The L from Oak Park

They had been on the same tour of the Frank Lloyd Wright house and studio in Oak Park, Illinois, and then they’d passed each other or sighted each other from the distance while both were strolling through the area picking out and observing the other houses Wright had designed and that had been constructed in what was now just a far suburb of Chicago. They were both of much the same look—blond, good-looking, trim, and dressed well in well-pressed khaki trousers, expensive polo shirts, and the latest style of athletic walkers, although neither was really athletic looking. They both looked more like college students than student athletes, which they were.

There was a difference, a subtle difference in the look they had, the way they moved, and their interactions with the world around them, however. Ken was willowy and moved with grace; Thane was more solid, more deliberate, moving like he was in charge, like he owned the place. And Ken’s features were slightly more delicate than Thane’s. He didn’t maintain eye contact with someone he was aroused by. He’d dip his head, smile slightly, and blush. He had done that with Thane when they had first encountered each other. Thane looked directly at Ken from the very first, during the tour of the Wright house, his eyes commanding, undressing, possessing. The two young men, even though very similar in appearance, both knew the natural role of the other.

Both knew instinctively that the other was actively gay.

After the first couple of chance encounters during the house and studio tour and later when walking the neighborhood, Ken started looking for where Thane might appear. If he had the impression that Thane was tracking him, he was right. They surprised each other, though—or at least Ken was surprised—when they found themselves standing almost side-by-side on the sidewalk and watching a couple of muscled-up guys roofing one of the houses that obviously predated Wright’s work in the town.

“Queen Anne style, I think. Turn-of-the-century Victorian. Not Wright’s style, surely.”

Ken turned in surprise at the sound to see that the young man—the one he’d been playing tag with since they both toured the Wright house—was standing beside him. “Yes, I think it looks earlier than Wright,” he said, “although I think Wright started designing that style, when he worked for someone else.” He was slightly embarrassed because it wasn’t the house that had made him stop and look. It was the roofers. They were real hunks. Probably rough trade, he thought—to be ogled from afar. He didn’t want it to be obvious that he had been watching the men rather than the house and mentally picking one out for imaginary play he wasn’t brave enough to take beyond his imagination.

“So, you’re an architect, are you?” Ken asked.

“They’re in prime shape, aren’t they?” Thane said, as if he hadn’t heard Ken’s question. “It must be hard work, or it wouldn’t be warm enough out today for them to work shirtless. They have such good muscle tone because it’s hard work. Real hunks.”

Surprised again, all Ken could think of responding with was, “Yes, the temperature seems to be dipping this afternoon. If their work wasn’t so vigorous they surely would be cold.”

“But you’re glad they’re working shirtless, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Ken answered, surprised not only by the directness of the other young man’s conversation but also by how openly he himself had admitted his interest. The other guys seemed always to be able to tell about him—that he’d be sexually aroused by the roofers. He had no idea why. It was like he exuded pheromones that screamed “fuck me.”

“Me too,” the young man said. “I can always appreciate a beautiful body in motion. Thane. My name is Thane. We met—or at least brushed up against each other a time or two—at the Wright house, during the tour. I hoped we would have a chance to talk. Are you an architecture student?”

“Uh, a student, but not architecture,” Ken answered. “My name’s Ken. I go to the University of Chicago. Fine arts—creative writing program. We were sent out to get inspiration and write a story. I thought Frank Lloyd Wright and Oak Park would inspire me.”

That wasn’t the only reason Ken had taken this excursion. He hadn’t had any in over a week, and it had him horny and full of nervous energy. And he was tired of his needs controlling his actions. A ride on the L out to Oak Park seemed to have been a good, nonthreatening idea. He’d had no idea he’d see someone here who interested him.

“And?”

“So far nothing inspiring,” Ken answered and laughed.

“Pity. I seem to have lost my charisma then. It’s tough learning you aren’t inspiring.”

Ken laughed. It was a slightly nervous laugh, which Thane caught, but it relieved some of the tension that had been building inside Ken. He took another look at Thane, liking what he saw. Liking that Thane had guessed his sexual interest and seemed to be fine with it. His mind started to assess Thane as a possible sex partner. Was he gay—actively gay? Was he a top? Was he hung? Ken had a weakness for hung. Everything Ken had seen and heard Thane say so far pointed to all of the right answers.

“Not even the guys roofing that house? Those beautiful torsos in motion—they don’t inspire you?” Thane asked. He was smiling. Ken thought he had a nice smile.

“Well, maybe,” Ken said, and smiled. “But they look rough. Not my type—or my speed, at least.”

“Good,” Thane said, but then, before either could follow up on that, he said, “I’m fine arts too. U of C too, but my area is fine art itself. That’s why I find those bodies up there interesting; I paint them. But not today. Today I’m here spying out Wright’s design motifs. I plan on working them into a series of paintings. Not that I’m not interested in them sexually, of course. I am. Although they aren’t my speed either.”

He smiled at Ken. He couldn’t have been more straightforward about being gay and attracted to Ken rather than the roofers. “I’m spending most of my time on the lakefront now, at the Chicago Museum of Art,” he continued.

“Oh, so that’s why I haven’t met you at the university yet,” Ken said. “You’re mostly at the museum and I’m mostly in a dusty classroom.” As soon as he’d said it, Ken had wanted not to have said it. It wasn’t surprising two men hadn’t met at Chicago, which was a huge university, even if they were in the same school of the university. What he’d meant was that, both also being gay, it was strange they hadn’t met within the same circles. Chances were good they knew someone in common.

“Yes, strange we haven’t met yet. I know a guy in the writing program, though. A graduate student. Erick Malloy. We cruise with each other sometimes.”

Ken shivered. Yes, he knew Erick. And Erick knew him—biblically. Was Thane thinking of him as he had been thinking of Thane—wondering if they were a fit. “Yes, I know Erick. I’ve gone with him before.” There, that should establish that. “Gone with him” was pretty understandable code for “have been fucked by him—have bottomed for his topping.”

“Erick’s from Boston. Stockbrokers, I think. Quite a party guy, I think,” Thane said.

Why did guys in his circle always specify a place and family business of wealth, Ken wondered. It seemed like establishing a club just for them. He guessed it was part of the stratification of people living in Chicago—vast wealth on the lakefront and deep poverty just blocks off the water. The fear of poverty and those trapped in it.

“Yes, I’ve partied with Erick,” he said as if he couldn’t avoid playing the game himself. “I visited his family in Boston over winter break too. Our families are acquainted. He showed me a good time.”

Thane smiled, which Ken didn’t miss. Yes, that had established that—Thane was a top to Ken’s bottom and they both understood what was what. It only remained to establish mutual interest—and opportunity. And they were so well matched otherwise—both sunny blonds, the same age, probably even the same class. “Your accent. You sound like you’re a New Englander.”

God, why did he have to check that out, Ken wondered. He was trapped in this class distinction thing.

“Yes. Bar Harbor,” Thane answered. “A long family line up there. Shipping rather than fishing.”

The monied class, Ken thought. Like me—and Erick. Quite a dominator, that Erick. A fast reloader. “I’m from the Hamptons. Long Island. My family’s in banking.”

“Great,” Thane said. “I’m off to see the Unity Temple, the Unitarian church Wright designed. Would you—?”

“Ah, I saw that before the house tour,” Ken answered. “It’s about time for my train. I’m taking the L back to Cottage Grove and walk back to the university. I just have time enough to look at the Robey House again before that.”

“Well, then. Maybe I’ll see you on the platform,” Thane answered.

“Yes, maybe.”

“I go all the way back to the Loop. I was thinking of going back to the museum, but maybe I’ll just go back to the apartment. It’s between the Loop and the museum.”

“You have an apartment downtown?”

“Yes, if you can call it that. Three rooms and a bath. But all mine.”

“You live alone?”

“Yes. All mine, just me. A living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom. The bed takes up nearly the whole bedroom, but it’s a double.”

He was establishing opportunity, obviously with the assumption that Ken wanted to know that. Why do they always know, Ken mused. It must be pheromones.

“Well, then, I guess I’d better get over the Robey House if I want to make the next train,” Ken said.

They turned away from each other, headed in different directions, both doing so a bit reluctantly. Their attention went to the house where the roof was being redone. For the first time, they saw that one of the roofers, a young, muscular, dark-headed hunk, was standing near the edge and looking down at them. He was smiling and was rubbing the crotch of his jeans.

Thane laughed and Ken blushed.

“That would be rough trade,” Thane said.

“Absolutely,” Ken agreed.

“I won’t be rough. I’ll treat you right,” Thane said in a low, throaty voice.

“You can tell that easily?” Ken asked.

“I knew when we were touring Wright’s house,” Thane answered. “Later.”

Pheromones, Ken thought. He looked up at the rooftop again. The hunk was still there, looking at him and rubbing his crotch. I suppose even he can tell, even from that distance, Ken thought. Fat chance, though. A whole different world. Rough trade.

Both Ken and Thane moved off toward their separate destinations, each knowing they’d bust a gut to make the next train back to Chicago central—that they would hook up.

* * * *

Ken and Thane were sitting close together on the Oak Park train station platform, whispering, when the hunk from the roofing project walked out onto the platform, gave the two a close look, walked over to the edge of the platform, and looked down the track as if the train would materialize at his bidding. He was a mean-looking son of a gun, Ken thought, and his toes curled in his sneakers at the thought of being dominated by a man like that—if Ken were brave enough to hook up with a guy from that world.

Thane had been touching Ken—they’d gotten that far physically and farther verbally—judiciously, but he pulled away when he sensed the young roofer, dressed in a sweatshirt now, worn jeans, and cowboy boots, had come onto the platform.

“It’s just a few more stops,” Thane was whispering. “You could come down to the L with me, to my apartment, and it would be just a short train ride back to the university when we were done.”

“I don’t know. I have to think up something for this story I have to write. It’s due on Thursday.”

“I could give you inspiration, if your professor can handle racy.”

“He’s gay, and he’s quite loose himself,” Ken answered.

“Which means he’s fucked you?”

Ken didn’t answer, but that, in itself, was an answer. Thane laughed and changed the subject—sort of. “Erick. Do you think he’s good? He satisfies you?”

“He’s good. A fast reloader,” Ken answered. Chills were going up his spine, talking openly like this. But then they’d already kissed at the side of the station and felt each other up and Thane had said he wanted to fuck Ken, and Ken hadn’t objected to that.

The wheels were grinding in his mind. Maybe Thane was right—maybe he could get inspiration for a story from this. Coupling with a stranger met on the L from Oak Park. He was self-conscious at the look of lust Thane was giving him. God, Thane was handsome, Ken thought—then he felt a bit tawdry, as Thane could be a double for himself. Almost. Was he that narcissistic? He looked away from Thane, only to see the young roofer looking at him. A dark, sultry muscle man. Ken had the fleeting question of whether the rough-trade-looking roofer was hairy. But he’d seen him shirtless. Yes, his chest was hairy, but not grossly so.

Ken shuddered. He was going hard. He hadn’t made up his mind yet. Maybe he should go with Thane. He hadn’t had it for over a week, and he was needy.

In fact, the last guy who had fucked him was Erick. Three times in one afternoon. That fast reloading thing. But Erick was all that—

“Nice.”

“What?” Ken asked, looking back at Thane, and realizing that Thane had taken the risk of touching his basket—tracing his dick through the material of his trousers—and discovering that he was hard.

“Nice dick,” Thane said. “Is that for me?”

“Maybe,” Ken said. Was it, he wondered. He looked back at where the roofer was standing, but the train was in sight now, and the roofer’s attention had gone to that.

“You’ve got nice length. But Erick? Have you found Erick to be—?”

“Not really, no,” Ken said. And now that he thought about it, that was right. He kept thinking of Erick’s reloading ability, and he realized he focused on that because Erick’s cock was underwhelming and Ken liked them—

“You like them big, don’t you?” Thane said.

“Yes,” Ken answered, honestly. He was scandalized by this open talk, but it was arousing him. He couldn’t help himself. He was ripe for it.

“You’re coming back to my apartment with me, aren’t you? I can satisfy you.”

“We’ll see.” But then they were standing up from the bench and headed for the train. The stop here, en route back to the Chicago downtown, wouldn’t be long.

“See if you can find an empty carriage and sit where I can watch you,” Thane whispered to Ken as they climbed up into the train car and walked through a couple of sparsely populated train cars until they had gotten to a deserted one. “It looks like we’ll have this car all to ourselves until we get down into the city. Sit in one of the side seats, facing the aisle, and spread your legs. Make your basket move with just your cock. I’ll sit in one of the facing seats. If no one’s watching, I’ll jerk off while I’m watching you.”

“Thane! You’re a bad boy,” Ken said and laughed.

“Yes I am. Bad to the boner. Then we’ll go to my apartment and I’ll fuck your lights out with this big cock of mine. How do you like it? Missionary? Doggie? Both? Erick prefers missionary, I know.”

“Thane!” Ken exclaimed.

“Both, right? But mostly missionary. And then he wants you to cowboy, right?”

Ken shivered and then gave a nervous laugh. “Yes,” he answered to the positions; “Maybe,” was all he said about going to Thane’s apartment. But as Thane had directed, Ken sat in one of the side-facing seats and Thane slipped into the first seat facing forward where his lower body was hidden from view from the seat back in front of him.

“Spread your legs and touch your basket,” Thane whispered as the train started up. “Run your fingers the length of it. Show me how long you are. Make the snake move.”

Ken did as directed. No one else was in the train car—they’d gone to the last car on the train. He liked to be directed. He liked being submissive.

“I’ve got it out. I’m jerking it off,” Thane hissed, and Ken shuddered and went harder.

“Come back to my apartment with me. Let me fuck you to heaven.”

Further banter was cut off, though, as both turned their attention toward the hissing sound of the opening door at the end of the car. The young roofer entered the car, sauntered back to them, and sprawled in the side seat facing Ken. He spread his legs, let a hand dangle between his thighs, and gave Ken a knowing smile. Ken sat up straighter. The roofer didn’t.

Thane, who had also sat up straighter, cleared his throat and said, “So, Ken, I thought we’d go down to the Loop and then walk over to the art museum. There’s a special Van Dyck exhibit on and I’d also like to do the Italian Renaissance painter’s exhibit. How about that?”

“It’s a plan,” Ken said. He answered Thane, but his eyes were on the roofer.

“So, you’re university students,” The roofer said, his voice deep, almost mocking.

“Yes, we’re at the University of Chicago,” Thane answered. “And you? Are you in college?” At least he and Ken could discern the sarcasm in his voice, whether or not the roofer got the jab.

“Dropped out of high school,” the young man said. “Expelled,” he added, with a laugh. “But I’ve had a college student or two. So, your name is Ken.” He was looking directly at Ken, obviously snubbing Thane.

“Yes,” Ken answered, watching the roofer’s hand drop closer to what seemed to be a massive bulge at his crotch. Mentally, he was willing the hand to reach its destination, to unzip his jeans, to . . .

Thane had gotten him all sexed up. He was throbbing with need.

“I’m Thane,” Thane said to no one in particular and then, pointedly looking at the roofer, tripped on, “So, are you Bubba?”

The young hunk didn’t take the bait. It wasn’t Thane he was interested in. “Stan, my name’s Stan. I got eight inches for you, if you can handle that.” He still was talking directly to Ken. “You take cock, don’t you? I can tell by how you watched me up on the roof back there that you’d take my cock—that you wanted me inside you.”

“Jolly good fantasy,” Thane responded, as if eight claimed inches were something to sniff at. “Have you studied the Italian Renaissance artists, Ken?”

“Uh, no,” Ken answered. “But I’ve been to Italy. Rome, Florence, Venice. My travel year after prep school.”

“Hasn’t everyone?” Thane said. “I ended up there after doing the rest of Europe. How about you, Stan? Where have you traveled?”

“I went to Oak Park today,” Stan said. “And I saw a blond hottie there I think is dying to get it—eight inches of it.”

“My, you’re not shy, are you?” Thane said, trying to keep his voice light. He would know there were limits to how far he could go. This construction worker had him by thirty pounds and years of dirty fighting experience.

“Neither are you,” Stan shot back. “You want to make this honey as much as I do. You’re goin’ with one of us, Blondie. I know you want it. We all know you want it—that you’re dyin’ to take cock.”

The train was approaching the Cottage Grove stop, the closest one to the University of Chicago.

“You’re not getting off here, are you, Ken?” Thane said in a low voice. “You’re coming down to the Loop with me, aren’t you?”

“I’m not getting off here,” Ken answered.

They all went silent as the train pulled into the Cottage Grove platform, which was Ken’s stop, hung there for a few minutes, and then started out again toward the Chicago downtown. They all held themselves there in suspension for a few more minutes, waiting to see if anyone else would enter the car. All three were breathing heavily. Stan’s eyes were boring into Ken, and he was rubbing his crotch. Ken was looking back at Stan; he’d spread his legs again—he’d had to to relieve the pressure—and was touching his basket. Thane was looking at Ken with a commanding gaze and muttering about the good time he was going to show the other college student.

As the train picked up speed and no one else entered the car, Stan slowly unzipped his jeans and rolled out his cock. He hadn’t been lying about the eight inches. He’d neglected to say they were eight thick inches, though.

“I’m thinkin’ you want it big.” He was staring at Ken. Ken was trembling but didn’t answer. “Your friend here have it as big?” He looked over at Thane, who didn’t answer him. “I didn’t think so.”

They held in pattern for several minutes, Stan holding his cock in his hand and giving Ken a knowing smile, until the train was slowing again. They were pulling into the Ashland station. They had entered a blighted band around the city between the flashy, high-rise downtown area on the lakefront and the start of the wealthy suburbs, out where they had left Oak Park.

Stan stuffed his cock back into his jeans, stood up, and stretched. The train was still moving. He was agile on the balls of his feet despite his muscular physique. He had no trouble maintaining his balance and he was the model of self-confidence.

“This is my stop, Blondie. You gonna get off the train with me and get off on my cock? You gonna go slumming with me? You go with me, you’ll know you been fucked.” Both Ken and Thane were blonds, but it was quite evident Stan wasn’t addressing Thane.

* * * *

Ken was being grabbed under his pits and roughly turned on the sagging mattress of the bed in the fleabag by-the-hour gay hotel on Ashland. He had just a few seconds to look out of the nearby window, past the blinking neon hotel sign, and into street to see that twilight had fallen.

His cheeks stung from being slapped around; his throat was sore from being rhythmically throttled to heighten the effect of the sex. His legs ached from the positions they’d had to maintain while he was being fucked. His spirits were dancing on the clouds.

Talk about fast reloading, Erick had nothing over Stan in that department. Stan had been fucking him for hours, it seemed. The muscular roofer had reamed him seriously open. Stan had started with a missionary, then a doggie, and then, like Erick, he’d wanted Ken to cowboy him. But unlike Erick, Stan was eight thick inches of power and rough nastiness.

They’d been in the hotel room for two hours, and Ken was wrung out like a dishrag. He was moaning, but he was still purring.

His head was bent back over the end of the bed. His view of the hotel window was blotted out by the sight of an eight-inch, thick cock. Again. He opened his mouth, unhinging his jaw so that he could take the cock in his throat. This wasn’t the first . . . or the second . . . time Stan had pushed his hard eight inches inside Ken’s throat. The man was perpetually hard; there seemed to be no recovery time at all. Stan bent his muscular, dark and hairy body over Ken’s lithe, smooth torso, his fists trapping Ken’s wrists, and took Ken’s cock in his mouth. They seemed to sixty-nine for an eternity. Ken had never sixty-nined before. But he’d done it three times in the last two-and-a-half hours now and had been fucked seven ways from Sunday between blow jobs.

Stan reversed himself on Ken, Ken’s head still draped over the end of the bed. His ankles were being lifted and hooked on Stan’s shoulders. Stan had one arm encasing Ken’s calves and the hand of the other one pulling on Ken’s cock, as he thrust his cock inside Ken’s ass again and began to piston him vigorously.

“Open up. Give it to me, Blondie!” Stan commanded.

“I’ve been giving it to you all afternoon,” Ken responded with a deep groan.

“And you been lovin’ it. Smarty pants never had it so good.”

Ken couldn’t quibble with that.

“Fuckin’ give it to me. Open more. I ain’t near finished with you yet. Take it, take it, take it. You was beggin’ for it with your eyes and tease. You was beggin’ for it the first time I put it in you.”

“Shit! Fuck!” Ken cried out, but he willed himself to open totally to the huge-cocked man, and the eight hard inches sank deeper inside him. The first couple of fucks, Ken had tried to take it silently, knowing the walls were thin as paper in this fleabag. But this was a by-the-hour gay dive. He was hearing sex in stereo from all sides. He finally just let it loose and gave Stan the cries and encouragement that gave him some release and that made the muscle man plow harder.

Stan lifted his torso higher, pulling Ken’s buttocks off the surface of the bed and giving the young bottom a good view of the thick base of his cock pulling out and slamming down into Ken’s hole. The backs of Ken’s legs were being rubbed against Stan’s silky chest hair. Ken opened further, totally, collapsed, and moaned the pleasure of the big cock moving inside him, its bulb finding and exploring every nook and cranny of Ken’s channel. With a whimper, Ken shoot another load. He had lost count. He had never come this much. His balls ached.

The virile construction worker just kept on pumping.

God, how the lower classes could fuck, Ken mused as he moaned and groaned at another barebacked seeding—Stan having told him he couldn’t afford rubbers and then had laughed.

“You’ll take me raw, won’t you? I just been checked, and you look like you’ve never tried it raw, so should be OK. You look like you’re dying to have it raw. I’m dyin’ to have you raw.”

Then, without asking permission, Stan fucked him raw. And then again. And again.

Stan had already had the bulb of it inside Ken when he first brought up rubbers, so there wasn’t much Ken could say. At that moment he was dying to have it inside him. Stan was right—he’d begged Stan to put his cock inside him. He’d had no idea he’d like it this rough. Nothing fancy or fastidious about a Chicago slums construction worker. He wanted it and he took it. And even while crying like a baby Ken loved having it taken from him by a big, crude bruiser. And, yes, he loved it raw. He loved Stan firing off inside him and then, subsequently sliding around in the cum when he gave it to Ken again.

He could be a slut for a hung construction worker. He was a slut for Stan. Somehow Stan had known he would be.

Well, Thane had been right, Ken thought. He definitely could get a short story out of his trip on the L to Oak Park.