The Queer Road
DISCLAIMER: These stories are works of fiction about teen aged boys and young men in conflict over their sexuality. There are graphic descriptions of sexual activity, most of it homosexual. If you aren't supposed to read such material, stop now. The author retains copyright.
Gold Dick III
Buster's mother asked me to be a pall bearer at his funeral. She asked Murray Gold too. She said we were Buster's only friends. Hard to say no to that. I was in my senior year at the state Ag college and came home on a Saturday. The funeral was at four. Murray picked me up in the black Buick that had been the scene of two dick suckings during our senior year in high school. It was his car now; three years older but still shiny. I'd seen him around town a few times during vacations from college but we hadn't gotten together. He was a senior too, at Memphis State.
"What happened to Buster?" I asked first thing.
"You didn't hear? Out of prison for two months and just couldn't behave." He pulled away from the house, leaving me with my question still unanswered.
"What, car wreck?"
"You remember Clarence Dollar? That old black man who lives out by our farm. We used to go out there to buy beer."
"Yeah, always had a story about his days in prison, used to warn us to behave so we wouldn't end up like him."
"Yeah, well he was a fence for stolen goods too. Buster broke into some houses and stole some stuff; televisions, guns. Clarence bought it from him."
"Smashed into some guys house who wasn't gone?"
"Yeah. Clarence Dollar."
"Clarence Dollar offed Buster?"
"Buster heard Clarence kept a lot of cash in the house, and one dark night he went out there."
"Clarence always told us he couldn't have a firearm because he was a paroled felon."
"Remember that switch blade?"
"Yeah, used to pull it out to show us how sharp it was, and how fast."
"Clarence told the police he didn't know it was Buster until he'd already cut his throat."
"No shit? Clarence cut Buster's throat?"
"Ambulance guys said they never saw so much blood; pools of it all over Clarence's kitchen."
We got our instructions at the funeral home, then went to the house to pick Buster up He'd been laid out in the living room for three days of visitation. I know, old school, but this was back when people did it that way. Creepy to eat and sleep with a dead relative in a casket in the next room. I don't know if they had it open all the time or just for a few hours every day. We picked him up and put him in the hearse for the ride to the church, then carried him down front and the funeral director opened the casket. Impressive, considering the way he'd died. He looked a little heavier than the last time I'd seen him, about two years. Murray said he had prison tattoos all over him, including his neck and hands, and Murray would know. Buster was dressed in a suit with a dress shirt and tie and his hands were at his side so none of that showed.
The service was long, and when his mother and sisters would break down, every woman in the house broke down. They sang all the old tear jerkers, and the preacher called on half a dozen friends and relatives to get up and have a say. We heard repeatedly about his being plucked in the prime of life, and how a promising young man was now gone forever to the arms of the Lord. My mind wandered back to Buster and all the trouble we caused when we were young, culminating with the time we forced Murray Gold to suck Buster off in the old Miller house.
Buster didn't graduate high school with us because he was in reform school. He got his GED and they let him out on his 18th birthday. Two weeks later he robbed a liquor store and was caught with the loot and the pistol. I last saw him while he was out on bail pending a plea bargain by his lawyer. He blamed the liquor store owner for his failure.
"I could have shot the guy, but I didn't think he'd make a fuss."
He did make a fuss, with the shotgun he kept under the counter. Buster was damn lucky to get away alive. They caught him two miles down the road running full out on the rims with two tires and the windshield shot out. He did two years in the big house for that, and had been out only two months.
After a long prayer it was over, and the funeral director closed the casket and we carried him out to the hearse for the ride to the cemetery. All six pall bearers rode in Murray's Buick. The other four were cousins and uncles; a rough bunch. We pulled the casket out of the hearse and carried it over to the grave and placed it on two straps attached to a winch device that would slowly lower him down at the proper time. The crowd was a lot smaller at the cemetery.
"...ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the preacher said as the little winch lowered Buster down.
I couldn't help thinking about poor Buster, kicking down Clarence's back door and rushing into the kitchen, expecting to see piles of cash, and then that faint click behind him.
"That was awful," Murray said as we walked to his Buick. "I need a drink."
"Yes."
"Charles! How's Millie and the boys?" Murray said to the bartender as we entered the bar at the country club, then circled the room greeting the hand full of other patrons by name. I hadn't been there since prom more than three years before. We settled at a table in the corner away from the others.
"Put this on the store account," Murray said as we ordered cocktails. "You got any of those shrimp?"
"Peel and eat or shrimp cocktail?"
"Cocktail, with Millie's cocktail sauce," he said, leafing through the bar menu while he talked, then turned to me as the waitress left. "They get these shrimp in here sometimes, really good."
And, they were. We got six big ones on ice with cocktail sauce. With the couple drinks we soaked up pretty quick I expected the conversation to get around to Murray's fascination with my dick, but I was wrong.
"What's your major?"
"Ag."
"What's that?"
"Well, you know, the economics of farming, crop science, some chemistry. You kind of customize according to what you want to do."
"What's yours?" I asked.
"Finance. How to use money to make money."
"Pretty different."
"Not so. You guys farm," he said, using a statement to ask a question.
"Yeah, my grandfather's place. My uncle mostly farms it."
"Cotton?"
"Yeah."
"Who do you sell it to?"
"Cotton broker in Memphis."
"He buys the crop before you plant it?"
"Some of it.
"Finance."
What followed was an hour of Murray's plans for the future. His parents were cashing out of their retail business, and he was going to go to work for his uncle who was a cotton broker in Memphis as a squidge, which is the entry position in the cotton business where you learn to grade cotton. His uncle had two sons, also headed into the business. His parents and others in his extended family had offered to back him in breaking off to start his own brokerage.
"It's all about contacts. I need somebody who knows farmers, somebody who can take those accounts from the established brokers," he wound up after three cocktails and a couple dozen of those big shrimp.
"Sounds good, but when my student deferment is up, I'm gonna get drafted, and you will too."
"There's ways around that."
"Well, you could tell them about you and Buster." That stopped him.
"Or me and you."
"That's our secret, remember?"
A month before something happened that made this conversation relevant. I'd been in bed with my girlfriend, a nursing student. She was going to be commissioned an Air Force nurse in a few months and had plans to see the world. I wasn't in those plans. Still, we dated, had fun, and sex.
Her roommate was out of town so we had her place to ourselves. We were stretched out on her bed, head to toe. She was sucking my dick head, slowly, like an ice cream cone, licking, sucking, just enough to keep me in the game. I was on my back with her knees on either side of my head. She moved her torso up and down, sliding my slurping tongue and lips from clitoris to vagina and back, and she was working up to her second climax. My view was of her butt and asshole, pink and winking.
Suddenly I had a vision of a dick and balls, Murray Gold's dick and balls. They were hairy, like all of Murray, and the dick was long and curved and the head was bulging and purple. I buried my tongue in my girlfriend's pussy, but I felt the sensation of swallowing Murray Gold's dick, something I thought I'd never do. I'd been totally passive in our three encounters.
She finished, then I climbed on her and finished and we went out for pizza, but that vision lingered, and it bothered me.
"On the day of a guy's funeral we should say only good things about him. Tell me about you and Buster," I said, after the draft board conversation had led to some silence.
"Not here," Murray said, summoning the waitress, more solemn now. "Let's go for a drive."
"You said your parents were in Europe."
"Yeah. You want to go to my house?"
"Yeah."
Murray snapped around to look at me, then just nodded. We got into the Buick and headed out, it was dark, but the town was busy on a Saturday night.
"Those first few sessions in Miller's house planted something in my psyche," Murray said as we pulled out of the country club. "I don't lust after men, but the memory of his dick shooting off in my face that first time is the most intense thing that ever happened to me; good and bad. The second time he caught me there, when you weren't around, was also intense, because he threatened but didn't actually lay a hand on me; I went. I avoided him, because I was ashamed, but still I went whenever he would show up."
"I remember that time in the cotton shed. Wow, was that incredible," I said.
"For me too. I wanted to do it, but I couldn't look myself in the mirror after, but my dick was hard."
We rode in silence to his house.
"Drink?" He said after parking in the garage and closing the door.
It was a very well appointed house, larger inside than it looked from the outside. Murray got some bottles from a cabinet and took them to the kitchen where he mixed drinks. He showed me some family pictures, then we went downstairs. There was a pool table, bar with stools, and a long couch.
"Buster called the night he got back from reform school, and we went out. It was just like old times; he shows up and summons and I go. After a couple sessions, he didn't call any more. Then, the same with prison. He calls the night he got home and we went out. Transitioning out they cut them off from the other prisoners for awhile, so he hadn't had any sex. It was hot!"
'You ever do it with anyone else?"
"No."
Long awkward silence.
"You want to?" Murray asked.
"Let me just look at it," I said.
The Gold dick erupted in my mouth, filling it with warm salty snotty goo. Mesmerized, I hadn't expected it, though I'd been sliding my lips and tongue up and down that thing for five minutes. My hands grasped his taut hairy buttocks and his hands gently held my head as he tensed and grunted, letting go to grab the side of the pool table for support.