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How was I ever going to tell my parents that I was gay? This was a confrontation that I had been dreading for a long time, but how long could I put it off? If I didn’t tell them, they were going to find out anyway for sure. I was a complete slut. I mean, really indiscreet. One time I got the mailman up to my bedroom, and he was just in the middle of fucking my ass, when I heard the front door open. I knew it was my father. He was due home about then, and I had played it too close. But I just couldn’t pass up the mailman. He was so cute and humpy, and I didn’t even know he was available, but when the mail came through the slot in the front door, I opened the door, wearing only my red thong, and he was still kneeling there about to stuff TV Guide through the slot, and there I was standing there with my packed thong practically in front of his face.
I saw him look at my tight package, and even though he was kneeling in his baggy trousers, I saw the prickhead pressure pushing out his uniform. I raised my foot and kind of rubbed it against him. He smiled. I smiled. I invited him in for a cup of coffee. He accepted. I put the mail on the hall table. We skipped the cup of coffee. We went up to my bedroom and immediately started to go at it. I helped him out of his uniform. He really was cute and humpy, and muscular and hung. I went down on him immediately. I licked his cock. I sucked his succulent balls into my mouth. He pressed his feet down on the mattress to raise the angle of his ass. He separated his two bouncy fleshglobes and displayed the clean, pink. pursed lips between them. I went for it. He manually held my face within his deep cleft, and the insides of his buttocks rubbed against my wet nose. Finally he flipped me over on my belly, spit into his hand, rubbed it on his thick dick and speared me. I loved it. It was just after that, that I heard the front door open, and knew it was my father. I tried to move out from under him.
“It’s my father,” I hissed. “Get up.”
He just kept fucking. He wasn’t going to be cheated out of an anal cumshot.
“Take it out, for god’s sake. It’s my father.”
This only seemed to make him more excited, and he started pounding like a jackhammer. I was sweating in fear under his insistent hips, but I was also loving it. Slap. Slap. Slap. My father certainly would hear that. Slap. Slap. Slap. His hips against my ass. Slap. Slap. Slap. Suddenly he tensed, and he swelled, and he hosed his spooge into me. He was finished. Thank goodness. I made him get dressed immediately, and I opened my bedroom door to let him out, just as my father passed my door. Unfortunately, I was only wearing my red thong, so it looked a bit peculiar.
“Hello,” said my father. “What’s the mailman doing in your room?”
“I had to sign for something,” I explained. I ran to my desk and picked up a cheap ballpoint. “Here. You forgot your pen,” I said to the mailman. He took the pen from me and smiled.
“Thank you,” he said to me, in a meaningful way, but my father thought he was thanking me for returning the pen. Great mailman. He understood perfectly. I hoped to have to sign for many more special deliveries from him.
So you see, I’m in a little bit of a mess. I have to get all this out into the open. Stop the hiding and the lying. But how? My father hates queers. He was always making nasty comments about them—-about us. And my mother was a Sunday school teacher. She was sure we were sullying the divine plan of the Supreme Creator. Actually, I felt, I was carrying out the divine plan of my Supreme Creator, and was behaving just as he had created me to behave. But let’s save the theosophical arguments for later.
When my mother got home, she cooked dinner and set the dining room table for three. Family dinner was a regular and important occasion in our house. Mother put fresh white candles in the valuable silver candlesticks that had come down from my great great grandmother. One day she would pass them on to my wife, she thought. And then they would go to one of my children. And then one of my grandchildren, etc. etc. etc….. How could I tell her that the candlesticks stopped here?
My mother went into the kitchen through the swinging door. She came out with two plates on the first trip, setting them down before my father and before me. And then she returned through the swinging door, before it had even stopped swinging. She returned with her own plate.
She took her seat, and the three of us sat poised over our evening meal.
“We thank you, O lord, for the food we are about to receive,” said my father, hands clasped in front of his face.
“Amen,” said my mother, hands clasped.
They both began to eat in the flickering candlelight.
“Delicious, darling,” complimented my father.
“Thank you, dear,” said my mother. She turned to me. I was sitting there with the fork in my hand. I had not begun to eat. I had been thinking of the mailman. I had been fondly remembering the mailman’s big cock. “What’s the matter, Jeffrey?” güvenilir bahis my mother asked me. “Is anything wrong with the food?”
“Oh, sorry, mom. I was just dreaming, I guess.” I rolled my fork in the spaghetti with meat sauce and lifted it to my mouth. “MMMM. Very good,” I said.
“Thank you, dear,” she said.
“He’s got his mind on Marcy. That’s all,” said my father.
“I guess so,” I said.
“I knew it,” said my father happily and triumphantly.
Marcy was the daughter of their friends from church, Harry and Wilma. She was a sophomore at Clearwater College, as was I. I took Marcy to the movies. I took Marcy to proms and dances and parties. We were a regular couple. Marcy and Jeffrey. Jeffrey and Marcy. Everyone knew. Fortunately I was protected, in that Clearwater College was a religious institution, and premarital sex was strictly forbidden. And I was obviously too young to get married. After graduation I would be expected to pop the question, but for now everything was A-OK. Everybody believed that I was a clean-cut, fine, respectable, young American boy, going out with a respectable, pure virgin, from a good pious family. And that I was dutifully stifling my natural? urges and behaving myself until after the wedding.
I took another mouthful of spaghetti. This was getting worrisome. I couldn’t keep up this charade forever.
I had heard about a swinging club down by the water in Foggsville, which was about an hour’s drive from Clearwater, and I was dying to go there. I was thinking of taking the car after dinner and making the trip. But what could I tell my parents? They would want to know where I was going. Fuck. I just didn’t have any privacy at all. And certainly no right to it, living in my parents’ house.
I was thinking about saying I was going over to Marcy’s, but suppose they called and I wasn’t there? Then I got this terrific idea. Something they would really approve of.
“Dad, I hear there’s this great Bible class over in Foggsville on Tuesday nights. I was thinking I might go.”
“I hadn’t heard about that,” he answered.
“Oh, yeah. Everybody’s talking about it.”
“Funny. You would think I would have heard about it.” He was puzzled. He knew about all those things. “Where is it?”
“I forget exactly. But everybody in Foggsville knows about it. I’ll just ask someone when I get there.”
“All right,” he agreed. “But be careful driving,” he admonished. “I’m glad to see you taking such an interest in the Good Book.”
“I’ve always been interested in the good book,” I answered. And that was the truth. When I was a little kid, I had been in a bookstore with my mother and had seen this illustrated edition of the Good Book. And on one page there was this drawing of Cain standing above Abel who was lying on the ground. And they were both buck-naked. And Abel had this absolutely great muscular rounded butt. I was getting excited just looking at the Bible illustration. But I was afraid to ask my mother to buy the book for me. I was afraid she would guess why I wanted it so badly, and…..
“I will,” I said. “I’ll drive carefully.” I took a deep sigh of relief. He had bought it. I had his permission to drive to Foggsville. This way if I got a flat, or my radiator overheated on the road, there wouldn’t be any questions, like “Why were you going to Foggsville???” etc. etc.
I called Marcy before I left, and we discussed the papers we had to write for Intelligent Design class next week. She was going to write about how God had created Adam, and Eve, and the talkative snake in the Garden of Eden, and I was going to write about how God had created the monkeys and situated them far away in Africa. I told her I was driving to Foggsville to the alleged Bible class, and she immediately wanted to go with me. But I told her, I had been having some trouble with the car lately, and if anything happened and I got stuck, I didn’t want to be responsible for her missing classes the next day. She was disappointed, but she agreed that she didn’t want to take the chance of missing any classes. After all, she had the highest grade average of all the girls in the school, but Penelope Stanlope was getting very, very close, and she didn’t want to give Penelope the opportunity to top her impressive scholastic record.
When I got to Foggsville, I drove down along the water, and had no trouble finding the forbidden venue, The Grizzly Bear. A new club where, it was rumored, tough guys went to find queers. It wasn’t all that clear what they did with the queers once they found them. There been incidents of violence in the streets of Foggsville. Anonymous attacks. And it was also rumored that those attacked had been in The Grizzly Bear. And as for me, I had just driven over sixty miles just to go to The Grizzly Bear. Was it possible that someone had told me that they were giving Bible class in The Grizzly Bear tonight?
I parked in the lot and entered. I saw a lot of grizzly bears. Tough-looking, bearded, trashy looking guys. Some slim, mean-looking türkçe bahis and tattooed, with cigarettes dangling from their angry lips. Others were massive and had beer-bellies. They were also tattooed, and had cigarettes dangling from their lips. Some had big black cigars. Those with cigars didn’t dangle them. They held them between a thumb and a finger and chewed on the end of the soggy stogie.
I could see that all the guys at the pool table were eyeing my ass, as I walked over to the bar and sat on a stool. I chose the third stool from the back, mainly because on the second stool from the back was a guy who knocked my socks off.
It wasn’t that he was handsome or anything. He was tall, skinny, with straight straggly blonde hair, a little on the long side. He was wearing some kind of a uniform. I wasn’t sure what it was. And he looked like trailer trash. If there’s anything that turns me on, it’s trailer trash. They’re so tough, so mean, so masculine, so dominant. The say opposites attract. Well I felt I was the exact opposite of this guy. If he had the peg, I had the hole—so to speak, that is.
I could imagine myself groveling on my knees, begging for kindness and pity, which he would withhold until I had completed the most debasing tasks. I had had no experience, up until now, with debasement. But I felt I was ready. I was anxious to be debased.
The bartender approached me and asked me what I wanted. I gave a quick look to my left, and ordered the same cheap brand of beer that my neighbor was drinking. He wasn’t paying any attention to me. He was just staring at the bottle, and every once in a while, he would raise it to his lips and take a swig.
He lit and cigarette and took a few puffs. Then he just let it dangle from his lips. That was so sexy. It was giving me a hard-on. Suddenly he spoke. In a hard southern twang, with bad grammar. I went out of my mind with desire. I just lost it. I wanted his cock.
“Pass me that there ashtray,” he ordered, pointing to the ashtray a little down the bar from me, on the side where no one was sitting. I noticed that he had a chipped tooth in the front. I thought that was sexy too.
“Sure,” I said. I reached out and grabbed the ashtray, and just scraped it down the bar until it sat in front of him.
“You’re welcome,” I said. What could I say? How could I get a conversation going? But he helped me out. He spoke first.
“I ain’t seen you around here before,” he observed.
“No. I live over in Clearwater,” I said. “I was passing by here (lie) and it looked like a nice place, so I thought I’d stop in for a drink.”
He nodded. “You work over in Clearwater?” he asked me.
“No. I go to school. I’m a sophomore at Clearwater College,” I said.
He nodded again. “That’s that churchy college, right?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“You live in the dormitory with all them other college boys?” he asked me.
I thought that was a strange question for him to ask, but I answered him anyway.
“No. I live with my parents.” I thought I would venture a question of my own.
“Do you live here in Foggsville?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I got me a nice little trailer right down the highway in the trailer park.”
So he was trailer trash. I had been right when I sized him up, and sat down next to him. I felt a little rush of blood course through my penis. My throat suddenly felt a little dry, so I lifted my beer bottle and took a swig. My heart was pounding. He was so sexy. So lanky. So bony. So mean looking. And he couldn’t even speak proper English. This was like a dream come true. The mailman had been great… but so clean cut and all American. This was what I wanted. Dangerous, threatening sex. Another rush of blood surged through me and my penis started to stand tall. I told him my name was Jeffrey Parsons, And he said his was Bo Sneedle. We shook hands.
“I never was inside a trailer,” I told him. I wasn’t lying. “Is it nice?”
“Yeah. It’s real nice. I got me a bed, and I got me a bathroom. And I got me a little kitchen. I got this little refrigerator, and I got 5 six packs of beer in it right now.”
I looked at his belly. With all that beer drinking, he should be fat. But he was skinny. Maybe because he was young. But I could see that his belly was slightly soft. In another ten years, he’d probably have a little pot. But right now, he was looking damn good.
“That sounds like fun,” I said. “Living in a trailer. All by yourself. No parents. I bet that would be a lot of fun.”
“Oh, it is,” he assured me. “I have myself a good time, all right.”
“How do you do that?” I asked innocently.
“Now never you mind. At least I don’t got no parents I got to report to.”
“Yeah,” I said bitterly. “That’s the pits. I wish I had myself a trailer.”
“You ain’t never been in no trailer,” he said. “You might not even like it.”
“I know I would,” I said. “If I saw the inside of a trailer, I know I’d love it.”
I tried to keep the güvenilir bahis siteleri eagerness out of my voice. I had to squint a little, because the smoke from his dangling cigarette was drifting right into my left eye and making it tear. He took another puff. A long ash from the end of the cigarette, dropped off and fell onto the bar, missing the ashtray completely.
“You wanna see the inside of a trailer?” he asked me, a note of vicious shrewdness in his voice?”
“Sure,” I said.
“You want me to show you the inside of my trailer?”
“That would be great,” I said. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“And if I show you the inside of my trailer, what’re you gonna do fer me?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “What would you want me for do?”
“Oh, maybe nothin’,” he answered. “I was jes askin’.”
We finished our beers, and we went out into the parking lot. He had a motorcycle. I got into my car and followed him down the highway to the trailer park. I parked outside the park, while he idled the motor of his cycle. Then he told me to hop aboard behind him, and we zoomed through the rows of trailers, to the one that was his. He chained his bike to a steel bar attached to his trailer, and he took out a key and opened the front door. It didn’t have any steps in front, so I had to raise my left foot and step way, way up. Like a double step. He followed me in and closed the door. No. He was locking the door. I hoped he wasn’t a homicidal maniac.
He had a convertible sofa in the back of the trailer, which was at the moment in converted mode. It was dressed as an unmade bed. He motioned for me to sit on the crushed sheets at the bottom of the bed. He was not going to fold it up. That was okay with me. But just sitting there at the edge wasn’t very comfortable.
He went to the icebox and got two beers. He opened them with his teeth. Aha. The chipped tooth. He handed me one of the bottles and took a swig from the other. He was sort of standing in front of me, while I was sitting. If his fly had been open, I would have gotten poked in the eye. That bulge looked like it could do some damage. I was not going to make the first move, though. That was for sure.
“Is that a uniform you’re wearing?” I asked him.
“Yep,” he said, and took another swig.
“What do you do?” I asked. I didn’t recognize the uniform at all.
“I’m a guard over to the state prison,” he said, and took another swallow.
“Really?” He was a prison guard. Obviously at Foggsville State Prison. I had never had a prison guard. This was kind of exciting. Like getting a policeman or a fireman, but even better. I could picture him walking down the row of cells, letting his club vibrate against all the bars.
“That sounds exciting,” I told him. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I like it real well.”
“Do you ever have to get rough with the prisoners?” I could easily imagine him smacking them around. He looked like he would get a real kick out of that.
“No. Me and them get along real well,” he told me. “Real well. I sort of help a few of them out, and they watch my back.” He emptied his beer bottle and went to the refrigerator for another. He grabbed the cap with his molars, and pulled. The beer foamed out of the open bottle. He licked the bottle, and siphoned off the top two ounces. I could hear them gurgle down his throat.
“How do you help them out?” I asked.
“Well, when the new guys come in, I kind of arrange it that my guys can meet the new guys late at night sometimes.”
“Really? Meet them? What happens?”
“I guess you can imagine what happens, they bein’ in prison and all.”
I didn’t dare imagine. My heart was beating wildly. Dare I pursue this? “I’m not exactly sure what you’re saying,” I told him. “Could you be a little more specific?”
“I let my guys get it on with the new guys.”
“You do not!” I shouted. He probably guessed that I was queer, and he was playing mind games with me.
“I got it right here in this trailer on videotape. “
“You tape them?”
“Sure. I got a collection. They’re real hot tapes.”
“God. I’d love to see one of those tapes,” I told him.
“I’ll put one on,” he said. I could hardly believe my luck.
“If you want, you can sit back in the bed and get a little more comfortable,” he offered.
“Okay,” I said gratefully. My back was starting to hurt. I took off my shoes, and moved back on the bed, sitting up and resting on a pillow against the headboard. He turned on the television, and put a tape in the video recorder. It started to play. He moved back on the bed, and lounged next to me.
He began to give me a running narration of the scene that was unfolding on the television screen. It showed this young, clean-cut looking guy sitting on his cot with wide eyes. Looking very, very frightened.
“The kid’s name is Luke,” Explained Bo. “They gave him five years for beating up and robbing some old faggots. Unfortunately, one of the old faggots was the district attorney’s father.
The camera stayed on Luke, but now another figure (so far, I could only see his back. His massive back, in a tight black sleeveless shirt) was entering through the cell door. He approached the bed.
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