Sawdust

1948

My great uncle was far from a wealthy man. He just had leftover money when others didn’t from his moonshine venture down in the delta. Because of that, he bought a sawmill fifty years ago to keep the town afloat and regularly employed the men in our family whenever we needed a job. It was great honest work. The pay was a little less than decent. Still, it was quite desirable for our part of the county. It was the type of job sweat and muscle were built to snag multiple women and queer sissies to fuck and sleep soundly thereafter.

It was the kind of job a man could spend the rest of his life doing if it wasn’t for that goddamn sawdust. The shit got everywhere! In the hair, in the eyes, in the clothes—just fucking everywhere!

It was especially bad when it got around your balls. It itched like crazy! The more you sweat the more horrible the experience. Most guys tried to be gentlemanly discreet in scratching the itch, some even going so far to excuse themselves to the bathroom or just around the corner just to alleviate the urge.

One day, my cousin, Big Rod said, ‘Fuck it! To hell with this shit!’ He couldn’t stand another goddamn minute of it! He started scratching his nuts ‘til he found some relief come hell or high water. He was in no mood to be tactful. No. No hiding it. No running off. He just dropped his overalls in the middle of the floor and started scratching up a storm. He showed us that day why everyone called him Big Rod. Gerard was built like a tank. And talk about some big balls! He had fuckin’ big cannonballs that missed our side of the family line. He needed both sets of fingers just to give them a good soothing rubdown.

Well, you know how it is. Once something like that gets started and nobody there to say otherwise, every other guy with itchy ball starts to do the same thing. Because most of the men around there were related in some way, not a one blinked when another guy hauled the whole toolkit out of his overalls to give it all a good scratch. Heck, I wasn’t any different. I was right there with them!

I don’t know what it is. But there ain’t nothing like an all-out no-holds-barred ball-scratching. You know the kind. Where you’re scrunching just under the nuts and scoring that deep itch, feeling so freakin’ good that you’re jangling all your fishing tackle up in the air. Shit!

It got to where we’d all follow Big Rod’s lead and take a good ball-scratching several times a day. We’d be standing around the loading dock oohing and ahhing like a bunch of zoo monkeys. Such a fucking relief! Of course, it wouldn’t be natural if more than a few of us didn’t get hard from all the manhandling in that testosterone-fueled environment.

Some of the other guys got so hard they couldn’t even get their cocks back in their overalls without jacking off.

For sport, we started having jack-off contests right off the loading dock before the trucks came in. At least once a day, we’d stand in a circle jerk and have our fun. Sometimes to see who could shoot the fastest, shoot the most, and shoot the furthest for the sake of bragging rights that could be stripped from one day to the next.

When that got boring, we started to use our eighteen-year-old cousin as target practice. We felt it was our God-given right since it was an open secret he’d served us well through the gas station gloryhole and its owner, his stepdad and his friends in his downtime. What good was it to lose our precious seed to the ground when we had an eager milkmouth in our mist? Oddly, the rotten bastard didn’t jump to lick our loads from his lips like we thought he would. Garth thought we were too old and too stupid to know about his extramural activities in our small little town. As if none of us ever stopped by the gas station for some relief before heading in. Big Rod came up with the idea to make Garth feel comfortable in his element. Working with wood, it was nothing for us to put up a board and cut a hole in it to shield him from the countless barrels of cream he could possibly take in the face.

Red in the face at the gesture, we unanimously assured our young cousin that we wouldn’t think any less of him than we already had. Whether he caught one load or a thousand and one of our loads right in the kisser.

Once we finally got the shy boy to kneel in front of all our jacking cocks, Garth welcomed the rain of jizz that came from them, catching them mostly in the face. We got extra points if we got it in his opened mouth. Turned out, after he was happily drenched in man-seed, he didn’t mind using his tongue to clean up the cocks that put it there. Garth got over his shyness quickly, and constantly amazed the sawmill with his thoroughness and bullet speed to lap up cream along with his ability to sooth our itch.

Yep, Uncle Ted made a great investment in the family future and Cousin Garth proved to be a great investment for the family business.