and deep, dark eyes, and broad shoulders partially visible around the shower curtain. He looks like the hero on the cover of a fantasy novel, Avery thought to himself. He sent a shiver up Avery’s spine. The man — the Santa — was sturdy like a mountain, with big lips and skin the color of vanilla ice cream on his bare chest, which was untanned.
“Uh… Hi, Avery,” he said. “I’m Jeff.”
“Hi.” Avery blushed. “Uh… My sister said you got thrown up on? Did you need some clothes? They uh… They said you might fit in my clothes, but… They don’t know men’s sizes I guess. What are you, like six and a half feet tall?”
“Almost.” He smiled, flashing deep dimples. “I’m six-four.”
“Cool. Cool.” Avery blushed even deeper. “Sorry, I, uh… Did you want to come look at my clothes? I might have something that fits you.”
“Uh, yeah, thanks, I really just need a t-shirt. That fat suit is uncomfortable without a shirt on underneath, and my shirt is vomity. I just need something I can get on, you know, it doesn’t have to fit right.”
“Okay, well, come on over to the garage then,” Avery said. “I’ll go see what the biggest shirt I have is.”
He felt giddy as he hurried out to the garage again. He was beginning to think that Santa was a potential conquest.
He knew exactly what his biggest t-shirt was, because a different conquest had left it here after a July 4 party. The fireworks man had left his sweaty t-shirt here. It was about four sizes too big for Avery. It would probably be a bit big for Jeff too, but not cavernously large like Avery’s brother-in-law’s shirts would be. Avery hid it at the bottom of his dresser drawer so he wouldn’t accidentally “find” it before he had a chance to work on Jeff.
There was a knock at the door. Avery let Jeff in, his jaw agape — Jeff wore dingy old basketball shorts, sneakers and little else, aside from a dog tag. There was a military-looking tattoo on his bicep as well, a bald eagle flying with a rifle in its talons. His chest was broad and strapping, with well-worked muscles that you could tell didn’t come from a gym.
“Oh, are you a soldier?”
“Not anymore. I’m a vet. I got out of the Army last year,” he said.
“And now you bring presents to all the children at Christmas? That’s super,” Avery said. He started to make a show of looking through his own shirts, all of which were way too small for Jeff’s broad shoulders and chest.
He smiled. “I’m actually… Don’t tell your sister this, some people don’t like the idea of children’s entertainers who are… well, I’m a stripper,” he said. “That’s what I was doing until Christmas. Still am, but Santa gigs pay better now, and anyway I can do kids parties during the day and still strip at night.”
“Oh, that is so cool! You have a great body, you should be a stripper! I’d have suggested it if you didn’t say it!”
He grinned wanly. “Yeah, well… so if you know anyone who, uh… They don’t gotta be ladies.” He grimaced and blushed.
“Oh? What does that mean?”
“I mean, I do dude parties, if you want. I’m not… I can tell you prolly don’t spend a lotta time with women. You might know some guys who would hire me, y’know, at a party… Well, I rub my dick on guys’s faces, that’s you know, pretty much, if they want that. I don’t do any of, you know… the… I dance. I’m a good dancer,” he said. He blushed. “That’s all. I’m a good dancer.”
Avery sat down in his computer chair. He withdrew a twenty-dollar bill and tucked it into the waistband of Jeff’s shorts. “Prove it.”
Jeff blushed a little deeper red. He looked around. Avery got the feeling he had never given a man a lapdance outside of a crowded party. But Jeff took a deep breath and snapped his hips to one side, making his massive cock shake and bulge in the shorts he wore. He clearly didn’t have on any underwear beneath that.
A pounding rhythm filled the air, emanating from Avery’s niece’s little boombox back in the main house. That helped Jeff a lot, and he danced around the room for a few seconds to get into the rhythm of it. Avery watched his back muscles writhe.
“You ready?” Jeff asked, flashing his dimples. He backed up to Avery, who was still seated so Jeff’s ass was around his face level. Avery’s cock rocketed to attention. The fact that Jeff hadn’t prepared to strip today actually made this more arousing — dirty basketball shorts were more alluring, Avery thought, than contrived stripper clothes. The faint layer of chest hair that hadn’t been shaved yet even extended over his shoulder. His natural musk was only barely covered up by deodorant — he no doubt wore cologne when he stripped, but he assumed no one would notice through the fatsuit. All those things turned Avery on more than any polished Hollywoodized stripper.
His asscheeks flexed, one after the other, in front of Avery’s face. Avery inhaled deeply of the sweaty scent and moaned loudly, and the awkwardness of the situation made him chuckle. That made Jeff laugh too — it was clearly forced, he was in agreeable-stripper-mode — and Avery even tried to tease those shorts down before Jeff batted his hands away.
“No touching the stripper,” Jeff said.
Avery was expecting that. He slipped a hundred dollar bill into Jeff’s hand.
“Oh, well… Thanks,” Jeff said. He blushed.
Avery dove his face between Jeff’s buttcheeks. He inhaled deeply and licked the fabric of those shorts. Jeff grunted and laughed with a nervous tremor to his voice.
“I bet you could use more money,” Avery said. He pulled down Jeff’s shorts, revealing perfectly plump, pink cheeks. He kissed each one, making Jeff yelp and laugh again. Avery smiled. “How about two hundred dollars?”
“For what?”
“Stick it in me. Treat me like a woman,” Avery said. He patted Jeff on the left asscheek. Jeff turned around. He covered his bare crotch with both hands, shorts around his ankles. With his arms over the center of his body, his pecs were bunched together, making Avery so horny he wanted to burst.
“What?!”
“Oh come on, don’t tell me I’m the first guy to offer!”
He shrugged. “Well, uh… No, I guess you’re not. But you’re the first one to be serious! They, uh… I mean, at parties they make jokes, but…”
Avery giggled. “Oh, Jeff… What do they teach you in the Army? I can assure you those guys were serious. They made it like a joke because you were more comfortable that way. It meant you could say no and not get awkward, you could just shrug it off. If you said yes, they would pay you.”
“They would?”
“Well, I can’t vouch for all of them. I’m sure some would trick you and not pay. You gotta use some discretion,” Avery said. “But I’ll definitely pay you.”
“Oh… Uh… Okay. Yeah, fine,” he said. He closed his eyes. “Whatever. Fine. Yeah. I’ll do it. You gotta hurry though, they’re gonna want me back there when Frozen is done.”
“Well, then get to dancing,” Avery said.
Jeff took a deep breath and resumed his strip show. He shook his ass in front of Avery’s face, then turned around — his shorts were already around his ankles, so there wasn’t much stripping in this strip show. He simply wasn’t wearing enough clothes to strip.
But he did dance. He had a nice hefty cock that flopped between his legs. Avery switched the house music to a techno-Christmas album, and Jeff danced to a dubstep version of “Little Drummer Boy”. He even air-drummed like a drummer boy, and the sight of his bulging biceps made Avery’s dick so hard it was about to burst.
He beckoned Jeff, who gulped and approached. Avery grabbed his cock. Jeff winced and closed his eyes. He stood there with his hands on his hips, as far away from Avery’s chair as he could be while still being close enough for Avery to grab his dick.
Avery pulled. Jeff came closer, and closed his eyes again when his cock disappeared down Avery’s throat.
“Ah… alright…” Jeff grunted. As soon as he began, he seemed to lose a lot of his inhibitions — many guys reacted that way, as though they thought a man’s mouth was going to be painful and were surprised when it felt way better than they expected. Jeff’s face was bright red. “Wow, okay… You, uh… you get pretty deep on that.”
Avery already knew that, but he liked to hear it again. He rammed his nose all the way down deep in Avery’s crotch, nuzzling his pubic hair — which was mostly shaved. He inhaled deeply of that masculine musk.
In no time, Jeff’s cock was rock-hard and throbbing in Avery’s mouth. Jeff gasped and writhed. He moved like he hadn’t blown a nut in a long time, and it took every ounce of concentration to keep himself from blowing a load embarrassingly quickly.
Wanting to feel that shaft all the down his throat, Avery dragged Jeff’s hands up to his head. But Jeff just seemed to think he had to be gentle, and he let go of Avery’s scalp.
“You can ram it into my throat,” Avery said, wiping up all that drool that dripped past his lips. He licked Jeff’s cockshaft, making his whole body shake as Jeff moaned.
“Oh… I, uh… I don’t know… I mean, I know what, uh, but uh…” Jeff blushed. “I don’t know how…”
“What? Really? Don’t you and your fellow soldiers spend your leave banging whores? Don’t tell me you make sweet love to them and lick their pussies all night long?”
“Ew, no! No way! I don’t do that, man! No way! I don’t do prostitutes!” he looked genuinely shocked. “I mean, some guys in my unit… I’m not like that, man. You can be discharged for that. They’ll court-martial you in a heartbeat. I’m not into… I’m Christian, okay? I mean… things are different now. It was… I’m only doing this for the money. It’s not lust. That’s a sin.” He paused and bit his lip. “It’s not greed either, okay? It’s… It just makes fiscal sense. I can make more money this time of year if — nevermind, I don’t have to prove anything to you.”
“That’s right, quit talking and stick your dick in my throat!”
A strangled choking moan escaped from Jeff’s lips as he drilled his dick down Avery’s throat. He gasped and gulped. Jeff’s throat was somehow louder than Avery’s, even as Avery gagged uncontrollably and allowed his throat to be drilled.
Jeff may have been too nice to ever really ram it in anyone before, but he was tough enough and macho enough that it came easily to him. In no time, his balls swung against Avery’s chin, and Jeff grunted while precum flowed like a river down Avery’s throat.
That creamy, salty taste made Avery moan. This was already shaping up to be his best Christmas encounter ever, and it wasn’t even Christmas Eve yet.
“Okay, I’m gonna bust in a minute…” Jeff said. He pulled away. His face was bright red. His hands flailed above his spasming cock as he struggled to avoid blowing his load just yet. Avery watched and giggled. Precum flowed thickly down his shaft, and Avery licked it off, making Jeff shake like he was in pain.
Then Avery turned around and lifted his ass in the air. The sight of a man’s ass seemed to make Jeff’s erection die just a little bit, enough to bring him back from the bring of orgasm anyway. He hyperventilated as he approached Avery’s ass. He grimaced and wedged his dick between Avery’s cheeks.
“Okay, I, uh… I’ve never done this,” he said. “So you gotta tell me if I’m doing it wrong.”
“Sure thing, baby,” Avery said. He paused. “Wait, does that mean you have messed with a man’s mouth before?”
He chuckled. “It wasn’t my fault. She was dressed like a woman. I mean, he was dressed like a woman. The guys in my unit said they had all gotten blowjobs from her. But it was just a prank. It was a dark alley,” he said. “I didn’t notice she was, you know… a he.” He sounded defense. “He had tits that looked so real. They were just falsies. Ah…” Jeff gasped at the sight of his cocktip already in Avery’s ass. He had been so focused on telling Avery about the non-woman that he didn’t even notice that Avery had already gotten him started. Jeff bucked his hips and smiled at the feel of Avery’s tight ass squeezing around his cock.
One of Avery’s hands wrapped around his own dick, while he lowered his head and raised his ass. The sound of little girls screaming filled the air outside — Frozen must be finished.
“We better hurry for real then,” Avery said. He slammed his ass back, grimacing as most of Jeff’s cock slipped in. Jeff gasped. He had a big enough cock that he wasn’t used to anyone taking his entire shaft so easily.
He was still so shocked and overwhelmed by all that was happening that Jeff did little more than stand there. His rock-hard dick filled Avery’s ass up, but all of the motion came from Avery sliding back and forth. Avery didn’t mind — he enjoyed being a power bottom, and it was funny to watch a big macho soldier like Jeff react with such intense anxiety. Jeff watched his cock disappear inside Avery with his eyes wide open, as though he was constantly surprised and elated that his manhood wasn’t chopped off inside Avery’s body.
It was only right before his orgasm hit him that Jeff finally relaxed. He grimaced and gripped Avery by the hip with one hand, and by the shoulder with the other. He held on tight and slammed his dick in one time. He grunted loudly.
“Oh fuck, don’t move, man, don’t move, don’t move, don’t move,” he said over and over like he was panicking. Then he moved quickly, gyrating his hips and plowing Avery’s ass hard.
He groaned and grunted. His whole body twisted, muscles all flexing at once. He collapsed onto the ground atop Avery, his heavy Army muscles writhing above Avery’s head. He pistoned his hips a few more times, humping his dick deep in Avery’s ass in sync with the pounding bass beat of the stripper-music that still hadn’t ended.
Hot cum flowed into Avery’s ass, huge arcing jets of it that crept through Avery’s body. The warmth of his cum spread on his skin and through his veins, flowing throughout his body until Avery could feel and taste creamy cum over every inch of him.
Avery shot his own load as well, getting most of it on the floor. Jeff didn’t seem to notice. He kept on pumping his own wad deep into Avery’s ass, ending only when he got every last drop out. Jeff sighed. A wave of pleasure like melted butter exploded throughout Avery’s body, and he cried out, only to stifle the noise. He gasped. His whole body twitched and squirmed.
It was clear Jeff felt something similar, his muscles rippled where they pressed against Avery’s smooth back. His square-jawed face turned tense and red, and he plowed into Avery’s ass so hard it sent a jolt of pain accompanying the ecstasy that wracked Avery’s frame. Then, all at once, they both collapsed into a sweaty heap.
Still though, Jeff’s cock was in Avery’s ass, pulsating. A few final drops of creamy jizz hit Avery’s insides, and the heat of his load seeped into Avery’s flesh.
“Wow,” he said. “Daaaang…” He was about to say something else, but he was interrupted by Avery’s cell phone dinging to say he had gotten a text message. He lifted his upper body off, and he wiped a layer of sweat from his broadly muscled chest.
Overwhelmed by the pressure in his ass, Avery struggled to pick up the phone. Jeff didn’t move yet, just kept his limpening dick inside Avery’s tight ass. His hot breath condensed on the back of Avery’s neck.
He is santa not yr playtoy bring him back girls want santa. Gross.
“My sister says you need to go back. The girls want Santa,” Avery said.
He nodded and pulled away. Potent relief flooded Avery, who sighed and sprawled out on the floor. He lazily wrote out a check for Jeff before typing a response to his sister. Jeff sighed too, and then he wiped his dick clean with a wad of tissues from the box beside the bed.
Don’t be jealous sis. His cum tastes like peppermint so it is still holiday-appropriate. Deck yr own halls.
Jeff hurriedly got dressed again. He had put the fatsuit in the garage, so he walked out of Avery’s apartment above it wearing just those shorts again, putting on Avery’s t-shirt as he went. “Thanks!” he called out.
“No. Thank you,” Avery said. “Can you bring those presents there over?” he pointed to the pile in the corner. “They’re for my nieces. Tell them they’re early presents from the North Pole. Or whatever, make up your own story.”
“Yeah, sure, good idea.” He seemed relieved — that would explain where he was, it was a good excuse. He didn’t know Avery’s sister had already guessed what was happening. She knew how Avery rolled.
“See you later, Jeff. Remember — those dudes are not joking. You can make money letting them swing on your dick. Good money.”
He blushed with the undersized t-shirt half-on his chest. He pulled it down and cleared his throat. “Sweet. Okay. Thanks,” he said. “Yeah, I guess… I should’ve figured that out. Thanks. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Santa!”

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter12

The White Trash Veteran

“Hey, Pops… was Mama a…?” Buck’s voice trailed off. “Was she like…?” He gulped. “A… nice lady?”
Goose put the truck in park. They done come over to a cathouse outsidea Martinsburg — Lipsweet, it was called. It wasn’t owned by the Gray Snakes, so Goose was gonna hafta pay. He could take Buck to a Gray Snakes bar and get him a free slut, but he admiredta hire Buck someone special. Buck just turned eigheen a couple weeks back, and Goose done come home. After rejoicing in togetherness, Goose took him to Lipsweet as a birthday present. Buck got that raga in him, and Goose could understand for sure. He was young once too. Just once.
They was laughing mosta the way from Smashwood. Goose done come home wearing old ratty jeans and a wifebeater, and his gray-spackled beard was raggedy, so Buck came in one of walking right past him at first — Goose looked like one the hobos who moped around the trailer park.
But Goose felt less like a hobo than he had in a very long time.
“What do you mean?” Goose frowned at Buck.
“I heared… Lotta guys say, like…” Buck shrugged and looked down at his feet. He got a big jaw, big nose, big face and a broad pair of shoulders. Damn was Goose proud of him. He done growed into a mountain of man, and he got a hercules mullet. “Some guys got notions ’bout her.”
“If’n any fellers say one unkind word ’bout’cha mama, you best smack the stuffing outta ’em, Buck,” Goose said. He done lost the smile he had the whole way here. “Nah, that ain’t ahimsa. Don’t hit ’em. But don’t tol’ate dirty words and unclean claims neither. She was a saint, toting heaps of metta,” Goose said. He paused to attend to his anapanasati, while Buck pondered and plumped and rolled his eyes at Goose’s orientalisms. “There ain’t no such thang as permanence to a soul, Buck, not yor’n and not her’n. She was not her actions, she was her wisdoms, quiet as they was. She wouldn’t nevuh do nuttin’ foul, nothing. She done e’rythang she could fer you. She nevuh had nuttin’ but love fer you. And fer me. And the world really, she was all love, Moses.”
Buck nodded. “Good. Thought so. I ain’t believe ’em…” That did sound like a lie, but it was one Goose was glad to hear. If there was anything worth lying about, this was it.
“C’mon, son,” Goose said.
He done arrange for Buck to come with him of a Wednesday night cuz Helena was working. Goose knewed her well. She was a plus-size lady of indeterminate race, she got ass that don’t quit and she got pussy that takes a big boy dick when the occasion do arise.
That was good, cuz Buck’s dick was almost as big as Goose’s. Maybe bigger. Goose don’t wanna measure. Buck was a taller than Goose anyhow — Buck was damn near seven feet tall.
Anyway, couple minutes later, Goose was curling his naked body round Helena’s side so he could watch his boy blow up her pussy. She be canoodling, begging for more, Helena know how to play the game. She got more prajna than she seemed.
The plan was for Buck to fuck her, then Goose. Then they’d drink, for which Goose’d hafta sneak likker for Buck, cuz the drinking age was twenty-one — that was new, nationwide. Buck was barely eighteen.
But in the end, Goose slipped out without even blowing his wad. He handed over the dollars he had to the pinkie-ring whomberry Mr. Gregarian, so’s Buck could spend the whole night with Helena. Buck was young, dumb and fulla cum for sure. He done watch Buck pour gallons of nut up her pussy, and it ain’t even slow him down. Ain’t slow her down neither. He barely lit a cigarette before his dick was hard again, and he splashed his knob into the jizz flooding outta her snatch. She was clawing at his back and begging for more, and not just cuzza the money. Goose could tell when a woman was fooling, and that whore was not fooling. She was needful for Buck’s dick.
So Goose let Buck spend the wad for tonight, so Buck could exercise his raga, Goose his dana and the hooker her rigpa. It felt good to restrain, and Goose liked seeing his boy growed up. He don’t need to satisfy his own lusts. He is the master of hisself.
Whenever he sees with insight the rise and fall of the aggregates, he is full of joy and happiness. Duck Fat said that, and he was one wise gook.
When Goose left, dropping his lobha into the nothingness of the universe, he kept only a couple dollars for a drink. He went outside to get a breath of fresh air and sacca, and he decided to leave without buying a single drink.
He went on down by to the police station. Precinct 17 was nigh. Goose done made hisself known there on a couple drunk in public charges, and he was told they gots a bucket trustee a couple weeks back.
His name was Hassle, and he was a dowdy chowder-white Nazi, complete with swastikas and German words tattooed on his muscle-bound body. Hassle said he only joined up with the Aryan Way cuz he gotto in the state pen, he don’t got him no dvesha. Goose dunno if that was true.
Anyway, Hassle was the bucket trustee at Precinct 17, and Goose had an in there with Officer Jackson. He was a squat sumbitch who knewed some of the same fellers Goose knewed in the Army. Jackson let him know about the bucket trustee.
A bucket trustee is a man hired by prison guards or cops to do shit like mop floors, redd toilets, etc. All the shit work they don’t wanna do. Or rather, that’s what a ‘trustee’ does. A ‘bucket trustee’ do all that plus slurp cop dingdong.
When a cop wanna get off, the bucket trustee gotsta do it. That’s why no self-respecting man would tale the position.
But Gose don’t mind taking advantage. None those hangups matter anyway. Reality is an illusion called maya, and devotion to it is the fundamental ignorance of moha. Hassle got moha in spades. Goose could see it in Hassle’s sunken eyes.
“Hey, Hassle, you up?” Goose said when Jackson let him into the jailhouse.
Hassle groaned. “Yep.” He stood there in his cell, next to the free weights he was lifting a minute ago. His pale skin gleamed with sweat. “Goose. No ass.”
Goose shrugged. “Fine. But you swallow, and you go deep.”
Hassle sat on the side of his bunk and motioned for Goose to come into the cell, which he did. “You stop when I tap you on the ass.” Hassle had a six-pack of beer waiting beside his bunk too. Goose eyed that with upadana eyes, but he tamped his thirst down. Sunyata was better than beer, sukha better than preya.
“Cops say you gotsta swallow,” Goose said with a grin. That part weren’t true. He heared a rumor the cops made Hassle swallow they cum. Ain’t nobody say nothing about Hassle swallowing nobody else’s. He just get fellers off, reckon. But Hassle seemed to accept that the Goose was transmitting the word of the policemen in the front of the precinct.
Pulling down his trouser-pants and drawers, Goose hefted his fat meat in hand. He fed it into Hassle’s mouth, then let his eyes roll back as his dick firmed up. Hassle done get plenty of dicks hard, and he knewed how to do it with a quickness and with upekkha. He slurped up and down Goose’s knob. He don’t shirky-dick it. He was methodical like a fucking pro.
In the Army, Goose got a blowjob once from a Turkish whore, and she sucked dick like that, like so good it was too quick and he barely felt it. Took like ninety seconds. Hassle was like her. Goose was older now, and he saw it coming, this weren’t his first time with Hassle. Goose’s first time he cum before he meant to, he was planning on sticking it up Hassle’s behind neverminding Hassle’s protestations.
But he got good at delaying it. He don’t wanna premature nut. That experience was burned into his alayavijnana — that’s the deepness of a man’s notions — and like everything that ever done happen, Lucent shooting himself in the face, Masterson and Berringer, Sam’s brains, Ellen, the river, Buck raising up like the everyday sun, all of it was in there. They was meanders and dams and oxbows, but Goose ain’t let none of it interfere. He experienced only the sensation of the moment.
When Goose felt an orgasm coming on strong, he pulled outta Hassle’s mouth like he was gonna finish hisself off with his hands. Hassle even got up to wipe his face off.
That meant his ass was turned round, so Goose ripped down Hassle’s workpants and drawers. He shoved Hassle off-balance and onto the floor on all fours.
“Hey-!”
Then, before Hassle could move, Goose mounted him and rammed his dick into his ass. The only lube was Hassle’s spit, but that was enough to get started. Maybe two inches of Goose’s dick slid in.
“Get off me!” Hassle roared. He bumped his head into the wall of his cell. Goose had a good grip on his shoulders though, and Hassle couldn’t get enough leverage to stand.
“Relax, relax, Jackson said I could,” Goose said. He forced his dick in with all his might. He grinned. Jackson did say Goose could, but ain’t nobody gonna come hold Hassle down. All three them — Goose, Jackson, Hassle — was the culmination of they vasana, which led them like fate to this conflict in this cell. There ain’t no use fighting over it. You gotsta just let it play out.
Easy for Goose to say, cuz he was on top.
“Owwww shit!”
When a burst of pain hit Hassle, he collapsed to the floor. Goose grabbed the bottle of lube Hassle kept beside his bunk, and he went down with Hassle, who screamed in pain. Hassle lay on his belly on the floor, and Goose pressed down atop him.
“Ow, fuck, Goose-!”
“Sssh, relax, lemme just put the tip in,” Goose said. He already got the tip in and then some, but he done hit resistance. He be plowing against it though, holding onto Hassle by the nape.
Goose smeared lube on his dick and stabbed again into the hole. This time it mostly went in, but Hassle yet wriggled and grunted in agony. A wave of pleasure made Goose’s chest ripple. Hassle’s chowder-white face turned red like a Indian, and he buckled and wriggled beneath Goose.
“Oww, shit, man, c’mon! Sheriff said I only gotsta take cop dick up behind!” Hassle said. He wrenched his head this way and that. “Ow, shit! C’mon!”
“I’ll be done in a sec, just a sec,” Goose said. He laid his face on Hassle’s back and pumped his hips at every angle he could find. It felt good as Goose hoped, Hassle was well-broke-in from all that policeman dingdong and who-knows-who-else. A tight intact booty was nice, but a soft and warm chute was good too. Hassle don’t got a no in his bones, so he could say it over and over like a tractor, but he couldn’t clench.
A shot of creamy jizz spurted into Hassle’s guts. A long flow of it went in, and Hassle groaned in disgust and pain. Goose shot a huge load, it just kept on filling up his guts and dripping down his fat buttcrack onto the cell floor.
A moan came from both men but with very different cadences. Goose’s hot breath condensed on Hassle’s shoulder muscles. More jizz spurted into Hassle’s tight ass, and Hassle grunted with each wad of cum to coat his guts. Hassle’s whole body shook beneath Goose.
Both men was still. Then Goose pistoned his hips, ramming it in deep to drain the last couple drops of nutjuice. Hassle grunted, his muscles and swastikas jostling up and down with Goose’s thrusts.
At last, Goose raised his chest off Hassle, and he let his cock slip out. “Sorry, Hassle,” he said. He ain’t sound sorry at all. He had no regrets. No fetters. He got only shrugs, as he calmly wiped his pecker clean, got his garb back on and debouched into one of the unlocked cells.
Despite Hassle’s dirty looks, Goose slept there in his own cell, letting the waves of night lull him to slumber, and in the morning, he left and roused his hungover son from his lady’s arms. The sun did shine, like a bowl of merriment, upon Goose’s brow and upon Buck’s dozey dome. With viriya in they step, them two went by shanks’ mare back to they trailer in Smashwood.
Goose was from there, so coming home to it was the best thing ever.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter10

The White Trash Veteran

Goddamn do kids grow up fast! It felt like just yesterday Buck was a boy scared of his own daddy.
When Goose got back to Martinsburg in the winter of 1988, Buck done shot up another full foot in height. He was almost as tall as Goose now. He was strong — skinny, cuz he got so tall so fast, but strong as a ox. He got sweet on this blonde cutie-patootie Lucy. He do swan his love for her oftensome, fooling up his face every time he calls on her, acting like he invented falling moon over mug in love. He got intentions, he do, he do declare ’em on the daily, can’t hardly get him to talk about anything else. She smittened him, that’s what happened, that boy got straight-up smit!
Still don’t do school right though. He got a smart mouth with his teachers, and he failing all his classes. The principal Mister Jones admiredta expel him. T’was why Goose swapped noses with Mister Jones one sunny Saturday. Goose sat across from him at his desk, stacks of forms afront his snooty face. The color of Mister Jones’s tie was the same tan-brown color of the Vietcong’s uniforms, and as Mister Jones be a lecturing larry, Goose lost hisself in that color.
The Vietcong’s tan-brown uniforms strode along past the cage, whose bamboo bars put blisters upon Goose’s grip. Blood coated his hands — from his back, prolly, where they did whip him this morning — but all Goose saw with his hungry eyes was the cooking fire outside the prisoner of war camp and the plume of smoke rising into the inky blue beyond. One the Vietnameys was doling steam-curling soup into bowls for the other gooks.
“Your boy isn’t really academic material,” Mister Jones said, his voice a soundtrack for the soup being ladled out. “Everybody’s mind works differently, and Buck’s does not have the aptitude for education in math and literature-“
“What’s that mean?” Goose snapped more aggressively than he meant to. Mister Jones sniffled like he was snickety about that and put out a calmish murmur. But it was hard to concentrate on Mister Jones cuzza Goose seeing his hillbilly ass dodging the sharpened sticks the gooks poked in between the bars when they walked past. The sticks was cloyed at the tips with clots and scabs, and those who was stabbed usually got infected.
“He’d be better off learning a trade, I think. There are programs for…” Mister Jones said, his chair squeaking as he rolled back in it. “Are you… okay, Mister Sampson? I’m coming to you out of a sincere desire to find Buck a way forward.” He paused again. “You seem upset.” Sounded like he wrinkled his nose.
The gooks pissed in the cages too, a couple of ’em did, aiming they pinkie-winkies in and letting loose with cloudy streams of piss. Goose don’t feel nothing no more, not the cramped cage around him, not the chair in Mister Jones’s office underneath his ass, not the roiling pit of hunger in his belly or the boiling rage churning everhotly inside him.
“He ain’t learnin’ nuttin’!” Goose bellowed, his cheeks burning as tears streamed down. “You shitheads ain’t helpin’! You j’st givin’ up on helpin’ him!” He rattled the chair he could barely contain himself within. He rocked back and forth, so he’d feel the chair moving. His vision rocked too, the bamboo cage shaking around him. Goose grimaced, clenching his teeth till they hurt. He gotsta do his fatherly duty and keep Buck in school, but all he could think about was dodging them poopy sticks. He growled and roared, but it prolly sounded like a choked sob from a failed father to Mister Jones’s ears. Goose gripped the arms of the chair so hard liketa rip ’em off the frame.
“Sir, Mister Sampson, please calm down. You’ll have to leave if you can’t behave.” Mister Jones cleared his throat. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Buck doesn’t study or do homework-“
“Ain’t’choo got teachuhs? You’s sposedta be teachin’ him! You and the dumb-fuck parade he’uh is ‘bandonin’ mah boy!” Goose shrieked, spittle flecking his lips. He wagged his finger in the direction Mister Jones was, and since he ain’t see it, only felt it, it wagged with such energy it hurt, like he damn near wagged it outta its joint. Harley was in the cage next to Goose, praying and wasting away to nothing, to skin and bones. Goose avoided looking down less he reckon he was just as skinny.
“You can’t speak to me like that, you hillbilly! No wonder Buck struggles in school! How often do you read to him?” Mister Jones’s chair creaked under him, sounded like he was standing up now, leaning over the desk or maybe leaning away from it.
“Whatchoo sayin’ about me?! Huh? What’d you bring me here fo’?! You out he’uh accusin’ me-“
“I wanted to explain the scale of the problem, Mister Sampson! Buck won’t sit still. He disrupts class for the other students,” Mister Jones said. “He hit on Missus Gable! Grabbed her breast! The left one!”
Goose let out a growl. “Tha’ss natural-“
“You need to teach him to respect women!” Mister Jones. “And Buck picked a fight with another boy this week. Ryan Darling. Because Ryan called him a retard-“
“Then Ryan picked the fight!” Goose said.
Mister Jones cleared his throat. “Buck has had his chance, he… Mister Sampson? You seem upset.”
“Damn right I’s upset! You — You! I don’t gotta listen to this! You is runnin’ down mah boy, I ain’t a no-good deadbeat, don’chu think that-“
“Maybe we should do this when you’ve calmed down. I don’t think you’re a deadbeat, Mister Sampson, I’m sure… I didn’t set up this meeting to insult-“
“You can’t tell me nuttin’! You dunno, you dunno!” Goose roared, simmering yet as he stood and felt his way outta the office, just enough sense in his mind to stumble his way for the door. He admiredta punch Mister Jones out. When he got outta the principal’s office, he was — blessedly — in the school lobby.
He was in West Virginia, not ‘Nam.
But he maybe knocked over some chair or something, it mighta looked deliberate. He hurried away before he threw a punch and before he saw Mister Jones’s tie again.
Mister Jones followed him. First, he loosened, then took off the tie in his office — he thinked Goose was raising a ruckus on his way out the building — which Goose did do, he was right — Mister Jones removed the tie in anticipation of a donnybrook.
But no donny was brooked. When they got outside into the brilliant West Virginia sunshine, Goose reckoned that Mister Jones was tieless, and the fight mercifully drained outta him. He stopped beside the bike he rode over here.
“Nice motorcycle,” Mister Jones said. His voice wavered, ready for a fist and skull he don’t want. He let out a whistle that was no doubt meant to be appreciative but came across as plaintive.
Goose grunted. The whole world was rushing by, like time was catching up. He grimaced and let the wind run through his hair. That ain’t happen in Vietnam cuz his hair was short. Malnourishment meant it was dry and frizzled when he got outta there. Took months to come in normal.
After a minute or two of recompositioning hisself, Goose reckoned Mister Jones was serious about liking the motorcycle. He was looking at it like he always wanted one. Prolly got a wife who don’t like motorcycles. Women mostly don’t, in Goose’s experience.
“You want a ride?” Goose asked. He figgered Mister Jones wouldn’t want to ride in the bitch seat — behind Goose — but his eyes lit up.
“Hell yeah! Really?…” Mister Jones hesitated. “Are you okay, Mister Sampson? You seemed… upset in there-“
“I’m fine. Get on the bike. I need a ride, and maybe you do too,” Goose said.
With a shrug, Mister Jones got on the bike behind Goose, and they drove off.
That was good. Goose was ornery yet, but on the motorcycle, he wouldn’t hafta hear Mister Jones’s galding voice talk shit about Buck. By the time he stopped at the Gray Snakes bar, a lotta his anger done drain outta him.
“What is this place?” Mister Jones asked when Goose flipped the engine off. They both dismounted the motorcycle.
“Just a bar. Want a drink? I’ll buy,” Goose said with a shrug. He went in without waiting for a response.
Mister Jones followed him. Goose ain’t explain this was a Gray Snakes bar. He did a gig for ’em hauling untaxed liquor around. The nice thing about the Gray Snakes was that they provided females for they bikers in good standing. Not trashy whores too smacked out to complain neither, they had nice girls, who loved getting fucked by biker dick.
Brotherhood is unity of purpose, and Goose felt the Gray Snakes was a purpose, him and Buck as a family were a purpose. A man needs a purpose. That was Buck’s problem at school, Goose was now sure. Too many women, not enough purpose. Buck has gotta earn his manhood, and that’s not a schoolmarm’s domain.
Before the night was through, Goose got Mister Jones laid. She was the prettymost lady in the club tonight, blonde and buxom and big in the ass. She took Mister Jones’s dick all night long. Goose had his own lady in the same bed, but he ain’t let it turn into an orgy — Mister Jones would feel inadequate if he saw Goose’s cock, and he want him feeling good.
Anyway, it worked, and Buck got a second chance to stick around in school. Maybe Mister Jones was thankful for the beer and the poontang or maybe he was scared Goose would blow his head off. Results is results.
That felt good, and it reminded Goose he did get outta that bamboo cage alive. He barely remembered that whole parta it. The Army doc said he might never remember cuzza malnourishment — he was so hungry his brain ain’t form memories right.
It ain’t feel proper when he was rescued, like he weren’t really outta there, not until he found hisself in Cuba. Him and Harley done hitch a ride on a series of Navy ships heading home. Maybe t’was a good thing it took awhile. It gave ’em time to gain weight again and to realize they wasn’t captives no more.
For a whole week, they was stuck in Guantanamo Bay, an island off the coast of Cuba. They was so close to home, yet they still hadta wait a week to get a ship. Clarkson met them there. He was another Army soldier waiting for a ride home. He been in Guantanamo for a couple months, cuz he was recovering from a injury.
“You guys wanna see somethin’ great?” he axed of one night. Goose and Harley was sitting around smoking cigarettes in the moonlight and listening mournful-like to joyous calypsos when Clarkson approached ’em. T’was past lights-out, but that kinda thang weren’t enforced on Guantanamo.
The only thang to talk about was boredom, aside from all the bloodshed and horror and corpses and getting thrown in a tiger cage and poked with a shit-covered stick — aside from all that, the only thing Goose and Harley been talking about was being bored. Goddamn was it nice to be bored!
Goose and Harley and Clarkson all walked different paths to get here, but they surpassed the same barriers, and that felt right. Goose dunno at the time what civilian life was gonna be like. He ain’t barely recollect what life was like before the Army, before Vietnam, before Masterson and Berringer and the rest got killed. Sam.
Ain’t none of Goose’s problems done start yet. Life was calm in the after war. If only it could last forever and then real life could start. Goose saw dams arising ahead, blocking the river, but for now he was content to float upon the lazy lake of brotherhood.
When Clarkson offered to show Goose and Harley something interesting, they immediately snubbed out they cigarettes and agreed.
Clarkson led ’em to the other side of the base, the side of Guatanamo Bay that was closest to the Cuban mainland, which Goose could see across the water. There was a tiny pier there, just big enough for rowboats. That was how that the Cuban workers came across to clean and serve food and that kinda thing.
There was a derelict building here too. Maybe a disused office. Maybe this pier usedta be bigger. Coulda been a proper fishing village on the island a long time ago.
Clarkson led Goose and Harley to that building, from which emerged a pair of guilty-smile soldiers. They stopped short as they left cuz they saw Clarkson, Goose and Harley. Them’all gave awkward little nods and went on they way. Goose went into the building.
There stood a burly Cuban man in a linen shirt, who looked disinterested as he took twelve dollars from Clarkson. Behind him was a long curtain that stretched from one side of the building to the other.
The curtain got five holes in it at varying heights. Clarkson walked right up to one them holes, a big shit-eating grin on his face, and he unzipped his camos. He flopped his pecker into the hole, then he turned to look at Goose and Harley. “Go on, I paid for you two, only cost four bucks each. You can pay extra if you wanna piss in the hole.”
“Who…-“
“Aaah, shit, hell yeah!” Harley stepped right up and put his dick in one of the holes.
Feeling more cautious though, Goose ain’t do the same — he weren’t the ram-his-pecker-into-a-hole-in-order-to-find-out-what-was-on-the-other-side kinda guy. That was a very distinct breed of man, and Goose weren’t one of ’em! Instead, Goose bent over and peered through one of the holes.
It was too dark to see anything on the other side, but he sensed movement over there.
“It’s… a machine? What’s on the other side?” Goose asked. “It’s not a woman, right?”
As though the answer had oughta been obvious, Clarkson scoffed, while Harley whooped like a crane and plowed at his hole with enthusiasm. His balls thwapped against the curtain — he got massive balls considering his dingus was dinky. Harley said, “It’s a man, retard. I’ve heard of these, it’s a gloryhole. It’s probably like a rapist from the prison on the mainland.” He gripped the flat curtain the best he could, so he could pound his pecker in there..
Clarkson said something in Spanish to the linen-clad bouncer behind him, who responded likewise. Then Clarkson said in English, “Yeah, he said the guy raped like thirty women.”
“Which guy? There’s five holes,” Goose asked.
Looking at Goose like he was an idiot, Clarkson said, “I guess there’s five rapists, I dunno.”
Harley was already blowing his wad, cuz he was like that. He ain’t hide it neither. He was throwing his head back and moaning like a cowboy. Clarkson rammed at the mouth on the other side of his hole pretty dang hard too, his face tensing up as he neared his orgasm.
Though Goose weren’t horny, he was bored, and he don’t wanna look like wussy willie. He’d rather come back and do this in the middle of the night alone. That’d be better. But they prolly go back to the mainland eventually.
In any case, Goose stuck his dick through the hole. A very awkward warmth overwhelmed him. The man on the other side musta gagged or something, cuz a lotta moisture came running down Goose’s shaft, soaking his pubes.
Or maybe he just used alotta spit. That was nice, it felt good, so long as Goose ain’t think too much about what he was doing. He closed his eyes and pictured women — not Vietnameys, he pictured white women or black women or Indian women, he don’t care, just nothing Vietnamey, not ever.
A potent orgasm wracked his body — he dunno how long it took, Goose was so focused on not picturing no Vietnamey female that he barely noticed hisself getting close. Cum exploded through the gloryhole and soaked the curtain. Goose’s knees buckled, it felt so good yet almost painful. Harley and Clarkson stood behind him and laughed.
“Shit, can’t believe that only cost four bucks,” Goose said, shivers of pleasure still rocking him. His cock slid out the gloryhole. The man on the other side musta stopped slurping the moment he tasted cum, which was kinda disappointing. Mosta Goose’s jizz spurted off into the air.
Yet, for four bucks, Goose couldn’t complain too much.
By the time he done tuck his dick away, Harley was paying the Cuban in the linen shirt to piss in the hole. It was kinda funny, Goose hadta admit that. But they ain’t get to see the man getting pissed on, and there weren’t even no guarantee he was getting pissed on — he coulda moved away. Harley said he could tell he was pissing into a open mouth, but his dick weren’t in that mouth at the time.
They debated all the particulars of that the whole way back. Harley was insistent he pissed on a Cuban rapist, Goose was less sure. Clarkson sided with Harley.
By the time they got back to they bunks, the conversation done drift to the relative merits of blowjobs from different kinds of whores. They all done make acquaintanceships with some in the before-time, before the war. They compared notes on pre-war prostitutes. They all most likely fucked Vietnamey prostitutes too. But nobody talked about that.
The word ‘Vietnam’ wasn’t said one time, and that felt right as rum to Goose.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 9

The White Trash Veteran

By the end of 1987, Goose found his hillbilly ass on a oil rig in the North Atlantic, nigh to a place called the Pharaoh Islands. Goose never heared of ’em. It wasn’t Egyptian, though it sounded like it, it was much farther north than that. It was cold as frozen turds up there!
The oil rig itself was toasty warm though. Got plentya heat throughout, and the pay was good, so they could live it up when back on land on leave.
Till then, there weren’t much to do besides work. Goose was tuckered as a tire for sure. He did get mail from Buck and Missus Bridge though. She kept Goose in the loop on Buck’s school troubles. He was getting remedials, which she thinked was gonna help.
He be wilding, got hisself suspended. That schoolteacher said he gotsta “decorate his binder how he likes it”, but he don’t like it decorated, so he up and ran around, raising hell, you know how a hillbilly do! He ain’t yet understand that when a woman says to do something as you like it, what she means is to do it as she likes it.
Buck took it on the chin. He was like that, he take it all in stride. All he gots is women in his life though. He lives with Missus Bridge, he got a lady schoolteacher, his daddy be gone all the time. Maybe that was why he was struggling in school, Goose thought. He sees it as a womanly thing.
Even Buck’s gym teacher was a woman! A sturdy lass for sure, but she don’t let ‘em do no wrestling or tackle football or nothing. Buck do get in trouble when he’s bored.
Buck sent him drawings of school and the tree fort he built with his buddy Cody, and Goose be sending him back drawings of the oil rig’s drilling room. Buck love that shit. Goose even got this feller with a camera to take some pictures of the machinery, and Goose sent ‘em on to Buck.
“Shit, man, aftuh I drop off them pitchers in the mail, I’mma kick off in town tomorruh,” Goose said when him and the other Americans all got back on down to they barrack after suppuh one night. They all lived together by nationality. It helped avoid conflicts, or so the old-timers said.
“Shit yeah, booooy!” said Jamal. He was the black feller — the black American feller, as there was other black fellers from like Africa and such. Jamal ain’t get along with them one bit though. He wanted nothing to do with the Africans or the Dominicans. Neither did Goose. Leave he to his own, that’s in the Bible. He do make a exception for the wisdom of the Orient that Sam introduced him to, prior to Goose eating his brains that one time.
Goose wondered if Sam’s teachings on rivers and meditation done stuck to Goose’s mind cuz Sam’s brain got in Goose’s mouth. Prolly not. Prolly no science in behind that. But he do dwell on it.
“I’mma get that lamb, with the sauce! Heckfire!” said Jenderson, a tall reedy motherfucker from Minnesota.
They all agreed on that one. The restaurant on the Pharoah Islands where they got dinner on leave had a rack of lamb that was pricey as fuck but tasted so good it made Goose drool just thinking about it.
“The beer with the bear on the label too-“
“Oooh yeah!”
“Remembuh that blonde waitress?”
“My god, she was hot as hell!”
“Hmmphh!” said this youngish feller Jethro Wilde with a mustache and a scruffy beard beneath it. He grabbed his crotch through his workjeans. He pumped his hips like he was fucking a invisible woman. Then he loosened his belt and dropped his jeans.
They all stripped to drawers after work. The living quarters was warm, often uncomfortably hot, so they gots to get as undressed as possible. With them all grabbing they peckers and miming what they wanna do to the blonde waitress, stiffies was popping up.
And the black feller Jamal was the one with the most obvious stiffy. “Hey, I’mma see if anyone put on that miniskirt,” Jamal said with a guilty laugh. He been dancing along with rap music, which was new then, Goose ain’t never heared it — t’was like calypso but worse, he found. He played calypso instead, but Jamal be plussing. Goose settled. Jamal got a ear for that rap. He grappled with his crotch as the others all laughed alongside him. “Needta find a lady, don’t care how ugly!”
Them’all guffawed and slapped they knees. Jamal was short as a petunia, but he steady popped stiffies. He was little enough that his medium-sized pecker looked big as hell on him. He weared only tight-white drawers, as he went off into the corridors of the oil rig in search of the “barrel room”.
That was a small bedroom with a box in it. Inside the box was a miniskirt. The old-timers did say over and over that anybody who want to can put on the miniskirt. Then the other fellers was “allowed” to ram him up the booty — course ain’t nobody gonna scotch ya even without the miniskirt. On rig, a feller can either hold his own or he can’t. Don’t need a miniskirt to let a man in ya backdoor.
But anyway, if he put on a miniskirt, another man is allowed to put it up behind, gotsta pay out in likker, that was all. The old-timers would enforce that one, if a feller refused to pay up.
Or supposably they would. Ain’t not a soul do it yet, and Goose and them all done spread the notion that nobody ever did. T’was just a prank, a way to scare newbies by pretending you was gonna put the miniskirt on ’em.
But Jamal been checking every night, it seemed. You know how black boys is, they love ass. If Jamal was a foot taller, he’d prolly try and put the miniskirt on a small feller. Black boys is like that. Most likeishly, the Africans on rig would do the same, and maybe they did among they own. Nobody talked about that though. Jamal returned to the barrack every night with a stiffy, which he jacked off right there in front of everybody.
That ain’t a fun parta brotherhood, seeing a black boy shooting nut on his belly. Still felt good to Goose though. Lotta the Americans on rig was veterans, not all of ’em went to ‘Nam though. It hurt to hear it the first time, when some feller said he was in the Army in peace. It made Goose feel old, used-up, abandoned like a waste house, irrelevant, forgotted, like everything that happened was never gonna matter. The Army done move on. Vietnam done move on.
But that feller got his own troubles, his own dams blocking up his self-same river. It’s good for a man to get away. Among women and children, a man had gotta keep his head up, keep his shoulders straight. A man falls apart like a jigsaw puzzle; a woman falls apart like shattered glass. Without women, men holds each other together like log cabins. Without men, women holds each other down like a bucket of frogs.
Since leave was upcoming soon, Goose held off on his own wingwang. He was gonna get to that brothel, and he was gonna fuck like a stallion. There was beautiful Nordic ladies — blonde-haired beauties like Viking princesses waited for ’em in the Pharaoh Islands.
Thinking about them Viking ladies got Goose an inconvenient hardon the night before leave. It was too early for lights out, and Goose don’t like to jack hisself off in the lightness, with a dozen fellers watching or worse, whacking it alongside him. That’s nasty, and that’s what Jamal do. If Goose ain’t better than a colored feller, then what’s the point of being white?
T’wasn’t until just before lights-out that Goose reckonized Jamal’s absence. He never did come back from the trip to the barrel room. Did that mean someone did have on the miniskirt after all? Maybe Jamal was deep in some feller’s asshole right now.
So Goose excused hisself to go take a shit, but then he went through to the barrel room, carrying with himself the bottle of rum he been sipping from. Sure nuff, he heared Jamal’s voice in the barrel room, and when he went in, Jamal was plowing into the behind of a much larger man.
It was one the dark-haired ones who lived altogether in a corner barrack, white but swarthy — someone said they was Greek, someone else said Gypsies. Maybe both. This one was Bosko, and he was a broad-shouldered powerhouse, the miniskirt barely fitting round his waist.
“Ah shit, honky, you caught me! This girl is tight!” Jamal said with a big bright smile. Bosko was strong as a ox and a foot taller than Jamal’s bitsy booty, so Jamal looked ridiculous ramming at his backdoor, like it took all of Jamal’s strength just to bump into him. Jamal then closed his eyes as he jetted his nut into Bosko’s tight ass. “Hmm, baby, you okay?” He tenderly rubbed Bosko’s asscheek.
Parta the rule was that whoever weared the miniskirt was “technically” a female. You had to treat “her” like a woman, and you hadta pretend it was a different person. Jamal wasn’t sposedta ever acknowledge that it was Bosko in the miniskirt. Jamal’s whole body twitched as he shot Bosko fulla jizz. Goose got up close to watch, but there weren’t much to see, cuz Jamal done ram his whole manhood up there.
All Goose sawed was Bosko’s ass quivering as he clenched and expelled Jamal’s limpening dickshaft. It plopped out with a moist shlurping sound that made Goose both chuckle and groan.
“No ass.” Bosko had a thin accent to his English. He glared at Goose, as Jamal chuckled and wiped his black boy pecker off, then pulled his drawers up.
Before Jamal left, he grabbed Goose by the balls through his drawers and squeezed hard enough to make Goose squirm. Then Jamal guffawed and stepped outta the barrel room. Jamal thought a white man with a big dingdong was hilarious.
“Good luck, Bosko!” Jamal said. Then he hushed hisself, “I mean… lady… ma’am, whoever you is.”
The door swung shut behind him, and Goose was left alone with Bosko.
Goose looked sheepishly at Bosko. He showed him the third of a bottle of rum he had, which Bosko peered at, then sniffed then put in a corner with a few other bottles of liquor, beer and wine.
“Mouth only.” Bosko said, his miniskirt riding up to bare his hairy Greek thighs. He got on his knees in front of Goose. He got a wide layer of scruff round his lips and a hairy chest. Shit, he was hairy enough to make the whole room smell like body hair.
Goose wrinkled his nose. He ain’t never decide to do this, he just had liquor in hand and Bosko thinked that was supposed to be payment. Goose did wanna bust a load out, but damn, couldn’t they shave Bosko’s Greek ass? Or Gypsy or anywhat? Whatever race Bosko was, they was some hairballs, that was for sure.
Slipping his limp dick into Bosko’s mouth, Goose furrowed his brow. Bosko made no effort to throat him. Goose had trouble getting hard like that. Bosko’s beard hairs was coarse and reminded Goose there was no woman around, and Bosko ain’t even do nothing, he just sat there gawping like a dead fish.
His mouth was open, and Goose could play round in there all he wanted. Bosko ain’t even gag a bit. But he also ain’t lick it or slurp on it or make any spit or even just move his lips back and forth. Goose did the best he could.
His tongue did feel good, kinda, rubbing on Goose’s meat. It felt better than Goose’s own hand anyway. It ain’t feel much like a blowjob though, more like a discount fleshlight.
“Hey, I’m allowed to ram you up the asshole,” Goose said with a frown. He put his hands on his hips, then swayed his waist to make his dick limply rub over Bosko’s msuatchioed face. “I can’t even see the miniskirt like that, man.”
Bosko grumbled in whatever dumbass language he spoke, but he got up onto the bed in one corner of the room. He laid on his back so his head dangled just off the back edge.
“A’ight, a’ight,” Goose said with a smile. He bent his knees to get his dick into Bosko’s mouth, which stretched open to accommodate it. Goose tried to picture a woman in the miniskirt, ignoring Bosko’s hairy legs and the treasure trail going down his belly and into the miniskirt.
This was more like it.
With Bosko laying over the edge of the bed, Goose had a perfect angle to go deep in his throat. Bosko musta been well broke-in — damn well broke-in — cuz he ain’t resist a bit. Goose’s limpness hit the backa his throat and slipped in past his gag reflex, and that was it! A surge of melted pleasure hit Goose’s body, and he moaned as his cock flexed to full erection in moments.
Goose’s pecker was too big for any woman to deep-throat, so he never got real deep like that. He did throat down some fellers pretty hard in his day, but ain’t none of ’em was as broke-open as Bosko was and ain’t mosta ’em bend over backwards like this neither.
That Gypsy throat opened up deep enough that Goose’s whole erection could ram down there, his balls slapping Bosko on the nose. “Oh fuck yeah, baby…” Goose pictured one the Viking women he was gonna fuck on leave. He ain’t even needta look at the miniskirt.
Later on, Goose found out Bosko was indeed a Gypsy, and they gots a rule that when they run outta liquor on rig, they draw straws and make one of they own take dick till they earn enough liquor to last till leave. Over the next couple days, Bosko musta took gallons of nut. Gypsies is like that, reckon.
Bosko gagged over and over, but he got deeper on Goose’s dick than any man ever had. Goose got so into it that he even pulled down Bosko’s miniskirt as though he might see a pussy. All that was there was Bosko’s uncut cock, bouncing around. Goose chuckled at the sight, then covered it up again.
He shot a fat load down Bosko’s throat. A bigger load than Goose thunk possible, wad after creamy wad filled up Bosko’s belly and overflowed from his throat. Bosko squirmed, but Goose held him tightly in place.
“Fuck yeah…” Goose’s voice wavered and broke. Another flood of jizz spurted right down Bosko’s gullet. Goose’s cock was so deep in his tight throat that Bosko couldn’t spit it up if he hoped to, which he did, and his whole body be twitching as Goose spewed load after load straight into his belly.
His cock plopped out, followed by a frenzy of gags and squirming retches from Bosko. Stomachfuls of jizz spilled outta Bosko’s mouth and soaked his chest, dripping down to his miniskirt. Goose was dribbling yet a few drops of nut and saliva onto Bosko’s head, even as Bosko stood and bent over to spit up into a bucket by the bed.
“Goddamn, that felt good,” Goose said, backing away from Bosko. He twirled his limp dick in hand before wiping his wetness off and tucking it back in his drawers. “Lemme know when you put that thang on again, shit, lady. I’ll get a blowjob outta ya throat anytime.”
Satisfied as a kitten, Goose returned to his barrack, where Jamal and them was fitting to fall asleep like wise lotuses. Goose stayed up for awhile. It felt good to be among men, but it couldn’t last. He needta see his son, rejoin civilization and prove that he could build a lake behind hisself, flowing on to the ocean yanway. Forward, he thought, forward at last.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 8

The White Trash Veteran

The air was thick in wafts and gummous throughout, steamy like a sauna of algae. Harley bumped into Goose, and the gunboat smoothly glid underneath him, jostled by an occasional rock or maybe a river crocodile.
Blood splattered, and water splashed. Goose leaped into action onto the pibber’s wooden deck. His own gun was hot and heavy in his hand, rumbling and jumping up and down when bullets popped outta it. His chest heaved and huffed and probably shouted out something, Goose ain’t listen, cuz he was pulling the trigger harder than anything ever been pulled.
“Goose, you okay? Hey! Sampson!” That was the voice of Willamee Bowder, this old-timey feller with a gray beard and a gravel-choked throat. His voice rattled out next to Goose. Willamee sat behind the wheel of the work-truck. “You in dream-time, Sampson. We got a day’s work aheada us. Get ready.”
Willamee Bowder weren’t in Vietnam. Neither was Goose. Neverthelessly, he felt a bullet pass close to his shoulder, wind like death scything down stillness. Gooks on shore musta done been were firing at the pibber, which teetered beneath Goose’s boots — turbulence from the soldiers rushing into action, shifting the weight on the boat. River water splickety-splashed, blood puddled up sticky as spillt wine and sunshine wafted like heat from an opened oven.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” Goose said. He seed the work-truck come to a stop, and he seed Willamee get out from the driver’s side of the cab.
Goose left the truck too, moving like a dream, no friction, no weight, no texture. The real world was a cloud whooshing by, and the whole universe lingered like a fart. His Garand made his arms shake when he fired it, the heavy gun weighing down on his tired muscles. Liquid leaked onto his ankle, hopefully river water but prolly not, as he bumped into a barrel of something or another, he couldn’t remember, but it was solid enough to stop bullets.
“A’ight, old man,” Goose said to Willamee. “Hooray! Let’s get this shit unloaded! Let’s do it! Fuckhead Squad on it!” He knewed he was being too enthusastic, he wasn’t making sense to Willamee. “Come on!” he screamed. Spittle splattered afront his eyes or maybe that was tears, Goose couldn’t tell. “Get it done!” A clapping sound came from his hands coming together, and Goose jumped, fitting to work. They was laying pipes for a irrigation system at a farm — a soon-to-be farm — in Nowheresburg, California. T’was just dirt at the moment.
Willamee stood beside the truck like a cowboy, furrowing his brow. Goose’s heart pumped much too fast for the situation, but he ain’t feel it. He felt only the pibber reaching rocks, which made it rattle and roll like a drummer beneath his feet. Jostling bursts of pow-pow closemostly punctuated the whitewater frothing down below.
“Relax. It ain’t a race,” Willamee said. He spoke so slow, like he was talking to a retard. His words snipped and festered like skeeters from the future.
“We just gotta do it! Do it! Do it!” Goose screamed at the truck. He grabbed something, some pipe or anywhat, he moved too fast to look at it. “I’s unloadin’, fuck you! You gonna help!? Huh?!” He tossed it off the truck and onto the ground. It felt like nothingness in his grip. Hot blood splattered on his face, probably Delmonico’s, cuz he died then, maybe — Goose couldn’t remember, somebody did and there was blood flecked like drool on his mouth, wonder if they told his mama that part. Water ricocheting outta the river’s turbulence washed the scarlet away. Goose saw hisself ripping irrigation piping outta the back the truck, his chest heaving like it took all his might. “Do it! Get it done, Willamee! We gotta do it! It’s the job! I’s doin’ it!”
“A’ight, we will, we will, slow down, Goose, you is freakin’ out, man-“
“It’s all happenin’! We gotsto finish it!” Goose said. He either fell or jumped outta the bed of the truck — possibly intending to lay out the irrigation pipes, but they wasn’t in the right place and the ground wasn’t prepped for it and he ain’t grab the right pipes to start with. He paced like a furious pendulum. “Let’s unload this shit!” A bullet got him in the leg, and pain splintered up him. Goose yowled like a deer, and he plopped onto the pibber surface. Blood spurted, which Goose felt but ain’t see, cuz he seed hisself collapsing like a coffin into the cold California topsoil.
All thanks to the Lord above, the sudden movement of his tumble and the smell of the American dirt snapped him outta it. He was fully in the present now — the year was 1986, and everything that happened was real, just like all the places between California and Vietnam was real. Death was real. Buck was real. Delaware was real — Goose seen it, he punched a fry cook at a Shoney’s in Rehobeth last year — Manhood was real. Time was real. War was real. Jury was still out on peace.
He weren’t dying from that bullet in his leg cuz he done not die from it. Army doc took it out.
In a tent, like on Mash! That was Korea, but the tent was the same. War is war. Comedy don’t stop bullets. That was a good show though. His heart was pumping like a dyke, liketa bust outta his chest, like that alien in that movie.
“We will, we’ll do it — you’re not even unloadin’ the right shit. Slow ya toes, Goose, you gonna break something,” Willamee said. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Goose said, and he was fine. Well, not fine, but he was finer than some things. He no longer felt Vietnam around him. He was in California, and he could touch it. He did touch it. He touched the soil to remind him what California felt like. It ain’t feel like a wetland, that was for damn sure. “I’m fine.”
“What happened the’eh?”
“Nothing. I’m fine,” Goose said. “Let’s get to work.” He looked at Willamee as though to explain, but he didn’t. Work answers itself, so they unloaded gear from the backa the truck.
They was building heaps of farms out here. The pay was good, and they don’t got enough people in the locale to do the job. Cuz Goose had experience, they snapped him right up.
He got that experience in his first prison stay, which was before he got called up for ‘Nam. T’was just a six-month bid, and he did it in comfort cuzza Goose’s daddy being dead. His daddy was a Gray Snake — the biker club — and he died in the line of duty. Gray Snakes honor they dead by gifting the orphans a lifetime of protection.
That meant Goose could get right into the Gray Snakes’s good graces, soon as he arrived at the Virginia State Pen — Goose got to stealing cars in Staunton, Virginia, so he done his time across the state line. The work crew was employed laying irrigation pipes at a Mennonite farm out that way.
He worked alongside this hippie sumbitch Steve. He got long stringy hair like a dirty girl and a love for LSD, which was something Goose knewed nothing about. It was everywhere a couple years later. Steve was aheada the curve on that one.
“It makes you see beyond the universe. Well, not see, exactly,” Steve said by way of explanation. Goose done ask if it was like the mary jane, and Steve spent several million words explaining the difference. “But you can sense the breathing, the pulsations of the universe, the oneness of all things.”
“Oneness?”
“We’re all the same, really. You and me, and the trees and birds and rocks, we’re all just stellar stardust,” Steve said.
“Uh-huh.”
He went on, but Goose quit off listening. He ain’t need to hear tell of drugs he got no chance of doing.
Plus Goose was hot on the wonder about what was for supper tonight. He hoped it was Salisbury steak. Salisbury steak was proper at the Virginia State Pen. He pondered on that, letting the desire flow through and away, contemplating the moment, not that Goose was aware of that way of thinking. Steve did, but Goose ain’t listen at the time. Steve’s wisdom only resonated in retrospect. Not a problem for a Buddhist, cuzza time being an illusion and all that. Goose could grasp his contemplation retroactively.
Supper turned out to be meatloaf, which was virtually the same thing as Salisbury steak. Not as good though. Salisbury steak was meatloaf with a pretty dress and enough ass to fall in love with.
Goose and Steve sat with the Gray Snakes in the mess hall, and Steve managed to stop talking about LSD. Steve weren’t really no Gray Snake, but he joined in with them after his arrest. Since he was a rank pussy and not a proper biker, the others could and did tease the hippie sucker.
“Ooh, Stevina is smelling purdy today!” someone said, and they all cackled. They was calling Steve Stevina cuz he got long hair like a girl. He weared some kinda solid deodorant that smelled like wildflowers vomited into a bucket of ballsweat.
Normally Goose’d join in. He was the one who came up with ‘Stevina’. But at the moment, he weren’t feeling it. Goose found out his draft number was called.
He was going to ‘Nam.
‘Course, he was in prison now, so he was exempt from the draft. But his release date was in three weeks, and he’d end up transferring straight to the Army. He got only a couple days to make it to boot camp. He ain’t even got time to kiss his mama both hello and goodbye. He just hafta say aloha instead.
Somebody mentioned Vietnam during dinner, so that was all Goose could think about. Even afterwards, when they was led to they cell — Goose and Steve together — Goose kept running through his options in his mind: go to boot camp or go AWOL. Goose weren’t a coward or a commie, so only one of those options was optional.
He was going to war. He’d be blowing down gooks by Christmas, most likeishly. A man’s gotta give it, and a man’s gotta take it. Goose dunno yet which side of that equation was which in the grand scheme of things, but he knewed where he was in the here and now.
But time is a ‘llusion, so that’s fine!
“Gots to take mah mind off it, Steve,” Goose said with a sympathetic clucking of his tongue. They been back in they cell for mostuva hour. Lights out loomed ahead with ominous imminence like a war, but for now, they got free time. Not that there was much to do.
There was one thing.
“Aw, c’mon, Goose…” Steve hung his head. He looked up at Goose. “Uncle, I mean. C’mon, Uncle Goose-“
“Nah.” Goose weren’t really Steve’s uncle.
But the Gray Snakes at the Virginia State Pen got a uncle and wife system. When a biker first does time for the Gray Snakes, he is a “wife”. That means he do laundry and shit for his cellmate. Wifey stuff. Second time, he is a “uncle”. That means he gets a wife to do his laundry. Lifers are automatically uncles, and so’s orphans, like Goose.
Steve was a wife. He done sweep the floor, and he done wash Goose’s sheets today. Only one wifing duty remained.
Goose plopped his ass down on Steve’s bunk, which was thin and scratchy. Steve don’t got no pillow, cuz Goose done took it. Goose leaned back on the bunk. When that ain’t prompt no response, Goose frowned at his wife. He spread his legs and aimed a nod at Steve.
“Maaaaan, c’mon…” Steve murmured. He rolled his eyes, but he tacked up the curtain that blocked they door and the window in it. Outside, inmates streamed past, getting they chores done and hurrying back to they cells before lights-out, rushing like they gotsta beat a air-raid.
Slow as a turtle, Steve got on his knees afront Goose. He unzipped Goose’s blue jumpsuit, which went down to his crotch; everybody had the blue jumpsuits like a uniform ‘cept the oldest inmates, who, like officers, had snazzier denim uniforms. Goose’s fat cock popped out, as long and as thick as Steve’s forearm. Steve picked that jiggly torpedo up with two fingers and sniffed it. “Ewh, dude,” he murmured. He held out his tongue as though to lick it, but then he hesitated. He held back a gag and dropped Goose’s cock. It dangled like a landmine from Goose’s overgrowed wetland of a crotch.
“A wife don’t do that, Steve,” Goose said. He lightly smacked Steve’s cheek. “J’st lick it.” He done punch Steve ’bout his dallyiance. Steve was calcitrant about it.
Holding his breath, Steve licked it from tip to root, his tongue moving up and down like a cat cleaning itself on an army base. He ain’t pick it up, he just licked, and it stayed limp as a dead snake, bet they got lotta snakes in Vietnam. His tongue was cold and unpleasant.
“You gotsta do sump’in wit’ it, Stevina,” Goose said with a chuckle. He yawned and leaned back even farther, making his cock flop and rope round upon Steve’s face.
“I’m trying,” Steve whined. His tongue done dry out, so it kinda tickled, but not much else happened, ‘cept that Goose’s draft date growed nigh, nigh as hell. He still kept his hands off Goose’s foot-long dick. It was like blubber in his hands, haggling and wiggling. “It’s not getting hard.”
“Tha’ss cuz you’s j’st playin’ wit’ it, baby,” Goose said. He shrugged. “I kinda like it. No rush. Take all night if’n you want.”
With a sigh, Steve took hold of Goose’s cock by the root with one hand, his other hand slowly working up and down the shaft. Then he put his mouth on the tip for just a moment. “Can I just use my hands? No mouth?”
“Nah. That ain’t proper wifing,” Goose said. “Would you marry a woman who only use her hands?”
“Well, I mean…”
“I got hands, Stevina,” Goose said. He aimed his crotch to bap his dickfat onto Steve’s nose. “I can’t reach mah mouf onto mah pecker. Only you can do that.”
Steve sighed, only for the deep breath to almost make him gag again. He held it back, and he again planted his tongue on Goose’s shaft. He spat on it.
Both his hands worked up and down, and he got a good rhythm going. Goose gotsta give him that one. But he kept spitting on Goose’s dick. His tongue sorta glancingly touched it. He ain’t slurp on it though.
He be shirky-dicking, that’s what that is. Goose don’t tolerate it in a prison wife.
He pushed Steve’s mouth onto his knob. “C’mon, hold it in ya mouf, Stevina.” He closed his eyes. “Just hold the tip there and move ya tongue, make lotta spit.” As Steve began to get a rhythm with his hands, Goose let out a little moan. “There you go, there you go,” he said. Steve either spat or gagged up spit, either way, it got some moisture onto Goose’s knob.
It slowly firmed up in Steve’s grip, not so much from Steve’s touch as from Goose’s imagination. He let himself remember women from back home — that was the only way he could stop thinking about his upcoming enlistment.
He wanna recollect local women. Virginia gals sure is gorgeous, pretty as peanuts. Goose tightened his grip on Steve’s head. He pushed down, gently, but dumbass Steve couldn’t even take that, and he erupted into a ferocious gag.
“Uccckkkkkk!” Steve spat up into the toilet. He clutched the rim. “Man, dude, c’mon. That tastes so bad!”
Wondering if Army got latrines or what in the field, in Vietnam, Goose stood. His hefty cock slapped back and forth. It bapped Steve on the face a couple times, as Steve winced but avoided outright whining. He sat on his ass.
“Okay, wait, I can get you off-“
“Nah. I have trouble cummin’ from mouf-stuff,” Goose said with a chuckle. He done tell Steve that before, but Steve really admired to avoid taking Goose’s meat up behind. He motioned for Steve to get off his ass, which Steve did slowly.
“C’mon, man, don’t harsh my mellow,” Steve said. He wearily got up and gripped the wall with both hands. He was already wincing like he was in pain, like a prisoner of war in a bamboo cage.
Goose swaggered his thickness behind Steve, who unzipped his jumpsuit slow as a aircraft carrier and let it drop to his ankles. He shivered. Goose thwapped his cock on Steve’s lower back, which was a signal for Steve to stand on his toes. He did so, and Goose bent his knees too. That lined up his dick with Steve’s ass.
He rammed hard at the hole, way too hard to actually go in. Steve winced as Goose’s cock deflected like a bullet off a tank and slid up his buttcrack. Then Goose aimed it again.
“A’ight, open up, wifey-“
“Owww, shiiiiit!” Steve cried out and clopped his face onto the wall. He tensed up, but Goose got the tip of his dick in there. Steve clenched, trying to expel Goose’s meat.
Goose was ready for that. Like a draft board, he weren’t taking ‘ow shit’ for a answer. He rammed hard, and Steve slammed into the wall. Goose kept pushing, getting a couple inches of dickmeat in.
“Ow, c’mon, wait a sec, wait-“
“Sssssh,” Goose said. He got a fistful of Steve’s hair in one hand and pulled it to get Steve’s attention. “Remembuh? Wifey? Say sexy thangs.”
Steve howled in pain, as Goose kept pushing in deeper. He did spit on his hand, smearing that on his shaft. That was being nice, like a GI Joe. He ain’t got to. Once you get real deep in a booty, it ain’t possible to clench no more. Steve was past that point.
Maybe some words was gurgling outta Steve’s mouth, but they ain’t make no sense. Steve be squirming like a vermin. Prolly got lotta rats in Vietnam too.
How’s a country gonna have lotta both rats and snakes? One them had gotta give!
“C’mon, say sexy thangs or I’mma lose mah hardon,” Goose said. That weren’t true, this was feeling better than it had in awhile — Goose was really letting loose, and Steve was broke-in enough that Goose could pound hard. Waves of pleasure hit Goose with each thrust into him, and Steve’s whole body puckered and shook on the withdraw. Goose held him by his long hippie hair.
“Oooh, uh, baby, ooh, I love you,” Steve said, panting. He ain’t sound sexy at all. That was fine. Goose appreciated the effort.
As a wild waft of sensations rocked his body, Goose let out a chest-rattling moan. He pumped his dick in deep, and he held it in place all the way up Steve’s behind. A tense howl came outta Steve’s mouth — do they got wolves? Nah… — then he clamped it shut. Goose shot a fat wad deep up his guts, and he ain’t think about the Army the whole time.
“Aaaah-“
“Ewww, c’mon-” Steve bit his lip. Goose do dole out punches for whine. Steve hung his head and kept his whine to hisself.
Another burst of jizz coated his booty. Goose pistoned his hips as hard as he could, and Steve yelped. More melty bliss hit Goose’s senses, and he sighed and moaned, collapsing his body onto Steve’s back. Steve smushed his face into the floor as though to burrow outta here. One more final cumwad sprayed into him.
But Goose ain’t pull out right away. He savored the long slow undulations rocking through his muscles, as his sweat smeared onto Steve’s back. Steve’s hands fluttered behind hisself like a Vietnamey butterfly — Goose was assumpting Vietnam got butterflies, everybody got butterflies. Steve patted and clawed at Goose’s hairy asscheeks the best he could reach.
“Sssh, almost done, almost done,” Goose murmured. He lifted his chest off Steve, and he rolled his body, flexing all his muscles as he humped his exquisitely sensitive dick in Steve’s ass. Steve grunted, pounding on the cold cement floor.
“C’mon, man…” Steve whispered through clenched teeth.
Goose let his cock plop out, slowly, inch by inch. Steve winced and seethed the whole time, cuz Goose made him poop his meat out. That meant it hurt more and more with every passing moment. Then at last, Goose’s meat dropped to sway between his legs, glistening with jizz and booty juices.
“You gotta relax about Vietnam. You gotta abandon your attachments to earthly struggle. Can’t argue with a river, can’t worry a bridge into existence,” Steve said as he gingerly wiped his ass clean with a wad of toilet paper. “You probably won’t even end up on the front lines.”
Goose slapped him. “Bitch, don’t bring that up!”

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 7

The White Trash Veteran

Goose robbed a grocery store in Wheeling at the tail end of 1983, went off smooth as a cat in a puddle of butter. Nobody said nothing about it when he got back to Martinsburg. He ain’t even spend none the cash yet. He was too focused on Buck, who be shooting up like a sunflower. Lil Buck and his buddy Cody was spending they days exploring the woods, wrassling, getting into shit.
It made Goose wish he was a boy again. Li’l boys like Buck crave the sombriety of adulthood, but soon as they grow up, they only wish was being young again. Goose admired watching Buck and Cody tussle.
That ain’t last long though. The cops showed up to Smashwood one day soon after he returned for his visit, clapped him up and brung him to the clink. Goose ended up pleading guilty so he could claim the money burnt up in a fire. Detectives ain’t believe him, but the judge did. Store got they insurance company to reimburse ’em, so ain’t nobody looking for the cash.
When Goose got outta prison, he’d be able to spend some tender at last. No more cheapy-deeping for this hillbilly! He gonna give mosta it over to Missus Dowdy anyway — that was who Buck was staying with right now. He called her Grammaw Daisy.
Prison turnt out to be not too bad. Food was awful, but leastways there was enough, and the guards let the Army vets all share a cell block.
And holy hokey-pokey, Harley was there!
His old Army buddy Harley was arrested a couple months back and was in the West Virginia Pen for a spell — he was arrested in Huntington, and he weren’t from West Virginia, so he don’t know he’s sposedta be humiliated by that. It felt good as gravy to be with Harley once more. It felt like the army again, but in a good way. Not a Vietnamey in sight.
That’s what Masterson and Berringer was saying, Goose now reckoned. They said to seek brotherhood, and here he was, surrounded by brothers. Dog tag brothers steada womb brothers. They done gone through the same trials and tripplations, and they done survive ’em. Goose was sadly glad to learn ain’t none of ’em — Harley included — make the transition to civilian life. All of ’em was struggling, and though they ain’t much talk about it, them’all got feelings in concert, difficulties in a row, memories sharing silhouettes against the same firelight.
“And I ain’t nevuh menace that man, nuh-huh!” Harley done explain the situation that got him locked up bunchesa times, and he maintained his innocence in the whole affair.
Or at least his innocence as to the menacing charges that got him locked up for a year. He pled guilty to those in exchange for more serious charges getting dropped. He ain’t dispute those more serious charges.
“Cops is fucked, man,” Goose said with a sigh. He was tired of agreeing with Harley on this matter.
Bucket hooch be bubbling away in one corner of the cell, which was filled with the yeasty aroma of drunken futures. Goose got three buckets working off right now, taking up halfa the cell. The guards let ’em get away with it — just this cell block, fulla veterans — and Goose was gonna make a pretty penny selling it soon.
Not ready yet though.
“Cuz I admit — I does admit, I was there, I was waving a gun around. Wouldn’t use it on a lady, mind you, I don’t shoot ladies,” Harley said, tapping his feet in sync with the melody of the calypso song they was listening to — they done bought some cassettes from a Jamaican on another cell block. It reminded them both, Harley and Goose, of boot camp, before anything happened. Neither them two acknowledged that. Neither one done spoke word one of boot camp, Army or Vietnam yet. T’was nice to be with a man who savvied without you savvying him. It was a happy calypso, but they both frowned through it, cuz it reminded them of the unspokeable river that will have done been flowing underneath and of Lucent, who shot hisself last year. Harley be puffing on his cigarette, leaning against the cell bars like he might could see something interesting out there.
Ain’t nothing interesting out there. That’s the whole point of prison. That’s the best parta it from a Asian perspective: prison can be torture or meditation, depending on how you hope to experience it. Goose chose torture at the time, as most people do most always. Enlightenment is the option that’s always at hand but is hard as torture to choose.
Harley was a burly sumbitch, with a rusty mustache that extended down to his beard hairs. He was a ruddynut whombody from Pennsylvania. That means he got red hair, but it’s the darkest possible shade of red with the swarthiest skin color that comes with red hair. He was like a ginger who been baked to crispy brown.
He used the cherry at the end of his smoke to light his next smoke. Harley be doing that. He worked as a mechanic before his arrest and after in the prison automotive shed, so he drew upon a good wage for a convict. He was swimming in cigarettes.
Goose stockpiled his. He waited till he genuinely needed a cigarette before smoking one. He coulda bummed some off Harley. But Harley’d want something in return, likeishly a buncha free pulls on the bucket hooch when it was ready.
But now, as the cell block started to quiet down in advance of lights out, Goose let hisself burn one. He savored the warmly blissful sensation of smoke filling his lungs, filling his veins with calm, filling his mind with sultry relaxation. It made him both alert and sleepy, like a blowjob from a ugly librarian.
He ain’t chain-smoke, so as he could anticipate his next ciggie. In prison, a feller has gotto find things to look forward to, or so did Goose think at the time. Nowadays he do advise a feller to abandon attachments and all that jazz. Pecan, Monongahela, ocean, done. Most fellers in prison got alotta attachments keeping ’em on the riverbank.
“That colored boy is comin’ ’round again,” Harley said with a guilty chuckle. He looked at Goose. “You gunna do it again?”
Goose shook his head. “Go fer it, man,” he said. He took another drag on his cigarette. He assumed ‘the colored boy’ meant this big-ass feller named Wimpy, who be coming round for to sell these larrupin’ apple pies he made in the kitchen. They was like turnovers, and they was tasty as a Vietnamey pussy, swan to God. Goose be eating them up! Last time Wimpy came by, Goose bought one pie with the ciggies he had on him, then two more he paid for with future hooch — first batch to be done, he gotsta give up cupfuls to Wimpy.
He don’t like the idea of being in hock to any man. Not just a colored man neither, any man. So Goose done say he weren’t doing that again.
But damn doodle, them pies was calling to him!
It turned out not to be Wimpy after all, it was a different colored boy. His name was Jugs, and his special skill was that he got lipstick.
He was dark-skinned like charcoal with big white eyes and teeth. He was slim but well-muscled — prolly bigger on the outside, but he been locked up for awhile, and he was owned by this tub of brown Darren who be swiping his food-meals. Darren do make Jugs go on all around and jerk men off for cash. Jugs don’t get to keep none of it neither.
That’s called ‘punking’. It prolly mean Jugs do heroin, and Darren won’t give him none unless he earns his keep. Since Jugs was broke as smoke, he got no way of gathering tender ‘cept by jerking fellers off. He use his mouth too. Narsty!
“Jerk ya off? Jerk ya off?” Jugs strolled among the cells, making offers. He sounded like he was on the verge of tears. Goose never did see him cry, but he stayed sounding like he was holding back a sob. Maybe that was his normal voice. Goose looked down on that. A man’s gotta keep his nose up, no matter what. Women cry and go limp when they get in a bad situation. A man’s gotta take action. Can’t take action when you’s bothered up hot, bawling like a waterfall.
Somebody musta said yes finally, cuz Jugs couldn’t be heared no more. Some titters of laughter over by Hash and Tingle and them suggested it was one those fellers who done it, prolly Hash, cuz he was like that. Cells was locked, but a feller could stick his dingus ‘tween the cell bars, and Jugs could slurpy-durp no problem that way. He puts a towel over his head, so you ain’t gotta look at him. Used to charge a half-packa smokes more to put a picture of Farrah Fawcett atop the towel, but Warden conscifated the fuck outta that. Gotta respect a lady.
“You should do it,” Harley said with a chuckle. He got out a pack of smokes, ready to do it the moment Jugs came by.
Goose sighed and shrugged. He did kinda wanna blow a nut. But the reason Harley hope him to do it and the reason Goose was reluctant was the same — Goose got a giant cock. That was how that he got his name, after all. It was like a goose’s neck.
But Jugs was little and got a shallow throat, and he don’t even try to swallop deep. Darren don’t care about customer complaints. T’was barely worth it to Goose. His own hand go as far up and down as he want it to. All thirteen inches. Goose done had enough of shallow head.
“C’mon, I wanna see you cover his face again,” Harley said with a cackle and a laugh. He mimed Jugs’s gagging last time when Goose shot his massive wad all over his face — all over his face and not down his throat cuz Jugs don’t swallow worth a goose turd. That made it funny for Harley to watch but disappointing for Goose to pay for. Last time Goose ain’t cum since before he got to the pen, so he had loads built up. He shot so much Jugs was sopping wet, huge wads of it overflowing his mouth, soaking his shirt and making his brown skin gleam white, knappy hair dripping with it. Jugs did retch as Harley guffawed and slapped his knee. Then Jugs scurried away.
It was funny, Goose hadta admit that. But it ain’t feel especially good, and Goose had swollen balls then. That was only a week ago. He ain’t build up that much this time.
“You go’an drown that boy,” Harley said, already laughing as hard as he did last time. Ain’t nothing even happen yet.
Jugs musta done wipe his face offa Hash’s nutjuice but miss a spot, cuz there was some goopy circles of jiss on his forehead and dripping off his earlobe. That made Harley cackle again. He got a hyena-like laugh that irked Goose, though it was infectious, and it made Goose smile along with him, reminding Goose of worse times but in a good way.
“Jerk ya off?” Jugs said. He was hurrying past, no doubt hoping nobody’d say yes.
“Heck yeah, get on ya knees, boy!” Harley clapped and cackled again. He opened up his pack of smokes and put one cigarette behind his ear, then tossed the pack to Jugs — Jugs was required to accept that as payment of a pack of smokes. It was one cigarette short, which made Jugs a better deal than mosta the other punks in this prison. The resta them charged a full pack.
Harley got his britches down and his dick dangling through the cell bars before Jugs even smeared the lipstick on his lips. When he did, he smacked them cherry-red lips together. He picked up Harley’s dick with two fingers and put it in his mouth. He held back a gag as he went down to the root, smearing lipstick along the shaft all the way into Harley’s light burgundy crotch hair.
A sigh escaped from Harley’s lips as Jugs put the towel up over his face. He started off without the towel so the fellers watching could see the lipstick. Was sposedta make it feel more like a woman.
Goose was dubious about that. He finished his cigarette and snubbed it out. He then got up and checked on his hooch, drained his bladder into the toilet and sat back down. He wanna do his workout, but the buckets of hooch took up half the cell and Harley’s bare ass dimpling as he humped the cell bars took up mucha the rest.
Harley ain’t got a huge dick. It weren’t nothing to be ashamed of, it wasn’t small, but it was small enough to be easy for Jugs to swallow it. Even with the cell bars separating him from Harley’s reddish-furred crotch, Jugs got that whole cock in his mouth. His nose was buried in Harley’s pubes.
Every couple seconds Jugs’s whole body undulated, but he held back his gags. He choked up spit that dripped onto the cell bars. A long low moan escaped from Harley, who turned the sound into a laugh, followed by a gut-hurtingly loud retch from Jugs.
“Uhnnk…” Both Jugs and Harley made similar sounds.
First couple bursts of jizz went straight into Jugs’s throat. Jugs squealed moistly and squirmed, pulling off Harley’s pecker in time for one final cumwad to jet onto his face. Harley’s hands pulled through the cell bars in an attempt to get Jugs back on his dick, but he couldn’t reach.
“Ewwck-“
“C’mon, punk, finish it off!” Harley groaned and grunted, his hips still flexing as if to fuck the cell bars themselves. He finished himself off with one hand though, draining the last of his juices onto the floor outside the cell.
Holding back a peal of gags, Jugs wiped his face off with that towel. He paused, clutching his stomach as though to force all that nastiness to stay down.
When he had recovered, Jugs looked at Goose. “Hey, you’re the one they call Goose, right?”
Goose nodded.
“Well, uh… my man, Darren — my husband-” Jugs winced as he said that. “He said, uh… He said you can have a free ride on my ass, if you promise to give up a cupful of hooch when it’s ready.”
“Ah, sheeit, boy, you gettin’ booty!” Harley said. He grabbed for Goose’s crotch to pull his denim prison trouser-pants down, but Goose slapped his hand away.
“Ass? I dunno… Tha’ss dui’ty.” Goose ain’t want a reputation as a booty bandit. He ran his fingers through his hair, but he sighed.
“Ain’t ya big ol’ dick still work?” Harley asked.
Goose said, “Yeah, shuddup, Harley.” A sigh drug its way outta his chest. “But you best take the whole thang, Jugs.” He stood up. “You got lard, right?”
Jugs nodded with a sick frown on his face. He pulled out a little metal tin, half-fulla lard from the kitchen. “I don’t have much, I don’t — just go slow, okay?” Black boys in prison foreverlasting got lard. Ain’t no better lube in the world.
Goose snorted. He stood up and dropped his denims. When Jugs sawn Goose’s cock, he looked even sicker, he musta done forgot how big it was. Well over a foot long and thicker than a can of beer, it unfurled between Goose’s legs and swung back and forth.
Frown lingering on his face, Jugs kneeled with his back to the cell bars, ass pressed against ’em. He let the steel bars pull his cheeks apart. Harley cackled up Jugs’s butthole and smacked each cheek the best he could by reaching between the cell bars. Harley later on claimed Jugs got jisms dripping out his ass, but he was funning, Jugs got dark skin and cum would be visible if it was there. It weren’t. It was just a funnier story to tell if he got a dripsy butthole.
“Nah,” Goose said. “Stand up. Mah knees get sore kneeling.” Plus Goose was much taller than Jugs, so it’d be awkward to plow into his ass kneeling. And through the cell bars? Not easy.
“Oh, c’mon, man, c’mon, it hurts like that,” Jugs said.
Goose shrugged. “No complainin’, or I’s allowed to tell Darren you wasn’t cooperating.”
“No, don’t! I am! I’m doing it!” Jugs said amid a storm of wincing and cringing. “Don’t tell him that.”
“Then don’t fight me, punk. I’ll be quick,” Goose said. He wondered when he had done agreed to this. He ain’t never say yes, but Harley and Jugs both assumed he would, and Goose ain’t wanna back out now. They’d accuse him of having a donkeydoodle that don’t work right.
Jugs stood up, his underpants pulled down to bare his taut asscheeks. He stood with them separated by the cell bars, revealing his tight brown hole, no dribbles of nut. Jugs bent over, keeping his knees straight and pushing his ass up as high as he could. It looked much too small to take all of Goose’s dick.
But Goose done acquire plentya experience forcing his pecker into a man’s behind. They was surprisingly accommodatious, and you know a black punk done took plentya giant black-boy peckers. Goose bent his knees a little to lower it enough to aim for Jugs’s hole.
He got the tip in easy enough, the lard helping it slide right in. But then he hit resistance, and Jugs seethed through his teeth.
“Ow, wait, wait-“
“Okay, okay, just spread it open,” Goose said. He weren’t waiting though. He kept pushing, forcing Jugs’s ass to open wider and wider. Jugs’s hands fluttered behind his back as if he could do something that way, but that made it hard to remain bent over on all fours. His face plopped onto the floor.
“Owwwww!” Jugs cried out and slipped away from the cell bars. “Ow, shit!”
“Hey! Punk-ass, mothahfuckah, get ya black ass back on mah dick,” Goose said. “Or I’s tellin’ Darren-“
“Okay, okay, honky, shit,” Jugs muttered. With a weary groan, he got back in position. He squatted like to force out a troublesome turd, and he again backed his ass up to the cell bars.
When Jugs came in one of slipping off again, Harley saved the day by grabbing Goose’s sweat-soaked tee shirt from the basket of dirty clothes. He lassooed it around Jugs’s head through the cell bars, holding it tight in one hand so Jugs couldn’t complain or move his head.
That forced Jugs to stay in position, even as Goose forced his fist-thick dick into Jugs’s tender tight ass. Jugs seethed through the sweaty tee shirt in his mouth, making a series of rhythmic grunts with each thrust of Goose’s cock into him.
“He’uh I go, boy, he’uh I go, c’mon…” Goose’s voice broke as pleasure hit him hard. The one bad side of a big dick was that it took a lot of effort to get hard and a lot to go over the edge.
Finally Goose stepped over that edge, and a fat wad jetted into Jugs’s asshole. Jugs winced. Goose pumped his hips hard, his heart beating fast now, chest sweating. A grand sigh escaped from his lungs.
More cum spurted into his guts, and Goose let out a long low sigh as an orgasm overwhelmed him. “Aww, sheeit, Jugs…” That felt good, Goose thought, damn good.
Finally his dick popped out, followed by a torrent of jiss that stained Jugs’s ass white. Goose ain’t realize he was still cumming, so he grabbed his cock and stroked his last few spurts of jizz out with both hands. It coated Jugs’s left asscheek in ropes of cream.
Harley cackled and lit yet another cigarette. “Shit, that was hilarious,” he said.
Goose chuckled as he wiped his dick clean with toilet paper. He nodded sheepishly. “That did feel good,” he thunk. But now he owed three whole cupfuls of bucket hooch, and he ain’t even finish making one batch yet. Bucket hooch is temporary as rain, apple pies is fleeting like a waterfall, and orgasms last only a moment. Goose’s hillbilly ass be fording a river fulla them things, when he needta be flowing down ’em. He knew all that, cuz prison was nothing but studyment, but he ain’t yet have a sense of vairagya, ain’t even have the word. He thought the other bank of the river was too far away to reach, but in fact, t’was the distant ocean that was right at hand. Goose kept across the stream disregardless.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 1

The White Trash Veteran

The cricks and thickety hollers of West Virginia smelled just like Goose Sampson recollected. While he was gone, he wouldn’ta, couldn’ta and repeatedly did not conjure up the aroma in his imagination. It was unlike any scent his nose done made acquaintanceship with in the jungles of Vietnam. T’was fresh like snow but musty like rain, both dirtsy and woodish, earthy like a campfire and airy like a whetstone, memorable as mama and homey as hugs. He appreciated the fougère of the terroire, though Goose remained polite-nod strangers with both them words.
Carrying a poke fulla dollars and a pocket fulla pantyhose, he hurried by shanks’ mare on through the Appalachian woodlands, darting from sods to bald and back. Sirens blared yonder. Goose stopped when he got to a babbling run and sent the pantyhose floating yanway.
He knewed the area round Martinsburg like the upper sidea his pecker, and he learnt plenty about sneak-a-sleeking through the wooly wilderness of Vietnam. T’wasn’t so different here. Scurrying like a stinky sally on over muddy drafts fulla ferns and towering trees past critters and bugs and varmints chirping and growling and hissing, and there he was, a hillbilly blundering again through laps and laurel hells.
Vietnam got more wetlands, that was the only difference. T’was enough though. Goose discottoned to wetlands.
And skeeters. Vietnam got a peck of skeeters.
Of nightfall, he made it back to Smashwood Trailer Park. He was outta wind, dirty like a cellar, armpits sweat-soaked, but he sauntered in, casual as a bowl of buttermilk. The park was working alive with folks and fellers who Goose knewed since he was a boy. Did them’all know he robbed a bank? They couldn’t know, and ain’t nobody took no note of him. He returned from Vietnam a couple weeks back, so nary the whombodies got whopper-jawed at him moseying home buttermilk-like. He had a poke, t’was all. Just a knapsack, like any feller might could tote.
Nobody knewed it was fulla red-hot greenbacks.
Nobody knewed Ellen been hooking it on the other side of town neither. Ellen was Goose’s wife. They ain’t never done live in matrimony, as they jumped the broom only days before Goose shipped out to the steamy greens. Ellen done come up in the family fashion, so they got married with a hurry and a hoop-dee-hoo. Now Goose returned to the joyness of meeting his newborned son Moses and to the sadness of Ellen admitting she been turning tricks to pay the bills. Army don’t pay diddly.
Goose did more shouting than he cared to admit, and he blistered and kicked up purple, raring and pitching, then he punched a hole in the wall and regretted letting his son see that and afrearing from it, and nothing Goose could do would make him stop crying. He said no wife of his gonna go and sell her God-given ladyness to any pecker-toter with dollars and a stiffy, cuz what was the point of being a man if you can’t keep your little lady from hooking it? But he done got drafted to the other side of the ever-blesséd world, so what was he sposedta do about it? Can’t do squat! Goose screamed like a river at a dam, til Ellen begged him to stop or the neighbors gonna call the sheriff, and Goose wanna ram his noggin into the wall until something somewhere broke.
The whatnots rising in him, Goose only regained hisself when he saw Vietnameys watching him like sentries from the woods behind the trailer. That turned out to be an illusion, but it got Goose calm as a clam, sending Ellen and Moses inside. Then he felt hisself a fool when he reckoned t’was just some shadowy tree swaying in the breeze, and he pretended ain’t nothing happen. He don’t want Ellen to think he couldn’t cope or Moses to think his pops was fearful.
So he steeled up for the woman and the boy. They got needs, and a rock don’t. He ain’t think twice about giving Ellen the cash-money from the robbery. “Don’t spend it all at oncet,” he said.
And he felt bad that he felt good about leaving. He gotsta skedaddle while the heat was on. And he gotsta go less he lose control of his fists again. That boy ain’t a wall, and the lady ain’t a soldier.
She nodded, and she whispered, “Thank you…”. She kissed Goose upon the cheek. That felt good. Damn good. Something about tenderness from a lady reassures a man he is alright and cures a touchous soul. Her lips wouldn’t tremble so soft-like if he was a monster. Ellen wouldn’t kiss a john the way she kissed Goose. He ain’t tell her not to whore it out no more cuz it was implied from the hole in the wall and cuz he ain’t want her to lie and say she would quit off when she really wouldn’t.
The only thing better than kissing Ellen was playing with his son — Moses, but Ellen said everwhom was calling him Buck, cuz he be climbing like a goat. Goose liked that, cuz he was called Buck as a tyke too, on account of his buck teeth. Ellen ain’t know that when she fell to calling Moses Buck.
Buck afreared Goose all afternoon. He ain’t never met the hairy stranger — Goose been letting his hair and his beard go wild now that he ain’t got a sergeant jawing at him about it — it was still coming in dry and coarse though, only gradually returning to health. When Goose smiled like a lamb and pooped down onto the floor of the trailer at Buck’s height to vroom-vroom with his toy truck, Buck giggled and played along. He clum on Goose’s back and rode him like a pony.
Playtime was interrupted when there came a knocky-knock upon the trailer door. It was Anita Daylily, a high-headed whomgoody with a puff of hair and her muff in a huff that some policeman was on the wander, asking if anybody in the trailer park seen Goose — course he asked after his real name, Martin Sampson.
Ain’t nobody in the park gonna make it easy on a policeman. Goose was from round here. Officer Whomsoever was not. Or maybe he was, Goose don’t know. Anyway, that was his cue to scram. Some snoop-nose peckerwood at the bank musta reckonized his voice.
“I gotta go, son,” Goose said. He got down upon his knee to give li’l Moses a big hug goodbye. “Moses…”
“Bye.” T’was all li’l Moses Buck said. He weren’t muchuva talker yet.
Goose kissed him goodbye, and he kissed Ellen goodbye too but in a different way, then he went on back to bush in the wilds up behind Smashwood. He ain’t wanna whisk off, but he ain’t wanna stay even harder. It was better this way, for him to be gone. He gotsta get a grip on hisself, and a man gotsta do that alone.
The world seemed right before the war, right in a way he couldn’t perceive then or articulate now. Expectations done broke, he thought. Goose went to war, he pulled the appropriate trigger at appropriate times, he followed orders mostly, he came back alive, he got money, he gave it to a woman to spend. He did his part. He completed the minimum requisited of a man. But it felt like he done jack up every single thing in the world. He was a retard in boot camp, he dropped his rifle, he got scared as a bunny, he was captured, needed rescue, he lost, he failed, he fell, he wailed. He could get done up by the Vietnameys prolly crawly-trawling the countryside anytime. He done develop a sixth sense about ’em, and it been twinging like a siren. Ain’t quit off since Muck Dan Foo. He don’t wanna go look in the woods lest he either get took captive again or see that he imagined phantoms.
He stayed on the hoof, alert but hazed. He gotsta hide til the cops stop looking for him, wander til the sun sets, lay awake til the dawn comes. One day at a time.
He left Smashwood Trailer Park, but in a way, it felt like he ain’t never return from the Army. He only ever left Smashwood once really. Wise honkies say home is the place where, when you show up, they have to take you in. But war is too. Dumb hillbilly says home is the place where, once you leave, you can never return. War is that too.
The road ran to the highway, and Goose stayed parallel to it so nary a cop or a Vietnamey could see him. They did that in Vietnam, staying parallel to rivers, not roads, but it was the same idea. A river was just the universe’s road. If the Army controlled a river, they’d travel on a riverboat afloat, but if the Vietnameys did, they’d walk parallel to the river, far enough away to be unseen from it.
He noodled on a destination, any one would do, so long as it was away from Ellen and the boy and the skeeters and slant-eyed jaspers of Vietnam. He armybooted through the woods till he wound up on the highway. Rambling along the roadside for a spell, he let his mind dangle like a rod. Plans formed like constellations, but Goose bit back the bubbles of his notions and pondered like a buddha.
The camp cook Sam learned him pondering, but moments jumbled and mixed like phuh. Goose put one foot in front of the other, like the first drop of water striking out a path to sea. T’was hard to build a river with cops and Vietcong and Ellen’s johns blocking the route.
He might as well hitch a ride, he thought, so he thumbed out. It was mostuva hour before a truck pulled over, a big rig hauling cabbages to Roanoke, Virginia. The truck cab smelled of raw cabbage and chewing tobacco.
T’was good enough for Goose, who said he wanna go to Roanoke too. The trucker got a calypso song playing on the eight-track, and Goose wondered why a white man got a feel for calypso, but Goose ain’t ask after it. Goose was in boot camp with a Trinidadian feller, who did flop his dingdong on the regular to calypso records. Goose got no quarrel with calypso.
The driver was Buford, a right-country sumbitch with a ruddynut face and a extra-ruddy mustache that drooped in two lines down to his chin. He got a big head of curly hair.
“You was in the Army?” Buford asked.
Goose dunno how that Buford could tell he was Army. Maybe he done seed Goose’s dog-tags or something. Maybe he just assumpted — Goose weren’t cowering in Canada, and he looked too dumb for the Air Force and too tough for the Navy. Goose said, “Yessuh.”
Buford nodded. “I’s a Navy man, mahself.”
“Oh, tha’ss nice, didya enjoy ya vacation durin’ the war?” Goose said with one whoop, two guffaws and a series of slaps upon his knee.
Buford laughed along with him, and them two swapped insults and war stories like ornery nurses. Turnt out they was both in the same engagement in Na Doong. They might well have done pop off at the same damn gook. Felt good to know it, it settled the cockles of Goose’s manhood. The war was only over a couple months ago, so it warmed his heart to speak of it like history.
But it lingered upon his mind like only the present could. The future stopped the moment he arrived in Vietnam, and Goose ain’t slow his uppermostness down, not then, not now. The past might could still pop outta the woods anytime. There oughta be a after-war boot camp, so somebody could demonstrate that there was a thing called Not-War and that he was in it.
“Hey, you got cash for gas?” Buford asked when they pulled over at a gas station.
“No, suh,” Goose said.
“You got grass?”
Goose shook his head.
“Hmmh… hmm.” Buford said. He got out to pay for the gas hisself.
But Goose reckonized what that murmur meant. A Navy man can’t help hisself. Buford hoped Goose to pay up in cash, grass or ass. That’s how hitchhiking works out in the country.
But Goose don’t give up his bootyhole if he can help it, so when Buford returned, Goose said, “I’ll get’cha started, Buford. But if’n you go’n make me give up the bootyhole, lemme off right now.”
Buford made a dismissive snort. “I ain’t a niggruh,” he said. “I don’t wan’cha rear.” He unzipped his jeans and pulled out a long fat cock. He gave it a couple strokes, then leaned back in the driver’s seat the best he could while still steering the truck onto the highway.
“Sheeit,” Goose said as he wrapped one hand around Buford’s meaty cock. “You Navy men is all the same.” Goose leaned over and put his mouth upon Buford’s knob. It twitched against Goose’s lips when Buford laughed.
“Army is jealous cuz a sailor’s dick do work,” Buford said. He put his left hand upon Goose’s head to push it deeper on his shaft, while his right hand stayed upon the steering wheel. “Ship got no place for a limp dick. Send ’em to the Army!” He cackled. “Or the Marines, I don’t vouch for them.”
Goose made some mouthy noises to communify that he disagreed with Buford’s as to regarding the Army, but he ain’t stop slurping and also don’t dispute the Marine Corps’s reputation. He don’t welch. Goose do what he gotsto. He done so numberous times before, and he likeish would again.
In any case, he know how to get a man going. He commenced to batter Buford’s knobtip with his tongue, and he slicked his lips up and down the shaft. Lotta fellers don’t realize jackin’ a man off with ya tongue is the same as doing it with ya hands — you don’t gotta taste it longer than it takes, just move ya lips up and down same as you would ya hand. If a man’s dick works, it’ll happen quick as candy.
Sure enough, Buford got to leaking prenut in no time. When Goose tasted it, he pulled off, but he kept stroking it with one hand. T’was called ‘starting it off’. Leastways that was what they called it in the Army. Navy prolly calls it ‘e’ry morn’ b’fore breakfast’! They do that, they do be like that. Never get put in the brig on a Navy base, or you gonna taste more meat than a vulture, Goose learnt that good. He learnt that like math.
Buford held onto his head, jabbing at his face and trying a-force Goose to put it back in his mouth. Goose did plant his tongue upon the tip a couple times to mollify Buford, but the taste of pre-jizz got him gagging, qualmish. Buford couldn’t tussle with his head too much while steering, ‘specially once he got close to busting a nut.
Stroking Buford’s dingus fast as a badger, Goose got both hands upon it. His left hand worked the shaft, and his right hand squeezed the base. Buford’s dick was big enough to accommodate both hands. The precum flowed like wine, lubing up Goose’s mitts.
“Ah, wait, wait, here I go, wait, shit…” Buford sucked in his breath. His cock went throbby-lobby like an alien beast, and Goose hurried his rhythm. Buford grunted like it hurt. “Wait, ah, shit, wait, got it, shit-” He cut his own self off with a hiss.
A fat spurt of jizz came outta his dick, jetting into the air and landing back in his hairy crotch. Goose ain’t stop stroking, even when his hand was coated in ackempucky. He kept working Buford’s meat up and down till his balls was good and drained. Cum got all the way up Goose’s arm to his bicep, but he ain’t miss a beat.
Buford’s dick roped limply in Goose’s left hand even before plopping out one final wad of fatness, but Goose leggo with his right hand. Buford was still making noises, whole body contorting, his veiny shaft still throbbing. Then at last Buford sighed and twitched, and a few final drops dribbled into Goose’s grip.
Goose leggo. He wiped up the gom with a napkin, while Buford tucked his man-meat away and redid his jeans with one hand. His other hand stayed on the wheel.
“A Navy man j’st can’t help hisself,” Goose said with a chuckle and a mournful whistle. “You know you ain’t gotta get a man to jerk ya meat? You can stick it in a woman.”
Buford laughed and countered that Goose’s face was ugly as pussy, which worked on two levels, then he turned up the volume on the eight-track. That calypso jangled out bright and clear. Goose liked that. T’was good music to whisk off unthoughted, its lively beat like a river’s current carrying Goose away to benighted shores, and the best part was that it don’t sound nothing like Vietnam.

The White Trash Veteran

When Goose returns from Vietnam, he thought he’d be coming home again. But nothing could be further from the truth! He’s gotta travel for work and to escape the police, and that’s gonna send him an odyssey of alpha male man-on-man action, Buddhist enlightenment and raunchy, filthy situations!

Goose is in for a bevy of rednecks, machos, hicks, hillbillies, soldiers and more, as he overcomes his hangups from war and finds a way home to his family.

It’s free! Read it now as an ebook or read the whole story on this site!

The White Trash Veteran

Frankie Wojohowitz

Wojo swaggered in like it was a chore to carry so many meaty muscles, and his big square face was huffing and ruddy. His shoulders and hair were speckled with brick dust, and clods of mortar clung to his clothes.
Avery inhaled deeply of the work-toned musk and firm muscles of his shoulders. Years of bricklaying made Wojo bulky, his shoulders and upper arms massive, hands callused like a troll, even his wrists felt callused when Avery’s hands roamed down his arms. Avery felt the tension and the roiling heat beneath his furnacey body.

From Wojo the Bricklayer

He sat down across from her at a bite-size table. “I was wearin’ cologne, just so you know,” Wojo said, his voice too deep for the room, it got those high ceilings like a chamber, and Sandra didn’t like it, she ain’t said that, but Wojo could tell, he was pretty sure, she prolly thought he talked like a cannon. “Cologne got washed off by the rain, you know, in the rain.” He gestured out to the downpour through the window, then, realizing he didn’t need to do that, he clammed up and brought his hands down to the table like a teacher told him to keep his hands to himself. “I wore it though. The cologne.” A girlfriend once told him he should always wear cologne when not at work, and he wanted credit for doing so, even if Sandra couldn’t smell it.
Wojo drank his coffee black, no fufu stuff in it. He got a small cuz he don’t really want any coffee, it was just an excuse for a date with Sandra, but now he thought the coffee looked too small in his meaty grip. He got mad clodhopping hands, big as shovels, callused like old workgloves, his knuckles gnarled and thick. She noticed that, she was looking scornful at ’em in the restaurant last week.
But there was no such button, and prolly she’d get turned off when she realized he was just a big-ass bricklayer, dumb as a clod of dirt. And he used to be a Marine. Oorah. He dunno if that was a plus for girls or not. It seemed like girls liked it at the time, but now they was fussing about it like it don’t matter. Maybe calling hisself a “former Marine” made him sound old. Only washed-up old men was former anythings.
Lotta Marines say there ain’t no such thing as a former Marine, just ones that are civilians now. But women sure acted like a currently military Marine was different than a now-civilian one. Or maybe Wojo just don’t put off the right kinda vibes for a Marine anymore. Girls pay alotta attention to vibes. There oughta to be like a tattoo or something that tells women you got a Marine pension, so you don’t gotta tell ’em. Women don’t know about that stuff. There’s no vibe to it.

From Wojo the Bricklayer

“Damn it, that traffic pisst me off, yu know,” Wojo said, plopping his site slip onto Teddy’s desk. He let out a hollow chuckle as he unbuttoned and shrugged off his workshirt. “Fuggett’boutit, yu know.” He shrugged again, his broad shoulders rising up and going down, cuz the workshirt he wore was too small for his wide musculature. His chest tweaked, pecs bouncing and rippling, loosening the beads of sweat clinging to them, which made them drip down his hair-dappled belly. “Man, Teddy, I saw this accident happen, man, it was messt up, swear to God, the car was going this way, and this other car was going that way — maaaan, shiii….” He avoided cursing because he was Christian. He kissed his crucifix, then followed that up with a vociferous series of hand gestures and sound effects that explicated the narrative and its effectuation upon his gestalt, conveyed his sympathy for the victims qua his standpoint’s relation to the incumbent mores of his sociocultural position and satisfyingly exercised the fervor bubbling up from his conception of idiomasculine expression per se. He mimed a steering wheel, careening left and right. “They did that, bam, boom, screeeeeech! Pow! Splat yo, like that, wow, shiiiiip, that was… like, yu know! Whooooah, aww, yo, all ovuh, man. It was messt up, like mad messt up.” He passed to Teddy his truck key and the clipboard with his mileage form. “I got out to help the folks, they wasn’t bad hurt, just shook up, you know, I was like ‘no disrespec’t, man but that was like crazy’, and then the cops showed up.” He undid his belt as though to take his pants off mid-story, then realized he was still wearing his workboots. He held his pants up with his hands as he headed into the locker room, and Teddy followed.

From Wojo the Bricklayer

Books

Wojo’s a big-ass bricklayer with meat to spare, and he’s got a girl on the side… but he’s a Christian man, and he doesn’t mess around with women before marriage. That doesn’t stop him from getting a nut off with the fellers instead! Wojo’s an active top who just needs a passive hole — luckily, there’s plenty of willing passives around!

Can Wojo find what he needs?

Read it now!

Wojo the Bricklayer

Wojo’s a big-ass bricklayer with meat to spare, and he’s got a girl on the side… but he’s a Christian man, and he doesn’t mess around with women before marriage. That doesn’t stop him from getting a nut off with the fellers instead! Wojo’s an active top who just needs a passive hole — luckily, there’s plenty of willing passives around!

Can Wojo find what he needs?

Read it now!