All The Way Home

I was making good time back from the country, Marvin Gaye sang, What's Going On. The sky was blue, my heater pumping, my sun-roof open. I'd drunk too much coffee, my bladder was grumbling. Tight. I couldn't drive much further. It was starting to hurt, not good hurt, either.

I'd been partying all weekend. My throat was dry.

I stopped off at the dunny at Gisborne, on my way up to the country. I needed a piss. That's all. promise. Minutes later I heard another car drive up. This tradie guy came in, in over-alls. Country bloke. Nice looking, kind of corn fed; sandy blonde hair, tanned, from working outside. He made no attempt to hide looking over at me. I went hard instantly. So did he.

“Give us look mate,” he whispered. I turned and showed him. “Nice”, he said, as he took it in his hand.

“Suck my cock, will ya buddy,” he said. 

He saw me look down at his hand with the wedding ring.

“My wife doesn't understand.”

I got on my knees. His foreskin tasted bitter. His pisshole was big. He grabbed the back of my head and pushed my face all the way down on it. He had a nice cock, it filled my throat.

There was the sound of another car on the gravel outside. Then there were footsteps. I stood up and acted like I was having a piss. Tradie turned to the urinal too. The footsteps came in behind us. Stopped. Silence. Tradie looked over his shoulder, so did I. It was a young farmer-boy. Dark buzz cut hair. Nice face. Well built. Thick legs. He had his hand down his yakka work pants stroking something big.

“Show us,” said tradie guy.

He stepped up next to us at the urinal and flopped out a huge fat cock, dripping with pre-cum. Tradie took it in his hand, farmer boy moaned, as tradie squeezed it.

“That feels good,” said Farmer boy. “I like my dick being squeezed.”

Tradie squeezed it again. Farmer boy moaned. “Yeah.”

We stood next to each other at the urinal, three big cocks slipping through our hands. Farmer boy was the hardest, like steel. He stood in the middle, with each of our cocks in either hand. Tradie and I both squeezed Farmer boy’s big dick. It was thick. Solid.

“Have you got a girlfriend?” said Farmer boy. “Mine won’t.” He looked down at his massive cock. “Scared,” he said.

“Scared?”

“Yeah,” said farmer boy. “We haven’t been going out long.”

“Still?”

“Tell me about it.”

I turned me on, straight boys and their girlfriends. “Yeah,” I said breathlessly. “Sure, I got a girlfriend. Jessica. She's interstate.”

Tradie stepped around and we formed a triangle, literally. “Does she like sex?”

“Yeah, she does,” I said.

“How does she like it?” whispered Tradie in my ear.

“Either on her back, with me sitting up pushing down on my cock sliding it straight into her.”

“How else does she like it?” whispered Farmer boy breathlessly.

“On her knees with her snatch open wide with me filling her in completely,” I said. “She just loves…”

At that, Tradie guy and farmer boy’s cocks turned into metal rods and they both came in big, white gobs, all over my feet. They hung off my shoulders as they spasmed to the last, tradie guy shaking violently. I was the last to cum, the sight of those two cuming got me off good.

Farmer boy left quickly, slipping his fat, cum-dripping cock back into his pants.

“Thanks mate,” said tradie guy and then he was gone too.

I'll never understand straight boys, I thought, as my central locking sounded clunk open, as the gums waved in the breeze and the sky stretched blue all the way home.

I got in the car. It started first turn of the key. I gunned it a couple of times. I selected 1st gear and drove away.

That highway truck stop has a long service road back onto the highway. I’d just slipped my GTI into 3rd gear, when the door of a ute parked up ahead opened and the young farmer boy got out and waved me down.

I de-accelerated and came to a stop. He walked around to my driver’s door.

“Hey?”

“Hey?”

“I wanna ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“I hope this doesn’t sound too weird.”

“Too weird?”

“What I want to ask you?”

“What do you want to ask me?”

“Do you wanna follow me home?”

“Follow you home?”

“It’s really not too far, just over this hill just here.” He turned and pointed at the countryside behind us.

“O…kay?”

“Yeah… look… I’m not really good at that back there.”

“Nobody is, I don’t think, it’s just necessity.”

“It’s just really not me.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t get me wrong.” He kind of hesitated. “I think guys are my thing.”

“Well, you seemed to…”

“I wanna talk.”

“You want to talk?”

“I don’t have any one to talk to out here…”

“Amongst the sheep?”

“Cows, actually, but yeah.” He laughed.

“Okay.”

“Follow me home?”

“Yeah.”

“All the way home?”

“Sure.”

He turned towards his car. He turned back. “I’m Noah.”

“I’m Jack,” I said.

He smiled. Kind of hesitated like he was going to say something else. But he did a thumbs up instead.

I followed him on to the highway, pretty quickly turning off the highway, the road swept and curved over the green paddocks until we turned up a driveway. We passed what looked like the main house, stopping in front of a smaller house further along the drive way.

He got out of his car and, what I can only say, stood nervously next to it waiting for me to stop and get out of my car.

“This is my place,” he said.

“Is this a family farm?”

“Yeah, you passed my parent’s place first.”

“What will they think about you bringing guys back?”

“Oh, they’d be perfectly fine with that.’

“What if they knew we just pulled each other off in the bog up the road?”

He blushed. He looked adorable when he blushed. He screwed up his forehead and shook his head. “Yeah, not so much.”

“They don’t know you are…”

“Nobody knows.” He gave me a look that said you are not really getting this, are you.

We headed into his place.

“Do you want a coffee?”

“Yeah, sure.” 

“So, Noah, you live here along.”

“Yep, all to myself.”

“Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

“The other guy?” I asked.

“Today?”

“Yeah, do you know him?”

“I know his car.”

“A regular?”

“I know his wife works in the bakery.”

“Do you think they have an arrangement?”

“This is not the inner suburbs of Melbourne.”

“How do you know?”

“He wouldn’t be going to the bogs.”

“You don’t think?”

“Too risky around here, even if we both drive white utes, eventually someone is going to pick up on it.”

“White utes are good camouflage?”

“Yeah, they are.”

He put two coffee cups down in front of us.

“So, you good with, um…” asked Noah.

“What?”

“You know?”

“Being gay?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“How?”

“How did you come to terms with it?”

“Well.” I picked up the coffee and sipped at it. I should have guessed it would be instant. “No choice, really.”

“No choice?”

“No. Do you think you have a choice?”

“Well, yeah, I could choose not to go looking…”

“So? Why did you?”

“I wanted to.” He sounded unconvincing.

“Wanted to?”

“Yeah… er…”

“Or needed to?”

“Oh, um, I guess.”

“Not so much of a choice?”

“No, I just need to choose not to.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“So why didn’t I?”

“Choose not to?”

He blushed and smiled. “I was horny.”

“Why didn’t you go see your girlfriend?”

“Oh, it’s not the same…”

“Not the same?”

“No.”

“Because you are gay?”

“I’m… I’m… I’m…” He kind of deflated just a little. You know, like he just gave into it a little all of a sudden.

I held his gaze. 

“How did you come to terms with it?” Noah asked.

“As I said, you don’t have a choice.”

“Yeah, but how does that translate?”

“Translate?”

“Well, you know, practically?”

“You’ve just got to be brave and start telling people.”

“Telling people?”

“Do you think your parents will freak out?”

“No.”

“They’re are not some crazy religious types?”

“No, my mum’s brother, Uncle Gavin, is gay.”

“So, that is a good place to start.”

He exhaled loudly. He made big eyes at the prospect of telling them.

“It gets easier with everyone.”

“Really?”

“Just tell them. If they are who they sound like they are, they’ll be easy allies.”

“Easy allies?”

“You can thank Uncle Gavin.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Actually, why don’t you tell him first.”

“Yeah, I guess I should have thought of that.”

“Are you close to him?”

“Pretty close. Yeah.”

“Having said that, parents are probably the place to start.”

“You think?”

“They so often say they were upset their kid didn’t think they could tell them.”

“Ah… well… um.”

“You need to split up with your girlfriend.”

“Yeah, I know,” Noah said. “The sex is lousy anyway.”

“Set her free to find a guy who is into her.”

“You’re right.”

“It’s not really necessity for you, is it?”

“What isn’t?”

“Going down the bogs? You city guys have, I’m guessing, more options, so why do you?”

“Why do I?”

“Yeah?”

I laughed, he got me there, really. “It’s exciting meeting guys like you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m not just some pain in the neck?”

“No, not at all. And you are cute.”

He blushed.

“Even cuter when you blush.”

“Stop it.” He tried to stifle a smile but he couldn’t.

 

Dawn

I woke up at 5am on the couch; cricked neck, a sore back. The fire was out, one of the logs had even fallen out. I tossed it back in.

The last thing I remember was Big Brother Adults only. A couple joints and the guys naked in the shower. 

I did the maths, well, at least I'd had eight hours sleep.

Joel, my mate from London, was on-line, on msn.

Hello, hello, he said.

You know like that annoying late night plant sale ad. “Let’s all get bare rooted.” 

That ad doesn’t translate very well, as getting rooted is very much an Australian expression. The Americans and the Canadians have no idea what we were talking about. Funny hearing them say it after we explained the meaning of ‘getting a root’ to them on the Greek Islands. There were these guys asking for ‘a root’ all over the place.

The ad was annoying, not Joel. We chatted until dawn appeared beyond windows. I’ve always joked that Dawn was always a fat girl in a tight dress, I chuckled to myself at the thought. Joel's in love and off to Paris to follow his heart. Some blonde-haired, blue-eyed German guy he’d no doubt met doing hampers for the poor, or attending to gardens for the lonely, of sitting with the chronically shut in, or on some climate action initiative.

Then it was light beyond the windows, like magic, you know, the magic of a new day.

I made coffee and some jam toast and discovered that the log I'd tossed back into the hearth had sprung to life... fire, much to my joy. I got more wood and stacked the fire up. You know I hate to let a fire go out.

I sat bleary-eyed and watched the sun come up through my square paned metal French doors at the back of my house, it was fantastic. I wondered at the glory of the new day. I wondered why people had to make up religions to explain marvels, when there it was all in front of you. But then I reminded myself that was the basis of religion, with 2000 year old illiterate goat herders trying to explain the world around them as they saw it. Why the sun came up? Why the seasons changed? Why the plants grew? That’s how they understood and told the stories of their lives. It was just the stupidity of the people who came after them that elevated it into something holy.

Holy shit, I thought.

I pushed back into my comfy chair and sipped my coffee. I ate the rest of my jam toast, after which I had sticky fingers. I absentmindedly looked around for a cloth on which to wipe them.

I wondered what I might do for the rest of the day?

I didn’t even want to move from my chair, let alone achieve something constructive. Nyr? What's the point.

Some of us just aren't cut out for 9 to 5, as my mate Brad likes to say. I chuckled to myself. I wondered how all the office surfs were feeling as I glanced at my watch to see it was 8am. I wondered how peak hour was working out for everyone?

8am used to be a great time to go to bed, you know, if you were really living, another one of Brad’s truisms. That’s what Joel and Brad and I used to do in our twenties? It’s interesting how your life changes. Joel is in London. Brad is in New York. And I’m getting up instead of going to bed. The day was ahead of me which was kind of nice. Anything I wanted to do, I told myself.

Weekend's Slip Away

The afternoon just floats away, drifts, just like that. Gone forever. Two days never go as quickly during the week, as the days of the weekend.

All over now, big, fat cow.

The ratio of days that begin with ‘S’ to all other days beginning with any letter in the week is the smallest day to fun ratio there is. True fact. So, the feeling that ‘S’ days go quicker is not imagined at all.

Okay, there are ‘T’ days too, but I think that rather proves my point, rather than disproves it. Okay, we used to go out on Thursday nights when we were 10 years younger and new to the whole going out thing, and we used to go home have a shower and change our clothes and go straight to work, yes, yes, we did, but only fleetingly. I’m still not sure how we managed that?

So, those couple of years elevated ‘T” days way above what its fun ratio should have been, but you still have ‘T’ for Tuesday, and nobody has ever had fun on a Tuesday. There are, of course, public holiday Mondays that elevate ‘M” for Monday up the fun ratio ladder, occasionally, and that has the effect of making Tuesdays more miserable, occasionally, which really diminishes any fun ratio, I would argue non-existent, for ‘T’ for Tuesday completely.

So, here I am on the cusp, the precipice, of I-hate-Mondays, the fun ratio of the ‘S’ days disappearing rapidly, like a deflating balloon. I kind of imagine Monday, after Sunday midnight, actually making that noise. You know, the continual fart noise as the air deflates in our enthusiasm, like all of our expectations. You can quite understand the motivation of, oh, if I name her will it conjure up the ghost of NRA achievements past? Suffice to say, I have never known a good Brenda. 

The weekend is all but over. The fat lady is warming up. She’s pulling on her size 25 moo-moo and practising her scales. She’s having her last diva moment when her raw egg drink is slow making it to her.

And now I lay my head down to sleep, quietly weeping into my pillow at the stage at which we now find ourselves, the quiet, collective cry of the workers before they are forced back into servitude for another week, month, year, and our miserable lives slip from our grasp, like trying to catch water in our hands.

Fun and Games

I went out to the Peel, with Penny. She was bringing the e's so why not, how could I refuse. She was making no sense, when I found her, clearly she had started before our promised start together. I didn't care. Whatever. She was rabbiting on and dealing the pills from her hand-bag as if she'd never ever heard of the concept of under-cover cop. I just wanted to see if she'd bought Bryce with her. Her boyfriend, that is buddy, not lover. I tried to ask her but all I got in response was a confused look, as though she knew she should have heard of somebody named Bryce and she was sure it would come to her. Not the sharpest chisel in the box, our Pen

It didn't matter. I didn't want her to catch on. Not that I was up to anything... not really, just something Paul had said about Bryce the last time I saw him. Penny was wearing a white tutu inspired dress, ballet shoes and cream ribbons in her blond hair. She looked like a porcelain doll.

All I could think of was that creamy white skin of Bryce's... and that beautiful abdomen, which disappeared down into the front in his pants, always with the top button undone.

Hey, said some warm breath on my neck. Beautiful Bryce was standing next to me grinning. He slipped his T-shirt off. Smiled. Beautiful chest. Flat stomach.

Hi.

Been here long? He slurred. His eyes were sunken. Fucken drug addicts.

No, just got here. I was gazing at his chest.

Me too, he said looking down at his chest too.

My bladder ached.

I've got to have a piss.

I do too. I'll come with you.

He took my hand as I led him through the crowd. The place was busy. The urinals were full. A cubicle became vacant, just as we walked in. Bryce pulled me inside and shut the door.

I pissed like a horse.

Bryce hesitated at first, stood back.

That was lucky, hey?

Then he was undoing his pants, on the other side of the bowl. I watched him pull his fly apart and pull his jocks down. I looked away. He wasn't meeting my gaze. I looked down again.

My piss took forever, Bryce finished before me. Mine finally stopped. It was a relief. Bryce stood there with his eyes closed, his cock still out. He just stood there like he'd gone to sleep. His fat cock hanging down. He stood still. He'd had 3 e's.

I stood back and just gazed at him, as I buttoned up my fly.

Nice dick, Bryce, I said.

He opened his eyes, smiled wantonly, pushed his cock back in his pants, did up his jeans and stumbled out the door.

I leant back against the wall, as the black and the dark merged in the rushing amphetamines in my pupils and thought, stupid straight boys.

Later, I found him on the dance floor hugging Penny. Both in a stupor.

What a surprise.

Cowboy

From Blake – hi, how's it going?

From Cowboy – hi I am well thanks. You feeling a lot better now? Did feel sorry for you Monday night when we were chatting (in a macho kind of way). We still on for tomorrow night? Be cool to meet you.

Have had a good week – busy but productive at work.

From Blake – In a macho kind of way?

I'm feeling better. I laughed to myself last night when I got home, I mustn't have been thinking straight Monday night, saying Thursday to you, I must have been thinking it was Tuesday. Dinner with my mum Wednesday, Thursday was then the next night I had free. Bloody migraines!

I was going to call you, but two friends dropped in to watch Big Brother, so that was that.

Sure we're still on for tomorrow night. It is Thursday tomorrow? Just kidding.

From Cowboy – Knew you had dinner with your mum tonight so I didn't call – but was tempted to find out how you were. Glad you're feeling fine. Will call you when I get home from work to get your address and confirm a time.

Have a good Thursday (yes it is tomorrow) in the meantime and maybe an even better Thursday night.

From Blake – Just ironing a shirt before I take myself off to bed. I so hate ironing.

From Cowboy – Me too, hate with a passion – usually leave it to the weekend when they are still damp from washing. It's the worst thing about wearing a suit to work – have to iron shirts.

Previous jobs I could get away with Tees and casual shirts which didn't need ironing!

From Blake – I need to find that little Italian lady who lives down the road, who adores me and makes me lasagne and irons my shirt.

From Cowboy – at the same time? LOL hope you don't end up with bolognaise all over your collars! Now if only they had some skimpily dressed young Italian studs who were just as cheap to do the job!

Or maybe we could have a weekly ironing night – I'll bring over my ironing board and we could iron together – now that's an original idea! J

From Blake – Perhaps, i could get her Italian sons to wipe the bolognaise sauce right off me before they perform strip ironing for us.

From Cowboy – I like your thinking.... are they cute? I'm into exploring any possibilities hehe!

From Blake – Of course they are cute... but we'd have to go and find her and her sons first. This is Fitzroy, after all. They'd have to be out there somewhere.

From Cowboy – could be all night – well let's talk about it over that bottle of red – yes I heard there were some studs in Fitzroy!

From Blake – Anyway, I'm off to bed. See you tomorrow.

From Cowboy – sleep well. Hugz

Masseur

I was staying with friends at their guest house in the country.

I'd retired to my cottage, the night was over, the guests were now on their own.

I was just laying on my bed, the fire was blazing, I'd just stacked it up for the night. The forty watt bulbs barely did their best, just how I liked it.

I thought about all the chocolate easter eggs that I'd eaten. More alarming was the fact that I enjoyed the easter egg hunt. It was a fresh night, barely a need for a fire. The door was open...

... Tonight was the first time I'd, actually, told people that I was a fully qualified masseur. I'd never been brave enough to tell anyone in the past. It would mean that I was expert enough to answer their questions, that I was expert enough to diagnose their ailments. 

Working at the half-way house as a volunteer had boosted my confidence immeasurably. It had even been fun, once I stopped shaking, and thinking all the time that I was going to fuck up. It was rewarding, once I'd stopped being tongue-tied. 

It had been hot when Daniel came in, the maintenance boy, to give it a go. I got to touch those muscular thighs.

Tonight, had been fun. I'd even got a few tentative offers of work. Handsome Max was keen to have his corked-thigh done. Smiley, dark, shaggy-haired, blue-eyed, big, white teeth, gentle mannered, Max.

Fuck nine to five, I thought. This plan may actually work. Then I could hone my singing talents more flexibly. You set your mind and babe, it's that easy. And if singing is only ever going to be a pipe-dream, so touching people and making them better, isn't such a bad outcome.

Even if that’s all I ever do. Plan B, so to speak.

The joint smoke curled around the lamp light. The frogs croaked in the lake. The place I could just lay back and let go.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” I replied. Someone was at my door? Who the hell?

“It's Max,” he said. His handsome face slide through the door with a smile. “Er. Um. I hope you don't mind?”

I wondered what I may have minded. “No, not at all.” On the contrary, I thought. “Come in.”

“I saw your light on.” Smile. Very nervous. Continues to smile. Fixed. “Remember, Mark sent me down for you... um... er... earlier. That's how I knew, er...”

“Cool,” I said. How drunk is he? They all discovered the spirits late, the footy guys and their girlfriends and they were already smashed on beer and wine.

“I couldn't sleep... with the thigh and all. You said you were going to have pot...” he looked at the joint.

“Sure. Absolutely.” I looked at the joint in my hand. I handed him the joint. I wondered if he'd remember that he told me the two things that dope does for him, why it was so hard to give up as he rabbited on in my ear. And that was sleep and sex. It puts him to sleep and it turns him on. 

Max puffed hard twice on the joint, then swallowed. His handsome face contorted, then relaxed, as he exhaled. He puffed hard, twice again. Double shots. He did it a third time. Big smile. Big exhale.

“Good party,” he said.

“You were a good bunch. Nice guys,” I said.

He went to hand the joint back to me, then he withheld, smiled kind of drunken, flirty, gently, “Do you mind if I go again?”

“No. I don't mind.” Go for your life, I thought.

Puff twice. Exhale. Puff twice. Exhale.

He handed it back to me, in jerky body movements, like he wants to get close. And then he can't. He's drawn. He's repelled. It'll put me to sleep. My leg's aching a bit. Been on it too long. Gorgeous smile.

He really is a man, I thought.

“Happy to help.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

He kind of lurched toward the door.

“Hey...?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Thanks.” He moved closer to the door. “Rebecca's asleep. And... er... my leg was throbbing. I just needed something.”

“Happy to help.”

“That'll be good... Thanks.”

Awkward pause. Is he going or not?

“Um.” He's steps back through the door. “I don't suppose you could give it a rub, for me. My thigh?”

Then, I'm sure, he smiled cheekily, double entendre style. But, admittedly, the dope was really starting to kick my arse. I was tired and what I really needed was sleep.

“It's kind of late...”

“I think that, and the dope... would really help.” There, that same smile again.

“Okay.” Was this all in my head. Had I been working too many hours?

“Where do you want me?”

“Well...” I got up. “On the bed.” Where else?

He lay down on his stomach.

“It's your thigh, roll over.” He rolled over obediently.

He looked up at me, eyes completely glazed. I looked down at him. Time froze. His eyes closed several times. He looked serene. Sleeping beauty.

“You have to take your pants off.”

“What?” he mumbled. I think he was drifting off to sleep.

“If you want your thigh massaged, you have to take your pants off.”

Don't make me do it, I thought. 

His hands came around to his belt. He undid them and I pulled them down, he lifted his arse, so I grabbed the bottom of his pants leg and pulled them off.

He had boxers on. They had creased and ridden up, concertina-style, from being crumpled in his jeans. I could see the tops of his thighs. I could see his purple testicles and I could see a glimpse of his flaccid, uncut, cock hanging down where his boxer-short leg should have covered.

I had some massage oil by the bed. I warmed it between my hands. He, appeared, to have gone to sleep.

Handsome... Max.

I rubbed the oil into his thigh. He moaned. I worked my fingers along his, hairy skin. He groaned. He had solid thighs. He had beautiful, velvety olive-skin. Neatly covered in, surprisingly, fine hair. 

“How's that?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“So, it’s your right thigh?”

“Yes.”

“Is the pain localised in your thigh?”

“Yeah… I guess.”

He didn't sound too confident. “What I mean, there is no referred pain from anywhere else?”

“Ah, no.”

“Referred pain from your lower back?”

“No.”

“Do you have any pain anywhere else?”

“No, not really.”

“Not really?”

“No, no other pain.”

I rubbed his thigh right up to his hip. He didn't flinch. The legs of his boxers were loose. He flinched a little when my finger dug deep into the tissue of his thigh on either side of his leg.

“Do you follow the football?” he asked.

I rubbed the inside of his thigh. He shook a little. My fingertips dug into his skin, he groaned. I hoped they were warm, couldn't afford to have him jump in too much paint.

“Oh, I used to, but not so much anymore.”

“It was a great win for The Devils.”

“Yeah, I heard.

“Jorgenson played…”

“That’s about the extent of my knowledge, really, The Devils winning.”

I rubbed back down his thigh. He didn't say anything. No groan that time. He was silent. I rubbed back up his thigh. I wondered if he'd frozen up. 

Had I got it wrong? Failure is more than a rejection, it is a brake in the guy code of ethics. A line is crossed, which may never be healed.

“How does that feel?”

“Where?” he whispered.

“Is that relieving any of the soreness?”

“I guess,” he said.

My hands rubbed back up his thigh. I was feeling muscles and his masculine size. I could feel the man that Max is.

He lay on his back with his head resting in the face hole in the table.

I grabbed his shin and bent his leg slowly to his chest.

He groaned that time.

My hands moved rhythmically back down his leg in time.

I pushed his knee over his body for a slow stretch.

I instinctively, worked on his knee, for a moment, just to see if it had any issues, he was silent.

His thigh relaxed in my grip. Serene. Surrender. 

He groaned when my hand slipped around the back of his thigh and squeezed the muscles.

I dropped his leg back down. I poured some more massaging oil on his thigh. He opened his eyes and stared at me. 

“How does it feel.”

“You have magic fucken hands.”

Mostly, in my experience, especially after booze and mostly, but not always, as long as it’s gentle, I'm sorry girls, but most of your boyfriends are putty in my hands. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t care where I touched them

I started on Max’s left thigh.

He was compliant.

I pushed my fingers into the centre line of his thigh, I pushed fingers in a straight line up his leg

“Yes, don't stop,” he said. He was sweating on his forehead, I could see. 

“So… good?”

“You know what you are doing.”

“I just love what you are doing.” Groan. “Yes, just like that.” I squeezed his muscle in his thigh all the way up. He gulped a bit for breath. Groan. “Oh yes. I don't care. Yes!”

Making the big, strong guys call out in relief, I like it. 

“Have you ever done this before?”

“Um... er... ah... yes... I've played footy for a few years. So, yes, with the club masseur.”

“Okay.”

“You've got an amazing fucking touch,” he said. I gripped his right thigh hard again so he felt the full heat.

“Yeah, wow,” said Max. Guttural growl. “You can squeeze it... hard!”

“Do you like that?” I asked. He opened his eyes. We held each other's gaze.

“I can’t believe how much better that feels.”

Handsome Max his face told the story. He never looked so relaxed.

I told him to lie there for five minutes, or so, even if it was my bed and it was late, but he got up, visibly jelly-like. I was pleased.

If I can make them tremble, as they get up off the table, it’s better than any compliment.

He stood in front of me in the 40 watt globe light, all six foot whatever of him. In his boxer shorts, riding up his thighs as though they may give the whole show away any moment, but don’t, and nothing else.

He runs his hand through his hair and looks bleary-eyed standing in the middle of my cottage, inert. Pleasured into stillness.

“I gotta go… er… ah, best time I’ve had keeping my pants on.”

“Next time we’ll have to get them off too,” I said. It just came out, almost despite myself. I was stoned and tired and I really just had to stop.

“A happy ending would be the only thing better,” he said. He looked at me and his handsome face broke into a broad smile. He grabbed his stuff. “Thanks.” And he was gone.

Cowboy

From Cowboy – Hi Blake. Would really like to catch up soon. When's a good time for you?

From Blake – Actually, my only free night this week was last night, we should have met up then. Maybe the weekend?

From Cowboy – Yes weekend – Friday night, Saturday night or Sunday is free at the moment.

From Blake – I've only got Sunday free, after Mother’s Day, which would only be for a few hours, after all.

From Cowboy – love to meet then – want to give me a call?

04xx 2xx1xx

From Blake – Sure. Be good to meet up.

From Cowboy – Even happy to help you in the garden if you need a hand 

Look forward to your call then?

From Blake – Help me in the garden? You should have been here last Sunday, when I moved a huge pile of garden clippings. It nearly killed me.

From Cowboy – Would have gladly helped – but didn't know you were. You just told me you were busy Sunday so couldn't even offer. Sorry!

From Blake – Oh, that's okay. I stood and looked at the pile of crap in the morning and thought, I really wish that wasn't there. Then I thought, Well, nobody is going to move it except me. So I got to it. I was supposed to be spending the afternoon with my mother, but she got cancelled when I was stuffed. Poor mum, guess that's why they are so understanding, hey?

From Cowboy – mum's are great, especially if you have a close relationship with them as I do, and sounds like you too!

From Blake – Yeah I do. My mum is great. I like her a lot, as well as love her.

From Cowboy – that's so good to hear that. I seem to meet a lot of gay guys from dysfunctional families or who just don't get along with their parents. I consider myself lucky I do get along and love them.

From Blake – I come from a normal functional family of, I guess, the old fashioned kind, two parents, two siblings. My dad died a few years ago, which I still can't really believe. The only bloke who will ever love me unconditionally... and I'll never see him again. He was one of the most fantastic guys ever... but that's life, I guess.

From Cowboy – I'm sorry to hear that – but also very happy that you had that love and bond with him. My dad is 81 this year.

From Blake – My dad was seventy two... there was nothing he couldn't do, pretty much. However...

I've got to go to bed. Sweet dreams.

From Cowboy – yeah me too – sweet dreams too. Look forward to a voice chat next time.

From Blake – What's a voice chat?

From Cowboy – the old fashioned technology of speaking on the telephone. LOL. Yeah I know not many people do it anymore!

9xxxxxxx – in case you prefer a landline. A bit more personal than messaging I think. Hope you agree.

From Blake – Oh... stupid me. I thought you were referring to some new on-line feature that I wasn't aware of.

Mine is 9xxx xxxx

From Cowboy – thanks – so a phone call would be great. Whoever rings first! Good night. Hugz

From Blake – good night, mate

Too Much

Oo! My bonged-over head.

I've just smoked pot, pretty much, all weekend. Wooo! The plant is nearly all gone, I gave myself that leeway. Soon, gone forever… everish.

The light fades.

Big smile.

I sit outside on my back veranda over looking my rear garden and just keep rolling those joints. Magic fingers. Sitting at the wrought iron table sitting on the wicker chairs.

The smoke floats over the side fence and I often wonder what they think.

Even when I think I will wait a considerable time before I roll another joint, I’ll be back out there rolling some more.

I have the mull box on my knees, with the mulli in the mull bowl on the wrought iron table.

I can look at the time for one joint and then, because my head is so thick, I can forget all about the time I smoked it.

I pre-cut the roaches, I cut up a whole lot at once, so I am ready.

Then, when I have kicked back and am puffing through the next joint, I remember that I took the time I smoked the previous joint and when I look at my watch, so often it has only been 30 minutes, 20 minutes, 10 minutes on occasions.

“Ha ha, what am I like,” I say.

“You are a head,” says Matt.

Then I repeat the process over and over and over again, until Matt. Is looking cross-eyed at me.

“It’s too much,” Matt slurs.

“I don’t make you smoke.”

“I know,” says Matt.

“You never say no.”

“You never stop smoking,” says Matt.

Shrug. What do I care? I like being stoned so fuck it, so what if I am a pig with it. It just makes me even nicer.

Smoke pot kids, it is the best thing you can do.

“You should just grow a funnel in the top of your head.”

“You are very funny.”

“It would be easier.”

“Very funny.”

“In fact, in evolutionary terms, give it a thousand years and your descendants will probably come with funnels,” says Matt. “A big cartilage funnel out the tops of their heads.”

“My descendants?” I say. “In a thousand years?”

“Yeah, it’s how they’ll develop.”

“Do you think I am going to have kids?”

“Oh, yes, well…”

“Do you want to have kids?”

“Ha ha ha.”

“Apparently, they can mix our sperm now and we can both father one kid.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I read that somewhere. It was developed just for gay guys.”

“It was developed just for gay guys.”

“Yeah, a little me and you.”

“A little me and you?”

“Yeah, could you imagine what he’d be like?’

“Imagine.”

Cowboy

From Cowboy – nice profile mate.

From Blake – nice profile yourself. 

From Cowboy – I know you?

From Blake – Yes, I think so too, I have a great memory for faces.

From Cowboy – Winter Daze?

From Blake – Cowboy Chaps?

From Cowboy – I don’t know if this sounds weird, but I always hoped I’d catch up with you again.

From Blake – you were sweet. We had a nice time.

From Cowboy – Maybe, I hoped for something stronger than sweet.

From Blake – Really, nice furry arse.

From Cowboy - 😊

From Blake – Besides, sweet is a compliment of the highest order.

From Cowboy – You were sweet too 😊

From Blake – What are you up to?

From Cowboy – not doing much tonight. How about you?

From Blake – nah, not much either

From Cowboy – like to meet up for a beer or coffee sometime?

From Blake – Yes, sure

From Cowboy – You’re in Fitzroy right? That's not far. When's a good time for you to meet?

From Blake – Maybe tomorrow, although I've got a few things to do tomorrow. One night during the week, I guess.

From Cowboy – That would be cool. Tomorrow or during the week after work. It's David here anyway.

From Blake – I'm Blake

From Cowboy – sweet – nice to meet you Blake. Prefer to drop me a line to say when you're free or do you want a phone number?

From Blake – I don't mind. Either.

From Cowboy – OK Blake – will give you the choice

My number is 04xx 2xx1xx

Winter Mornings

Hasn't it been cold? The insides of my thighs are cold when I go jogging in the mornings. The hairs on my legs bristle, seemingly in the breeze, like Velcro. I kind of like that feeling, that exposure, there is life to it. The cold air burns in my lungs, and I cough, just a bit, until my lungs warm up to it, which doesn’t take long. Eventually it burns, just a bit, once I’ve gone the distance. My foggy head spins with the cold wind on my face, and is awakened all at the same time, as my feet go boof, boof, boof on the concrete. 

I start off slow. One foot in front of the other. I feel like I am never going to pick up speed, never want to, if you know what I mean. It’s rather stiff feeling, that commencing forward motion. Just keeping it going.  I know what that little engine that could was thinking. “I think I can, I think I can.”

I turn the corner into the main street and I clop, clop, clop along in front of the closed shops. I keep pushing, keep pushing. I am still creaking and groaning, even if I can feel my muscles warming, and my joints freeing up, warming up, feeling the pain turn to warmth, my stiffness falling way, my heart beating faster, my legs finds some sort of rhythm. 

I cross the first side street. I can feel the strength starting to pump up my thighs. I feel my feet falling into step, feeling easier, starting to feel free.

The fragile beauty of the sunrise makes my heart beat faster, as the day breaks, and the light rises all around me as if out of the ground.

The fresh air expands my lungs. I can feel it doing me good, invading every cell, pumping through me, giving me energy. I have picked up the pace.

The contained beauty of the dark, gives away to the expansive beauty of the light. I run through the veil as it lifts and the dark goes away, and the sky above turns that shade of blue that you only see at first blush in the day.

The sun breaks over the horizon and shines like an opened jar of warm honey tipped all over me. It shines down the middle of the road.

And suddenly the world expands, with a gentle woosh, well, not really a whoosh at all, more like a fffffffffff, as the air exhales from the dark of the night.

I’m running like a machine, over side streets, passed doorways, and delivery drivers, around people walking their dogs early. I am flying, nothing will stop me now.

I turn the last corner into the bottom end of my street and I start heading for home.

Matt's Jocks

I love it when Matt is in his jocks. He has such a bubble-butt that the cotton moulds and clings to, round and firm. Two handfuls.

He has a furry crack, I love to run my fingers through that furry crak, down under the elastic as he hugs me, into the sweaty ravine, sliding my finger tip up and down.

He has such a bulge that pulls the material down so that his pubes show over the elastic, like something heavy hangs there. He pushes it against me, it's squashy and full.

He has great legs, muscular and hairy. The backs of his thighs are really sexy, curved and thick.

I'm never so turned on than when I have my lips on his lips and my hands on his sexy arse, squeezing.

He has full, soft lips, and breath like a summer breeze. I love running my fingertips in the curve in the small of his back.

I love, the cut of his abs, the bulge of his pecs, his sexy neck. I love the back of a man’s neck. I love most of all how he fits into my arms just naturally.

Not to mention that he tells me things that make me think.

He says things constantly that make me laugh.

He does things all the time that makes me smile.

Dino

Let's talk about the Italian hunk in Big Brother 6, who is just so gorgeous, beautiful, in that Italian-refined handsome, dark, beautiful, lovely, kind of way named Dino.

I'm excited at the immanent return of Big Brother Adults Only to have a very private viewing of Dino as he showers himself and rinsing away inhibitions with affection. And we all sit there with our chins on our hands gazing at the handsome guys doing what they do.

We could talk about the young men in general, the beauty of such 20 somethings, the most breath taking strength and display of manliness we glimpse at in our fast disappearing time on this earth. 

Our fleeting youth. Moment of beauty. Our 15 minutes in the light. Remembering those guys we danced with. The time we had. The excitement of being young and desirable.

Beauty is a sad thing really, as it is fading as soon as it is attained. Still, it is glorious while it is. Nothing quite like it, especially when it is worn with nonchalance, that is the best.