I'd stopped to talk to the two guys who regularly positioned themselves at the corner of 4th Street Northwest in Albuquerque and the alley in which I temporarily resided in a cardboard carton. I hadn't been there long following a relocation from Las Vegas and, although I'd found some work as a gofer on a high-rise construction project downtown, I didn't have near enough funds yet to rent a room--or even to have three squares a day.
"What? Who?" I asked, swiveling my head toward the street. A dark sedan had pulled over to the curb, but I didn't see anything unusual in that. That's what they did to pick up one of the guys staked out on this corner--the guys I'd stopped to talk to after a long, dusty day walking the beams of a barebones high-rise structure.
"The one in the car, sweetie. He's lookin' at you, I'm sure. Good looker hisself too--for his age."
"Go on, honey," the other rent-boy said. "You can have this one. He wants you. Time you got out of that carton back in the alley. Lee and I here have rooms. You want one of those--and, believe me, it can get cold here in the winter, no matter what folks say about the sunny southwest--you need to expand your profit takin'."
"I don't know. I don't--"
"Don't tell me you never sucked a cock before," the first rent-boy said with exaggerated shock. "Pretty boy like you. You gotta have them linin' up."
As a matter of fact I had sucked a cock before--and had fallen into a rut of it here in Albuquerque. The job situation was very tight when I got here. Being picked up here, on 4th Street, while I was walking and minding my own business, by one of the construction foremen on the high rise project had been what had gotten me the minimal job I had. And I made more out of the occasional blow job and quick fuck I had to give him in nooks and crannies of the construction site than I got paid for chasing around on errands on the site.
"Ask for fifty and don't settle for less than twenty," rent-boy number two was advising. "If he wants more, nothin' less than a hundred. Not just for you. We have standards to keep up on this corner."
"And don't expect us to let you cut in on the business," said number one. "You just look like you haven't had a meal for a while."
At the side of the car, I leaned down and looked into the open passenger window. It was obvious what he was there for. He already had his cock out, his hand was wrapped around it, and it was hard--a long, thick hard. He was a military type. Not young, but hunky. Tall, solid, broad-chested, well-muscled. The gray buzz cut showed his age; so did the craggy, yet still handsome face. He was wearing gym shorts, the waistband pulled down to under his meaty balls, and a pristine white T-shirt on top.
I made him speak first.
"Maybe, for a price," I answered. "Fifty dollars. Just a BJ, though."
He gestured to the top of the dashboard, where a ten and twenty were already laid out, side by side. "I know the going rates," he said. "Get in."
I opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. The interior of the car was neat as a pin. He looked clean too. I felt like a pig pen, having just come from the construction site and not having had anyplace to clean up for a couple of days. The water was off at the site for work on the lines. I usually cleaned up there, my foreman finding an opportunity for me in the construction trailer.
I reached over for his cock, one of the biggest I'd ever seen, but he pushed my hand away. "Not here. Too risky. Won't go far, though. I'll bring you right back."
We didn't, in fact, go far--just around the corner and up a block was a closed-down gas station, the pumps having been jerked out being a good sign it wasn't open for business. There still were some clunker cars on the lot, though, and the john pulled his sedan between two of these. We couldn't be seen from the street. Someone would have to walk in almost to the tail end of the car to know it was occupied.
The john obviously had done this before.
He turned and looked at me and seemed to do a double take as if only now seeing me clearly. I felt self-conscious. I wasn't at my best with a streak of dirt on my face and wearing my baggy shorts, plaid shirt open to a dingy white T underneath, and scruffy, worn construction boots. For a second I thought he was going to tell me to get out of his nice, clean car. But his eyes went dull and I saw him relax back into his seat. He'd had his hand on his cock, but he took it off and lowered his arms to his side.
I took all that arranging of himself as a signal, and, leaning over, I took the cock in one of my hands, opened my mouth over the bulb, ran my tongue around that, and put sucking pressure on it. He stiffened and then relaxed again and let out a long groan. I ran my lips down the side of the dick, seeing how far I initially could get. I knew he'd want me to try to deep-throat it. It was a big one, though.
After just three rises and falls on the cock, however, he grasped my head and pushed it off his cock, the motion causing me to sit back up in the passenger seat and lean away from him against the passenger door.
"What? It isn't what--?"
"Not here, like this. You smell. Sorry, but I can't get past that. When was the last time you showered? When was the last time you ate anything? You're a great-looking guy, but I can't do this with someone in your condition."
"Uh, sorry," I said. "I didn't plan on this. Was just coming home from work. The guys on the corner said you wanted me, not them."
"I did. I did want you. I do. You looked so . . . and even more when you got in the car. But not like this. Coming home? You have a job? You live somewhere near where I picked you up?"
"Yeah, I got a job. Not much of one, though."
"Don't tell me. You're homeless. That's why you're in this condition."
"That, and, as I said, I was comin' home from a job. I work on that high rise they're building on Central, near the I-25 interchange. I wasn't plannin' on this."
"And you live--?"
"In the alley where you picked me up."
"And that's why you and your clothes are in the condition they're in? You don't have much of a place to get them washed?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"And the last time you had a good meal?"
"There was a bologna sandwich from a lunch wagon at noon."
"And for breakfast?"
"There was a bologna sandwich from a lunch wagon at noon."
"We can't do this here, like this."
"OK, I'll just get out. But I was willin', so at least the ten." I reached out toward the dashboard.
"You can take it all. Get your clothes cleaned at a Laundromat and get a good meal."
"And then you'll come back for me?" I asked. He was a hunk and a half even though he must have been in his late forties, at least. He was a lot better than the construction foreman. Nice big cock too. I'd already had thoughts of what more he could do with me with that cock than just a blow job.
"You'd go with me then?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure. You're hunky."
"You indicated you didn't regularly do this."
"I know what men do with men with their cocks," I said. "Just because I'm not in the business doesn't mean I'm not interested."
"So, what would you charge for all day?"
What was it the guys at the corner had said? The part about not undercharging so as not to undermine their business? Otherwise, I might go with the man for free. He was a hunk and a half, I liked them older, and this thing in the car business was making me horny. But the guys on the corner told me to keep up their standards.
"Another hundred dollars, on top of the thirty, which I use to clean up."
"Tell you what," he said, as he took out a wallet. "I'll make it a hundred and fifty total, paid up to dawn tomorrow, and we'll go back to the alley and get your other clothes, if you have any. You can come to my apartment--I live in an apartment house over on Lomas. I'll feed you and clean all of your clothes tonight and have you back here in the morning. How does that sound?"
"I have to be at work on Central by eight."
"I can get you there. No problem."
The two rent-boys weren't at the corner of 4th and my alley when we drove back, so there were no explanations that I had to give while I gathered up my stuff. There wasn't much more than a small pile of clothes, so I took it all. Better with me tonight than left here and stolen during the night. That's when this alley came to life--at night.
He marched me right to his apartment house in an older, brick-fronted six-story building with maybe two two-bedroom units on each floor. His was the only basement unit, across from a communal laundry room and storage cubicles. He had his own washer and dryer, though. The apartment was adequately furnished, obviously a bachelor's pad, but, like his car, spic and span.
"Straight to the shower," he said. "Toss out all of your clothes, and I'll toss in a pair of briefs you can wear while the clothes are washing."
The briefs were a couple of sizes too big for me, so they hung low on my waist. It's not that he was fat. Far from it. He was a fit as they came. He was just that much bigger than I was. I padded out to the combination living room, dining room, and kitchen area when I had stood under the shower for what seemed to be a half hour, luxuriating in the steam and musk-scented liquid soap and the shampoo I found there. This was heaven. I hadn't been dirty and smelly by choice.
My thoughts went back to Las Vegas and why I'd left. I'd been raised in comfort there. Falling under the control of a bouncer at a casino right out of high school, though, had changed my life--made me need to move out of town and beyond his reach. He wasn't just rough; he had a temper and liked to punch to make his points.
I saddled up on one of the stools on the living room side of a kitchen island while I was still rubbing my wet hair with a towel. The man was working in the kitchen. Steaks were out on a platter for frying in a skillet he was heating up. I could see that there were baked potatoes in the microwave. My stomach gave a lurch. It had been some time since I'd had a steak dinner.
He turned and looked at me. For a moment I saw the same look of surprise and what seemed to be both sadness and yearning in his eyes before he went duller, more remote in expression. It wasn't just his eyes that were hard, I could see him getting harder under the flimsy material of his gym shorts too as he moved along the kitchen counter, cooking with fluid, efficient movements, washing cooking pans and utensils in soapy water in the sink as he moved. Spic and span man. That was him. I thought of the Mr. Clean commercials figure. That was this guy, except that this guy had hair, albeit a close buzz clip, and craggy facial features. Same hunky build, though.
He set out a cold beer in a bottle for me. Didn't even ask my age, although I was prepared to show him my driver's license, if he did, to prove I was old enough. He nursed another one himself, while moving around in his compact kitchen area. As he cooked, he took snatches of looks at me, each time that shocked and sad expression followed by a hardening and distancing.
We ate in silence. I more like inhaled the food. He got up and fried another steak, and I devoured that one as well.
"Sorry," I said afterward. "I'm a pig."
"I can see you were hungry. I'll fry up another one if you want."
"No, thanks. I'm not that much of a pig."
"You aren't a pig at all. You are a lovely young man. You are so much like . . . well, you are achingly good looking."
"Thanks," I answered. "You're a hunk and a half yourself."
This was it then, I thought. To the bedroom to earn that $150. But, no, that wasn't happening--yet.
"You look worn out too," he said. "Both my washer and dryer are really slow. You'll have nothing to wear all night."
Here it comes, I thought.
"Why don't you go on back to the bedroom I showed you, turn in, and get a good sleep? I'll set my alarm for six, and we'll get you to work on time in the morning."
"But the $150."
"You needed setting back on your feet again. Just something I felt I needed to do. Go on now. I have some paperwork to do. I'll keep the noise down. Can't say the same for the tenants in the apartment above us. Should have evicted them a long time ago."
* * * *
He was right about the people overhead. Probably a couple. Both a male and female voice, the female voice very shrill, turning breathy later. A vocal battle raged in their living area for two hours, during which I only got snatches of sleep on the double bed taking up most of the room of the man's second bedroom. Then, when they moved to their bedroom, bedroom calisthenics, with screeching bedsprings and a headboard rhythmically bouncing against the wall behind my head for another thirty or forty minutes. When there was silence, I went out like a light.
The man visited me in the darkest of night. I wasn't surprised that he would. I don't know how long he'd been cuddled in behind me, naked, his hard cock pressing up the small of my back, embracing me, with a hand encasing my cock, and kissing the back of my neck, before I was awake enough to know he was there. The hand work was sporadic, hesitating, as if he was trying to make up his mind what he wanted to do.
I was still in a hazy zone when I felt him slipping the briefs I'd worn to bed--his briefs--off my legs.
When I was fully awake, I just sighed for him and pressed my body back into his, letting him know he could have me. He'd paid for me, he'd treated me real well, and, well, he was a hunk and a half with a big cock that I'd already wondered about taking. It's not that I was fast or easy. But it also wasn't as if I hadn't been fucked before. And I had taken his money for staying the night.
I had agreed to give him sex before I'd ever gotten into his car.
Once having been reassured that I'd take him, he started off slow and sensual. Kissing my neck and shoulders and, when I turned my face to him, kissing me tenderly on the lips. His hands glided all over my body, always pausing to give my cock strokes. I felt like I should give him attention, and I did reach back for his cock, but he moved it away from me, signaling that he wanted to work my body. And work it, he did, tenderly and gently, but with a sensuality that had me moaning and sighing and moving my hips. As he kissed and tongued and worked my body with one hand, he loosened the grip on my cock to provide a sleeve for me to fuck his fist. At some point, he'd slathered his hand with lube, and I stroked in the sheath his hand provided until, with a long sigh, I came.
He moved down my naked body, pressing his hands on my butt cheeks and pulling them apart. I felt his hot breath on my hole, blowing on it, and then his tongue pressing against the rim, breaching the rim, pushing into me deep. I raised my buttocks to him--presenting not only for what he was doing now, but for a good angle for the slide of the cock.
"Yes, yes," I murmured. I couldn't signal any better than this that he could fuck me.
Kneading my butt cheeks, keeping them pressed apart, the wetness of lube, the pressing of fingers. One . . . two . . . three.
"Open for me. Open for me, baby," I heard him murmur. "I'll be good to you. I don't want to hurt you."
To the extent I could open to that big cock of his, I did. "Yes, yes," I whispered with a sigh. My hips involuntary raised themselves further and went into a fucking motion. My cock was hard again, the bulb dragging back and forth on the sheet. He encased it again with a hand.
"Fuck me, fuck me. Give it to me now," I whined.
I heard the snap of the condom being rolled onto this cock and adjusted, and I moaned in want for him. "Yes, fuck me," I murmured again, more eloquent words escaping me in my need for it.
When he started sliding it into me, I was almost open enough to take him. Almost. He was patient, moving into me at a glacial pace. I kept chanting, "Give it to me. Bury it deep. Give it to me. Giveittome."
Fully mounted, he moved slowly inside me, giving me all of it, pulling back, slowly sliding in. He was stretched out above me, but not putting his full weight on me, an arm embracing my chest, his lips in the hollow of my neck, a hand slow stroking my cock.
Whispering in my ear, "You're so nice, so tight, so good." And he seemed to be whispering a name too. Not mine, though, one I couldn't quite hear. It hit me then that he didn't know my name--and I didn't know his. We hadn't exchanged names. How weird, I briefly thought. But this wasn't a time for thought. This was a time for pleasure and for building up to that next ejaculation.
"Faster, harder. Give it to me harder," I cried out, feeling my sap rising again, but wanting to blow in fury, not romance.
With a groan and a grunt, he pulled me up fully to my knees, grasped my waist with one strong hand, and buried the other one in the hair at the back of my head and arching me, painfully, back toward him. He was crouching over me, though, set in a stance of power, set to pound my ass, hard and deep, the power of his whole weight going into each thrust. Each thrust causing me to jerk and cry out.
"Shit! Fuck! Shitshitshit!" I screamed as he pounded me hard. Pounded, pounded, pounded.
I came again. He pulled out of me, jerked off the condom, and gave me three wads of cum over the small of my back. He immediately climbed down from the bed, muttering, "Sorry. I'm so sorry."
He was out of the room before I could say, "Don't be sorry. I asked for it. I wanted. I loved it." But I said it anyway.
* * * *
He couldn't look at me in the morning while he was fixing our breakfast--a full country breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, even a couple of pancakes with butter and syrup. A pint of OJ; a gallon of coffee.
The most he would say was, "A construction worker needs a good start on the day."
Especially one who'd had the stuffing exhaustively fucked out of him the night before, I thought. I wanted to say that I wasn't a real construction worker, just a gofer for tools and construction material and guys' lunch boxes. But I could see that each time I said something, he winced. Like he preferred to pretend I wasn't even there. At least that I couldn't speak, couldn't call him out for losing control with me last night.
He drove me to the construction site in silence. Before I got out of the car, he said, "Your clothes will be ready by the time you finish work. Sorry I didn't get them folded before we left this morning."
Ironed and folded, I'll bet, I thought. "It's OK, there are buses back to where you live. I'll stop in for them."
"And I'll feed you dinner?" It was a question, not a statement. He wasn't claiming possession or anything.
"Yeah, sure, that would be great," I answered as I got out of the car. It could just be dinner and that was all. I'd take him again if he wanted me. I'd be happy to, without money. He already was giving me stuff. His cooking was great--and free. I'd be happy to lie under him again. It just didn't seem to be what he wanted. Last night had really shut him down. Guess I wasn't that great after all, I thought.
I couldn't figure out what I was supposed to do last night, what would have pleased him. I somehow did something wrong and made him angry during the fuck. I just didn't know what it was. But it was good for me both ways.
That day, although the construction foreman made suggestions of getting me alone, I fended them off. I had no idea why I did that. I did, though, stay hard most of the day thinking of the royal fucking I'd gotten the previous night.
When I got back to the apartment, the man was a bit more relaxed, more open.
"I went through your things. Most of your stuff is beyond its last leg. And those boots. They're about to fall apart. What say we go shopping after dinner."
"I can't afford new clothes," I said.
"My treat," he answered. "You need toiletries too. Toothpaste and brush, shaving stuff, soap, deodorant. The works. What you brought was well past its death date."
I started to say that I didn't take handouts like that, but I could see how anxious he was to do it. Then, in the only mention of the previous night, he said, "It's the least I can do. I was out of line. I shouldn't have . . . not like that . . ."
I wanted to tell him that I'd loved it, had begged for it, but I could see that he really didn't want to talk about it beyond what he said. So, instead, I just agreed to shop after dinner. He looked relieved. I chalked whatever he bought as payment for if he wanted to do me again when we got back from shopping.
I wanted him to do me again when we got back from shopping. Just like last night would be just fine with me.
He apparently didn't want to do me again, though. We got back from shopping very late. He bought me a lot of stuff--but it was practical stuff, not any sexy fuck wear like most daddies would buy their fuck boys when they took them clothes shopping. Or so I'd heard. Certainly not what the casino bouncer bought me in Las Vegas when he took me shopping.
Most of it was what I could wear to work. The new construction boots were great--and cost him a pretty penny. If he wanted to fuck me when we got home like he'd done the night before, he'd paid the fare. Although, I liked it enough that I couldn't see charging him.
"It's late. You might as well stay the night," he said when we got home.
"Yeah, I guess so," I said, almost licking my chops at the thought of another visitation in the dark of the night.
I stayed awake most of the night, waiting for him, watching the door to the corridor, with the light from the hallway showing in a large gap at the base of the door. He did come to the door. I snapped awake at seeing the shadow of his feet under the door and hearing the rub of his hand on the other side of the door. I even heard the long sigh and deep groan.
But he didn't come in.
At breakfast, we started off saying nothing about where I was going after work the next day. That question just sat there, heavy, in the air. He was more relaxed, though. Still, there was some sadness about him. We were becoming more comfortable with each other. And for the first time, he told me his name was Sarge and I told him I was Kevin.
"What brought you to Albuquerque, Kevin? You weren't raised in that cardboard carton in the alley, were you?"
"No. A good family. A normal family. Outside Las Vegas. A bad relationship, though. I decided to move on."
"Ah," he said. Before he could ask more, although I didn't get the impression that he'd worry that wound, I got in a question.
"Sarge?" I asked. "You were military with a nickname like Sarge?"
I would have guessed. He was that squared away and put together that well. "Served overseas?"
"Yes. both Iraq and Afghanistan."
"I don't see any stuff around that's military. Souvenirs and campaign medals and such."
"No, you don't."
I sensed he was closing down on me, so I changed the subject. "About this evening, after work--"
"I have tickets to a farm team baseball game . . . if you'd like to go."
"Yes, I'd like that," I said, keeping my smile to myself. We were getting comfortable with each other. Maybe he'd get over whatever barrier was being raised between us sex wise. "But the expense."
"I'm not a pauper, Kevin. I'm the super of this apartment building. But I also own it. You don't see me going to work, because I work right here. But I make good money off of this apartment house. Bought it as soon as I left the service. Needed to get away from that."
"Ah," I said. But even that maybe was too much.
He did sort of a double take, like maybe he'd said too much about leaving the Marines. I didn't pursue the point. We were getting along so well.
* * * *
There was a step back that evening when I came home from work--and then a few more disturbing withdrawals after that.
I'd gotten a ride back to Sarge's place on the back of a construction worker's motorcycle. Sarge must have heard the roar of the muffler, because he was up the stairs and on the sidewalk before I could get off the bike.
"Never do that. You should never do that," he cried out.
Shocked that he would react this way to me being with a construction worker--who was quite hunky and also totally hetero--took me back. It was the first sign of possessiveness. It both disturbed and impressed me.
"Let's discuss this inside," I said to Sarge. I turned to thank Dave for the ride home and to apologize for Sarge's outburst, and when I turned, Sarge was gone.
He was sitting in a chair in the living room, seething, wrapping his arms around his chest, and rocking back and forth.
"There's nothing between me and that guy, Sarge," I said when I came in. "It was just a ride home." Funny that I didn't trip even a little bit on calling Sarge's apartment "home."
"It's not the guy," Sarge said through set teeth. "It's the ride. Motorcycles are only good for killing people. Don't do that to me again . . . please. Don't show up here on a motorcycle again."
I could see that it really set him off, so I quickly said that, sure, I would stay off motorcycles. It was yet another sign I was getting that the man had issues, though. I didn't know how many such issues I could deal with in a fluid situation like this.
We went to the ball game and had a good time, but there remained something under the surface for both of us--whatever Sarge's demons were and me not sensing any solid ground here to stand on with him. I wished he'd just fuck me like he did the other night--claim me as his territory. I would have minded less him taking off on me being cuddled behind Dave--who was a real hunk--on a motorcycle than the inexplicable rage at riding a motorcycle. This was the West and I was twenty-two. Loads of twenty-two-year-old men rode motorcycles here.
When we got back from the game, nothing was said about me leaving and going back to the alley either. I didn't want to go--at least unless Sarge got stranger--so I didn't bring it up. And then he made his position on that obvious.
"If you need transportation, I'll get you a car," he said. And then he went to the refrigerator to pull out a beer, handed me one in passing, and planted himself in front of the TV, giving his full attention to a pro baseball game--as if we hadn't seen enough baseball that day.
And he came through on a car. When I came home the next day, he had an old, beat-up Civic coup waiting for me. "It's old, but it runs good," he said, as he handed me the keys. "It's gassed up. Let me know when it's running low and I'll gas it up again."
I knew I could take that as an indication that he wanted me to stay, but that was what happened the next day. By then I was in a tailspin over what happened the previous night, after the trip to the ball field, after I'd gone to bed, leaving a brooding Sarge glued to the TV set and swigging his third beer.
Sometime after eleven that night, while the couple over head were thumping their headboard against the wall, I heard Sarge's front door open and then close again. Shortly before midnight, I heard him return. But not just him. I heard voices, men's voices, both set low, as they passed in the hallway outside my door. The thumping overhead had stopped, but the thumping just behind my headboard, in Sarge's bedroom, started up. And the sounds of taking and receiving. The sounds of being taken hard and deep, the pistoned, rhythmic pounding of the headboard of Sarge's bed against the bedroom wall. Impassioned cries in Spanish.
Miserable and with the draining emotions of having been rejected, I pulled a pillow over my head and fought for sleep--for anything that would end my confusion, frustration, and dejection.
Nothing was said in the morning while Sarge fixed breakfast. I'd heard the front door open and close--twice--later in the night, so I knew whoever Sarge had brought home had been taken away again in the morning. And nothing was said when I returned from work that day, our attention taken up with the car he provided me.
It was so confusing. Sarge didn't want to fuck me, but he still wanted to keep me here. He didn't mention me leaving. He gave me a car to drive between his apartment and the construction site.
We went another day in an atmosphere of false normalcy. I bristled and analyzed everything he said, everything he did. I'm sure he was doing the same with me. Increasingly, the apartment, which seemed such a commodious space when I first arrived, began to constrict around me--around us. We were getting in each other's way as we moved about it, looking at each other when we did, each of us about to say something, but stifling ourselves.
The next night, the young man Sarge brought home after midnight and fucked--repeatedly during the night--was still there in the morning. When I went to the bathroom--the main one off the hallway rather than the small one off Sarge's bedroom--the young man was standing at the sink, naked. The room was misted up. He'd just come out of the shower. He was shaving--using my razor and shaving cream--the razor and shaving cream Sarge had bought for me the evening he'd taken me clothes shopping.
I simply took them out of his hands, glowered at him, and pointed toward the door. I'd meant the door exiting the apartment, but he turned the other way in the hall--back to Sarge's room, shook his pert little buttocks at me, and entered Sarge's room. While I performed my own morning hygiene ritual with shaky hands, Sarge was fucking the young man again in his bedroom, the headboard bumping rhythmically against the wall.
I dressed quickly, just glanced at the kitchen on my way out the door, and couldn't leave the apartment fast enough. There would be two for breakfast in that kitchen, as usual. But one of them wouldn't be me.
When I came home that evening, there was a note from Sarge that he was working on a plumbing issue in an apartment up on the fourth floor. Nothing written about the visitation of the young man.
I walked into Sarge's bedroom--the first time I'd ever been in there--to see if the guy perhaps was still there, or if there was evidence that he was moving in. I didn't find that, but what I did find were framed photographs on Sarge's nightstand. They all were of two men, a tall, muscular one, and a shorter, younger guy. The tall figure in the photos were Sarge. Sarge in his Marine uniform, Sarge in a tuxedo, Sarge in a Speedo at the beach. The younger man was appropriately dressed in each photo--each photo clearly showing an intimate relationship between the two. Each one had an effect of longing on me, of the two having something together that I wanted with Sarge too.
But those weren't the aspects of the photographs that gave me pause. What arrested my attention was that the other figure in the photographs were always the same young man--a young man who was the spitting image of me.
"The other man in the photograph is Andy, my lover," Sarge said softly. "The photo with the tuxedos was the day we took vows of commitment. There wasn't an option of marriage in those days." I looked up from where I was sitting on the edge of his bed, holding one of the photographs.
"You have a lover--one who looks like me?"
"Had a lover, yes. We were together for six years. He's dead. Died in a motorcycle accident."
"Ah," I said. There didn't seem to be any more to be said. This went a long way to explain his strangeness.
Having said that much, though, Sarge seemed to think there was more to be said. "We were in the Marines together. We found each other when we were serving in Afghanistan. We were discovered and sent home. Dishonorable discharge both, despite a chest full of combat medals each. They don't do that anymore in cases like ours, but they did it then, and there's no changing that. I do have medals. So did Andy. I can't and won't display them, though. We moved here. We were happy. We were committed. I kept my commitment; I'm sure Andy did as well. And then I bought Andy a motorcycle. You are so like him. Too, too much like him . . . I'm so conflicted."
"Shush," I whispered putting a finger up to his lips. His voice faltered and stopped, running out of gas. There were tears in his eyes.
"You don't have to say anymore," I whispered. "Just hold me, kiss me, fuck me." He already was embracing me in his arms. Then he was kissing me. All that remained was . . .
"I . . . I can't hold back. I can't control myself when I'm with you. I couldn't with Andy either."
"But he wanted it that way, didn't he?"
"Yes, I guess so," Sarge answered, his voice faltering.
"So do I. As hard, fast, and deep as you can. But the gentle, making love, start to it. Making love to my body until I'm begging for something more intense. And then giving that to me. Drilling me hard and deep. Putting me to the sword, taking no prisoners possession. Losing yourself in wanting me, as you did when you fucked me. That's one of only two things I have in common with Andy. That and the fact that we look alike. Otherwise I'm not Andy. I'm Kevin. We can start again, just the two of us. Not Sarge and Andy, but Sarge and Kevin. Just don't hold back from me. Give it all to me. You don't need to bring anyone else home to hold me up on some sort pedestal. Fuck me hard, punish me, make me totally yours."
"But I lose control. I did so the other night more with you than I did with Andy. I can't control my lust."
"I don't want you to control your lust with me. It shows me your passion. It shows me how deeply you want to do it with me. No one has shown me before how much they wanted me as you did the other night. That was the moment that I realized I loved you."
"That you loved me?" he asked, stunned. "That you could love me as I knew almost from the beginning that I loved you?"
I pulled out the drawer of his nightstand, assuming I'd find what I did there--lube and condoms.
He took me hard on the bed, harder even than that one night we had together. But, as requested, he romanced me to begin with, made sensual love to my body to where I was beside myself in wanting him inside me and begged him for the fuck. And then the headboard did a mean ratatatat against the wall as he fucked me doggy style again, crouching over my buttocks and holding me at the waist, using the leverage of his feet on the bed and the power shift of his pelvis to thrust hard and deep again and again and again and . . .
Begging no mercy; receiving no mercy. Both of us lost in want of each other. Him not being able to meld enough with me; me not being able to get him deep enough, thick enough, punishing enough inside me.
As the military recruitment commercials said: Nobody can do it like a Marine can do it.
Afterward, lying in each other's embrace, still panting from the exertion, I thanked him. The air still needed to be cleared, however.
"Those other young men, the last couple of days. Was it because I remind you so much of Andy, or have I displeased you somehow?"
"I've been a crazy man. Underneath it all, I suppose I was trying to drive you away. I couldn't send you away, so I needed you to want to leave. I'd had you once--in the form of Andy. I had him, but I ruined his military career through my own lusts, and in the end I killed him. I bought him a motorcycle and urged him to learn to ride it. I even told him the streets weren't slick enough from rain that morning for him not to ride his motorcycle."
"Shush on that," I whispered. "I think what you did give Andy was more than enough in life from his perspective. You can't go on blaming yourself."
"And sheer frustration from wanting you and thinking I had to stay away from you--while still not letting you go," Sarge continued. "Sexual frustration, needing sexual release. I think I wore those young men out."
"It wore me out just listening from the other side of the wall of you fucking them." I forced a laugh; he was too emotional to join me.
We were silent for a few moments. Then I spoke again. "I would like you to wear me out like you did those young men--to fuck me totally and often."
"I think I can do that."
"I know you can do that." A pause and then, "I like your bedroom better than mine. Can I move into your bed?"
"You know you can."
"Can I stay here . . . forever?"
"You'd really want to do that? I've got a good twenty-five years on you. You'll still be young and vigorous when I'm doddering."
"Did you plan for Andy to still be here when you were doddering?"
"Yes, of course. But I've grown wiser . . . and more realistic."
"Is there something you had with Andy you don't have with me?"
"Well, there is an aspect of intimacy, symbols of total commitment. Something understood when we took our commitment vows."
"Ah, you mean you barebacked him."
A pause and then the answer of, "Yes. For us it made all the difference. The commitment was total. The pleasure was total. The pledge of loyalty was there each time we fucked."
"Would you give up those other men for me?"
"In a flash. I only fucked them because of you."
"But you cruised before. You picked me up cruising."
"I was looking. And I found you. I didn't cruise when I was with Andy. I'd found him."
A long pause again, and then I rolled over on top of him. "I'm going to ride you now," I said, "But I'm off work tomorrow. I'd like you to take me somewhere."
"Oh, where? You have a car now. You can drive yourself anywhere you want to go."
"Yes, but I need you there too. I want you to take me to the free clinic--for both of us to be tested. And when we are both tested as safe, I want you to bring me home and fuck the stuffing out of me--bareback. I promise it will only be you from then on."
I was straddling him and riding his cock while I was making another silent vow to him: I also would never get on a motorcycle again.