Tangled Sheets (19 page)

“You going up there alone?” I asked cautiously.

He nodded. “Yeah, all by myself. You remember how it was—the great loner. Besides, not too many people want to sleep in a tent with a guy who snores.” He made loud sawing sounds and laughed.

“Well,” I said. “It just so happens I know those mountains pretty well, and I wouldn't mind getting out of this place for a night. Besides, I can get you a good deal on the stuff you need. I know the owner. What do you say?”

Brian grinned. “I'd say that would be just fine. What time do you want to head out?”

“Meet me back here at three. It should only take an hour or so to get up where we want to be, and then we'll have the whole night to catch up.”

Brian said good-bye and left the store, promising to be back in a few hours. Right at three, I heard his truck pull up and he came in. After checking with my assistant to make sure she knew where everything was, I grabbed the equipment I'd gathered together and headed out.

Riding in Brian's truck up through the mountain roads, I found out more about his life since we'd parted. After high school he'd joined the army. Given his dislike of anything approaching being told what to do, this surprised me. But the army had trained him to be a ranger, and once his tour was over he'd started his business, which by all accounts was doing very well. He made no mention of any romantic attachments and never asked me about mine.

The spot I wanted to show him was up a crude dirt path the locals called a road but anyone else would call a washout. Brian's truck clawed its way patiently upward, though, and it wasn't long before we pulled into a level area hidden behind a stand of towering spruce trees. The trees formed a windbreak for a grassy clearing, and there was a small mountain lake filled by a narrow waterfall that crashed down from a break in the rocks.

Brian was more than impressed by my secret find and walked around nodding his head and smiling. “Tom, my boy, I think you have found paradise,” he said solemnly, patting me on the back.

“I thought you might like it,” I said. “No one around for miles, and your very own swimming hole.”

Brian had a small tent that, once it was framed together and sitting up, looked like a green uprising in the grass that surrounded it. Once we had spread our sleeping bags out and put the rest of our gear safely inside, we lay in the grass staring up at the sky.

“It makes me feel thirteen again,” Brian said, a blade of grass between his teeth.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “You do feel small out here.”

Brian sat up and looked over at me. “Let's go swimming in the lake, like we used to do at camp.”

He stood up and started taking off his shoes. When he had them off, he started running for the water. “Last one in's a rotten egg,” he bellowed.

As I chased after him, I became twelve again. His clothes, bigger now but thrown aside with the same childish abandon, were strewn over the grass where he had run by. I saw him pause at the edge of the water, his ass pale as it was when he was a boy, and dive in. Once more I followed him, the water closing over my head and taking me back twenty years.

When I came up, Brian was floating a few feet away. “Colder than it looks, isn't it?” he said. “Hard to believe we didn't turn into ice cubes swimming in this stuff. Better move around or you'll freeze solid.”

We swam around for a while, but neither of us initiated any playful games, and I resigned myself to the fact that Brian and I weren't the same boys we had been back in camp. Still, it was relaxing to be in the water, floating peacefully and knowing that Brian's cock was somewhere below the dark glass of the lake. If I couldn't have him, I could at least fantasize about it.

Then a fat drop fell squarely on my face, and more followed. Looking up, I saw angry black clouds scuttling over the sun.

“Looks like we'd better head in,” I called to Brian.

We swam to shore and hurried out of the water, racing for the tent. We got inside just as the heavens opened up, zipping the flap closed and hearing the rain hit the canvas above us.

Brian was sitting on his sleeping bag, toweling off his head. I did the same, warming up as I wiped the water off my skin. When I'd finished, I looked at Brian. He was watching me intently, sitting with his legs pulled up, leaning forward and resting his hands on his knees. His thick forearms were covered in soft golden hair, as was his chest. A trail of it spilled down his rippled abdomen, splashing into a pool of bush between his thighs. His cock hung down over heavy balls, the thick shaft ending in a fat tip that was slowly growing thicker.

Brian leaned forward and without a word crawled across the few feet that separated us. Putting a hand on my chest, he pushed me back and slid on top of me. I put my hands on his back and felt the heat and muscle rippling beneath his skin. Pulling him down, I felt the hair on his chest press against my own, mingling like shadows and light. His face was over mine, and he leaned down and kissed me, his lips parting to draw my tongue in.

I wrapped one leg around Brian's body, pulling him tighter into me. He ran his mouth over my face, kissing my cheeks and biting softly at my chin before moving down my neck. My hands traveled over his body, feeling the curves of his muscular ass, slipping into his crack and then under him to feel his stiff cock. Now fully erect, it pressed against my stomach as he rubbed his body up and down.

As Brian sucked intently on my nipple, I kneaded his balls, running my finger along the area behind his nuts and sliding it gently into his asshole. He groaned as I pressed against his pucker, pushing me deeper into him until he'd taken in most of my finger and I cupped his balls in my palm. He ground his ass against me, inviting me to fuck him harder. Soon I was sliding in and out on his ass juices and a steady stream was flowing from his cock onto my belly as I milked his insides.

Brian slid off my hand and knelt between my legs, pushing them apart with his knees. Taking my aching prick in one big hand, he began to jerk slowly while sucking on the head, his lips moving in time with his hand motions, his beard tickling my shaft. As my cock slid in and out of his throat, I thought about the time we'd made love. Since then I'd had my prick buried in a lot of asses, but none of them ever felt quite like that first time with Brian had. And over the years a lot of guys had wanted to plow my butt, but I never let them. I didn't really know why; something just wasn't right. But now I understood.

“Brian,” I whispered. “I want you to fuck me.”

Brian looked up at me, my cock still in his hand. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I've been waiting for this for twenty years.”

Brian turned and rummaged in a backpack next to the sleeping bag. He pulled out a familiar-looking plastic bottle. “Well,” he said. “I guess it's a good thing I brought this, then.”

He flipped the top on the bottle and squirted some liquid into his palm. Once I smelled it, I knew just what it was—the same hand lotion we'd used the first time.

I laughed. “Old habits die hard, huh?”

Brian smiled. “I use it to jack off with. Reminds me of old times.”

He coated his prick with the lotion, then ran his hand along my ass crack. His finger found the opening to my chute and pressed in, sliding easily on the thick cream. He went slowly, turning his finger and loosening my tight muscle until I relaxed. Then he pulled out, put my legs up over his shoulders, and pressed the tip of his cock against my waiting hole. Pressing forward, he slid in in one smooth movement, his thick cock stretching me and bringing tears to my eyes. I thought he'd never get the whole thing in, but soon I felt his balls brushing my ass and he stopped.

I breathed slowly, letting myself get used to his prick in my ass. Despite the pain, it felt great having Brian buried in me. I felt his cock twitch, felt his hands on my thighs pulling me closer. Then he began to fuck me, pulling out slowly and pressing back in in steady rhythm. As he did I jerked off, my hand matching the movements of his thrusts, my balls slapping softly against my fist when Brian pushed into me all the way.

He pushed my legs back toward my chest, his hands under my knees, so that he had a full view of his cock slipping in and out of my asshole. His motions became harder and deeper, his prick filling me again and again as he reached places I never knew existed. I could feel the pressure in my balls mount as I let myself open to Brian's cock. His prick was bringing me to the boiling point, and every time he slapped against my ass I was coming closer.

Finally, he pounded into me one last time and the spunk flew from my nuts, coating my chest and neck as I gasped for breath. Brian wrapped his arms around my legs and pulled me forward, at the same time plunging into me. With a loud grunt, he came deep inside me, his prick flooding me with its cargo of hot cum.

Afterward, we lay in each other's arms as we had as boys, listening to the rain fall on the tent. As I drifted into sleep with Brian's head on my chest, I felt as if the years had melted away and I were once again the boy who had found himself at summer camp. Only this time, I knew the summer didn't have to end.

I
work as a garbageman for the city of New York. The paper pushers who write our job descriptions like to call us “sanitary engineers,” like we somehow take people's discarded newspapers, crusty cat-food tins, and broken television sets and turn them into machines for studying the motion of the stars or something. But what we really do is go around in the dead hours before dawn scavenging scraps of other people's lives and hauling them away to a big landfill out in Long Island, where they're buried in mass graves cared for by flocks of screeching gulls. It's not a real pretty job, especially during the long hot stretch of a steamy New York summer, but it's a living.

Most people never notice the men who scrape away the city's daily coat of grime while they sleep. We're the invisible ones, who come out after midnight and disappear before the noon sun reaches its high point. I've been doing this work for almost seven years now—a quarter of my life—without anything special to speak of happening to me. I've even gotten used to the daily ritual of getting up at four to make it to the truck yard by four thirty and then going to sleep when most people are coming home from work to begin their real lives.

Then, a couple of months ago, something happened that turned my usually routine workday into something much different. I was at the end of my haul, working down Seventeenth Street toward Eighth Avenue. I only had one final row of buildings to attend to, and I couldn't wait to be finished. The city was broiling in a midsummer heat wave, and even in the early morning the temperature was already hovering near eighty. I was sweating like crazy, a big stain soaking the front of my blue coverall from throat to crotch. I couldn't wait to pull my wet, stinking clothes off and stand under a hot shower for a good long time.

I was thinking about how good the water would feel on my aching muscles when I picked up a cardboard box sitting at the curb and got ready to toss it into the back of the truck. I was swinging it into the jaws of the big crusher when something fell out and fluttered to the ground. Catching the motion out of the corner of my eye, I put the box down and bent down to see what I'd dropped. It was a Polaroid picture, and when I saw what it was a picture of, I almost dropped it again.

Framed by the thin white lines of the border was a shot of a naked guy. His head was cut off where the top of the picture severed his neck like the blade of a guillotine, but the rest of him was perfectly clear. He was a big guy, with a thick chest and muscular arms and legs. His body was covered in black hair, and his fist was wrapped around a huge cock. He was squeezing it tightly, and the big head was red and swollen. His other hand was stretching out his hairy ballsac.

I just stood there staring at the picture, unable to take my eyes off the headless man. It wasn't like I'd never seen a naked guy before. It was just that I never expected to see one fall out of the trash I was hauling. I mean, sure, I come across a lot of discarded porn mags, but this was a real surprise. People are usually pretty careful about throwing out pictures of themselves, like whoever finds them will have control over their souls or something. I rarely find actual snapshots of people, especially ones where they're playing with their dicks.

I was even more surprised when I realized my cock was starting to get hard from looking at the snapshot. I could feel it stretching inside my overalls, pressing against my stomach. Fumbling nervously with the cardboard flaps, I opened the box and almost shot a load from what I saw. Inside were dozens of Polaroids, all of different nude guys jerking off. Some were standing up and some were lying on beds waving their cocks at the camera. Some were bent over, their fingers shoved up their assholes. There were even a couple with two guys in them, where one would be sucking the other's cock or sticking his dick up the other guy's butthole.

None of them had faces. There were just bodies and, in the case of guys sucking, mouths filled with thick pricks or ripe balls. There were armpits being licked by eager tongues, and at least one shot of just an asshole smeared with globs of lube, the hair swirled around the opening in wet strands. The bodies were fat and thin, black and white and brown, hairy and smooth, young and old. And their cocks were all different, too. Some had big fat monsters that swung heavily between their legs; others had small, thin pricks sticking out from their bodies. It was as if someone had crept into bedrooms all over the city and captured what he saw there on these tiny windows of film.

There were also some used rubbers in the box, scattered among the pictures like the discarded skins of strange animals. The thin blue and white sheaths were wrinkled and wet looking, the tips filled with dried cum and the outsides streaked with faded lines of lube. I reached out and touched one, feeling the softness of the rubber under my fingers. When I picked it up, the end swung down heavily, and I realized that the thick liquid that swelled out the tip was a recent load. Whoever the box belonged to must have put it out that morning and had a good time before he did it.

I riffled through the box and pulled out a handful of photos, stuffing them into the pockets of my work pants. I also put the used rubber in there, tying the end off so that none of the cum would leak out. I could feel how hard my cock was when I put my hand in my pocket, and gave it a couple of quick jerks. I tossed the box with the rest of the pictures into the truck and hit the button that brought down the big steel sweeper. I watched it crush the box, spilling out a feast of headless naked men that was quickly swallowed into the belly of the truck. My cock ached as I thought about the pictures in my pockets, and I couldn't wait to get home and look at them again.

I finished the rest of my route in record time, depositing the truck at the yard and racing home. I didn't even bother to shower once I got there, pulling off my sweaty clothes and dropping onto the bed as soon as the door was closed. Spreading the pictures out across my chest and stomach, I looked at them while I jerked slowly on my tool, the cool breath of the window fan tickling my overheated skin in thin ribbons. My dick was rock hard from all the anticipation, and it felt like steel beneath my fingers, warm steel pulsing with blood and desire.

As I moved my grimy hand up and down my shaft, I picked up each picture and looked at it, imagining what was going on when it was taken. My favorite was a shot of a man sitting in an old red velvet armchair. His legs were spread, with his knees hooked over the arms of the chair, and in his hand was a long, straight dick. His balls were smooth, and his bush was clipped short. His stomach was wide and flat, the muscles bunched into heavy ropes. His chest and belly were covered in light blond hair, and I could see that he had his head thrown back. His free hand was between his legs, and he had two fingers shoved up his hairy hole, spreading it wide open for the camera.

I tried to picture what the guy who took the photos looked like while I cranked on my meat. I imagined him telling the man in the chair what to do. I could practically hear him saying “Stick your fingers in that hole” while he snapped the shot. Did he jerk off while he watched? Did he fuck the guys when he was done shooting them? Picking up the used rubber and untying the end, I fingered it while I brought the feeling in my balls to a fever pitch with my hand. The weight of the man's load against my palm was reassuring and arousing, and I thought about him shooting it. I could almost see the photographer stroking himself off while his models posed for him, his hand jerking furiously on his crank.

Tipping the condom upside down, I let the contents splash out onto my chest. The cum was cold and wet against my flushed skin, but it felt so hot to have another man's load on my body that I didn't care. I rubbed the unknown man's jism into the hair on my chest and belly while I finished myself off. My fingers were sticky with his juice and with my sweat as I massaged him into my balls and slipped into my hairy asshole, and I shot my own load all over my stomach. My balls tensed as volley after volley blew out of my cock and slopped over my hand and the pictures still lying on my stomach.

There was cum everywhere, from my neck to my crotch. Drops of it stuck to my thighs and ran down my sides until I couldn't tell if it was mine or the man's whose rubber I'd found. It didn't matter, it was the hottest jerk-off session I'd ever had. My prick was still throbbing long after I'd finished coming, and the feeling of being covered in spunk was enough to make me want to blow all over again.

Picking the cum-drenched pictures off my body, I wiped them off as much as I could and stuck them in a drawer for later use. Then I showered, lathering up and jerking off again while I thought about the mysterious photographer and what he must be like. I had to see him, and I decided that I'd go back to the building later that night and see if I could find him. I knew it was crazy, but the tugging in my balls every time I thought about him told me I had to do it.

 

That night, at about eleven o'clock, I found myself standing across the street from the brownstone where I'd found the box that morning. The heat of the afternoon had never died down, and the air was thick and dry as bone in my lungs as I stood looking up at the three floors of windows, trying to figure out which ones belonged to the guy I was looking for. I was glad he didn't live in a big building, where it would have been impossible to find him. This way, I only had to eliminate two of the floors.

The lights in the second-floor apartment were out, so I concentrated on the other two. The windows on the first floor were covered by blinds, and those on the third were wide open. I stood for about half an hour waiting for some kind of a clue, my dick hard from nervousness and the excitement of doing something totally unexpected. My mind raced with all the reasons why I shouldn't be there, and I fought them down by waiting for the building to open up and give me some sign that I wasn't out of my mind. But the brick walls seemed determined to keep their secrets safe within, and nothing happened that would help me make my next move.

I was just about to give up and leave when I saw one of the first-floor shades go up. An elderly woman poked her head out, leaning on the windowsill and looking up and down the street. With her thick glasses and rolls of fat billowing out from her sleeveless housedress, she didn't look like she was responsible for the box of delights I'd discovered there that morning.
Okay,
I thought,
that means he must be on the top floor. Now how the hell do I get up there?

Moving around to the side of the building, I found the fire escape. By standing on a trash can, and with no small amount of difficulty, I was able to pull myself up to the first level, grunting and straining as I hauled my body over the edge of the platform.
This is fucking nuts,
I thought as I sat there trying to get my breath.
You're going to get arrested for trying to spy on some guy, and you don't even know for sure that he lives here.

But the memory of the pictures and what they'd done to my cock kept me going. I crept slowly up the fire escape to the second floor, stopping to peek in the window. The room inside was completely empty, and from the faint patterns remaining in the dust that covered the floor, it looked as though no one had lived there for quite some time. That meant the third-floor apartment was my only chance. I scrambled up the remaining stairs and found myself outside the window. I sat there for a minute, making sure no one in neighboring apartments saw me while I worked up the courage to look in the window.

Like the front windows, the side ones were also curtainless, as well as being pushed open halfway to let in the breeze. All that separated me from the room inside was a thin screen. Peering around the corner, I was able to see directly into what was obviously the bedroom. A light was on, and I could see clearly what was inside. There was a big bed pushed up against one wall, and an armchair opposite it. I recognized the chair as the one from the photos, and my dick jumped sharply in my pants as I realized I'd gotten the right place.

Now that I was actually there, I had no idea what I was doing. I couldn't just open the window and go into the guy's bedroom. But I also couldn't bring myself to leave; I was too curious now to go without seeing what he was like. Before I could decide on my next move, I heard voices from the other room, and someone came into the bedroom so quickly that I barely had time to dip my head below the windowsill before whoever it was saw me. I was scared to look up, in case the occupants were looking out the window, so I just lay there listening to what was going on, feeling my cock through my pants and my heart pounding in my chest.

“Take them off,” I heard an authoritative voice say. “I want to see your dick.”

The command was followed by the muffled sounds of someone removing his clothes. I heard his shoes drop to the floor as he removed them, then the appreciative murmuring of the same masculine voice that had ordered him to strip. “Nice cock,” he said. “Get it hard.” I heard footsteps as he walked across the floor, then the sharp slap of a hand against skin. “Nice ass, too,” he growled. “Can't wait to see my dick stuffed up it.”

Hearing what was going on was too much. I couldn't just lie there listening. Lifting my head, I nervously looked over the very bottom of the screen. What I saw almost made me come in my shorts. Standing with his back to me was a tall man with short black hair. He was naked, and through his spread legs I could see the head of his dick hanging over his balls. He was holding a Polaroid camera and barking orders to a man kneeling on the bed. The man, a smooth-skinned Latino guy with a big, uncut prick, was slowly stroking his cock. His foreskin was sliding over his engorged knob while strings of precum flowed out and slid over his shaft.