Smashwood Trailer Park – Page 2

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 6

The White Trash Veteran

Bits of brain was softly salty, and clots of blood sparked a metallic fire on Goose’s tongue. Them was Sam’s brains he was tasting, slimy and slippery, savory in a unsavory way. Sam’s head exploded, so his brain filled the air that previously tasted only of steamy wetlands and muddy bark. The toothpaste in Goose’s mouth frothed up and out, and the sizzling bite of gunpowder filled the air.
Campfire smoke dried Goose’s lips, as he hurried into cleaner-tasting air away from the ambush and the puffs of gunpowder from the gunshots him and Harley and them — Fuckhead Squad — aimed behind theyselfs. Mud boot-splashed up onto Goose’s face and mouth. He mighta ate a gecko. Acrid ash filtered onto his tongue, and so did the dreary rinse of a slow drizzle. Vietnamese rain tasted of old tea and fresh earthworms.
Prolly the sniper was aiming for Goose, Goose reckoned that now. But Sam done got in trouble for collaborating with the Americans, so at the time, Goose thunk they was ambushing Sam to execute him as a traitor.
In the next couple seconds, Masterson and Berringer took it too. Goose ain’t gotto taste they brains though.
Goose stood with his hands in the air, surrounded by the comfortable trailers of his West Virginia home, tasting the blood and chewy ear of a Vietnamey he done bit before they got him and Harley surrounded in that jungle. He saw cops pointing guns at him, but his tongue stayed trained on Vietnam. Surrender tasted like chicory.
He musta done gone and went off again. He frightened the ladies of Smashwood Trailer Park enough that the police came to take him on away.
Buck sawn it. That put shame in Goose’s soul. He admiredta be the rock for that boy, and there he was shrieking and screaming like a sheep at slaughter. He mighta begged, he dunno who he was begging for what, but Goose felt it happen and Buck prolly seed it. A boy need a rock to anchor him, like a man need a wife to tame him.
He’s in jail again. Goose be jammed, a pecan stuck in driftwood.
“Martin.” T’was Masterson’s voice. He came outuva mist yanway into Goose’s cell, followed by Berringer. Them both was yankees, but Goose got no quarrel with ’em. A distant drum sounded, bouncing on the sobs of a melody.
“Where’d you two come from?” Goose asked. He sat up upon his bunk. “You dead.”
Berringer nodded.
“You aren’t. You’re as alive as the jungle,” Masterson said.
Goose liketa say something. He got too many words fighting for a spot upon his tongue, so his mouth only opened, and nothing came out. Masterson waited long enough for Goose to not say all the things he wanna say, and Masterson and Berringer nodded like they knew ’em already.
“Your heart is on fire, your pain a lie, and yet still, you may wash away your unlovelies,” Masterson said. Berringer nodded like a turtle.
“I don’t unnuhstand,” Goose said. He weren’t expecting clarity though, so he ain’t ask no questions. “I wish I died the’uh wit’choo.”
Berringer shook his head. “You don’t. You have a son to be here for. You came home for him.”
“It don’t really feel like I came home,” Goose said. “The resta Fuckhead Squad done move on, I ‘xpect. Those that lived.”
“No,” Berringer said. “They didn’t. They ain’t.” A smile fooled upon his face. “They ain’t done move on still.” His yankee accent clashed with his Appalachian words. “Nobody has. Maybe nobody does. They are all hungry ghosts, and we are mere peaches.”
“The past never goes away, Martin,” Masterson said. Ain’t nobody in the Army call him Martin. His squadmates called him Goose. Officers called him Sampson. Only in death did his proper name emerge.
“Why not?”
“The past is your river. Remember that rivers never flow in a circle,” Masterson said. “Your pain and your anger is the Navy bringing you home. The route is long, but the way is wise.”
Berringer added, “In life, in death, in the next life, in heaven or hell, home is always there, waiting for you with enlightenment and grace.”
Goose shrank back. He ain’t understand they’s words, but he couldn’t concentrate on ’em anyway. Masterson and Berringer remained blurry like glasses, and the mist they arrived in spread into Goose’s cell. “I dunno what you is sayin’,” Goose said. “What if’n I hurt my son?”
“What happens will happen and will be a step closer to home, for him and for you,” Masterson said.
Goose sniffled. “Things felt right in Vietnam. With y’all and me and Harley, when we was together, it felt right. It wasn’t, but it felt right, or that part of it did.”
“That is because we were on the same path to different homes then,” Berringer said. “The brotherhood of the same path can still be there for you.”
“Seek brotherhood, and you will find home,” Masterson said. “Go now, Martin. You have work a-plenty ahead of you.”
They walked back into the mist then, leaving Goose to his studyment. He dried out for what may have been eons in the jail cell. He dunno if he slept, he dunno if he raged and fought someone, he dunno if he sobbed or hung hisself. He just was.
By the time Goose’s head was clear as a mirror, he was sitting in the interrogation room in Precinct 17. Sheriff Torkelson came on in. He had a dense mustache, properly trimmed, though his chin and cheeks was grizzled with unshaved scruff. His work-hard face was haggard as a burnt-down barn.
Sheriff Torkelson looked down his nose at Goose for a long time. Then he sat in the chair opposite Goose. “You gonna behave proper, son? I don’t like fellers kicking up in mah town.”
“Yessuh.”
A long pause sat between ’em. Goose was still dazed, like he was wrapped in cotton balls. He couldn’t remember how long it’d been since the cops came for him. He wouldn’ta been surprised to learn that was an hour ago or last month.
“So what happened?” Sheriff Torkelson asked.
Goose shrugged. “J’st lost it, suh,” he said.
“Lost what?”
Goose shrugged again. “Dunno. But it’s gone.”
“You gotsta get a grip, son. War’s over. Act like it,” Torkelson said. His mustache showed off a frown. “Don’t nobody got no sympathy for a stuck man. Move yaself on, or I’ll move ya.” Sheriff Torkelson wrinkled his nose, which made his mustache wrinkle, which caused his lip to tremble, which resulted in the dimpling of his cheeks.
“Since you a veteran, I’ll give you a chance to prove yaself, to show that you is dedicated to stayin’ outta trouble.” Torkelson stood up. He looked down his nose at Goose, then he dropped his uniform britches just low enough to bare his crotch. He lowered his tight-whites too, and his fattyfoo popped Goose on the forehead.
With a roll of his eyes, Goose opened his mouth. He considered saying no, telling the sheriff to send him to prison, but Goose ain’t wanna miss out on Buck. If he was in prison, he wouldn’t even get a visit with Buck, and he wouldn’t be able to send no money to Miss Junebug (that’s who Buck was currently staying with and pretending she was his grammaw).
So he parted his lips, and Sheriff Torkelson pushed his cock in. The flavor of unwashed flesh hit Goose’s tongue. He done tasted much worse. He ain’t pluss about it. He just closed his eyes and pretended he was floating down the lazy Monongahela, going with the flow, accepting the currents and rapids for what they is. Can’t blame a dick for stiffing, can’t blame a river for flowing, can’t blame a feller for doing what is to be done.
Ain’t so bad. Goose focused on not gagging. Steve and Sam and all the rest was exaggerating when they went gaggy-waggy. Or maybe Goose’s pecker tasted worse than others. Maybe bigger dicks tasted worse than littler ones.
“Hmmmmmmm…” Torkelson murmured. His balls swayed afronta Goose’s chin. Goose’s lips stretched around the shaft until he could swallow the whole thing.
It firmed up slowly against Goose’s tongue. Torkelson pumped his hips, humping the wetness of Goose’s mouth. Goose’s muscles tensed and quivered, as it took all of his concentration to not gag. It weren’t hard. Or maybe it was, it seemed like it’d be easy if he could quit off thinking about it. Like maybe if he was watching TV, then it’d be fine.
Torkelson’s whole cock fit in Goose’s mouth, and his nose got a deep sniff of Torkelson’s coppery pubes. His face was nuzzled deep in that crotch hair, which mighta been longer than his dick. The hairs was scratchy and woolish.
“You might wanna take a job on an oil rig,” Torkelson said, his voice rumbling and wavering, like he was stone-facing, though Goose could see only them short and curlies. His pecker pulsated against Goose’s tongue. “Get yaself outta town, make a few bucks. Can’t get in trouble if you is tired from work. You unduhstand me?”
Goose nodded with the cock in his mouth, and the motion triggered a gag he couldn’t swallow down. A mouthload of saliva and precum plopped into Goose’s lap. That liketa trigger another gag, maybe even a retch, but Goose worked out that one. He choked it back.
“Cuz this is ya second chance, son-” Torkelson grunted, and his voice broke. He put his hands on Goose’s head, leaning onto him and pumping his hips back and forth. He was treating Goose’s throat like a pussy now, and his droopy ballsack slapped over and over on Goose’s chin. “You won’t get a third one.”
Cum spurted into Goose’s mouth. It was goopy and cottony, intensely salty, and Goose couldn’t help but retch now. Sheriff Torkelson let out a hair-raising moan, and his sweaty balls crawled up in his sac. Fat bursts of jizz overflowed from Goose’s mouth and splattered all over his face.
“Swallow it, son,” Sheriff Torkelson said, his dick throbbing in Goose’s mouth like a second heart. A few more drops dribbled into Goose’s mouth. “Don’t let it spill,” he said as he slowly withdrew his cock, which dribbled a couple final drops of nut onto Goose’s chin.
Goose hadta fight against his urge to gag or spit or let it plop outta his mouth. That was tough. That was worth a gag. Goose couldn’t resist anyway, so he let himself gag as he struggled to swallow. Jizz slid like snot down his throat, and it sat hotly in his belly.
“Ewwcckkk…” He did spit up some. It even came out his nostrils when he couldn’t keep it down. It wetted his shirt to his chest. He recomposed hisself, then let out one more gag.
“Hmm-hmm…” Sheriff Torkelson murmured as though he was expecting yet disappointed by Goose’s gagging.
Goose looked up and quieted his throat. “Yessuh,” he said, clutching his belly to keep from spitting up all that jizz he just swallowed.
“Get outta here, son,” Sheriff Torkelson said once his dick was tucked away. “And don’t lemme catch you raisin’ a ruckus again in mah town.”

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 5

The White Trash Veteran

“Reckon I shouldn’t say his name,” said Missus Adams with a snooty wrinkle of her nose. “You dunneed anothuh reason fer the judge to take Buck away from ya, Martin Sampson.” She carved a hefty frown upon her lemon-sour face, hair rising into a judgemental updo. She wagged her finger at Goose like a hound-dog.
Goose understood that. He do be simmering like phuh though.
He worked upon a ship mosta this past year, buffetted by winds and beset by man-eating whores in lousy ports. The sailor’s life do turn men into pigs, and Goose don’t like how that seamen treat they whores. Pay was good though. He done return back to Smashwood Trailer Park in the fall of 1981 with his pockets fulla cash. He found Buck staying with Missus Adams, not his foster family.
It turnt out that family with the farm weren’t so nice after all. They was working Buck over and withholding food cuz he was mouthy and don’t know his letters good. Buck was ravenous when he ran away to Smashwood, and he said he ain’t eat in two days. Them foster parents be beating him when he don’t do his farmwork quick enough. That boy got scars on his back like he was getting whipped.
Goose don’t like nobody whipping his boy. So it was maybe wise that Missus Adams wouldn’t tell Goose the foster family’s name, and she made Goose promise not to ask Buck cuz Buck get agitatious when he talk about ’em. Goose liketa lay down the common law upon they skulls.
So they threw a football back and forth behind the trailer, and Buck was impressed by how far Goose could throw the ball. They ate supper and jello for dessert. Buck wanna know all about Goose’s job in a giant ship’s big-ass engine — Buck love machines and trucks and that — and Goose wanna know about Buck starting school and his first-grade teacher. She was strict as sunshine, don’t let Buck give no excuses, which was good as Goose saw it, a boy do need that. Buck had so much energy Missus Adams made ’em go out so Buck could chase fireflies in the early evening dimness. Goose chased ’em too, but he enjoyed watching Buck do it. Then Buck tripped and skinned his knees something terrible on a rock.
“I know it hurts when you falls,” Goose said. He got down on one knee to look Buck square in the face like a man. “No matter the pain, no matter the fear. Never let ’em see it. J’st get back up again. Let ’em know they pain don’t define you.” He patted Buck upon his bloody knee.
“Yes, Pops.”
“I got took captive in that war, you know. Vietnam, you heared-a that? I surrendered. But a man’s gotta go on, provide, do the work that keeps the river flowin’. Them farmers you was livin’ wit’, you stood tough ‘gainst them, reckon, and I’s proud of you. They ain’t win ‘gainst you so long as you don’t let ’em.”
Buck nodded, solemn as a ram, and he sniffled back his tears. Then he spoke in a Cambodian accent, “When you experience something painful, you must move on from it and leave it behind you. The hurt is in you, in your expectations and your cravings. A wise man doesn’t dwell, always moving on, continuing like unflappable time, like a river, which is never late, because it is its own path. When a river bumps into a dam, its relentless flow builds into a lake, and, when it has grown big enough, the lake overcomes, and the river resumes.” Then, in his Appalachian holler, he added. “I’s fittin’ to make a island of mahself, and I strives me to become wise, free of stains and passions.”
Okay, Buck ain’t drop them pearls. What he said was, “I ain’t never afreared cuz I knewed you was gonna come fer me.”
That was a mighty fine lake to sit beside. Goose could sit on the shore of that lake and fish for eternities.
Missus Adams done told the social worker she was Buck’s grandmaw, and Buck be calling her Grammaw Adams now, so they let her take custody. She was a persnickety old lady, she do persnicket like a champion, but Goose got confidence she wouldn’t treat Buck wrong. Goose gave her the dollars he done save. She was on a fixed income, so she was needing help to pay for groceries and that. Buck could and quite possibly has done eat a horse.
Seems like Goose steady gives up his pay packets soon as he gets ’em.
Even back in Vietnam, he sent mosta his pay home to Ellen. He kept a little for himself too, and it went a long way. Money’s cheap out there. Or is it more right to say money’s expensive? You can buy more in US dollars there than here.
Or anywhat, Goose don’t know economics. But they could live like kings when they got somewhere with stuff worth buying. That ain’t happen often. They did eventually hire a Vietnamese feller named Sam as a camp cook though.
Hootenanny holler could that gook cook! He made noodles in a wok, flavors like the almighty beyond, got spices and jungle shit in it, tasted like a nun’s tits, you know Goose could spoon that stuff up! All the Vietnameys could cook.
But Sam was the goodest.
Them Vietnameys was needful for US dollars. A couple weeks after hiring Sam, Harley reckoned he could pay just a dollar to get Sam to jerk him off and even swallow his nut. Sam be panting and gagging the whole time, and he got a shallow throat, but Harley don’t mind. Harley’s pecker weren’t that big, recall, and Sam could just barely get the whole thing in his mouth.
T’was very possible that Sam ain’t never agree to do that. Goose never once heared Sam agree. But he don’t fight back vigorous-like, and as Harley seed it, not fighting back was agreeing to it.
For a feller. Harley don’t rape no woman.
“Aaah shit, Goose, bet you wish you could-” Harley’s knees went weak and he steadied hisself, as Sam squirmed on his knees afronta him. Sam was in the middle of washing dishes after supper, and he was on his knees with a bucket of water and a rag. He winced with his eyes as Harley rammed his ugly pecker in and outta Sam’s li’l bitty throat. Harley got one hand on Sam’s head, the other on his chin. “Bet you wish you could get ya whole pecker in there.” His balls slapped on Sam’s throat.
Goose nodded and shrugged.
“You should ramrod him. Wreck his asshole, that’d be so funny,” Harley said. He closed his eyes as cum poured into Sam’s throat. Sam choked but managed not to spit it out, as the jiss filled up his belly. “I bet he’d do it for like two bucks.” Harley’s voice broke, and he sighed. He pumped his hips.
At last Sam could resist retching no longer, and a mouthload of jizz spilled onto the ground. He spat up a second mouthload, while Harley spewed jizz onto his face.
Goose shook his head. “No way, that’d be…” He chuckled. He ain’t have much experience then, so he assumed there was no way Sam’s ass’d open up that much. Sam was barely five feet tall and weighed maybe a hundred pounds. He was well-muscled for his size, ain’t have a lick of fat on him.
Plus he was nice. Goose don’t wanna wreck a nice man’s ass. Vietnam was too stressful for him to get horny easy. Harley was different — Harley loved blowjobs, and when there wasn’t a woman around — most always — he would bust a nut in Sam’s mouth every chance he got. He usedta have some shame about it. He’d sneak away into his tent and do it when nobody noticed. Goose did notice, cuz it was his tent too.
But the more time they unit spent together, the less Harley bothered to hide it.
They had leave of the next day, and they went down on into town. The brothel was the second place they went, after the bar. T’was the same place, but they went to the bar first to get a drink and a plate of something that looked like collards but tasted like fire, then they both hired a whore in the backa the bar.
But when Goose got into the back room with his whore, she took one look at his baseball bat and whisked off. Goose sighed. That weren’t a surprise. It happened. They prolly got a fat lady for men with big dicks. He could fuck with a fat lady. Wouldn’t even be fat by American standards. Goose ain’t see a proper fat Vietnamey yet.
But then the crying lady with the Chinese lettering tattooed on her back was shoved back into the room. She quaked and quivered as she got on her knees and picked up Goose’s dick with her delicate fingers. His dick looked like a club next to her, it was thicker than any parta her body.
“Nah, nah,” Goose said. “I don’t rape a woman.” He said it in English, then in halting Vietnameyse, which Sam been teaching him. Goose don’t know the word for ‘rape’ yet, but he got his point across.
He pulled his britches up, went into the backroom and laid out a series of punches upon the burly-faced Vietnamey who done push her back into the room. He gave that pimp a pair of black eyes and a smashed nose and took out one his teeth for him. Ain’t even send him a dental work bill, which Goose considered a kindness.
Goose went along on down back to camp by hisself. He don’t cotton to fellers treating women improper. Even a whore got a right to choose her men. That was how Goose was raised.
But he had a hardon that whole time. Goddamn that whore gave him a stiffy before she fell to sob-a-lobbing, and it was still stiffing! He ain’t notice it when he was punching her pimp, and it seemed like a distant problem when he walked back to camp alone in the dismal jungle rain.
Now it felt real, and it was throbbing, and he couldn’t do nothing about it.
Well, he could jack off.
But daaamn did he hope for a hole to stick it in. He was looking forward to that visit to a brothel for a long time, and that Vietnamey lady was pretty as a bowl of soup on a rainy day!
Goose was alone in camp, so he could slap his own meat like a pimpley teenager. He tried to get ridda his hardon, and he succeeded long enough to drain his bladder — he been aching to piss since he left the brothel. He woulda pissed on the pimp if his dick weren’t stiff at the time.
But soon as he was done peeing, he thunk of that whore’s naked tits again, and he seed a photo-picture of Miss November in a magazine in Harley’s belonguns. Goose sighed and pulled his britches down.
A burst of chingchong chatter attracted Goose’s gaze, and he jumped to his feet. He jumped outta his tent, grabbed his gun and went out.
It was just Sam. He done gone to town too, and he bought seeds, powders and leaves. The chingchong shit was him talking to his rangy mustache-on-a-stick self.
“Hey.” Goose added a hello-howdy in holler-heavy Vietnameyse, and Sam nodded his approval of the pronunciation. Then he went to put his shopping away with the other kitchen stuff. Goose stood there, cuz he was pondering possibilities.
“Hey, Sam, c’m’e’uh,” he said. He motioned to a thick-trunked tree beside him. Sam obediently came closer, and Goose handed over a greenback. Sam winced and sunk to his knees. Goose laughed and patted him on the head. “It’ll be okay, I’ll be gentle,” Goose said. “And quick.”
That was true. It ain’t take long at all. Goose was already rock-hard when he pushed his knob into Sam’s mouth. It was hot and wet like the jungle itself. Goose moved his hips back and forth, cuz Sam couldn’t swallow very deep — he was skinny and Goose’s dickshaft was fat. Sam only got maybe three inches in, four if Goose really pushed it in there.
But he don’t wanna treat Sam’s throat like a pussy like Harley did. Sam weren’t a prison punk. Goose felt sorry for him. He went left and right, humping his knob within Sam’s mouth, but he don’t force it down.
“Aaaah…” That did feel good. Goose got it now. He understood why Harley enjoyed this. Even with Sam’s shallow mouth, it felt nice as napkins. It was like a blowjob but better cuz Goose skipped the woo.
Soon enough, pleasure was rocking Goose’s veins, much delayed pleasure cuz he been anticipating the whorehouse since days ago. He recollected the brothel he just left and the hooker he left there — he recollected her from before she started crying. His cock filled Sam’s mouth with goops of prenut, and Sam obediently swallowed it, or leastways he ain’t try to spit Goose’s knob out.
“He’uh I go,” Goose murmured. He stroked his dick at the root with one hand, the knob filling up Sam’s mouth. So as an orgasm ran through his body, he shot his wad directly onto Sam’s tongue.
A gag overcame Sam, but he was pinned against the tree, so Goose kept his dick there. Sam retched again and again, jizz spilling forth all over his shirt and his crotch and onto the jungle floor. The cum drained outta Goose’s sac like it been building up for weeks, which it kinda was — Goose ain’t feel like busting a nut until recently. War was too stressful for nuts.
A chuckle wracked Goose’s body, making his dingdong dongle and his sac splatter against Sam’s chin. Burst after burst of cream overflowed from Sam’s mouth and puddled up in the mud and muck. Goose shuddered with pleasure, holding onto Sam’s head so he could hump every inch of his tongue.
Goose let his cock dangle free. “Sorry, Sam,” he said as Sam spat up fluids from the deeps of his belly. Goose was about to add I won’t do that again, but he thunk better of it.
He ain’t wanna make a promise he weren’t gonna keep.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 4

The White Trash Veteran

Goose’s hair flowed free as a wave. He was plopping pretty atop his motorcycle, with li’l Buck clinging on behind him. The sun exploded into a horizon of oranges and yellows, as the motorcycle ate up asphalt and spat out sky. The engine was too loud to talk, but Goose heared Buck’s smile in his fingers clutching Goose’s torso. For now leastways, the both them done fling they worriment behind them — like that song says, let a worse-off man pick up that fig skin, for it is true, there always do be someone suffering more than you. They rode like cowboys, and both was content in that ever-lasting moment.
They made it on through to the campground just as the sun was setting, and they raced to get the tent up before it was dark. They ain’t quite make it, so they gotsta use flashlights to get they sleeping bags into the tent. Then they had just enough time to roast some weiners over an open fire. Buck be grinning like a puppy the whole time.
Goose got pockets fulla cash, greenbacks a-plenty, enough to buy that motorcyle. He been feeling centered enough to come back down to Martinsburg for a visit. Not to live. He could have a crash anytime, could get the bogey-logies, couldn’t let Buck see him how he was.
It was him and Buck’s first trip together. Buck was living with a foster family who owned a turnip farm. He said they worked him hard. He was strong as bourbon cuz the farmwork stretched him tall for his age. Goose beamed proud. Struggle do strengthen a boy, and Buck gots long expectations to fulfill.
The smell of roasting weiners lingered in Goose’s nose as him and Buck finished they supper. When the scent of meat done diminute enough, it was replaced by the bitter and intense aroma of burning wood.
But not just any burning wood. The scent was green wood. Some other family at some other campsite done light a fire with it. Prolly cuz they don’t know no better. Some people is damn fools.
In Vietnam, all wood is wet. Everything is wet in Vietnam. Ain’t nothing there burn without a cloud of steam. Whole damn country is steamy as kisses from a fat lady. But Vietnam don’t got no fat ladies, so how’d that happen?!
The burning green wood launched a catalogue of smells at Goose.
First, the acrid scent of gunpowder filled his nose. That was followed by a burst of coppery blood with the spicy aroma of a Vietnamey feller’s body odor. The gunpowder smell mixed with the burning green wood of the campfire Goose’s squad done cook they supper on. Harley did the cooking of that night.
Harley’s sweat smelled stinkhoggen and pounding in Goose’s nostrils, strong with the rhythm of his fluttery heart. The scent of Harley’s gun was potent too, bitter steel, clammy and reeking of unwashed flesh, which stuck to it cuz he only held it when afreared enough to sweat. For some reason, the gunpowder aroma of Goose’s own gun ain’t hit his nose hard — like his own armpits, he couldn’t smell the stink of it. He could damn well smell Harley’s though. Harley musta sweated through his shirt again, and Goose could smell the rankness of the Vietnameys surrounding him too. Burning plastic and skanky rodent fur filled out Goose’s nostrils.
Goose’s nose stayed stuck in Vietnam, but his eyes trained like snipers on Buck in the darkened here and the shadowy now.
Goose wanna take a shower. Maybe, he thought, that’d reset his nose. But Buck was too tired for a shower, and anyway the shower situation was a problem — there was a showerhouse for adult men and one for women and families. Goose couldn’t take Buck into that showerhouse, nor the other one. The campground people never figgered there might could be a shirt-tail boy with an adult man and no females.
No matter, they was only gonna be here till Sunday morning. Ain’t nothing wrong with a boy skipping a shower.
The Vietnameys used old dirty rope that smelled like a stack of cardboard boxes rotting in the rain. That was how they tied up they prisoners of war. They stinking bodies and breath assaulted Goose’s nose. They ate spices, the Vietnameys did, bunchesa spices, and Goose smelled it on them. The Vietcong uniform had a characteristic smell too, an unclean-laundry gookiness, and it either growed stronger as the war dillydallied onward or Goose’s nose got accustomed to seeking it out more the longer he was kept captive.
The muddy bootprints the Vietnameys left afronta Goose and Harley got the odor of rotting drawers. The smell of American tears was salty-strong, or maybe that was Vietnameys’s tears, cuz somea they own kept getting they bits blown up in a copper-scented mist. Goose preferred to only smell the American tears though.
Goose had gotta shower tonight. He was gonna be funky as a black boy if he ain’t redd up. He ain’t smell it, either cuz he couldn’t smell his own funk or cuz his nose was back in Vietnam, but he knewed he needed a shower.
When Buck was sleepy-deeping, his belly fulla sausages and cookies, Goose left him in the tent. He strolled over into the showerhouse wearing his boxers and carrying with him his ditty bag. He ain’t wanna dawdle, so he hurried to rip them boxers off.
He took a sniff of his bar of soap, which smelled clean and medicinal, and that at last brung his nose outta Vietnam. That was good. He got no desire to smell the prisoner of war camp. They ain’t got toilets, just a bucket to share.
When Goose went into the shower proper he seed a pinkthumb numbnut, less than middle-aged but he got a old soul, you could tell. Goose knewed the type. He stood there like a dotless question mark when Goose walked in, then he blistered like he got a vendetta against Goose.
A discourteous nod passed between ’em. The man still was curling his lip at Goose though, and Goose stood past him. He was foul cuz he was, till moments ago, deep in the first worst day of his life.
The rumpety milkweed man rinsed shampoo outta his hair. When his face was clear, Goose catched sight of his face and reckonized him as this feller who done give him a dirty look before, when Goose came riding in. Goose wondered if he knewed somehow Goose was a ex-con.
Was he a prison guard? He don’t look familiar.
“You got a pro’lem?” Goose stood there in the shower-spray, letting it run down his body. He set his ditty bag on the floor outsidea the water, but he ain’t get his soap or shampoo or nothing outta there. He done learnt in prison to never bend over in the shower when there’s bad blood in the air. Clear the air first.
Or better yet, just don’t bend over.
“This is a nice campground,” said the man, looking quakey like he admiredta walk off. “We don’t want bikers here. It’s for families.”
Now Goose weren’t really a proper biker, not like a Hell’s Angel or nothing like that. He was just a motorcyclist at that time. But the pinkthumb was pissing him off, and Goose don’t wanna explain the particulars of biker gangs and motorcycle clubs. Goose scowled. “I ain’t a biker, I j’st rides me a motorcycle, yes I do. T’ain’t none’ya business. In ar’y case, I’s he’uh wit’ mah son. We a family. You a slim slice of tuhkey, sissy.”
The man frowned. “What? You talk like a hillbilly.”
“You is in West Virginney, yankee.”
“I’m from Iowa!” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t want a fight-” He ignored Goose scoffing. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not, you know, like… a bootlegger.”
“A bootlegger?!” Goose guffawed. “You in West Virginney, hoss, not the past.”
“Well, I don’t know, any of the… crime, or the drugs, or the gun-running, I don’t know what bikers do,” the man said.
“I ain’t a biker!” Goose shouted.
“That wasn’t a station wagon you rode in on!” The man shouted with such vitupery he dropped his soap. Then he turned around to pick it up off the ground from the river of shower water that ran on down to the drain.
With a cackling laugh, Goose darted from one showerhead to the other and rammed at his ass. His dick was soft, so all he did was wipe it up through the man’s buttcrack, which was moist and hot and sudsy.
The man yelped and stood up. He looked put upon and also shocked by the size of Goose’s cock. Apparently he ain’t look down till this very moment.
Goose got no plan on doing more than that, but the sensation of the man’s asscrack rubbing on his dick reminded him of dirty nights in prison. Goose be plussing. The dowdy pinkthumb in the showerhouse was putting out forlorn, like he ain’t never heared of cornholing. Most likely the case. He don’t look like a ex-con, he ain’t a Navy man for sure and he don’t seem like he spend time with black fellers.
“Get off me, what… what was that? You’re disgusting. Did you just try to…” He dropped to a whisper. “… pee in my butt?”
That made Goose guffaw like a goose. “What the fuck? T’ain’t a thang, hoss. Don’t nobody pee in no butt.” Goose got his pecker in his hand, stroking it hard and wondering if it was possible to pee inside somebody’s butt. Never occurred to him. You’d hafta be hard when you stick it in, then after you cum, leave it in.
Would it spill? Seemed chancy to keep it from spilling.
Goose don’t wanna try it, but he’d like to see a colored boy do it. They can do all kinda things with they peckers. They could prolly figger it out.
Anyway, as Goose pondered that notion, he got his wingwang hard, and the man either ain’t notice or ain’t pick up what Goose was putting down. He was done with his shower even, but he don’t leave. Foolish hawkeye! Naive as a ear of corn!
“Do you go to church?” the man asked.
“Sh’ore do,” Goose said. But before the man could ask any more of his rumpety questions, Goose grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him face first into the grimy wall of the showerhouse.
“Ow!” That knocked his bar of soap outta his hand once more.
The man ain’t acknowledge Goose’s hardon. He prolly come from a world of class, where men don’t have hardons in showers and where it’s okay to bend over afronta man with a pecker. Sounds like a nice world. Guess he was still on the pee-in-the-butt thing and assumpted Goose’s hardon would stop him from doing it again.
When the man was bent over, his ass high in the air, Goose went for it — he rammed hard into the pinkthumb’s pink behind, gripping them asscheeks to keep him in position.
“Oooooowwww!” the man yelped. Only the tippa Goose’s dick went in, but that was enough to make the hawkeye bug out and wriggle. Goose slapped his ass like a rodeo cowboy.
“Yee-haw, mothahfuckah!” Goose called out. The man’s knees buckled in pain, and Goose rode him to the nasty shower floor, sinking his heft atop the poor sucker.
Goose forced it in deeper, a thrill of pleasure rocking up his body. He do love breaking down a intact man’s intactness. He gotsta struggle to force every inch in, but the struggle made it feel good.
He rammed back and forth as the man howled in pain. Goose used all his body weight to slam down on the man’s backside, forcing his dick in and intense pleasure out. He moaned into the man’s ear and made him lick the shower drain, just cuz it got him gagging, which made his booty tighten up in agony all over again.
A burst of cum shot up the man’s guts. Goose spurted out a huge long flow of it, and Goose got the impression the dumbass man only now realized what that huge hot thang was in his asshole. He sobbed onto the shower floor.
A grunt came outta Goose with each thrust of his body and was accompanied by a jerk of pain from the pinkthumb. Goose shot a huge wad that coated his guts, then he slowly let the sissy-shithead clench his ass and force Goose’s cock out, inch by veiny inch.
“Don’chu talk to me again, pansy. Walk off, and walk off good,” Goose said with a chuckle as he rinsed his pecker off in the shower water. He spat on the man’s bawling face and walked out of the showerhouse, towel in hand. He didn’t even dry off until he was out in the moonlit night.
That felt good, and Goose was gladsome to have got a nut off this weekend. This would be his only chance, since he was gonna be with Buck the whole time. He don’t get a lotta time with his son, so he wanna make the mosta it, and he don’t need no hardon slowing him down.
And maybe, he thought, it would keep the pesky past at bay.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 3

The White Trash Veteran

Goose holed up in Smashwood with Buck and Ellen for mosta the winter, and they lived like family. Goose was at his home, but he ain’t came home. He remained an outlander, like he missed all the inside jokes while he was gone but nobody would explain ’em to him or even repeat ’em with him in the room.
The money ran out by spring, and Goose got turned on to a job on over at a lumber camp in Pennsylvania. He worked there the whole of the summer of 1977. He got to heading back to West Virginia in the fall cuz he received some grim news.
Ellen died. Li’l Buck was an orphan. Or half an orphan at least.
The whole park stayed with sadness, locked in mourning. Goose hung his head proper-like as he workbooted in. Lotta folks came up to him and expressed they sorries and commiseries, and Goose accepted ’em polite as a pony. She got a bad dose of heroin, that was what Goose heared tell of.
Sly as snakes, oodlins of eyeballs judged him. He wished he weared a black shirt at least. But he done return to Smashwood in his wrinkledy workshirt like any other day, flecks of paint and sawdust clinging to the denim. For sure all the parkbodies thunk he shoulda been here, strong enough to control his household like a man, he shoulda been watching over Ellen, providing for her so she don’t gotta sling her cat for horse.
But ain’t nobody say a word about that. Goose heared ’em not say it in his twinging bones.
Lotta folks said Buck be running round like a stray dog, that Ellen weren’t watching him, weren’t keeping him proper. He went and asked folks for food, cuz mama was sleepy-deeping.
Ain’t nobody told Goose on the phone that that was happening. Only now that Ellen was dead. Again, nobody said it was Goose’s fault, which was how that Goose knewed they was all thinking it.
But there weren’t no work round here for a man like Goose, so he had no choice but to go away. He wanna blame Ellen for spending dollars on drugs steada feeding the boy, but a real man don’t blame a woman. A proper man shoulda been here, shoulda found a way. That’s how the cow ate the cabbage. T’is a woman’s nature to dream and dally. T’is on the nearest man to handle reality. That weren’t a duty Goose was living up to at the moment.
The war been tarrying in Goose’s shadow, jumping into light when the moment fit the frame. He been losing his temper at that lumber camp, got a ramstudious reputation, causing ructions over both nothing and everything, and he afreared what might happen when Buck was around. This feller he knewed from the Army, Thad Hoover, he got back to home in Michigan and plum killt his wife and daughters, then hisself. No reason. Just happened. Goose felt a random wheel in him, and he duked up at the dawn, early so nobody would see him boxing walls till his fists grew gnarled and knucklesome; he drownded his outerwards to slay his innermostlies, and it worked. The war be bubbling up, splattering its indignities onto him when he let his guard down, when his brain sputtered and his heart hanged. If he was home with Buck and Ellen, all kinda things might could have done happen. He be spotting ambushes in every corner, and in the lumber camp there was men — mostly veterans theyselfs — who could smack sense into him. Ellen and Buck couldn’t do that. Well, Buck couldn’t, and Ellen really couldn’t.
And yet his brain steady came back to Ellen’s death, telling him he shoulda been here. He did heroin in Vietnam, and he quit before coming over on back to America. He coulda, shoulda and woulda made Ellen do the same. A man should be the master of his home or leastways his own self.
A road is unlike a river in that a driver must know which way to go. A river unlike a road carves out a path that is never wrong. Goose accepted the truth of that but not the reality of it.
It almost felt bad to enjoy visiting with Buck. Soon as he seen the tyke, Goose wrapped him up in his arms. Buck be sobby-lobbing in the trailer of Miss Junebug, that’s who took him on in when Ellen came up dead.
“Is you gonna stay, Pops?” Buck asked when he stopped crying for a spell.
Goose wanna tell him, ‘Can’t stay cuz I got war in my bones, and I don’t wanna bring it to you, Buck. Parta me died in Vietnam, but I gotsta figger out which part’. All Goose said was, “I gonna hafta go out fer work, son. J’st the way t’is.”
Li’l Buck scuffed his feetses. “Oh.” He picked up what Goose was putting down, or he would one day, when his generation found a war or made one.
“You gotsta be tough, Buck. Stay strong. A man lives in the here and now, takin’ on burdens that ain’t fair, beatin’ back the night by buildin’ up the day. You let ya mama stay in ya heart, where’n e’erythang’s perfect,” Goose said.
Buck nodded like a warrior, and he swallowed down his tears as he shared his peanut butter crackers with Goose. They ate ’em together and drank milk and talked about Ellen’s hugs. Goose hugged Buck the bestmost he could, and he felt in them twinging bones that that was enough for Buck.
After that, Miss Junebug went on about the necessities — of foster families and custodianship, that kinda thing. She said Buck was a hellion, he don’t sit still and he do play rough with the other boys, he do! He don’t got control of hisself.
Goose couldn’t hardly complain about that. Goose had long troubles with rules. Goose couldn’t abide by a rule that weren’t enforced, and it don’t feel real till it was enforced against him. That ain’t a trait that agrees with a military life. The army discottoned to fellers who buck rules.
“You hoopie sumbitch think you can get away with not shaving!” his drill sergeant barked at him the day after check-in. Goose done got his head shaved, but the barber ain’t say he gots to shave off the mustache too.
“Suh, no suh!” Goose snapped down. He be solid at attention. The drill sergeant glared close as though daring him to square up. Goose ain’t take the bait. They got so close Goose could feel the aura of his nose, and Goose’s fat cock bulging through his camo pants felt of drill sergeant’s crotch too. “Suh! I ain’t know — I ain’t — nobody said-“
“Waah-waah-waah, I don’t wanna hear it! A soldier finds out the rules, or he suffers for breakin’ ’em, Sampson! Now get down and gimme fifty push-ups! And if you don’t do every one perfectly, ya whole damn barrack is doin’ ’em!”
No doubt drill sergeant thunk Goose wouldn’t do ’em right and the whole barrack would hafta do fifty push-ups. They’d put it off on Goose. But he did do ’em right, cuz he got arms like tractors, and drill sergeant couldn’t say boo about it. He did make the whole barrack do fifty push-ups a few minutes later, but nobody could blame Goose for it.
Drill Sergeant Tucker was like that — he steady punished the whole unit if’n one feller messed up. That forced ’em to hold each other accountable.
The one soldier who couldn’t quite live up to expectations was Samovich, who was skinny as a toothpick and sloppy as a bear. He couldn’t never do enough push-ups or clean his rifle proper-like or keep his bunk in good order. Whole dang unit got in a bad row of stumps again and again for that sumbitch.
Ain’t nobody wanna punish him. They hoped Samovich to improve, but Samovich cried for his mama and he tried a-sneaking like a clumsy ninja, even cheating on an obstacle course, stogging around the obstacles out in the woods where Drill Sergeant Tucker couldn’t see.
That was some low-manhood, high-sissy behavior, so far as Goose was concerned. And per his buddy Harley, who Goose ain’t barely know yet, but they later ran together cuz they shipped out together.
Once Tucker found out about the obstacle course, he shit his lid, and Samovich returned to the barrack with a heavy head, a black eye and a limp, and word soon got back that they wasn’t getting leave this weekend cuzza him.
Whole dang unit got no leave cuz Samovich couldn’t handle his shit.
That pissed ’em all off. It was Harley who badmouthed Samovich so bad them’all took a turn gutpunching him.
By then he was bawling in the corner of the barrack like a rank pussy, god did that weakling shit piss Goose off. It wasn’t even just that Samovich was a pussy — god knows the world’s fulla ’em! — but he was getting the whole barrack in trouble, and Samovich was going off to war! What’d he think this was? Prep for a trip to a circus? He gonna hafta toughen up or the Vietnameys gonna send him dirtwards. A man rises hisself to the situation at hand.
“Hey, watch this,” Harley said. The whole squad done talk trash like them’all was gonna beat him to bumpkins, but they only gave Samovich a lavish of gutpunches. That got the frustration outta the cadets, but they stayed mad. Beating him up was likeish to get them all in trouble. He already done got the breath knocked outta him, and he hurt so bad in the belly he dry-heaved up a mouthful of spit.
A sense of brotherhood done rise among ’em then, a unity of purpose. It felt right. Even Samovich prolly felt it. They moved as one, they acted as one, without thinking. That was a sensation only reckonizable in retrospect. A feller can never step in the same river twice.
Harley was the ringleader, the one daffy-laughing the loudest. “Watch, watch, watch, I’mma mollywop that skinny sumbitch.”
Harley took out his dick and slapped Samovich over the face with it. Harley got a fat pecker, but it weren’t too long, so he gotsta sorta jut his crotch forward, which let him dick-whack Samovich good and hard, solid enough to make a thwap-slap sound.
“Oh shit-“
“Harley dickslappin’ that sissy!”
That made ’em all guffaw, especially when Samovich looked like ain’t nothing happen, like he was stonefacing all of a sudden, despite the tears rolling down his cheeks. Goddamn was he a wussy! Like a woman, he was pretending, couldn’t accept the reality afronta him.
“Get ‘im-“
“-ruined mah damn leave!”
“I wuz gonna get wit’ this chick, maaaaan-“
Before Goose knewed it, bunchesa fellers got they dicks out, jobbing Samovich on the cheeks and chin and forehead. Samovich was looking like a red-faced statue, sniffling back his tears and his cries for mama. The wangs was all limp as hot green beans though. Samovich did wince when Hernandez got his pecker on his upper lip — he musta tasted it — and he held back a bawl.
T’was Goose’s giant cock that made Samovich cry out again. They all done shower with him, so it weren’t no surprise, but maybe them’all ain’t notice or ain’t reckon how big it was up close, till they saw Goose smack Samovich over the face with it. His fatness rested on Samovich’s light hawkbrown face, almost as wide as his face and longer than it for sure.
“Aww, sheeit, that’s a big one, you honky sumbitch!” said one the black fellers, Crowley, who got a fat dick too. He thwacked his thickness onto Goose’s meat and chuckled, as they shafts bounced and jiggled softly over each other.
Goose got no idear who first started ramming at Samovich’s mouth. He was laughing and swordfighting with Crowley, as they all jabbered about the whores they woulda fucked on leave if that pissant Samovich ain’t mess it up. On they first leave last month, most all the barrack ‘cept for Samovich all joined in for a whorish harridan who gave ’em each blowjobs, one after the other. She weren’t much to look at, but she drew a nut out in about two minutes each. Mouth like snappin’ velvet.
When Goose turned back around, Harley was shooting his nut onto Samovich’s mug.
“Oooooh, sheeit!”
“Ewww-!”
“Harley’s nuttin’! Harley’s nuttin’!”
“That honky shoot cream!” Crowley yelped and ran in a little circle in the barrack, guffawing like a barrel. “That honky shootin’ cream!” he said as though there was a chance something else mighta come outta Harley’s erection.
That made them all laugh the dickens! Samovich sat there, teary-eyed and wussy, practically begging a Vietnamey sniper to take him out. Jizz roped over his face from his forehead to his chin.
He did get shot, you know. Goose don’t like to think about it. At the time, when Samovich messed up they leave, Goose and all them all was thinking a rank-ass wussy like him deserved to take a bullet. Somebody got to, and it might as well be someone who couldn’t hack it in basic training.
But that was exactly what happened, Samovich got shot on patrol in Dien Fat Boo, and Goose was sad as a girl when he found out. He ain’t want nobody he knewed to get shot.
And in the end, Samovich did get through basic training. Barely, but that still counts.
Disregardless, at the time, the war seemed too far away to even think about, even though that was all any of them did think about. The war was both too near and too far for studyment.
Harley stepped away, dick swinging between his hands, still dribbling nut onto the floor of the barrack. Harley pumped his biceps like he just conquered a frontier, and everwho did cheer him on. As they did so, Crowley got hard in an instant, you know how black boys is, ain’t even gotta touch his meat, and he held onto Samovich by the ear to plow into his poor little mouth. Harley’s jizz dripped onto Crowley’s pecker.
“C’mon, yo’ mouf is my pussy, Samovich!” Crowley grunted like he was fucking a dislikable whore. He pumped and rammed at Samovich’s mouth, not using his hands so his cock kept slipping out and roping over Samovich’s face, making Samovich gag as both precum and actual cum coated him from bow to stern. “C’mon, pussy-fhroat, gonna wreck yo’ fhroat…” Crowley’s taut muscles rippled.
“Aw, fuck, Crowley, you doin’ it! You doin’ it!” Goose whooped and hollered. He done gone to prison by this point — Goose was old for a basic-training feller. He ain’t mention to nobody that he done shoot his nut in a sissy before. Mosta them’all was just eighteen years old, maybe nineteen in a couple cases. Goose was the old man at twenty-four. Them young’uns acted like they ain’t know a feller could nut in another feller’s mouth — and you just know they never heared tell of butt rangers. Goose acted similar, cuz he ain’t want nobody to guess what he done.
It ended up coming out anyway, but not at that time.
Crowley pounded his cock at Samovich’s throat, and while he did so, some other feller shot a wad onto Samovich’s face. Young’uns is like that, busting a nut in a instant. Whoever that was — Goose don’t remember now — they ain’t even get they dick in Samovich’s mouth. They prolly thwacked it on his face, maybe got some spit on it, definitely got smeared with cream from Harley and maybe Crowley, which was prolly what lubed up they dong. In any case, they was spewing they load onto Crowley’s dick still while Crowley was closing his eyes to fuck Samovich’s throat like a pussy, his heavy balls slapping at Samovich’s chin.
“Aw’ight, aw’ight, here I go,” Crowley closed his eyes and forced his dick down Samovich’s throat. His black shaft pulsated visibly as cum spurted down there. Crowley ain’t let up, not even when Samovich retched up jizz round his eggplanty knob. It plopped onto the ground at his feet.
Then Jerry Whathisname did much the same thing, he only needed a minute, maybe less than one, in Samovich’s mouth, he got a dinky peter, that was why. So did Manny Hernandez, Carl Taggart and that other black boy, the islander —Lucent — who was Trinidadian, skinny like a jaguar — and Yeller, Opie, Lyle, Abe, Nottingham, Goose weren’t sure of the order. He waited till the end.
Goose liked the idea of a well-lubed throat. By the time he swaggered his thirteen-incher in front of Samovich’s face, that sumbitch weren’t even visible. He got prolly thirty-nine cumloads on his face. Well, less, cuz Crowley and some others shot it down his gullet and Lucent missed, got mosta it on his shoulders. Samovich spat up mosta the ackempucky onto his own face, and Hernandez spat on Samovich’s face bunches, he was like that, he did that, made Samovich’s mug ugly, wet and sticky. There was fifty fellers in the barrack, but a couple was gone for various reasons at the time, so maybe thirty-nine loads hit him in various places. Big boy loads too!
Gommy puddles of it coated his face, no bare skin at all there. He was soaked on his ears, his shoulders, his neck. Mosta his crewcut was moist, and Samovich kept smearing it round with his hands, but he ain’t got nothing to wipe it off with — damn was he a sissy! Ain’t nobody holding him down, reckon! He just was too scairt or sad or whatever to move, got a pussy on his soul holding him down. He don’t fight back, he don’t even got smart-ass remarks like a short feller.
“Maaan, come on…” was all he said, leastways all that Goose heared. Then he erupted in more gags, his whole body undulating like a eel.
Samovich weren’t resisting one bit when Goose rammed his meat into that paltry sumbitch’s wide open mouth. He was well broke-in, his throat lubed. Goose got a good four inches in, the others cheering him on, then he held onto Samovich’s face and forced it in more. Samovich stretched his lips around the shaft. Got maybe eight inches in then. Pretty dang good, most fellers can’t get that far in no matter how hard they plowed.
He shot his fat wad onto Samovich’s face — he made sure to pull away, so all them’all could see every drop of it coat Samovich in creamy ropes. His giant balls shot giant loads, and Goose wanna paint Samovich white as cotton. So he aimed his dickmeat for the last few cum-free spots on Samovich’s face.
It felt good, but the main sensation was pride, not pleasure. Goose liked seeing Samovich take his cumload, even if he was jacking his own meat at the time. Samovich kept his mouth open though nobody told him to, he was just that muchuva pussy. He cringed and gagged as his mouth overflowed and spilled.
“Damn, Goose-“
“Whiteboy got mad meat!” Crowley was happy-dapping up and down, his own manhood jiggling like a angry baseball bat.
Still more jizz got Samovich on his back and his nape, as he at last reckoned he could crawl away. He sobbed on all fours, while Goose followed him, laughing so hard he couldn’t even keep ahold on his dick. It fell between his legs and dangled as the last couple drops dribbled onto Samovich’s legs and feet.
Then Goose sighed and pulled away, amid the claps and laughter from the resta the barrack. That felt good as candy, he thunk. Not enough to make up for the lost leave, but still, it felt good to get a nut off.
Even if Samovich was good for nothing else, leastways he could do that.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 2

The White Trash Veteran

It rained like rhythmic broth in the marshy jungle north of camp. The crippety call of crickets and the rattatat of machine guns boomed outta the steamy yonder and combined with the chop-chop of the helicopters overhead and the chirrup of the frogs and the splashing of Goose’s heavy boots in wetland muck, and his huffing breath lingered like saxophone sounds amid the clap-a-clap of his gun jostling to and fro.
Bwooooooooosh — schhhllaaat!
A bomb went off somewhere, and men cried out — maybe a landmine — them voices sounded gooky. They bumped and chattered and clashed crashing syllables somewhere nearabouts, maybe all around. The echoic jungle indistinctly whooshed past Goose’s ears, as he boot-splashed in some direction or possibly a different one.
“Woo-jai-goo!” sparked some gook, or some shit like that, it all sounded the same to Goose, who just arrived in Vietnam last week. Already, he be plussing.
More ding-dong chatter sounded from thisaway and thataway and yanway and from up on over yonder too, and Goose unclipped his gun. He dunno which direction to point it in, as all he heared now was the jungle calls of critters creepy-crawling. Vietnam got more bugs than sense. Goose hoped to draw his firearm.
But his hand was empty. No gun.
Goose had it a moment ago. Did he drop it?
“Stop! Stop right where you are! Hands in the air!” One the gooks had stellar English, with drawl and a trace of twang. Sounded like he was from somewhere proper, maybe Tennessee.
The peal of a siren shattered Goose’s rainy shards into panes of togethertude, and he stupored into stillness.
Cops surrounded him. Guns aimed himward. The sun blared in his eyes. No endless canopy clouding overhead. No wetlands under his boots. No helicopter sounds.
He was in America. Tennessee? Maybe. Pennsylvania? Indiana? Were those real places? Goose never was convinced Delaware was real.
“Put your hands in the air!” shouted the insistent cop in the lead. His gun glinted in the sun. He had a groomed mustache liketa grow into a beard but never quite got there.
“Aaaah… shit,” Goose said. He ain’t know where he was or what done happen. For a moment, he couldn’t even remember leaving Vietnam. Had he rotated out? Gone AWOL? Fragged his commander? Or did he die there?
Goose sunk to his knees. His mind still whirred as facts filed back into place. He recollected now the floaty-boat back to America. He was honorably discharged, if you can believe it, like a fucking knight. He did the paperwork. He got a medal. The cops stormed forth and slapped cuffs on him. Goose stumbled to the black and white, policemen shoving him this way and that like a sturdy man in a Navy brig, and they squeezed him into the backseat.
Martinsburg seemed very far away. Goose don’t know where he was, so t’was possible it was nearby, but it felt afar. He ain’t wanna ask after his current locale cuz he was feeling lazy in mind and soul, like a pecan floating down the gentle Monongahela. Nothing that happens now matters, because everything done happen, back in Vietnam. His ache for Ellen and for li’l Moses Buck was only a minor eddy in the current of the universe, and there was something comforting in the meaninglessness of it all.
The next few hours swirled through a relentless, incomprehensable tornado of questions and photographs.
But eventually it was over, and he lay in his jail cell, both sobering up and piecing together. He done start a fist and skull with a lippy larry in a bar, and then everything went blurry. He brawled ’em all like a hillbilly do. He punched up purple at a cop in his blues, then, seeing red, Goose took the cop’s black and white. He was going inside for sure. Hopefully for just a couple months.
“You okay, hillbilly?” came a deep voice from the cell next to him. It had a distinct New England tone to it, a portion of stawk and a dose of yip. Not quite New York, not quite Massachusetts. Yankee for sure.
“Who you callin’ hillbilly?!” Goose said as he sat up, which got him swimmy-headed. “Yankee bastard.”
The man across the way, with half-gray curls atop his squareness, chuckled. “Where you think you’s at, hillbilly?”
Goose shrugged. “Good question.”
“You’s in New Juusey,” said the man. “Name’s Dutch.” They both nodded back to each other. “You an Army man?”
Goose nodded. He rubbed his sore temple. “Yeah-um.” He grunted. “It’s 1976, right?”
“Yup.”
“When’s suppuh?”
“You had yu’s. You puked it up,” Dutch said. “You might get Castle to let you make yuuself a sandwich.” He sniffled and shrugged. “Prolly not. He’s a dick.”
Goose sighed. “Fine.” His belly done went queasy as a weasel anyway. He laid back on the bunk. He closed his eyes. He thunk he stayed awake and that only a few seconds passed, but when he opened his eyes, it was hours later. He awoke to the jailhouse door slamming shut, as a uniformed cop came in, looking like a blob-shape frown. He got a scruffy beard and a eyepatch over his right eye, which was blue as the Pacific Ocean.
He stopped at the cell bars by Goose’s head. His nametag read Castle. He held a clipboard. “You alive?”
“Yes suh.”
“What’s ya name, son?”
“Nobody.”
“Fingerprints gonna bring up a name?”
“Yes suh.”
Castle let out a long sigh. “Then why not tell me-?”
“J’st look at mah dog tag!” Goose said. He took off his dog tag and tossed it at Castle, who caught it.
A long pause sat ‘tween them two, and it grew like kudzu, snaking and sneaking, encircling the cell in sullen silence. Goose wondered if Castle done walk away, but he ain’t move his head to see. It was nice to stare at the ceiling, which was solid and unchanging.
“You gonna kill yaself?” Officer Castle finally asked. He scratched his eyepatch, which made him wrinkle his nose.
“No suh.”
“You got any medical whatevers?”
“No suh.”
“Good,” Castle said. He sniffled and rubbed his nose, which again made him wince. He dropped the clipboard and held it by his side. He looked at Goose for the first time since coming in here. “You okay?”
Goose shrugged.
“Ya public defender will be here in the morning.”
“Uh-huh,” Goose said.
“You took a swing at me earlier.”
“Sorry ’bout that. Suh.”
“Sorries don’t cut it, son. What happened? You was putting out crazy,” Officer Castle said. He paused but Goose kept them peepers trained on the ceiling. Goose was thinking of a response, but he ain’t show it and he ain’t wanna give nothing that sound like excuses. Officer Castle frowned so hard Goose heard it. “You lost control. You look strong, but you got weakness in you, son. You too weak to control yaself.” He took a step to the side, where’n he could better see Goose’s face. “You too weak, son-“
“I heared ya.”
“Well? You satisfied with that? Jesus Christ do pull thorns from the paws of lions, son. The pro’lem with you is you think you’re the lion, waiting for Jesus to show up. But really, you’s the thorn,” Castle said.
“Yessuh.” There was a huge bulge in Goose’s boxer shorts. He got a gigantic cock, and the too-small boxers made that obvious. He rearranged it so it didn’t look like he had a hardon. Rearranging it made it look like he did have a hardon and was concealing it.
“If you wanna take carea that stiffy, Dutch’ll jerk you off,” Castle said. He walked off, snorting at Dutch, who was in the cell leaning against his bars and smoking a cigarette.
“Yes suh.” Goose sat up and chuckled. He waggled his dick in his army-green drawers. The door to the jailhouse swung shut, and the lock loudly engaged.
All was still and silent. With no noise, Goose’s ears pricked up, and he soon heared the whirr of the ventilation system, the plink-plink of water dripping somewhere, the scurrying of a mouse in the walls. Them was good sounds, and a sortuva holy calm came over him for a few seconds, lasting until his thoughts commenced to pondering again.
He looked across the way at Dutch.
“I don’t gotta jerk you off.” Dutch puffed on his cigarette from across the way. “You got anything on you? Cigarettes?”
Goose patted his pockets and pulled out two nickels and a lighter. He showed them to Dutch. “Shit… I don’t got none. Can I get a cigarette?”
“No,” Dutch said as though that shoulda been obvious. Then he peered closer at the lighter. “Lemme see the lighter. If it’s full, I’ll trade you a couple cigarettes for it.” Dutch came outta his cell and over to Goose’s. Goose handed him the lighter, which Dutch hefted in one hand and looked at it in the light to see the silhouette of the level of fluid inside. Then he swiped the nickels too. “Three cigarettes.”
Goose nodded. He took the three cigarettes from Dutch and lit one. “I’s in New Juhsey?” he said as he exhaled. That only now sunk into his brain. “How’d I get to New Juhsey?”
“How in the name of Christ could I know that?” Dutch asked. He snubbed his cigarette butt out. He returned to his cell and laid down on the bunk with a magazine in hand. He leafed through it.
Goose puffed on his cigarette. The smoke felt good in his lungs, and it invigorated him. He felt truly alive, and for the first time since he woke up, all five senses was firmly in America.
“I’da signed up, you know, I’da done my part,” Dutch said. He was nose-deep in his magazine yet, laying in his bunk. “If I wasn’t in here. And if I was young enough. I’da signed up for the Army. Or maybe Navy, my dad was Navy.”
“Navy is a buncha nancies,” Goose said. He stood and jogged in place, which made his fat cock jiggle in his britches. Now that he was feeling fully awake, he really did admireta get a nut off, like Castle said. It’d help him get back to sleep. No point in doing anything else here but sleep.
First he finished his cigarette, and he did a quick workout in his cell. That helped settle the heeby-jeebies in his belly. He stopped when the push-ups reminded him of boot camp.
Dutch fiddled with the radio in his cell, trying to pick up a channel that was mostly static. He moved the radio round to find an effective spot. When that proved ineffective, he left his cell and went to the back of the jailhouse. The song finally came in clear. Dutch nodded his head in tune with the beat liketa dance, but he couldn’t cuz he was holding the radio in the one spot where it worked.
Goose checked his cell door, which was locked. “Why’s your’n unlocked?”
Dutch scowled, bopping his head to the beat. “I’m the trustee. I’m allowed out.”
“Ooooh, you the bucket trustee. Mil’tary police had them,” Goose said. He grabbed his cock through his boxers and waggled it in Dutch’s direction.
With a scowl, Dutch came to Goose’s cell and withdrew a key from his pocket. He unlocked the door and came in. “I’m doin’ it how — eckkkk…!” He stopped short when he seed the size of the basket in Goose’s boxers. He whistled. “Shit, you hillbillies don’t play. Don’t even think about puttin’ that in my ass. I don’t do that, Sheriff says I don’t gotto, no matter what. Not even the colored cops can make me do it. He said so.”
“Fine. I don’t wan’cha ass,” Goose said. He pulled down his boxers and thwacked his hefty cock against the palm of his hand. “C’mon, I won’t be able to sleep without blowin’ a nut.”
“Lay on ya bunk,” Dutch said. “I’m not gettin’ on my knees. Don’t blow in my mouth. I’m allowed to hit you if you do.”
“Fine-” Goose aimed his dick at Dutch.
“You can shoot ya nut into the toilet,” Dutch said.
Goose said with a weary sigh. “Fine. J’st do it, Dutch. Jaysus Christ, New Juhsey fellers do thangs slow.” He got one hand working up and down his limpness, but he weren’t trying to get it hard.
“I’m from Rhode Island,” Dutch said.
Goose snorted and settled back on his bunk, boxers round his ankles. Dutch bent over and took Goose’s dick in one hand. He gave it a couple strokes, then lowered his tongue and licked it from tip to root.
It firmed up in his hand. Dutch used just one hand at first, his tongue teasing the tip, slobbering up spit. Then he put both hands on it and kept at it hard. He kept sticking his tongue out like he was gonna lick it again, but his tongue barely touched the tip a couple times.
“C’mon, t’ain’t-“
“I’m gettin’ you off, I choose how to do it!” Dutch said. His tongue teased Goose’s knob, then he winced and pulled away. He spat into the toilet.
“It won’t get hard like that,” Goose said. “C’mon, put’cha mouth on it. Swaller it. I won’t force it in, I won’t throat ya down, I swan.”
Dutch rolled his eyes, but he did stretch his mouth around the tip. He teased it with his tongue. He kept going with both hands too, and Goose’s cock firmed up. It throbbed against Dutch’s lips.
The more Dutch mouthed up on it, the more it tasted like spit, not pecker, so Dutch found it easier and easier. His tongue rocked up and down the shaft, but he didn’t move past the first couple inches, making no effort to throat it. Goose ain’t complain.
Soon enough, his dick was rock-hard, and Goose let out a moan. Dutch ain’t throat it none yet, but he kept both hands on the shaft and his lips upon the knob.
Then all at once, Goose grabbed Dutch’s head and at the same time precum slipped out onto Dutch’s tongue. Goose ain’t force his dick in, but he did push down on Dutch’s head, just enough to signal what he wanted. Dutch paused, pulled off and cast a glare up at him, then moved back to Goose’s cocktip. After a few more seconds, he was overcome by a gag. He leaned over to the toilet and spat into it.
“Ewck, you taste awful,” Dutch said. He gagged up more spit into the toilet.
Overcome by a desire to nut, Goose hurried to a standing position. Dutch was bent over the toilet, so Goose grabbed him by the head and forced his dick into Dutch’s open mouth. Dutch’s broad shoulders tensed up.
He tapped then patted then outright hit Goose on his thighs and the meaty part of his asscheeks. Dutch tried to wrench his head away, but Goose kept a tight hold on his scalp. Goose pistoned his hips. He ain’t force his meat down Dutch’s throat, but he did push it to the backa his mouth and ain’t let Dutch spit it out. That meant precum slicked up Dutch’s throat.
“C’mon, swaller it, j’st throat it a li’l-” Goose murmured. He stopped when his cock hit the back of Dutch’s throat — as far as Goose was concerned, that meant he lived up to his part of the bargain. He hadn’t forced it in, hadn’t “throated him down”, as they say in prison.
But Dutch erupted in gags and whoops, and he shoved Goose off. He spat up into the toilet. “Nah! No way! That ain’t how I do it! No-” His chest muscles roiled and undulated, as he retched again. Goopy white precum clung to his lips and his teeth.
Goose slipped the tip of his dick back into Dutch’s mouth, and despite his protestations, Dutch did swallow the first couple inches. He kept both hands on the root to keep Goose from throating him down. A few meaningless syllables slipped out when Goose let his cocktip come in one of leaving Dutch’s mouth, but Goose ain’t let up enough for Dutch to form any words, specially once Goose felt his orgasm burgeoning deep within him.
Cum spurted into Dutch’s mouth, and Goose sighed grandly. He held firmly onto Dutch’s head, pleasure roiling Goose’s chest, until Dutch managed to drag himself off and gasp for breath. Goose’s second wad spurted onto Dutch’s face. Goose bent his knees to aim his dick for Dutch’s open mouth, as he clasped Goose by the thighs and tried to push him away.
That meant his third and fourth jizzwad jetted straight into Dutch’s mouth, huge fat wads that overflowed and were instantly retched out. Dutch spat up jizz all over his stony face, which turned red as he tried to catch his wind. With his hands behind his back, Goose rammed his meat at Dutch’s mouth and let it rope up his face, so his final couple cumwads matted Dutch’s hair.
“I said no-!” Dutch was overcome by a gag, and he spat up more cum into the toilet. Goose finished himself off with both hands, shooting a few driblets of creamy jizz over Dutch’s face and head.
“Sheeit, sorry, Dutch,” Goose said with a throaty chuckle, his voice wavering cuz the aftershocks of an intense orgasm still rocked him. He thwacked his limpening moist meat onto Dutch’s ear and the side of his cheek.
Dutch scooted away and wiped his face off, holding back gag after gag. He shot Goose a stern look. “Fuck you, asshole,” he said, hoarse as a horse. “That was it, no more. No matter how long you’s here.”
Bouncing his meat between his two hands, Goose chuckled. “Yeah. We’ll see, Dutch.”

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.

Buck the Ex-Con

Buck is out of prison again, and he’s up to his old tricks! He’s got a plan to stay out, but will it work? Buck is a muscle-bound ex-con redneck who doesn’t want to go back to prison and doesn’t want a reputation as a jailhouse booty bandit… but even more than that, he wants to stick his rod in anything that moves! So he’s got to satisfy his needs on the DL, even if that means holding down some hobos, addicts and losers, while doing the dirty in the dirt!

Read it now!

Trailer Park Noir

Calvin moves into a trailer park, but he’s in for a ride of man-on-man hijinks. He’s one of few black men in Smashwood Trailer Park, so he doesn’t fit in among the white trash bad boys who live there. That’s not gonna stop him from making waves and getting hot and heavy!

Can he make it through the rigors and risks of his new hood?

Read it now!

The Redneck Ex-Con

Buck’s back!

The white trash alpha ex-con Buck Simpson is out of prison again, and he’s got a new partner-in-crime, Nathan. If Nathan doesn’t meet Buck’s standards, he might be in for a pretty rough time, because as much as Buck tries to deny it, he’s a jailhouse booty bandit who doesn’t take no for an answer!

That means Nathan is in for a bevy of noncon man-on-man action full of rednecks, raunchy prison sex and disgusting hobo rutting!

Read it now!