Gasoline

“Like the smell of gasoline,” I said, “that good,” and that bad.

Sean shakes his head.

He’s got a hand tucked behind an ear, grinning, while he’s sunning, jaybird naked—at the farm, out back with me and all the un-mown grass that’s tickling his testes, or trying to.

Course those blades can’t really lick him, like I can, and will. Doesn’t matter how they try, cause guess who has those toasty-as-sunny-side-up-huevos of Sean’s, just-a-sliding around his greased up palm?

Me, sir, Charlie, sir, yours, and effing truly, sir, has Sean’s nut-bag in my magic digits. I’m kneading it, working it like dough, pulling fuck-bud’s wank on through my finger-hole like it was a piece of twisty bread.

“Fuck, Chuck.”

I slap off Sean’s hand, his sac too, for good measure—lightly, before I fall back to twisting, wringing, working that package like I mean to washboard, rinse and iron it all out flat.

“You ain’t listening Sean.”

“Yeah, Chuck, I am. You said sex with Pete, the lawn-guy, was as good as the smell of gasoline, just as good and just as bad.”

“Did you get it?” I’m rolling off my skivvies, rolling on a bag, spending some time with Chuck’s junk, jacking it off, high and hard, so Sean-O can see it, before I roll his ass on over.

“It’s the smell, ya know, fucking great, at first.”

“Ya, I know,” says lover-boy—lazy ass in the lazy grass, grinning at my cock, letting me do all the work of readying it, making me hot as screaming steam just looking at him, pissed off, though too, and randy as a waking grizzly.

“Fuck, you know.” I’m irritated now, and roll his ass over—fucking, tout-de-suite, slapping butt-flesh without ceremony, spreading out those buttocks with my oily hands, greasing up his channel just by chance, his butt-hole, with the purpose of an arrow making bulls-eye. I pork-plug that baby, next, double-dipping my pistol-aping-digits, two then three, getting him ready for my fat-boy before I squeeze him in there.

“Fucking great,” I mutter, “then your head starts pounding.”

“Kinda like wine,” says lover.” I slap his head to remind he could be chewing grass, that he should shut up and feel me, cause I’m there, at the gate.

Then I feel it, four fingers on the back of my head, that cool that means a something just blocked the sun. A thick-as-tar-voice that says, “And I thought, I was like so amazing you’d never fuck or bend over again;” Pete’s.

“Finish.” He says, seeing that I’m about to pull out. Pete’s got his thumbs in my dry crack and pushes me into Sean hard.

I’m on Sean’s ass like a bare-backing caterpillar, flopping and spent, when Pete slaps my ass hard enough to get my juices flaring. I’m growing right inside Sean, and I’ve never felt that, don’t even care that Pete’s making spit noises, lubing up my hole the hard way, unbuckling, bunging up my hole with his fist-thick, making us a players-mound for real.

Yup, I remember it, how I loved and hated gasoline and tractor oil, and Pete, who meant all of that, still do.

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