The Song
(HANK)
Log Entry. 2003-06-29 Day 1,296.
The sea was flat calm this morning. Like a sheet of dirty glass. Like it was sorry for last night. The sky was still that bruised colour, but the wind was gone. The rig felt steady. Solid. Like it was supposed to.
I did my rounds. Checked the drill floor. Everything was in order. The crew was moving, slow but steady, shaking off the storm.
The new control panel for the mud pumps arrived. A tangled mess of wires and delicate circuits in a steel box no bigger than a toolkit. A job for small, clever hands. The kind of job I’d normally hate. Evans should be able to tackle it without a problem.
I didn’t even think. “Evans. With me.”
He just nodded, that same focused look. He’s stopped being surprised when I called for him.
We were in the electrical locker, a closet that’s all sharp edges and the hum of live conduits. Shoulder to shoulder. No, not shoulder to shoulder. My shoulder was level with his temple. I could feel the heat coming off him.
I held the heavy housing open. He worked inside, his fingers nimble, tracing wires, connecting terminals. The scent of his soap cut through the smell of ozone and hot metal. Smelling him only made me think about him practically naked again, outside of the showers, in my hands, just seven days ago.
He was humming again. That low, steady hum that goes right through my ribs and settles something in me I didn’t know was rattling.
My job was just to stand there. But I couldn’t help but study him and listen to the sounds he was making. After talking to him last night I seemed to be more in tune with him. The feel of his leg against mine. The warmth of his hand in mine. The way his body moved. The curve of his rear. The flex of his arms. The rhythm of the music he was creating from deep in his throat.
“Lean on me, when you’re not strong…” came to my head. That was it! That was the tune he was humming!
His arm brushed against my chest as he reached for a different tool. A simple, practical accident. He didn’t flinch away but my breath hitched. He just kept working. Like my body was just another part of the rig. A part he was getting used to.
June 29th, 2003
I felt it again today. My breath caught when his skin brushed against mine. This was different than last night in the rec area during the storm. Last night I felt like I was calming him. Like he needed it. A soothing hand over his. I was helping. But this, today, in the electrical closet, was different. I didn’t initiate it. It was accidental. And I felt it.
Now I know his song. Lean On Me. That’s what he’s humming when he’s focused and working. “We all have pain, we all have sorrow.” What a fitting one. Question is, who needs who at this point? Me or him?
I need to stop punishing myself. Because it feels so good. I feel alive.
I flicked my pen in my hand, and found myself smiling to myself. I didn’t want to write anymore. The monster in my pants was begging to get out.
So I freed it. Thinking about the roundness of his ass. And what it would be like to sink into him. Last night I blew a huge wad after the warmth of his hand still lingered on my palm, as if it was his hand wrapped around my shaft. Tonight I was feeling more lustful. Like I couldn’t control my thoughts at what I wanted to do to that magnificent body of his.
Log Note: Installed new pump control. Evans’ work is precise. No errors.
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(NOAH)
I couldn’t stop smiling around him. It’s like we had this new dance almost, and it was becoming a routine. He wanted me around him more, I could tell. Gone were those three days of nothing. Now it seemed he was coming up with excuses to be near me.
Which helped after our shift ended too, so I didn’t find myself with the likes of Sully or Dex in the showers. I learned to talk more with Richardson after our shift ended, prepping for the next day, or going over the safety barriers and rigging down as everyone else dispersed. By the time I got to the showers, it was practically empty.
But Dex was catching on quick. He seemed to be lingering longer with me, watching. On those days I would eat first, and wait to shower much, much later.
I’d spend some nights staring out at the stars when I had a break. Richardson caught me out there one night and joined me. The two of us standing there, gazing up. He pointed out a few of the constellations, and it felt so natural to be out there with him.
For the next three nights we’d meet there, without planning it. One of us would be there, as if we were waiting for the other.
My first two weeks were behind me. And it was on that night at the end of my second week that I dreamed about Hank the Tank Richardson.
I woke up with a massive erection. And jerked myself so fast I blew a sticky load straight up my chest, and fell back asleep, wishing I could drift back into the sexual dream I was having about my drill boss.
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(HANK)
Log Entry. 2003-07-05 Day 1,302.
Ran the first of two Safety Drills for the month. Evans is a pro now. Two weeks in and has found his groove. Visual checks always done. Logs completed and up to date. Sees issues before they happen.
I walked in quietly and leaned against the doorjamb. He didn’t notice so I crossed my arms over my chest and just watched him.
He finished, killed the grinder, and the sudden silence was louder than the noise had been. He pulled off the glasses and saw me. A flicker of that same surprised look flashed over his face before his eyes softened and he gave me a small, tired smile.
“Needed fixing,” he said, gesturing with the bolt.
“I see that,” I said. My voice was rough, which is not what I intended. I cleared my throat. “You eat?”
He gaped at me for a second before he shook his head. “Was finishing this.”
“Mess hall’s still open.”
It wasn’t an order. It was an invitation I wasn’t used to giving. A weak one, but it was all I had.
He looked at me for a long second, those entrancing eyes holding me before he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
We walked there together, side by side as much as we could in the narrow corridor, not saying a word. It was the longest, quietest, most heart pounding walk toward the mess hall I’d ever had. And I enjoyed every single silent moment walking beside the younger stud.
July 5th, 2003
Found him in the machine shop after shift. He was at the bench, grinding a seized bolt head off a piece of equipment. Sparks were flying, painting sharp, orange light over the sweat on his arms. He had his safety glasses on, his whole world narrowed to that point of contact between metal and grinder.
I should’ve kept walking. I had reports to file.
But the sparks were truly flying. I dreamed about him last night, eating dinner together, at a table on a beach. Romantic. So I invited him to eat with me. Now I can admit that I wake up aching to see him.
What I didn’t write was how I took care of that aching when I woke up. Fisted my cock. Spilled my load over myself in a leg spreading grunt. Felt good. Like it has every night since he arrived on this rig.
Log Note: Bolt sheared on hydraulic line 4B. Repaired. Took dinner at 20:00.
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(NOAH)
He started eating with me, sitting at the back table with me. At first the others glared at us, wondering why the drill boss was eating with the new roustabout.
Four days of eating together later, no one noticed, or looked, or cared. Like they accepted it.
It was Dex though, that kept his gaze on me, glaring at me, staring at me, whenever Richardson wasn’t looking. Like a tiger waiting to pounce.
“I hate Dex.” I said under my breath the fourth night we sat across from each other, Richardson’s body practically blocking me from Dex’s view.
Hank frowned at me, holding his fork near his open mouth before he closed his lips and set his fork down. “I thought he stopped the hazing.” His voice had an edge to it, like he was trying to control himself.
My eyes flicked up to his and I suddenly felt so embarrassed and shy. I took a deep breath. “It’s not that. He doesn’t call me names much anymore around anyone. It’s just the….” I waited, wondering if Jonesy was right and I should finally say something to Richardson. Jonesy told me he would want to know.
Richardson was staring at me, not moving, and I realized I should say something.
“I’m just scared of him, that’s all. Like he wants something from me.” It was the closest I could come to admitting anything to my boss, without making me feel worse about the dangerous situation I seemed to be living in these past two weeks.
Richardson’s jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. “Has he tried anything with you?” His voice was so low and scary that I immediately needed to calm him down.
“No! He hasn’t. I just don’t like him.”
I could hear Richardson take in a deep breath. “If he so much as lays a hand on you, I swear…”
I shook my head and gave him a fake smile. “It’s all good. I’ve figured out how to avoid him. You gonna be outside later?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
It worked. Richardson’s face suddenly softened, and he gave me a smile only I could see as he picked up the fork and moved it towards his hungry mouth. “Sure thing.”
My heart picked up the pace as I saw him eating, chewing his food, while smiling at me. His eyes were focused on me, as if I was the only one in the mess hall. I was getting used to these dinners and our talks outside under the stars.
Like we were on a series of dates, getting to know each other.
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(HANK)
Log Entry. 2003-07-11 Day 1,308.
Another storm is coming. The air feels thick with it. I was on the deck, looking at the darkening horizon, feeling the first bite of the wind. Evans had already started the stabilization of equipment. Evans checked the drill pipes, strapped them in. Cargo locked down. Watertight doors sealed.
I felt him before I saw him. He came to stand beside me, not too close, but close enough. He followed my gaze out to the churning water.
“Bad one?” he asked, his voice quiet.
“Might be.”
We stood there in silence for a full minute. The crew gave us a wide berth. The Driller and his roustabout. No one questions it anymore.
Then, his pinky finger, just for a second, brushed against the back of my hand where it rested on the railing. It was an accident. Had to be. The wind, the movement of the rig.
It wasn’t an accident. My eyes flicked to our hands.
The touch was gone as soon as it came, but the feel of it remained, a searing line across my skin. He didn’t look at me. Just kept watching the storm gather.
My heart was a hammer in my throat. I didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
He’s drawing me in. This past week has been heaven. Our spot outside. Eating with him. And I’m not fighting it. I’m standing here, on the edge of the world, letting him.
July 11th, 2003
He touched my hand again. What am I doing? I’m not going to be able to contain myself much longer. The storm is brewing. I don’t know how much longer I can last without touching him back. I’ve dreamt about kissing him. I’ve dreamt about eating dinner with him. I’ve dreamt about holding his hand again. I woke up throbbing and leaking when I dreamed he was lying next to me. I can’t contain myself any longer.
I exploded alright. Over the toilet in one of the johns again. I felt like I was 19 again. Hard as a rock. All the time. Couldn’t wait till bed this time. He’s driving me crazy.
Log Note: Incoming weather system. Barometer falling. This one’s going to be bad. Secured all external equipment. Might need to check on the new Roustabout.
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