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Farm to Market II - The YoYo
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“Guess what I got in my hands”
“I dunno. What?”
“A farm implement.”
It was three in the morning, and I was awakened by the phone. Jesse’s conspiratorial mumbles hinted at what he soon enough revealed. He was fucked up on Xanax and watching porn vids. More than that, he had a yo-yo, the short-handled, angle-bladed predecessor of a modern weed-eater, propped up against his coffee table with the end of the handle pushing into his ass.
“Hey, come fuck me.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Come fuck me.”
I was a bit stunned. I muttered back in weak protest.
“Jesse, my truck’s broke down.”
“Steal yer dad’s Suburban then. Come over here and fuck me.”
“It’s three a.m., Jesse, he’d be furious.”
“He’d get over it in a couple of days. Get over here.”
This was nuts. This was karma biting me on the ass. This was one of those moments I frequently fantasized about taken out of its proper context and placed into an impossible set of circumstances. I could not imagine turning him down. I had been blowing Jesse for years. He had blown me once, drunk, years previous. I had tongued his ass many times and had him teetering on the edge of asking me to fuck him. Lately I had watched him fuck himself with a dildo a few times while I sucked his dick and had lapped away at his hole when he would pull the toy away. But this was a straightforward demand for me to do the deed. I felt betrayed by circumstance and put upon by the world.
“You bastard, Jesse. My dick’s harder’n Chinese arithmetic.”
“Good. Come fuck my ass with it.”
He was so insistent. I could tell by his voice and by the single-mindedness of his thinking that he was pretty fucked up. I played out the possible scenario in my head. My father fitfully drowsing in the other room, alternately sleeping through the most cacophonous racket or waking to the brush of my shoes on the floor in the hall, would certainly wake up to find me gone along with his only reliable transportation and would begin to play out all the worst-case possibilities in his mind. He would first recall the times he had driven himself to the hospital in the midst of his heart attacks, and then he would segue into my many nights in jail and all the wrecked cars littering my past.
It was possible, however, that I could get away with it and have only my conscience to deal with.
“Come fuck me.”
Would Jesse even stay awake until I completed the twenty-minute drive to his trailer? Would he even still be in the mood? Would I arrive only to jolt him out of his current state with my knock on his door? I had no cell phone with which to buoy him up during my time in transit, and there was no guarantee that the order and organization of the Universe would not continue in this betrayal of my wishes in larger measure by denying me the prize at a moment closer to my attainment of it. The realm of the theoretical would be matched in its application, and the closer I got to achieving my ends would only increase my frustration at the denial. My history is replete with such instances of fortune’s fickle moods.
“Okay, but you’d better stay awake until I get there. Yer drivin me nuts as it is.”
“Just hurry, goddammit. I need my ass fucked tonight.”
I slipped out of bed and into my clothes in less than a minute without turning on a light. I crept down the hall to my father’s open door and found him sound asleep. The light from the bathroom fell upon his face to reveal that slack-jawed slumber which gave me license. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of us, and perhaps he would continue to knit that raveled sleave in my absence. No harm, no foul. I reached around the door and felt for his keys on the nightstand. High school janitors have fewer keys than my eighty year-old father – who has one vehicle and one locked door to deal with – but the truck keys were on a separate fob, easy enough to identify with a touch, and made little enough noise with their removal. I slipped out the backdoor – it was not as noisy as the front – and swore the dog to silence with an admonitory glance and a wave of my hand. I was outside.
The air was thick and the moonlight bright enough to negate the need for too much caution. I made my way to my father’s truck, considering the option of pushing it backwards a bit and then nixing that idea half out of sloth and half from a view that, whatever happened now, I was committed to my plan no matter how things played out back here at home. I climbed inside and turned the key. The headlights came on automatically – I always hated that about his Suburban – washing the front of the house and his bedroom window in light. I immediately put it in reverse and turned the wheel and made my way out the quarter-mile drive to the county road.
The road to Hardpan, the wide spot near which Jesse lived, seemed twice its normal distance, illumined one bend after another by the headlights and always offering up one more forgotten stretch before the next recognizable landmark. How differently the landscape presented itself in that respect, as if vying for my attentions. The world was tap-dancing while I was laboring under the tyranny of an impulse more imperious in its demands. The local fauna dove for cover at my careening approach on those contorted farm-to-market roads.
Grindstone Road at last and the culmination of a ten-year seduction that had seen me in and out of jails and rehabs and squandering whatever good judgment I’d brought from my raising to scatter at the feet of this beautifully wicked half-wit. I pulled into his drive and raised a cloud of dust behind me skidding to a halt inches behind his truck on the caleche gravel. I turned off the engine, killing the headlights, and saw the soft glow from the television set in his living room window.
I paused for a moment, frightened of the endless permutation of possibilities I was about to enact, but only for a moment. Momentarily blinded by the dome light in my truck I felt my way around outside past his pickup and aligning my steps with the path to the front porch. I hooked my toe upon the landscape timbers bordering his drive and pitched headlong into the cannas in the flowerbed.
Dazed for a moment, I struggled to my feet and continued to the wooden steps and shuffled across the deck, banging into the bicycle his kids had left on their last weekend visit.
“Man, could you make any more noise, motherfucker? Hurry up’n get inside.”
“Sorry, Jesse.”
His head disappeared once more behind the door and I followed him in. He picked up the condom-tipped yo-yo from between his overstuffed chair and the coffee table and laid it aside and sat back down on the towel he’d draped on the seat. He was naked except for his socked feet, and I quickly stripped out of my clothes in the corner. Normally, I don’t get really hard until I get started in a given sexual situation, but I’d been seriously boned since I left the farm. I was straining against my own flesh to bury myself in Jesse’s ass, but I wanted to work him over for a moment first. I rank sucking that man’s cock and eating his ass right up there with buttermilk chess pie and yellow-meat watermelon as one of life’s great and simple pleasures.
I got down on my knees next to his chair and scooted around in front of him. The soundtrack of “Anal Sluts” was barely audible from the television now behind me, but enough so that he could keep his attentions comfortably divided and diffuse. The Xanax didn’t hurt either. His eyes were half-masted and noticeably glazed. I took a brief moment to look him over and enjoy the view.
His tousled, dark-brown hair was kept short but for the bangs hanging down near his eyes, one of which had kept its own counsel since a knock to his head had blinded it in his youth. He was short in stature, but broad at the shoulder with well-developed muscles from his work as a carpenter and a generally difficult life all around. His arms were thick and heavily inked, one on the bicep and the other on the forearm, and his hands were fleshy and roughened by labor, dirty nails curving at the ends of his thickened fingers. Wide at the chest, thick pecs dotted by nickel-sized dark-brown nipples with an almost indiscernible trail of hair running between, his torso tapered slightly towards the waist. His belly, now building slightly from better food and beer and sloth, still looked solid enough to bounce a quarter.
Starting at his feet – delicate feet, really, but always double-socked, almost without exception, and this was no exception – one leg had a flame tattooed from the ankle halfway to his knee, the other, nothing but a small jailhouse tat on the ankle, now obscured by a sock. But his lower legs were covered in dark, coarse hair. I always loved the feel of it rubbing against me when I was between his legs. His thighs, well-muscled, smoothed out closer to his crotch. Coming down from his navel was a triangle of hair, not so much the proverbial “treasure trail” as a patch of coarse hair widening to the bush around his cock.
And his cock. It was perfect. Not too large but well proportioned at roughly seven inches and a little on the thick side. Swollen it seemed to thicken in the middle somewhat before a slight taper towards the little helmet on top. Beneath hung his two beautiful balls, like small kiwi fruit dangling between my two favorite spots in the entire world. I understand very well that I practice a form of idolatry with the kind of worship I give to such a transient thing as his body. I’ll own that unflinchingly. The crumbs I’ve gathered in this way under the banquet table of life have provided me with a form of nourishment that sustains and poisons me in exquisite fashion, and I suppose I will forever remain in a state of stunned and silent rapture about that dark, sweet spot of fascination, hypnotized and suspended in a state of aesthetic arrest while I pleasure Jesse and make him cum for me.
We both muttered to each other, almost whispering.
“Fuck me.”
“You wait just a minute. I wanna work you over a bit first.”
And with that I raised his leg and buried my tongue in his hole, sucking a bit as I slid in and out of his clinging ring lately loosened and relaxed by his own efforts. An almost inaudible moan escaped him as both legs raised above my shoulders. His ass was sweet, the smells and tastes of KY and sweat tinged his primary odor, that of a soaped and scrubbed cleanliness one wouldn’t expect from him at first glance. He was a fastidious animal to the point of vanity, at least in his hygiene. I’m not too terribly put off by the normal smells and tastes of a man, but there was never any question of that with Jesse. I could pull him sweating and dirty right off a jobsite and find him clean enough to eat by even the most finicky standards of taste.
I pressed my tongue as far into him as I could manage, straining at its roots while his hole hugged and then relaxed its hold. He gripped at the back of my head, pressing me into my labors with new insistence. I licked my way out and up along his perineum slathering his balls with my tongue until I reached the base of his cock. He was pushing it toward my face, and I mounted it with my mouth and slid slowly downward, rolling my tongue around and around his shaft. He rose against my mouth and grabbed either side of my head, moaning softly and licking his lips. I felt his cock pulsing and knew the throbbing, felt every point at which our bodies touched and shared sensation, worked in unison toward a common end.
I rose one last time from his shaft and licked my way back down to the sweet spot, pressing hard into him with my tongue and going as deeply as I could manage before backing out. I gripped his thighs and slid him slightly closer, pulling his ass over the edge of the low-slung chair. I reached behind me for the bottle of lotion on the coffee table and created a quick and liberal mixture of KY and seminal fluid on my cock. He watched me from a dim distance through half-closed eyes and muttered under his breath.
“Fuck me good”
“I don’t know no other way, buddy, but I wanna get this in you right now.”
I don’t even know if he heard me. I barely heard myself. My concentration was on the head of my dick pressed against his hole and holding back for the briefest of moments. I was on the brink and savoring every second before I began my entry. He opened around the head of my cock, and I felt myself sliding inside, his warm, wet flesh pulling me further until I was buried deep within. I pushed against him, pressed along every fraction of an inch down the length of my throbbing, blood-engorged member, my balls fairly wedged between his cheeks and the head buried deep within, my belly brushing his balls.
We both moaned together almost inaudibly.
I pulled back until I was almost all the way out and then slowly plunged back deeply inside. I repeated this attenuated thrust at least two dozen times, eliciting with each stroke an exhalation of meaning, almost passion, from his upturned face. I was burrowing deeply into him, hitting some spot, some source of pleasure we’d both longed for and never known. I continued this rhythm, gradually increasing the speed of my thrusts. Against this metronome I leaned forward, raising his hands above his head with my own and ran my tongue hungrily over his nipples, sucking slightly and giving a nibble on those two erect, brown buttons atop the pads of muscle.
I searched along his chest with my tongue, still burying myself slowly and repeatedly within him, until I was licking along his neck and up to his ear. I was returning down his neck along the line of his jaw when his head turned and his hungry mouth met mine in a long, deep, searching kiss. My hairy belly and chest brushed and pressed against his own smooth skin, my tongue and cock buried deep within him in alternating movements. Synchronous and seeking we moved together in such a way for more than a minute, a point frozen in time like the orbit around a black hole of sexual ecstasy, set apart from all other human experience that gathers together to form the memories of a life. I was shaken.
I lifted back and let my hands slide slowly down along his torso until I once again gripped his thighs and pulled him more tightly against my pelvic motion, his ass lightly bumping my hips, his balls wedging between my belly and the mound of my pubic hair at the hilt of my buried cock, his hot, velvety tissues hugging the length of my shaft as he moaned under his breath and looked up at me through drugged eyes.
“Man, that feels fuckin good.”
“I’m gonna fill you up, Jesse.”
My rhythm increased in tempo. I had been sliding in and out nearly my entire length like a pump-jack, but now my strokes became quicker and a bit more abbreviated, burying myself once again hard after pulling back halfway. My breathing and his caught in little hiccups, and his eyes lowered their lids. His hands moved from my chest down to my hips, and then one of them slid down to his cock and began pulling, milking himself as I was inside him. His chest heaved upward each time I pressed into him, and his own strokes became quicker and less erratic, moving contrapuntally to mine as we both incrementally increased the speed of our motions. I held his legs out on either side to grant myself more freedom of motion and greater depth inside him. My balls slapped against the crack of his ass, my belly rubbing against his own balls as his fist beat against it bringing himself to the same moment I now approached. He gasped a repeated and pleading command.
“Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”
“Motherfucker, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum!”
I felt it rising from somewhere underneath my feet, under the ground beneath the trailer. The swell traveling up my legs and into my spine and spilling out, shooting out deep into his body. I drove into him and held, pressed hard into that spot, and suddenly a long, lacy strand of cum shot out of his own dick, making a line from his forehead, across his cheek, down his chest to its point of origin, following the track I’d laid down within. I pulled back and pushed into him one more time, and another, more substantial gush came from each of us, this one scattered, shotgun-like across his belly in milky puddles. One more, slightly less from us both and then I halted and collapsed on top of him, releasing his legs to fold around my waist and gasping into his laboring chest.
His hole gripped me in spasms. His arms slid from my back to either side of the chair. I licked at the cum on his chest and slowly slid out from inside of him. His legs slid down until his feet rested on the floor. His eyes remained closed as I lifted myself off of him. He was beautiful. I loved him.
I rose and walked into the bathroom and washed my cock. I returned with a warm, wet hand towel and cleaned him off as well and dressed myself. He said nothing; his eyes remained closed. I picked up the remote from the coffee table and turned off the video, bringing up the local morning newscast. It was then that I noticed the graying light in the windows and knew I must return soon to my father’s farm and face whatever consequences the night’s adventures had created. I straightened the coffee table and picked up the yo-yo, removing the condom from its tip and tossing it into the kitchen wastebasket. I leaned the implement in the corner by the front door. Jesse was asleep. I stared at him a moment. I knew this moment would not likely be repeated. I was fine with that. I leaned forward and lightly kissed his lips and headed home.
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