Jason's Appomattox
A Gay Erotic Fantasy of A Black and A White Man in the South
Copyright 1999 Anonymous DBA Abuck50@aol.com
Chapter 1
Jason swung his Camero left, down the driveway between an old Hardee's and a Texaco station, over a little beat up concrete bridge across a drainage ditch and into the parking lot of the Sherwood Apartments. It was a straight line of three, two story brown brick and concrete buildings behind the south side of a line of gas stations, fast food joints and cheap furniture stores that ran long each side of Butler Avenue.
Butler was a broad four lane road that looked like someone had spilled a bunch of worn out businesses down each side of it forty years ago. The first floor of the apartments looked across the ditch at back doors and loading docks, and the second story looked into a tangle of power lines at the back of the jumble of sputtering neon signs that staggered along the road. The signs were so dense that it has hard to tell which one advertised what building, stuffed together back when the South thought that zoning was un-American.
Everything about that part of suburban Atlanta was ratty, built up in the fifties as fast as cranes could swing prefab buildings and cinder block off of flatbeds, and then left behind as development pulled the money further on out. The apartments were barely blue collar, put there because they could be shoved in behind the stores and because there were plenty of people who couldn't be choosey about where they lived. From the road they looked like an old abandoned motel.
No one who lived there wanted to. For some it was where they had to be for now and they just wanted to leave. Others knew it was the best they would ever get and they hated the place for it. And no one knew anyone else or wanted to either. But it worked for Jason and Keith.
Jason lived in an old rural black town with all kinds of relatives scattered around, including a preacher for an uncle, and Keith was a Army intelligence analyst. Neither could go home with the other. No one who knew either one of them would ever see them there so four months ago they took an apartment and split the rent. They met about three times a month and spent the night or some part of a weekend.
Jason drove down to the end of the last building on the right, parked near a line of rusty green dumpsters and climbed up the outside stairs to the end unit on the second floor. He took a breath as he slid his key in and opened the tan metal door. It looked like it always looked, furnished better than you would think in bargain brown leather furniture from Sears, one of those groupings in a corner of the store that you just say OK to and take it all, with not quite enough stuff around the room to suggest that anyone really lived there.
He was early. Jason didn't want to drive all the way home after work and then have to come back, almost 40 miles on east out in the county to Ballard's Crossing. Keith wouldn't be there until at least 7:00 p.m. and maybe later. Jason slid up on one of the stools at the counter that looked over at the little strip kitchen, then looked around the place and wondered, as he always did, why he was there and whether he should be. He wanted to be there, he just didn't want to have to.
Keith would go to his townhouse first, ditch the suit and take a shower and change into jeans, loafers and a polo shirt. He tried to dress down to go over but he didn't really know how. Jason would shower there and change into clothes that were clean versions of the ones that he wore at the warehouse.
Jason never thought that this was would happen since he didn't even understand why he wanted white men and didn't like most of the ones that he met. He always assumed that he would continue to pick up pretty white boys who went crazy over his lanky black athletic body, but that it would stay a long series of one- nighters with a few repeats thrown in.
Jason finished five semesters at UNC up in Chapel Hill before he had to come home and go to work when his mother got sick, and he intended to finish. But being black in Georgia, even now, still meant dealing with a kind of racism that had just stepped behind the curtain and was still controlling the show, sometimes hard to see outright but always impossible to escape. The white boys at the bar treated him like they had a job for him to do.
The jock-frat business types made fools of themselves trying to decide who got him when he showed up at one of the dance bars, usually close to closing. Little clusters of twenty-to- thirty-somethings giggled as they glanced over and flapped their eyebrows about whether one of them was going to be brave enough to do it.
Black, strong, lean, 26 and blue collar to boot -- Jason was the perfect southern white boy's wild fantasy. And he would give them their dangerous night and be the big black cat that slides out of the jungle and brings them down with his powerful body pounding them into oblivion, and leave them wondering how they survived it and whether they had the guts to do it again.
The night always started off when one of them was drunk enough to ask for it and ended up somewhere near dawn when he was unable to move and hurting when he did. Every now and then it would get a little rough if the guy was so wired on ecstacy or meth that he whined about Jason's condom and wanted it bareback. Jason would tie him down, put two of them on to help him last longer and do it until the guy was crying and couldn't breathe -- and they seemed to like that even more, a pathetic rape fantasy after their invitation to death had been rejected. It made Jason wonder even more why he wanted to have anything to do with them.
As much as the white boys loved the whole thing they would drop him as soon as it was over -- no phone numbers, no contact in the daylight -- until another late drunken night when they needed to get flushed out, so they would try to pick up the hot black guy so he could do what they wanted.
Keith was alone the night he saw Jason, keeping apart from the bubbly crowd, standing over by a column on the side drinking a beer. He was exotic, mysterious: young, athletic with a hard cut jaw, close auburn hair lying perfectly in place, a wide chest and flat belly with veins running up the sides of his neck; but skin that was a soft, smooth translucent white, a natural ruby splash on each cheek, beautiful wide eyes and elegant thin lips -- a little boy's face on top of a strong man's body.
It was hard to figure out who he was and what he wanted. Everybody looked but few guys felt secure enough to approach him. There was a distance about him that made him look stern. A couple usually did go over eventually but his vacant face always dissolved into a sweet manly one as he smiled, cocked his head to one side and shook it nicely "no thanks."
When Jason saw Keith he saw that Keith was already looking at him. Keith straightened up and took a long breath. He was not there the way the rest of the white boys were. Jason knew right away that Keith was waiting for something and it was starting to look like Jason was it. This was different. This had never happened before. As Jason began to realize it the noise and the lights and the crowd of pretties prancing up and down all dissolved out of focus and back into a dark hushed denseness.
Jason nailed Keith's eyes to claim his place in this. But now it was Jason, for the first time, who was wondering what was going to happen. This guy didn't give off any signals that he was going to ask or do anything at all. He just stood there, strong, staring. Jason let his head drift over and his jaw float up a little, still staring. It said, "Yeah?"
Keith set his beer down on the shelf running around the column and walked through the crowd straight up to Jason.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
"Whadda ya lookin for?" Keith said.
"White ass," Jason said back, almost bored.
"How 'bout mine?"
"Sure," Jason said. "You got a place?"
"Yes. I have a motel room nearby, would you like to go now?"
"Yeah." Jason turned and walked toward the door.
Keith slid into the butterscotch leather of his white Legend coupe and Jason fired up his deep-throated silver-gray Camero and followed Keith to a little motel near the interstate where no questions were ever asked. Keith went straight to the room; he had taken one before, hoping something would happen, now it was. Neither one said anything.
Keith opened the door, walked in, Jason followed and Keith shut the door, turned around -- Jason grabbed his crotch and pulled him forward and reached around and hooked his index finger down into his crack through his pants while Keith pulled his polo shirt out of his pleated slacks and over his head. In the darkness his white body glowed like the soft-hard marble of a young god in shadow, beautiful enough to just look at. Then, still looking into Jason's eyes, Keith unhooked his belt and unzipped his pants. Jason let his hands slide off of his ass as Keith stepped out of his trousers, and pulled off his socks and shoes.
Keith turned around and walked across the dark room, pulled the covers down and off of the big bed and slid up on his back against the headboard, spread his legs and let one hand glide down over his tight stomach.
Jason was almost angry. This guy was deciding what was happening here. He walked over to the foot of the bed and took his clothes off and stood there looking down at Keith, one hand massaging down into the blackness between his legs. Keith reached over for a plastic bottle of lubricant, filled one hand and slid it down through his crotch and hooked two fingers up his own ass. He rolled the bottle down the bed, Jason took some and began to massage his cock slowly with both hands. Then his right forearm pumped as one hand bounced his dick up from beneath and let it smack heavy on his hand several times.
A ragged frame of light glowed softly around the curtains. Just enough of it fell across Jason's dark body in the even darker room for Keith to barely see the muscles running down his torso. As Jason massaged his dick different parts of his powerful shoulders, chest and arms flowed through the soft glow in the room, letting Keith see one part of his body and then another in a slow-motion dance of black muscle rippling in and out of the light. Jason was majestic now, a mystical phantom taking shape, forming out of the darkness all around them.
Keith saw both of Jason's hands disappear again into the pitch black of his crotch, saw his shoulders work his arms and then heard the little pieces of tinfoil fall quietly to the carpet. A shudder ran up Keith's spine.
Jason dropped one knee on the bed and then the other and moved up between Keith's legs as they separated a little more and came up off the bed. Keith reached up with both arms and hooked them around and under his knees, pulled his knees up and out and back down toward the sides of his head. His smooth white belly gathered up into tiny folds of skin, the muscles in his chest rose up and his paper white ass spread open wide and curled up into some of the light. He held himself there, crunched up tight and strong like a wrestler with a hold on himself, staring up at Jason who was staring back.
Jason walked forward a few steps on his knees, held his dick by its base and pointed it at Keith's ass. Keith tightened the arm around his right leg to swing his butt over a little and aimed his asshole at -- it's wet blackness glistened even blacker, hard, straight, thick and wide. Jason stuck it in and dropped his body down and sunk his dick all the way down to the bottom of Keith's ass. Keith's eyes tightened shut and he pushed out a long grunt through his open mouth and popped his eyes back open but didn't move. His ass was a vortex that was pulling everything that is into the burning pain at its center, while Keith pulled back harder on his cocked-up legs and pushed them down against his arms, compressed all of his strength into a hard dense place inside and pushed it as hard as he could back down to meet the pain, down through his belly and his groin and into it, and held the pain down, hard, with all of his strength, until it was his.
They were still staring at each other, straining to hold onto each other's eyes in the dark. Keith was not writhing around or whimpering like the pretty boys did. He was braced for it, holding his place, coiled and trussed up in his own strong arms maneuvering his ass.
It wasn't clear to Jason whether he was fucking this man's ass or this man's ass had ahold of his dick!
Then Jason did what Jason does. He fucked this strong ass for about three hours, on the bed on Keith's back, over and straight down into his ass, on his knees from behind on the floor, sideways with one knee cocked up, standing up spread-eagle against the wall...there wasn't a part of that room that did not have Keith planted on it one way or one time or another. And all the time Keith fucked back with his ass, massaged Jason's dick if he paused, clamped down and held onto it hard until it hurt and made Jason almost cum when he couldn't stop pumping even when he wanted to, then as he felt the first signs of Jason's cum start to boil he let his ass go slack and opened it up and held him off, so he could work him up again. This ass was as willful as the dick that was shoved up in it all night.
Jason worked up a good sweat and went a little crazy inside. This is what this guy wanted, all the time, not like the ones who did it when they were screwed up enough to get stupid. And this guy was not giving anything up to Jason. He was in this, a part of it, using his ass as much as Jason was his dick.
By 4:00 a.m. Jason had shot three times, Keith twice jacking himself off as Jason did, the last time finally falling back and letting loose and collapsing and letting Jason go anywhere he wanted to finish.
After, Jason got up and went over and sat down in the small club chair, flopped his legs apart and watched Keith lying on the bed. Keith got up, went into the bathroom, turned on the water and came out with a hot cloth and a towel.
He knelt down between Jason's legs and slid one hand under his cock and held it for a while. Then he reached down and took the tip of his condom and started pulling on it, slowly, until it stretched and started to slide, pulling Jason's thick dick up and out off of his hand, and letting that hand float back to run its fingers through the black hairs curled around the bottom of Jason's balls, pausing when the rim of the condom caught on the rim of the head of Jason's dick, holding out this great black dick so heavy that it was pulling back, slick and wrapped in veins still full, watching it and waiting...until one side of the condom curled up over the lip of his head and it slipped out, fell back down into Keith's open palm, bounced once and quivered still.
Jason breathed in deep and dropped his head back when Keith first wrapped the warm cloth around it and held it firmly between his hands to let the heat soak in. Keith then held it up and to each side, caressing it and stroking it with the warm cloth.
Keith dried off Jason's dick and crotch and ran the towel up over his body. Then he pressed his thumbs and pointer fingers into a circle around the base of his dick and balls, pushed into Jason and up with his thumbs to make Jason's cock rise up into a swollen arch, bent over and slowly slid his open mouth over Jason's dick and let it rest on his tongue, soft and heavy, and let his head sink on into Jason's crotch and the nine long inches of brawny black cock slide down his throat. He held it there, down in his chest for several seconds, then slowly pulled off and let it go, straightened up on his knees and bent down again, found it twisted slightly as it slid down his inner thigh, and kissed the head of Jason's dick now lying softly on the chair.
Keith's eyes wandered up Jason's body until they rose into his half-open eyes looking down, and Keith smiled: "Hey -- again."
Jason smiled a little back.
Keith leaned over to the little round table next to them and scribbled something on a pad and gave it to Jason and said, "Here." Jason took it and held it out to the side.
"OK," Jason said.
"I have to go," Keith said, "it's awful late. Call me if you want to. I hope you will. Leave a message if I don't answer, it's OK. OK?"
"Yeah," Jason said, surprised, "sure" and nodded.
Keith got up, wiped himself off with another towel, got dressed and came back where Jason was still sitting, slung out like a runner resting, watching this Keith move around in the dark like a ghost.
"I'm going to leave the key here on the table. The room is paid for. Just leave it here and leave when you want to. Take care, man. And call me." Keith reached down and plucked Jason's nipple and smiled, opened the door and left.
Jason stared for a long time into the dark room, so humid and heavy that he felt his chest push against it when he breathed in deep to pull it into his lungs and taste the night again. After half an hour he left and got home as the sun was coming up.
That's how it started. At first they couldn't get enough but couldn't do it very often. Jason fell in love with Keith's ass and, for the first time in his life, he made slow sweet love to one that was making love to him. Jason used his dick to look for places down in this hot man's ass. Keith's ass talked about the places they went and whispered hints of new ones.
Over the next few months they spent a lot of money on the motel until they decided to find an apartment that no one else would. So, Jason thought, looking around the Sears President's Day Sale special, this is where we are, sneaking over to this place. Still no contact in the daylight.
Keith waived his ID card up past his left ear as the whirling lasers in the wall plucked the bar codes out of the air, lined them up and stamped the video tape with the time. He walked on through the domed glass atrium, out of the double glass doors and into the parking lot.
Behind him rose a long two-story red brick L-shaped building that was only a minor variation of the fifteen others meandering around the industrial park. The grounds were manicured and lush -- some of Atlanta's most promising new industries were growing up in this nursery.
The second floor of Keith's building was occupied by the Defense Logistics Center's Transportation Planning Command. If anyone asked, it was about planning for transportation-related contingencies, both peacetime and war -- pretty boring -- and it was classified so he couldn't really talk about it, anyway. That usually took care of any questions but it was easy, if he had to, to fudge and dribble out some of the cover about airlifts, convoys or the Teamsters.
The TPC moved words around, however, not supplies. It was a cover for the part of the country's intelligence operation that had been put down in Atlanta to keep it out of sight, away from military commanders who didn't need to meddle in it, and in a key senate district.
Keith was a Arabic linguist, Specialist E-6, the brainy side of staff sergeant, one of three dozen language experts who tried to figure out the messages beneath the words.
When foreign messages were intercepted by any of the intelligence agencies, they first whet to the National Security Agency outside of Washington. There, anything of explosive significance was edited out and sent on to who needed it. Then two copies of the tapes were sent out. One went to a little campus look-a-like in rural Virginia masquerading as an agricultural research center. There the communications parameters were analyzed: the frequencies and bandwidths and other technical markers of different kinds of messages and messengers, and they worked over codes and ciphers that NSA had not unraveled. The other went to the TPC in Atlanta where Keith and his colleagues tried to understand what the words meant beyond what they said. They studied the nature of the rhetoric and how it changed in different situations, looking for signs of stress or urgency, or conflicts between correspondents, biases and assumptions, and which ones were particularly intelligent.
It was a perfect job for Keith. It was a secret like his life, several layers deep, one deception relying on another, and his job was to look for hidden meanings. It was quiet, unhurried, and without any pressure since their analysis flowed into strategic analytical papers at the NSA that were sent around to embassies and military commanders to help them understand their players, but of no particular urgency and even less interest to most of the people that got them. And it was all an official secret, a government secret, created and protected by the Congress of the United States of America, burrowed down deep at the center of what was supposed to be good.
He watched his white Legend coupe grow closer as he walked across the lot. It was a perfect match, sleek and trim, elegant, graceful, smart and quiet, but with neck-snapping power under the hood. It always glowed with its own sensuality but even more so when it was time to drive it over to see Jason. He felt a tingle in his groin as he opened the long door and breathed in the soft leathery air and tasted Jason already. It was the magic carpet that would take him off to his other world and he loved everything about it.
The routine was just that. Home to a small townhouse in a development full of grad students moving through who didn't want any lasting connections there, a shower in a silky body wash, back out to the car and off to get gas. It was important to get gas because that was where he took one of the removable "Georgia Peach" bumper stickers that he kept in the trunk and laid it over his office parking sticker, just in case.
What he was doing was bad, so bad that he dedicated his life to it. Keith looked like what every Christian, white, southern capitalist family thought they wanted their oldest son to be. He radiated health, confidence and an honorable future. And he bought the whole thing early on, believed every bit of it and assumed that the carpet would roll on out before him forever. Then being Baptist and gay started bumping into each other; he believed faithfully that he should not want what he did want passionately.
A substitute teacher in his senior year of high school caused a collision. The young man, somewhere around 30 and looking like a recently retired Olympian, walked into Keith's class one day and Keith thought that he was going to have to leave. He had elbowed aside all of the tugs and temptations of other men over the past few years. But he needed to touch this man. He had to get naked with him, alone. It became an obsession. Keith could not think about anything else for the week that he was there and barely survived each hour that they were in sight of each other.
After the last class, Keith found him in the hall as he planned and asked to speak with him. He muddled through some near breathless nonsense about tutoring to help him stay on the swimming team and keep his grades up. He was a wreck, sweating and flustered. The teacher told Keith that he understood how he felt, that it was OK, and that he knew it was tough, but that it would not be good for either of them to try to work together and one day Keith would understand more clearly why.
He was stunned. The man knew. And he was saying no.
The teacher squeezed his shoulder, smiled, and walked into the hallway crowd. Keith's balance faltered -- he loved him now because he was so kind about it -- and a scream started swelling up, but he held it. He stood there being bumped around, unable to move, watching the teacher vanish into the scurrying students, and then trying with everything in him to sense whether any of them had gotten it too. But he concluded that this had been his own private humiliation in the midst of a swarm of strangers. He felt his whole world fold in on itself, tucking him back up into a place that he would spend the rest of his life trying to escape. He rushed back to his church to prove that he was good but found there only institutionalized guilt that was celebrated every week.
And so, after graduation, the Army. Perfect: Duty! Honor! Men! When he learned about careers in intelligence he knew that he had found his place, where secrecy itself was honored above all else, and he became good at it quickly.
Every few months after being stationed in Atlanta he would sneak over to a gay bar. Even with pride marches and mayoral proclamations, Keith was not about to be out. But he became so awash in hormones every few weeks that he floated up out of his life into that other one and went to a gay bar. They were always the ones easy to find, the big dance bars, and they never satisfied him. He did not want to be anyone there. Sometimes he got a blow job in back hallways and let a man run his hands over his body, but he left frustrated and jacked off again at home to a video.
Then Jason showed up one night. That was not only a man standing over there, a solid, strong, confident man out for sex with another one, he was black. Black! Jason was everything that Keith was not supposed to want. And so he had to have it. As soon as he saw Jason he saw them like the saw himself and the teacher, both standing naked face to face and glorious, alone in all existence. Keith was consumed again with the same explosive passion that had taken him away a decade ago in history class. This time nothing would get in his way. Finally, he would to have it. This night. And he did.
Keith saw the apartments a block away and Butler Avenue came back into focus around him. He knew that Jason would already be there and wondered what he'd be doing. It had been three weeks this time. His body worked itself loose against the leather seat. This was the only problem with his beautiful car: it couldn't fly.
He parked and went up and tapped on the door. There was no answer, but he heard the TV so he unlocked the door and swung it open. A tape of the last UNC-Clemson basketball game was on. Jason was lying along the brown leather sofa, one arm up over his head the other hanging off, one knee cocked up against the back, the other leg lying long along the leather, in a black T-shirt and blue jeans with no shoes, his mouth slightly open, sound asleep.
Keith smiled and closed the door quietly. He sat his duffle down by the wall and turned the volume down to a murmur, tiptoed over to the sofa and sat down on the floor, cross-legged with his knees up and wrapped up tight in his arms, one hand locked onto the other wrist, and looked at this beautiful, wonderfully dangerous, man.
To be continued...
Copyright 1999 Anonymous DBA Abuck50@aol.com