This is a work of erotic fiction. If it is illegal where you are, then don't read further. Any resemblance to actual people is entirely coincidental.
Copyrighted - © 2010. I can be reached at dingalingo@hushmail.com All Rights Reserved.
They say you can't go home.
They also say the exception proves the rule. Whether this trip would prove the rule or be the exception, I didn't know.
America's midwest - the corn belt - is like a foreign country after living in the insular world of San Francisco. In The City, you can walk down the street naked and the cops don't even bat an eye. Men regularly make out in city parks with their hands down each others pants, and if breeders with kids in tow say a word about it, they will be pilloried as intolerant homophobes. Gotta love The City.
Had it not been for my older brother's 25th wedding anniversary, I'd have had no reason to return to Plainview. There was nothing there for me. Their entire claim to fame is that some has-been Walt Disney movie star was born there. Seriously. The Plainview museum consists of, like, thousands of pictures of him, and maybe a few arrowheads found by farmers while plowing their fields.
I don't want to sound like I'm bitter toward Plainview. I'm not. It's just culture shock, that's all. In fact, my upbringing in Plainview was very good. I had the time of my life. Boys will be boys wherever you go, and boys in Plainview were most definitely boys. If I was to count them, I'd probably come up with a few dozen or more sex partners I had there - all before I left when I turned 14. That was 26 years ago.
My life since those halcyon days of budding childhood lust had taken a dramatic turn. I returned that day as a big city interior designer with a successful business in San Francisco - the epicenter of design on the West Coast. Returning to my hick roots in Plainview was going to be a bore, but I would suffer through it stoically for my brother and escape town the next morning. That was the plan.
I didn't recognize much as I entered town on the two-lane highway. I don't know why I expected everything to be the same. If you'd have said I would need directions to find my way around this small town, I would have laughed at you. It was my childhood stomping grounds; I knew the place like the back of my hand.
Shortly after entering the city limits, I pulled into a little hamburger stand with a neon sign flashing "Gunny's" in huge cursive letters, figuring I would use their bathroom and grab a cheeseburger and coke, and find out where the hell I was. I was completely lost, and my gut was protesting the iffy breakfast croissant I'd been served on the flight that morning.
I had coordinated my arrival to coincide with the arrival of my son and his family, but I had a half hour or so to spare, so I sat down at a table and plucked a well-worn menu from the clip on a napkin dispenser.
A cute mop-haired teenage boy took my order as I ran my eyes over his nubile frame with the hint of a promising little package showing under an extremely tight, low-cut pair of blue jeans and a wide, black leather grommeted belt. I admired his round buns as he turned and handed my ticket to the T-shirt clad cook inside a stainless steel window to the kitchen. They looked like father and son. From the name "Gunny's" I would wager dad had a marine emblem tatooed somewhere on his well-muscled body. I made a mental note to refrain from staring at the boy's ass and crotch. Dad might not approve, and while the customer is always right, I assumed that in Plainfield that rule has is a pervert clause which exempts dirty old men who are openly lusting after the proprietor's son.
When the man placed my order in the window and rang a bell to summon the boy, I took a closer look to confirm a familial relationship, and thought it was pretty certain. Both had the same handsome features. Suddenly the dad seemed as interesting as the son. Very nice corn-fed midwestern beef. Prime cut. I'll take a pound - wrap it up!
As the aluring boy placed my burger in front of me, I ventures a "hi," toward the dad with my best schmoozing smile. "It's been a while since I've been in town, and I think I got turned around." He nodded expressionlessly, waiting for me to get to the point. Not endowed with the gift of gab, this marine. But the face was friendly enough. "Could you tell me how to get to Kraft Avenue and First?"
He cocked his head as if thinking it over, and disappeared from the window. A moment later, his 6 foot frame emerged from a stainless steel door and approached my table. "You commin' from north?" He nodded in the direction from which I had indeed come.
"Yes. I took the freeway from Madison, then the highway at Junction 10."
"You missed the fork in the road. It happens. You're from around here, eh?"
"A long time ago," I responded. "When I was a teenager. Things have changed."
His steel blue eyes seered through me. He was near my age, probably a bit younger - around 35 or 40, and he did indeed have a marine emblem on his muscled forearm. He exuded raw power, and I found my loins stirring as he towered over me. I wondered if directions to Kraft and First were forthcoming, but my throat was drying up. I felt foolish that I was having this reaction to a small town loser flipping burgers. But for some reason, I felt like a school child in class, and the teacher's attention was on me.
After a pregnant pause that made a bead of sweat extrude from my temple and run down my cheek, he repeated, "You missed the fork in the road. It happens." His eyes bore through me, as if he could see into my soul, and my heart began to visibly pound in my chest. The budding arousal in my pants reversed course and my penis and balls retreated like they expected to get kicked.
My throat cinched into a tight mass, and I croaked, "And First Street is..." As I picked up my red plastic glass of Coke to wet my parched throat, my hand visibly shook and my lips stuck to suddenly dry teeth.
"The fork in the road." He clarified. "About five blocks back. You missed it. It happens." He lifted the short apron around his waist as he wiped his hands, revealing an unmistakably generous bulge in his white trousers, and walked to the window with his back to me. Nice ass, too. I wondered how big his cock was. "How long?"
Coke went down my windpipe, and I spewed a mouthful into my burger basket. "Pardon?" I squeaked, and reached for a napkin, knocking the coke over and sending its contents flowing across the table. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry." Hot prickles of sweat sprouted all over my scalp, and I could feel cold beads of sweat rolling down my armpits.
Panic filled me as if I was in a pressure cooker and it was being forced in through every pore. My bowels loosened and cramped as liquid shit slammed into my sphincter, probing desperately for a way out. I clenched my buttcheeks and muttered, "Oh, God."
He looked back over his shoulder expressionlessly to take note of the Coke cascading from his table, and looked back out the window. "How long since you been in town?"
The boy appeared at my shoulder with a towel and began to mop up the spill. "I'm sorry." I pleaded, desperate for an ally. Mercifully, the teen smiled in genuine understanding and said, "No problem, sir. I'll get this." I could have kissed him. He bent over right before my eyes to sop up the spilled soda, and my eyes bulged at the tight young teen ass presented to me like a baboon in heat.
"Teenager." My heart stopped at the man's statement. Was I that obvious? My sphincter cinched even tighter to resist the building pressure. What kind of cruel game was this guy playing?
I raised the napkin in my hand to my face and wiped it across my forehead, replacing a few beads of sweat with a river of coke from the soggy paper rag. Coke dripped into my eyes, and I yelped in pain.
"You say you were a teenager when you lived here." He said casually. I pried my stinging right eye open and peered at his broad, stiff back incredulously. He was toying with me.
My bowels gurgled malevolently, and, squinting like Popeye, I cast my single good eye about for a restroom sign, seeing one across the room. I stood up and my calves caught the underside of the chair perectly, sending it flying onto it's back in a loud crash. "Yes... teenager," I responded to the cook, glaring at the offending chair in disbelief. Et tu, Brute?
Leaving the chair tipped over, I lurched into the restroom in a blind panic and turned the latch solidly behind me, leaning heavily on the door with my left eye clenched painfully shut. I heaved a sigh of relief and spun toward the sink and toilet. Which first?
With my head under the faucet, I rinsed my seering eyes first as I shucked my sportcoat, letting it fall to the floor, and struggled to unbuckle my belt. With water dripping from my face, my pants barely cleared the toilet rim as a jet of hot lava sprayed out my ass. Exhausted, I sat down with a loud sigh and my ass fell through into the brown water of the open bowl.
Slowly, a laugh started to percolate up from my gut. It started as a chuckle and grew to a full throated belly laugh as my bowels belched bubbles under the water.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged sheepishly from the restroom and pulled the door with a blue "women" plaque closed behind me. I suppressed a giggle. I caught a reflection of myself in a piece of heavily polished stainless steel, and the image was absurd. My hair looked like I'd just come in from a hurricane, my $200 Italian dress shirt and $800 sport jacket were disheveled and soaked with water, coke and sweat. I leaned close to look at my eyes, and giggled again at the sight of the puffy red bloodshot orbs leering back at me. My left eye twitched.
Turning to look suspiciously around the nondescript diner, I noted it was deserted and I suppressed the urge to bolt and silently asked God to please allow me to survive Plainview and get back to San Francisco alive, where men are EXPECTED to admire a teenage boy's butt.
At the table, I extracted a $20 from my wallet, then another $20, then pulled all the cash out and laid it on the table by the burger basket. I had used virtually all the supplies in the ladies room cleaning up the mess. The last thing I needed was the owner calling the cops on me for toilet paper theft. My eye twitched again.
As stealthfully as I could, I tiptoed to the door, eased it open and slipped outside.
As I turned onto First Street at the fork I had missed, I mumbled, "It happens," and wished my eye would stop twitching.
When I pulled up in front of my brother Robert's Victorian house a few minutes later, my son was unloading his family from a minivan in the driveway. I grasped the wheel of the rental with both hands and took a deep breath, then turned the rear-view mirror to examine my face. I looked like a survivor of a shipwreck. Licking my fingers, I drew them over a particularly deviant patch of hair, to no avail. It sprang back in jutting defiance.
The anniversary dinner proved to be a riotous affair. Soon after meeting for the first time, by 7 year-old grandson and his cousins decided to engage in the mindless juvenile sport of chasing one another around the house screaming at full voice. The older kids played video games at full volume in order to hear it above the din of the younger ones, and the adults were forced to yell at one another in order to be heard above it all. To say the experience left my nerves in tatters is an understatement.
As evening fell, I stepped out onto the wrap-around porch to get some fresh air just in time to see an older red pickup truck nose in behind my son's minivan, and the cook from Gunny's get out still wearing his food-stained apron.
My chest clenched like I was having a heart attack. The marine regarded me without expression for a moment and then walked purposefully up the steps to stand before me. Slack-jawed, I tried to mumble some sort of greeting, but my brain refused to offer any words and my lips moved in silence.
Feeling a familiar sense of panic wash over me, I wavered dizzily on my feet.
"You left this." Fanned out in his hand was the money I'd left on the table - several twenties and a couple of hundreds.
"Tip." I croaked.
"Too much." He responded.
"Not when you consider..." I gulped. Maybe he hadn't seen the mess in the ladies room yet. "You know - the mess."
"Yeah, quite a mess you left." He stepped forward into the space I was occupying, forcing me to stumble back into the closed screen door. My knees buckled, and his large hands clamped my shoulders to steady me. My relief that he did not hit me was short lived, as he let go of my left shoulder and slapped me hard across the face.
My head stayed turned to the right, where the force of the slap had left it. I could feel blood rushing to the site of the slap, but no pain yet. My ears rang as he said my name: "Peter Sackett." I turned to look at him, and his left palm slammed into my other cheek with even more force, sending my head the opposite direction from the last blow. That one hurt.
Eyes closed, I waited for more blows, but none came. I looked at him again, wincing in anticipation of another slap - or worse.
"You don't recognize me, do you?" His eyes were not angry. He had the same sedate look on his face as he had when I first saw him through the kitchen window at the diner as his son with the very nice ass gave him my order.
"Should I?" I croaked, and instantly regretted it. He slapped me hard again. I tasted blood in my mouth.
"Yes, you should. Folks call me Gunny. My name is Tim. Timothy Gunderson.
This time he didn't steady me as my legs gave out and I slid down to the porch with my back to the screen door.
Timmy Gunderson had lived next door to me as a child here in Plainview. He was about 7 years younger than me and for several years bracketing the onset of my puberty, I had used him and his brother almost daily as my personal sex toys.
He took the bills from his T-shirt pocket and let them flutter onto me, then he turned and walked toward his truck leaving me sprawled there with my face swelling and my cock stirring in my pants.
As the truck pulled out, Robert came to the front door and said, "Mind if I get through?" and gave the door a little push. I scooted my butt over, and he came out holding a couple of beers as the truck turned onto First and departed.
"Jesus." Robert said as he bent to get a closer look at my red, swelling face. "Are you OK?"
Realizing he had not seen any of the preceding attack, I replied, "Yeah. Allergic reaction, I think - I'll be OK." I took one of the beers and emptied half the can in one drink. With my knees bent, my rack-hard penis was hidden, but I would not be able to rise for a few minutes, at least.
I leaned my head back against the white clapboards and sighed heavily, still staring at the place where the red truck had disappeared. The fear that had bound me faded away, replaced by a tingle of anticipation. Probing the inside of my bleeding mouth with my tongue, I decided I could stay in Plainview a few more days.
I can be reached at dingalingo@hushmail.com If you think this story is compelling enough to continue, please let me know. I have a lot of stories in me - most based on actual events - and I want to spend time only on ones that please others.