Me And Mister Jones....

..we got a thing goin’ on. Listen, right up front, I Did Not Start This. Okay, neither did Mrs. Jones but I might argue that she contributed in a subtle way.

“Bill Jones” (not his real name) and I were fighting our way to the can during a Cowboy’s game and, while waiting in line to take a piss, he was playing with his balls-I have no diddly dam idea why.

“Jesus….I’m about to shoot….” This was late summer in Texas, more like September, so he’s wearing shorts and, to let the restricted breeze inside Texas Stadium cool his nuts, no Hanes, no jock, Commando. He was rapidly moving into that state of panic that potential embarrassment brings; You haven’t done anything wrong, yet, but it’s a sure bet you’re going to. Why do people always turn to friends in very private moments when...there’s nothing they can do? But they try,

“Jake, you got some Kleenex? Paper towels...something like that?” I’m also wearing shorts- albeit with a jock-but stuffing a box of Kleenex, much less, God forbid, a roll of paper towels down there would have been tantamount to advertising. He might just as well asked me for a Tampon; Same result.

“Stick your hand down there, get it finished off, fuck in a line like this you could deliver twins...no one would notice.” And I followed that with this… “When you shoot, I don’t know, catch it, ….won’t drool down your leg?”

He almost squealed. “Catch it? Catch it! Then what…?

It was a ‘confession’ I should not have made. “Well, I eat mine, just lick your hand like you got ….something…….sticky”. Oh Jesus, TMI, way too much TMI all over the place.

“You Eat it?” He coulda said it louder….maybe.

Sure, buddy, lets tell everybody in line, maybe run a survey, ask what they do with fresh cum...I’m gonna bet, “And the survey says, ‘Eat It’ is number one’ ” .

I’m tempted to point out that, where we were, the situation he was describing, had very limited resource for the disposal of freshly spewed sperm; Eating it, done by most men, was the best one even if the, uh, venue for doing so….lacked...ambiance.

“Get in front of me.” He grabbed my shoulders and, without my thinking, pressed his chest and...crotch, with his hand in it, against my back and ass. Worse, yep, he’s hard, I can feel it through my shorts so what happens next? Lets not always see the same hands. Yep, I’m horning up; I can feel it creep around in my jock, trying to stiffen up and...as it does, the head will, I know, come over the edge making an impression on my shorts...or that’s what I think will happen. I have no academic proof on this one but...you get one guy horny, his buddy probably will too, especially, in something like this if ‘buddy’ No. 1 has managed to get some feeling of, well, what being hard and horny feels like even if he doesn’t mean to. NOW Buddy No. II has his mind reset to what it might feel like if…..Get three or four ‘buddies’ and while maybe it’s not a round pound, you got three or four men desperately trying to conceal what they know damn well is going on down there. Like I said, this is private theory, cannot prove it but ….

Oh yeah, I can feel him, he has passed stiff, is onto granite; Putting his hand down there has not improved his situation. We are now, well, lets just say the expression, ‘The Closest of Friends’ is getting a whole new meaning.

“Jake, if I rub against you, just, you know a little up and down it’ll….”

“Fucking hell, you want to look like I’m takin’ it in the ass waiting in line to take a piss? Hell No….”

But….that idea is stuck in his head as I can feel his shorts alternately rise enough to pull on my shirt then go down causing my shorts to droop. And...oh holy Mother of Jesus….it’s….beginning….to ….feel….good. Somewhere in my sick mind I Want Him, I want him to finish what he’s doing then stick his hands around my waist, dive down into my crotch and...make it two in a row for the old ball team.

Somewhere I can hear a cheer go up...just about as Bill moans that he just shot. Maybe the crowd knew, at least that wasn’t on a Jumbo-tron…

Goody, goody for him but he’s stuck me with a problem; I’m horned up, no way it’s gonna die down but I figure, one good deed deserves another. I grab his hands-guess he didn’t take my word they’ll be sticky. I almost squeal. “Didn’t you clean ‘em?” I don’t really wait for an answer as I’ve stuck them down my shorts hoping to hell the guy in front of me won’t step back to see something.

I know he’d never do what I’d tell him to do so...I start raising up and down on my Pumas. Good thing is...when I got him situated, and having felt like I was taking in the rear, I was close so I didn’t think it would take much: I didn’t. Those sticky paws now had enough DNA on them to identify both of us in the event of an accident.

“What the fuck have you done?”

“What you just did, came in my shorts, same place you did, your hands...”

Without turning I could imagine him standing there, not thinking, just holding two sticky hands up. Good thing sperm doesn’t really have much color; Against his white palms, hardly showed.

About then we didn’t need to take a leak as badly as when we got in line. “C’mon, lets hit a concession stand.”

“Are you crazy? You’re hungry?”

“No, but maybe they’d sell us a cup of water, get some napkins…..”

He got the point.

I don’t even know who won; After we got... a little cleaned up there was a sort of joint decision, under that lie we all tell-getting ahead of the traffic-to leave the game and, another lie, we can hear it on the radio. If you can find it on the radio...if it’s not blacked out within X miles of Cowboy Stadium….on the radio ….AM or FM. At least that made the ride quiet….I had my own set of thoughts as did he….

We’d just turned onto the Mix-master in Downtown Dallas, his timing was fucking awful, when he decides it’s confession time.

“Jake?”

You ever driven through the Mix-master? No time to talk….just...drive.

“Yeah”...but I’m trying to find the strand of two lane spaghetti will lead us to I-35N.

Some of those curves came from the Whirly Curl at the carnival, hard to drive and fight, oh, five G’s, of centrifugal force making holding the wheel a job, forget what anyone is saying. Guess he finally figured out this wasn’t a good moment when another curve pitched his head against the metal edge on his window. At least now it’s quiet. Again.

Just past the turn off for some place that advertises, “If You Lived Here, You’d Be Home Now!!!” I pulled over, slumped back and, as a man does when he’s just lived through a near death experience, put my hand over my crotch….just to see if the basis for being a man were still there. My balls had skittered someplace safe, up inside me, while my cock, having been drained then spun is now reduced to being the sort of fleshy tube you hold up with a fork realizing it was boiled too long; I forgot I had a passenger.

“Jake?”

“Huh?”

“Uh...I...Uh...”

My head rolled toward him, finally unstuck from the divot it made in the headrest. I don’t give a shit about him but... he’s a firm object on which I can get my eyes to practice focusing.

“You ‘uh’, what?”

“Back there….”

“You mean where we almost died?”

He doesn’t seem to remember the Mix-master, maybe he was knocked out.

“No, back in line.”

Line? I’m running through lines that have any context to me. Median, Goal, Foul...Line Backer….I’m not getting it.

“When we were in line for the can and you jerked me off.”

Okay, now he’s REALLY got my attention. “When I did what to you?”

“Buddy, you know, there in line when you….sorta held my cock, licked it, then I did you...”

Our memories are very different not to mention motive, event and consequence.

You can be very, very determined, vocally, when you want to and, just then oh did I want to.

“First, your cock was put in my hand still leaking cum. Second...YOU were whining about what to do with that cum so I told which made you squeal like a stuck pig. YOU pressed Your cock against My ass, started to Rumba me which got me hard so I shot...we got two empty cocks but, you will remember, eating it was THE suggestion….so...get your head straight about this. Got it?

He’s the sort of quiet that is...ominous. “Jake...it felt good, I mean...rubbing against your shorts...when I came….uhm...made me wonder...uhm….if...uhm….you’d ever let me….uhm…..”

I just stared at him. Thought...eventually I could think of a lie that would fly, convince the cops, his wife-whose name I couldn’t remember-that his falling from the car at high speed was a terrible accident but….I’d just maneuvered the Mix-master so, uh….needed some more work but the basics were there...maybe with luck another car, even an 18 wheeler would squash him so he’d never be able to tell the difference between ‘fall’ and ‘shove’.

Why doesn’t he just shout this? “I want to jerk you off again.”

The stare he got would paralyze the average Bengal tiger; Now my eyes have focused on him, but more in the way sighting something before you shoot it. Well, ‘shoot it’….that may be a poor choose of expressions….

“What?”

“I don’t mean now, I mean sometime, after we get home….could I jerk you off then? I promise to eat it.”

I thought of Mrs. Jones. Standing there, in their living room as her husband with his friend walk through telling her, “Hi, Honey, be right with you, I just gotta jerk off Jake..”

This is not ‘News You Can Use.’

I gulped because, God forgive me, I remember back in line when I felt his cock against my shorts which is why I got hard…. This is getting out of hand. Well, another poor choice of words.

“Are you fucking nuts?” Scratch that, substitute ‘mad’, nuts have no place in this except they do, sorta.

“No….See, uhm, you know how much I play golf?”

“Yeah, badly.”

“Well….I don’t really go play golf. That foursome of guys? There’s this motel across the line in Ardmore.”

“Oklahoma?”

“Yeah.”

“You and four guys go to this motel in Oklahoma...instead of playing golf?”

“We fuck each other….in the motel….in Ardmore.”

My foot slips which is why two hours later I’m grateful for AAA and their tow service.

Of course that doesn’t explain why I’m in the can of a Texaco station having my dick sucked but I am. So there. By Bill. Jesus does it feel good….any guy who says a blow job doesn’t feel good is a liar. Or never had one….how many guys have never had a blow job?

Bill’s eyes look up at me while one hand reaches out, grabs my balls, gives them a squeeze.

My small voice. “Do that again, harder……..OH HOLY SHIT…..that feels sooooooo…” I grab his shoulders, push him down my cock, fuck it if he’s choking….I Want This. Oh yeah, I want to come like Niagara Falls, back there in the stadium? Fuck, that was precum but here, oh yeah, here, I got at least a two pack all for my buddy.

He pulls back….. “Jake….if we keep on going North….we hit Ardmore…..”

“Just finish, oh please, God, get back on that pole, pleasssseeeeee…...I need to come sooo badly. Now…..”

He’s pulling down his shorts, grabs his cock, still slurping on mine….best I can do, grab his nuts with my hand, clamp down…..He screams, my schlong falls out of his mouth….he does to me what I just did to him….

The pounding on the door. “Hey, in there, you guys alright? Thought I heard something? Need some help?”

You say what comes into your head. “Nope, thanks, just banged my head….alright...be right out….”

“You sure? That was some yelp?”

Bill, his mouth now empty, takes up the excuses… “Preciate it, little personal, I, uh, got my thing caught in my zipper…..”

There’s a cackling of laughter outside the door. “Sorry, I bet that does make a man yell...heheheheh.”

“Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.” Scott.

I look down. “You don’t have a zipper!!!”

“Well….You Do!! change shorts with me….quick.”

“I’m still hard….finish me….”. This while I’m dropping my drawers causing the jock to pop back rather painfully.

He puts his hand on my dick and way too fast beats me off….but he does get what I want, I shoot, not much but at least I’ll deflate, at least enough to not make a bulge in my, well, his shorts.

Every man I know has at least one pair of khaki shorts, most of them don’t fit, too big, baggy, leg openings for an elephant but not Bill. His have a very short rise, cling, at least to me, like the crap you cover left overs with and….gave me a bulge that I don’t want but….he’s got on my shorts with the referenced zipper. All looks good. I guess.

Outside the AAA guy has all sorts of bad news; Car isn’t drivable, nearest Ford dealer is closed-Sunday, of course it is-but, here comes the ‘up side’-they can tow it there, leave a message to call me and Hertz to deliver a rental that will get us home. Or Ardmore. (He doesn’t mention that, it’s just in my mind.) Hertz won’t care. The other semi bad news comes from the Texaco guy who says he believes the radiator is shot, may need a new water pump...not to mention the squashed headlights, grill, all that crap. Cheerfully, in addition to his bill (for what? Letting us use the john?) he says he knows this is a ‘good’ Ford dealer (I’m tempted to ask him the name of a ‘bad’ Ford dealer-maybe they’re cheaper...) take good care of me…..even offers each of us a can of soda until the rental car gets here. AAA guy’s real nice but explains their policy of ‘No Riders’ or he’d take us to the Hertz place.

Thanks, at least he meant well and, a positive, doesn’t want anything done to his cock...

At least it’s not the sort of day where you grill yourself just standing around.

“Shouldn’t you call home?”

“Oh, yeah.” He fumbles in my pants, remembers the swap then dives into my/his pocket, gets his phone, calls home.

“Hey, honey? Listen? Kind of a problem….we got hit by a car in Dallas so….we’re stuck there until tomorrow, sorry…..”

I can see Ardmore in my future.

He’s listening. “Yeah, well, shit happens, so...kiss the kids, see ya tomorrow.” Clicks off. “That gives us time to do whatever we want to do…..Hey you want me to call Tom…?”

“…..or Dick and Harry?...sorry, just kidding.”

“Uh….Tom has a son, great kid, played ball for OU….mouth like a Hoover. I’ll tell them to meet us. Foursome.”

I can’t resist. “I didn’t bring my clubs.”That got a strange look-apparently he doesn’t associate me with golf.

I’m trapped. Does not matter what I want or think we should do, Bill has taken over, he’s got Ardmore on his mind-is that a song title?-so three hours later we’re pulling up to a motel in Oklahoma one, obviously, I’ve never seen. Not so strangely, when Bill goes to check in, they’re real glad to see him...only thing….they wonder why it’s not Saturday? His answer? The game.

I hear someone inside, “Yeah, helluva a game, can you believe the last twenty seconds?”

Okay, sure, I’ll believe the last twenty seconds but Who Won The Damn Game? The one I paid a lot of money to see but all I got was cum in my shorts, two things of iced water, some paper napkins and…..I still don’t know who won the game.

Tom and his son, Tommy-what else?-are maybe ten minutes behind us. Apparently there’s nothing new in Ardmore to them as they drive right to the group (yeah, group) of rooms normally the ‘foursome’ occupy. Tom is the clone of every older frat boy with the exception that he’s stayed in shape. Tommy, must have been the darling of the newspapers if not the national medial with his good looks. And good body; For the drive up he went for comfort wearing only a Speedo with a Dallas Cowboys Star centered on the crotch. All I can think is that….in a game of ‘strip’ anything, he would need more than luck to win then, when someone else was down to their briefs, the two of them could peel together. Or flip a coin.

Ebullient as an ex jock usually is, he, too, is full of the yelling about the ‘last twenty seconds….. Wow!” By now I’m embarrassed to ask for, presumably, I was at the game, I know, saw those fabled seconds instead of wiping cum from my paw by a stand selling Mexican food. Oh, and water with napkins-the part of the menu most ingrained in my mind.

Now a ‘foursome’ I can see why the good folk at reception were so pleased to see at least part of their Saturday crowd. Why there were three rooms became apparent once you opened the door to find that, in effect, room two, between one and three, was a boys’ equivalent of a ‘hospitality suite’. Hot tub, work out bikes, pool table, large fridge, glass fronted, stocked full of beer, a wet bar and, not visible, a sauna plus a shower for apre work out or hot tubbing, that looked more like something in a small gym; Six elaborate looking shower heads, all tile…..by now I’m not guessing, I’m sure, the ‘foursome’ effectively owns this trio of rooms-about the only thing the owners provided were cleaning services, lots of towels and, who knew, condoms-although given the familiarity of one and all, pretty good guess this was a bareback crowd.

Tommy, apparently encumbered by Spandex, has now removed his trunks and is happily playing with his balls-and they are worth playing with. Or more so. Tom, his Dad, drops to his knees, grabs them, squeezes them saying, “Oh yeah, boy, get that baby making milk out, give it to Daddy.” Then to the remaining ‘foursome’, “He loves getting his nuts worked over, got it from me….sometimes we just lay on the bed ‘n do this...”.

I didn’t feel I need to ask; It was a sucker’s bet to wonder if there was a Mrs. Tommy, that is, in residence. Probably had been but….once her purpose as brood mare had been fulfilled, so much for marriage. Also, in many divorces, if not most, the mother gets the kid; That she did not even want this kid was understandable, less then but letting ‘Tom’ keep him was a smart call; It’s possible to think that, one day, carrying the laundry up from the basement to put it in the linen closet she happened to look in an open door. Doesn’t matter which T-man was doing what to the other, the ‘discussion’ that doubtless followed this also set the stage for ‘Big Tom’ getting custody of Tommy. What Mrs. Tom got was a big settlement as well as an aversion to frat boys, football and blow jobs; Hard to blame her.

Jake is almost catatonic watching this pair; “Ya know, I always wanted a son….”

I have the dissenting vote; Not only did I not want children, I didn’t want a wife, one of the elements of being a gay man. I’d told Jake but, as straights are want to do, he chalked it up to some confession about an event in college or similar. However, based on ‘Ardmore’, the golfing foursome, what I’m seeing in front of me…..sexual preference is a foregone conclusion. And, in their eyes, I’m the only man who doesn’t, or hasn’t, played in their foursome.

But is going to.

All I know of Tommy is that he played for OU; Given his next move, had to be something involved in tackling, or, at minimum, a take down. In less than 20 seconds he has me on a bed, stripped of Jake’s shorts and is looking at me, fondling my cock and balls, much the same as a cat does with a trapped mouse.

“Hey, Dad, you old men go someplace, I always get the fresh meat….”

Much laughter, ‘attaboys’, ‘don’t bruise him’ not to mention calls to me to ‘enjoy what’s coming….” ….which, I assume is me or Tommy or both of us. I’m tempted to do what his Dad said he liked, milk this kid by squeezing his balls but...it’s too late, I’m pinned to the ugly bedspread, naked with a well bit...somehow ‘kid’ doesn’t seem right….man now licking my neck while he grasps, in one hand, my balls and cock.

Dammit….he’s got me going. This is better than the line at the stadium, this is a fine looking stud who is only too anxious and happy to do whatever the hell he wants to do with me. Also, like back in line, I cannot resist, I’m getting hard-a fact Tommy notices.

“Oh, yeah, buddy, pop that pole some more…..make me go as deep as you can….bet you came already today...just makes me work harder….” I thought of the word ‘lascivious’ in terms of Tommy. He’s turned loose of my nuts but is sticking my wood between his canines….without taking his eyes off me.

I am not a moaner. Well, not until Tommy set to work. Hell, for all I know I’m humming the OU fight song while he slurps, licks, teeths, teases, blows, sucks, inhales, pumps, chews on my dick while all I can do is wrap my arms and legs around him yelling, “Oh holy shit, kid, I want your man meat up my ass.” Ever see anyone smile while giving you a blow job? He did. Right before he flipped me. Now he’s seated on top of my thighs, leaning forward, holding me down, whispering that he’s gonna breed me...twice.

Into my chute goes the front line or the sneaky quarterback. Tommy doesn’t fool around just heads straight for the bottom/paradise….his cock head is like a gloved hand, seizing my prostate, almost playing hand ball with it.

“Mister, start to sweat...I like to lick it off your back.”

What I remember is….Tom Jr. fucking the shit out of me while his Dad and Jake, now gathered around us, yell encouragement for deeper thrusts. I think it was, well, hell, I don’t know which one but I heard…. “Think he’s up for a double?”

Fuck the Cowboys, I know who’s gonna lose this game.

No doubt about it, I’m taking up golf with Tommy as my Caddy…...