All The Way Home

I was making good time back from the country, Marvin Gaye sang, What's Going On. The sky was blue, my heater pumping, my sun-roof open. I'd drunk too much coffee, my bladder was grumbling. Tight. I couldn't drive much further. It was starting to hurt, not good hurt, either.

I'd been partying all weekend. My throat was dry.

I stopped off at the dunny at Gisborne, on my way up to the country. I needed a piss. That's all. promise. Minutes later I heard another car drive up. This tradie guy came in, in over-alls. Country bloke. Nice looking, kind of corn fed; sandy blonde hair, tanned, from working outside. He made no attempt to hide looking over at me. I went hard instantly. So did he.

“Give us look mate,” he whispered. I turned and showed him. “Nice”, he said, as he took it in his hand.

“Suck my cock, will ya buddy,” he said. 

He saw me look down at his hand with the wedding ring.

“My wife doesn't understand.”

I got on my knees. His foreskin tasted bitter. His pisshole was big. He grabbed the back of my head and pushed my face all the way down on it. He had a nice cock, it filled my throat.

Then there was footsteps. I stood up. A young farmer-boy came in and was standing next to us. Dark buzz cut hair. Nice face. Well built. Thick legs. He had his hand down his yakka's stroking something big.

“Show us,” said tradie guy.

Farmer boy flopped out a huge fat cock, dripping with pre-cum. Tradie took it in his hand, farmer boy moaned, as tradie squeezed it.

“That feels good,” said Farmer boy. “I like my dick being squeezed.”

Tradie squeezed it again. Farmer boy moaned.

We stood next to each other at the urinal, three big cocks slipping through our hands. Farmer boy was the hardest, like steel. He stood in the middle, with each of our cocks in either hand. Tradie and I both squeezed Farmer boy’s big dick. It was thick. Solid.

Farmer boy “Have you got a girlfriend?” said. “Mine won’t.” He looked down at his massive cock. “Scared,” he said.

I can go with that, I thought. “Yeah,” I said breathlessly. “Sure, I got a girlfriend. Jessica. She's interstate.”

Tradie stepped around and we formed a triangle, literally. “Does she like sex?”

“Yeah, she does,” I said.

“How does she like it?” whispered Tradie in my ear.

“Either on her back, with me sitting up pushing down on my cock sliding it straight into her.”

“How else does she like it?” whispered Farmer boy breathlessly.

“On her knees with her snatch open wide with me filling her in completely,” I said. “She just loves…”

At that, Tradie guy and farmer boy’s cocks turned into metal rods and they both came in big, white gobs, all over my feet. They hung off my shoulders as they spasmed to the last, tradie guy shaking violently. I was the last to cum, the sight of those two cuming got me off good.

Farmer boy left quickly, slipping his fat, cum-dripping cock back into his pants.

“Thanks mate,” said tradie guy and then he was gone too.

I'll never understand straight boys, I thought, as my central locking sounded clunk open, as the gums waved in the breeze and the sky stretched blue all the way home.

I got in the car. It started first turn of the key. I gunned it a couple of times. I selected 1st gear and drove away.

Dawn

I woke up at 5am on the couch; cricked neck, a sore back. The fire was out, one of the logs had even fallen out. I tossed it back in.

The last thing I remember was Big Brother Adults only. And four, or so, joints. I did the maths, well, at least I'd had eight hours.

Joel, my mate from London, was on-line, on msn. Hello, hello, he said, like that annoying plant sale ad. The ad was annoying, not Joel. We chatted until the sun came up. He's in love and off to Paris to follow his heart.

I made tea and rolled joints and discovered that the log I'd tossed back into the hearth had sprung to life... fire, much to my joy.

I sat bleary-eyed and watched the sun come up, it was fantastic.

Some of us just aren't cut out for 9 to 5, as my mate Brad likes to say.

Weekend's Slip Away

The afternoon just floats away, drifts, just like that. Gone forever. Two days never go as quickly, as the days of the weekend.

All over now, big, fat cow.

The ratio of days that begin with S to all other days beginning with any letter in the week is the smallest day to fun ratio there is. True fact. So the feeling that S days go quicker is not imagined at all.

Fun and Games

I went out to the Peel, with Penny. She was bringing the e's so why not, how could I refuse. She was making no sense, when I found her, clearly she had started before our promised start together. I didn't care. Whatever. She was rabbiting on and dealing the pills from her hand-bag as if she'd never ever heard of the concept of under-cover cop. I just wanted to see if she'd bought Bryce with her. Her boyfriend, that is buddy, not lover. I tried to ask her but all I got in response was a confused look, as though she knew she should have heard of somebody named Bryce and she was sure it would come to her. Not the sharpest chisel in the box, our Pen

It didn't matter. I didn't want her to catch on. Not that I was up to anything... not really, just something Paul had said about Bryce the last time I saw him. Penny was wearing a white tutu inspired dress, ballet shoes and cream ribbons in her blond hair. She looked like a porcelain doll.

All I could think of was that creamy white skin of Bryce's... and that beautiful abdomen, which disappeared down into the front in his pants, always with the top button undone.

Hey, said some warm breath on my neck. Beautiful Bryce was standing next to me grinning. He slipped his T-shirt off. Smiled. Beautiful chest. Flat stomach.

Hi.

Been here long? He slurred. His eyes were sunken. Fucken drug addicts.

No, just got here. I was gazing at his chest.

Me too, he said looking down at his chest too.

My bladder ached.

I've got to have a piss.

I do too. I'll come with you.

He took my hand as I led him through the crowd. The place was busy. The urinals were full. A cubicle became vacant, just as we walked in. Bryce pulled me inside and shut the door.

I pissed like a horse.

Bryce hesitated at first, stood back.

That was lucky, hey?

Then he was undoing his pants, on the other side of the bowl. I watched him pull his fly apart and pull his jocks down. I looked away. He wasn't meeting my gaze. I looked down again.

My piss took forever, Bryce finished before me. Mine finally stopped. It was a relief. Bryce stood there with his eyes closed, his cock still out. He just stood there like he'd gone to sleep. His fat cock hanging down. He stood still. He'd had 3 e's.

I stood back and just gazed at him, as I buttoned up my fly.

Nice dick, Bryce, I said.

He opened his eyes, smiled wantonly, pushed his cock back in his pants, did up his jeans and stumbled out the door.

I leant back against the wall, as the black and the dark merged in the rushing amphetamines in my pupils and thought, stupid straight boys.

Later, I found him on the dance floor hugging Penny. Both in a stupor.

What a surprise.

Masseur

I was staying with friends at their guest house in the country.

I'd retired to my cottage, the night was over, the guests were now on their own.

I was just laying on my bed, the fire was blazing, I'd just stacked it up for the night. The forty watt bulbs barely did their best, just how I liked it.

I thought about all the chocolate easter eggs that I'd eaten. More alarming was the fact that I enjoyed the easter egg hunt. It was a fresh night, barely a need for a fire. The door was open...

... Tonight was the first time I'd, actually, told people that I was a fully qualified masseur. I'd never been brave enough to tell anyone in the past. It would mean that I was expert enough to answer their questions, that I was expert enough to diagnose their ailments. 

Working at the half-way house as a volunteer had boosted my confidence immeasurably. It had even been fun, once I stopped shaking, and thinking all the time that I was going to fuck up. It was rewarding, once I'd stopped being tongue-tied. 

It had been hot when Daniel came in, the maintenance boy, to give it a go. I got to touch those muscular thighs.

Tonight, had been fun. I'd even got a few tentative offers of work. Handsome Max was keen to have his corked-thigh done. Smiley, dark, shaggy-haired, blue-eyed, big, white teeth, gentle mannered, Max.

Fuck nine to five, I thought. This plan may actually work. Then I could hone my singing talents more flexibly. You set your mind and babe, it's that easy. And if singing is only ever be a pipe-dream, so touching people and making them better, isn't such a bad outcome.

Even if that’s all I ever do. Plan B, so to speak.

The joint smoke curled around the lamp light. The frogs croaked in the lake. The place I could just lay back and let go.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” I replied. Someone was at my door? Who the hell?

“It's Max,” he said. His handsome face slide through the door with a smile. “Er. Um. I hope you don't mind?”

I wondered what I may have minded. “No, not at all.” On the contrary, I thought. “Come in.”

“I saw your light on.” Smile. Very nervous. Continues to smile. Fixed. “Remember, Mark sent me down for you... um... er... earlier. That's how I knew, er...”

“Cool,” I said. How drunk is he? They all discovered the spirits late, the footy guys and their girlfriends and they were already smashed on beer and wine.

“I couldn't sleep... with the thigh and all. You said you were going to have pot...” he looked at the joint.

“Sure. Absolutely.” I looked at the joint in my hand. I handed him the joint. I wondered if he'd remember that he told me the two things that dope does for him, why it was so hard to give up as he rabbited on in my ear. And that was sleep and sex. It puts him to sleep and it turns him on. 

Max puffed hard twice on the joint, then swallowed. His handsome face contorted, then relaxed, as he exhaled. He puffed hard, twice again. Double shots. He did it a third time. Big smile. Big exhale.

“Good party,” he said.

“You were a good bunch. Nice guys,” I said.

He went to hand the joint back to me, then he withheld, smiled kind of drunken, flirty, gently, “Do you mind if I go again?”

“No. I don't mind.” Go for your life, I thought.

Puff twice. Exhale. Puff twice. Exhale.

He handed it back to me, in jerky body movements, like he wants to get close. And then he can't. He's drawn. He's repelled. It'll put me to sleep. My leg's aching a bit. Been on it too long. Gorgeous smile.

He really is a man, I thought.

“Happy to help.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

He kind of lurched toward the door.

“Hey...?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Thanks.” He moved closer to the door. “Rebecca's asleep. And... er... my leg was throbbing. I just needed something.”

“Happy to help.”

“That'll be good... Thanks.”

Awkward pause. Is he going or not?

“Um.” He's steps back through the door. “I don't suppose you could give it a rub, for me. My thigh?”

Then, I'm sure, he smiled cheekily, double entendre style. But, admittedly, the dope was really starting to kick my arse. I was tired and what I really needed was sleep.

“It's kind of late...”

“I think that, and the dope... would really help.” There, that same smile again.

“Okay.” Was this all in my head. Had I been working too many hours?

“Where do you want me?”

“Well...” I got up. “On the bed.” Where else?

He lay down on his stomach.

“It's your thigh, roll over.” He rolled over obediently.

He looked up at me, eyes completely glazed. I looked down at him. Time froze. His eyes closed several times. He looked serene. Sleeping beauty.

“You have to take your pants off.”

“What?” he mumbled. I think he was drifting off to sleep.

“If you want your thigh massaged, you have to take your pants off.”

Don't make me do it, I thought. 

His hands came around to his belt. He undid them and I pulled them down, he lifted his arse, so I grabbed the bottom of his pants leg and pulled them off.

He had boxers on. They had creased and ridden up, concertina-style, from being crumpled in his jeans. I could see the tops of his thighs. I could see his purple testicles and I could see a glimpse of his flaccid, uncut, cock hanging down where his boxer-short leg should have covered.

I had some massage oil by the bed. I warmed it between my hands. He, appeared, to have gone to sleep.

Handsome... Max.

I rubbed the oil into his thigh. He moaned. I worked my fingers along his, hairy skin. He groaned. He had solid thighs. He had beautiful, velvety olive-skin. Neatly covered in, surprisingly, fine hair. 

“How's that?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“So, it’s your right thigh?”

“Yes.”

“Is the pain localised in your thigh?”

“Yeah… I guess.”

He did sound too confident. “What I mean, there is no referred pain from anywhere else?”

“Ah, no.”

“Referred pain from your lower back?”

“No.”

“Do you have any pain anywhere else?”

“No, not really.”

“Not really?”

“No, no other pain.”

I rubbed his thigh right up to his hip. He didn't flinch. The legs of his boxers were loose. He flinched a little when my finger dug deep into the tissue of his thigh on either side of his leg.

“Do you follow the football?” he asked.

I rubbed the inside of his thigh. He shook a little. My fingertips dug into his skin, he groaned. I hoped they were warm, couldn't afford to have him jump in too much paint.

“Oh, I used to, but not so much anymore.”

“It was a great win for The Devils.”

“Yeah, I heard.

“Jorgenson played…”

“That’s about the extent of my knowledge, really, The Devils winning.”

I rubbed back down his thigh. He didn't say anything. No groan that time. He was silent. I rubbed back up his thigh. I wondered if he'd frozen up. 

Had I got it wrong? Failure is more than a rejection, it is a brake in the guy code of ethics. A line is crossed, which may never be healed.

“How does that feel?”

“Where?” he whispered.

“Is that relieving any of the soreness?”

“I guess,” he said.

My hands rubbed back up his thigh. I was feeling muscles and his masculine size. I could feel the man that Max is.

He lay on his back with his head resting in the face hole in the table.

I grabbed his shin and bent his leg slowly to his chest.

He groaned that time.

My hands moved rhythmically back down his leg in time.

I pushed his knee over his body for a slow stretch.

I instinctively, worked on his knee, for a moment, just to see if it had any issues, he was silent.

His thigh relaxed in my grip. Serene. Surrender. 

He groaned when my hand slipped around the back of his thigh and squeezed the muscles.

I dropped his leg back down. I poured some more massaging oil on his thigh. He opened his eyes and stared at me. 

“How does it feel.”

“You have magic fucken hands.”

Mostly, in my experience, especially after booze and mostly, but not always, as long as it’s gentle, I'm sorry girls, but most of your boyfriends are putty in my hands. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t care where I touched them

I started on Max’s left thigh.

He was compliant.

I pushed my fingers into the centre line of his thigh, I pushed fingers in a straight line up his leg

“Yes, don't stop,” he said. He was sweating on his forehead, I could see. 

“So… good?”

“You know what you are doing.”

“I just love what you are doing.” Groan. “Yes, just like that.” I squeezed his muscle in his thigh all the way up. He gulped a bit for breath. Groan. “Oh yes. I don't care. Yes!”

Making the big, strong guys call out in relief, I like it. 

“Have you ever done this before?”

“Um... er... ah... yes... I've played with footy for a few years. So, yes, with the club masseur.”

“Okay.”

“You've got an amazing fucking touch,” he said. I gripped his right thigh hard again so he felt the full heat.

“Yeah, wow,” said Max. Guttural growl. “You can squeeze it... hard!”

“Do you like that?” I asked. He opened his eyes. We held each other's gaze.

“I can’t believe how much better that feels.”

Handsome Max his face told the story. He never looked so relaxed.

I told him to lie there for five minutes, or so, even if it was my bed and it was late, but he got up, visibly jelly-like. I was pleased.

If I can make them tremble, as they get up off the table, it’s better than any compliment.

He stood in front of me in the 40 watt globe light, all six foot whatever of him. In his boxer shorts, riding up his thighs as though they may give the whole show away any moment, but don’t, and nothing else.

He runs his hand through his hair and looks bleary-eyed standing in the middle of my cottage, inert. Pleasured into stillness.

“I gotta go… er… ah, best time I’ve had keeping my pants on.”

“Next time we’ll have to get them off too,” I said. It just came out, almost despite myself. I was stoned and tired and I really just had to stop.

“A happy ending would be the only thing better,” he said. He looked at me and his handsome face broke into a broad smile. He grabbed his stuff. “Thanks.” And he was gone.

Too Much

Oo! My bonged-over head.

I've just smoked pot, pretty much, all weekend. Wooo! The plant is nearly all gone, I gave myself that leeway. Soon, gone forever… everish.

The light fades.

Big smile.

I sit outside on my back veranda over looking my rear garden and just keep rolling those joints. Magic fingers. Sitting at the wrought iron table sitting on the wicker chairs.

The smoke floats over the side fence and I often wonder what they think.

Even when I think I will wait a considerable time before I roll another joint, I’ll be back out there rolling some more.

I have the mull box on my knees, with the mulli in the mull bowl on the wrought iron table.

I can look at the time for one joint and then, because my head is so thick, I can forget all about the time I smoked it.

I pre-cut the roaches, I cut up a whole lot at once, so I am ready.

Then, when I have kicked back and am puffing through the next joint, I remember that I took the time I smoked the previous joint and when I look at my watch, so often it has only been 30 minutes, 20 minutes, 10 minutes on occasions.

“Ha ha, what am I like,” I say.

“You are a head,” says Matt.

Then I repeat the process over and over and over again, until Matt. Is looking cross-eyed at me.

“It’s too much,” Matt slurs.

“I don’t make you smoke.”

“I know,” says Matt.

“You never say no.”

“You never stop smoking,” says Matt.

Shrug. What do I care? I like being stoned so fuck it, so what if I am a pig with it. It just makes me even nicer.

Smoke pot kids, it is the best thing you can do.

“You should just grow a funnel in the top of your head.”

“You are very funny.”

“It would be easier.”

“Very funny.”

“In fact, in evolutionary terms, give it a thousand years and your descendants will probably come with funnels,” says Matt. “A big cartilage funnel out the tops of their heads.”

“My descendants?” I say. “In a thousand years?”

“Yeah, it’s how they’ll develop.”

“Do you think I am going to have kids?”

“Oh, yes, well…”

“Do you want to have kids?”

“Ha ha ha.”

“Apparently, they can mix our sperm now and we can both father one kid.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I read that somewhere. It was developed just for gay guys.”

“It was developed just for gay guys.”

“Yeah, a little me and you.”

“A little me and you?”

“Yeah, could you imagine what he’d be like?’

“Imagine.”

Winter Mornings

Hasn't it been cold? The insides of my thighs are cold when I go jogging in the mornings. The hairs on my legs bristle, seemingly in the breeze, like Velcro. The cold air burns in my lungs, and I cough, just a bit, until my lungs warm up to it, which doesn’t take long, eventually it burns, just a bit, once I’ve gone the distance. My foggy head spins with the cold wind on my face, and is awakened all at the same time, as my feet go boof, boof, boof on the concrete. 

The fragile beauty of the sunrise makes my heart beat faster, as the day breaks, and the light rises all around me as if out of the ground.

The contained beauty of the dark, gives away to the expansive beauty of the light. I run through the veil as it lifts and the dark goes away, and the sky above turns that shade of blue that you only see at first blush in the day.

And suddenly the world expands, with a gentle whoosh, well, not really a whoosh at all, more like a fffffffffff, as the air exhales from the dark of the night.

Matt's Jocks

I love it when Matt is in his jocks. He has such a bubble-butt that the cotton moulds and clings to, round and firm. Two handfuls.

He has a furry crack, I love to run my fingers through that furry crak, down under the elastic as he hugs me, into the sweaty ravine, sliding my finger tip up and down.

He has such a bulge that pulls the material down so that his pubes show over the elastic, like something heavy hangs there. He pushes it against me, it's squashy and full.

He has great legs, muscular and hairy. The backs of his thighs are really sexy, curved and thick.

I'm never so turned on than when I have my lips on his lips and my hands on his sexy arse, squeezing.

He has full, soft lips, and breath like a summer breeze. I love running my fingertips in the curve in the small of his back.

I love, the cut of his abs, the bulge of his pecs, his sexy neck. I love the back of a man’s neck. I love most of all how he fits into my arms just naturally.

Not to mention that he tells me things that make me think.

He says things constantly that make me laugh.

He does things all the time that makes me smile.

Dino

Let's talk about the Italian hunk in Big Brother 6, who is just so gorgeous, beautiful, in that Italian-refined handsome, dark, beautiful, lovely, kind of way named Dino.

I'm excited at the immanent return of Big Brother Adults Only to have a very private viewing of Dino as he showers himself and rinsing away inhibitions with affection. And we all sit there with our chins on our hands gazing at the handsome guys doing what they do.

We could talk about the young men in general, the beauty of such 20 somethings, the most breath taking strength and display of manliness we glimpse at in our fast disappearing time on this earth. 

Our fleeting youth. Moment of beauty. Our 15 minutes in the light. Remembering those guys we danced with. The time we had. The excitement of being young and desirable.

Beauty is a sad thing really, as it is fading as soon as it is attained. Still, it is glorious while it is. Nothing quite like it, especially when it is worn with nonchalance, that is the best.