FRICTION FICTION: NEW KID IN TOWN by William L. Coulter

[monshanjik]

ART BY TOM JONES | NOT ORIGINAL IMAGE

NEW KID IN TOWN

By William L. Coulter • Illustration by Richard Rosenfeld

(Playguy Vol 5 No 2 - 1980)

THE FEEL OF JIM’S FIRM HANDSHAKE SENT AN ODD SENSATION THROUGH PACK’S
BODY. HE REALIZED FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A LONG TIME HE WAS DESIRING A
GUY AGAIN.

A shot of pain ripped through Pack's body. "Christ!" he grumbled as he
gasped for air. "The fuckin' concrete's killin' my legs." He didn't
break his stride, though. Instead he tromped down harder, trying to
fight off the aching. One, two, one, two. Left, right left, right. The
pace was like an incantation, taking him away from everything, even the
angry messages his leg muscles were sending his brain. Pump it, baby . .
. pump it down the pavement.

When he'd started to jog three years ago Pack had noticed numbers now
and then. A shock of blond hair catching the late sun, a shirtless
athlete working out in the park, a hot young jock with jeans glued to an
ass that wouldn't quit. He'd even cruised a few, sometimes making one.
But that didn't matter anymore. He'd had it with the games. Ever since
Joey'd gone nobody meant shit, and Joey'd never be back.

So he jogged to get away. It was Pack's way of unwinding, easing out the
tensions of his job as pressroom foreman at Underwood Printing, getting
rid of the bullshit games of the two dozen pressmen who were after his
job. When his shoes were on it was just him and the movement — steady,
rhythmic, empty movement. Nothing outside the running was real. Nothing
else mattered. Nothing and no one.

Sometimes he found himself remembering things when he ran, especially
now that the air was turning cold and the old oak trees lining the
streets were pock marked with splashes of yellow. He remembered when he
was a kid and his buddies nick named him "Pack" because they said it
looked like his pants were packed. He laughed to himself and smiled. "I
guess they were," he mused. Joey'd thought so, too. "Three goddam
years," Pack recalled bitterly. "Three fuckin' years and Joey decides
he's got to enlist and prove he's a real man." If Joey's father hadn't
written him, Pack would never have found out how the kid died, jumping
out of a plane with a parachute someone hadn't folded right. It was
still hard to believe, almost a year later.

When he finished his ten he took a cold shower and shivered, soaping
down his body. Pack was satisfied with the way he looked. For thirty he
was in good shape — tight, full muscles, sandy thick hair, a cross
shaped dusting of chest hair that tunneled down to his groin. And there
was his cock, a good nine inches when hard and thick enough to push out
his jeans into a bulge that people caught like a neon sign. It'd been
months since he'd tricked. Not that Pack had problems getting guys
interested. He was just tired of the cruise.

He hadn't set foot in a bar since Joey'd died. For a while he went to
the tubs, but that got to be more of a bore than a turn on. When he
discovered that running was a good way to pick up some action he played
along for a while, but it got old, too. No one and nothing matched Joey.
It didn't bother Pack that he hadn't made a connection for so long. What
worried him was that he didn't even care.

Everything in his life was routine. The press he operated revolved,
round and round, stamping out bestsellers that all looked alike. He
worked eight to four thirty, five days a week. It'd been that way for
six years. The orders he gave at work were routine. Keeping the plant
moving like a dock had made him Underwood's most valuable tradesman. He
picked up his check every Friday, took it to the bank at exactly 11:30
a.m., kept the same amount of cash, bought the same groceries and booze.
Then there was the jogging — more routine. Instead of letting it get him
down, though, Pack lost himself in the predictability of his life. He
immersed himself in the ritual. That bothered him, too. It bothered him
routinely, every weekend beginning about ten O'clock Friday night.

He'd been slipping lower, sipping on Jack Daniels in the nearly dark
living room of his apartment, when his routine depression was
interrupted by a sharp rap at the door.

"In a minute," he called, pulling himself up slowly, wondering who it
could be. Pack's friends had all gone off somewhere else and he wasn't
used to visitors.

When he opened the door he nearly gasped. It could have been Joey, but
it wasn't, of course. Still, the short brown hair, the trim mustache,
the day's growth of beard, the bright dark brown eyes, and the compact,
muscular torso veiled beneath the dark blue pullover were part of Joey.
But this man was older, perhaps thirty three or four, and his body
revealed an exposure to more of life's rough edges than Joey's mother
and father had let their son experience.

There was a kind of innocence about Joey that had melted away from this
stranger long ago.

The man took a long look at Pack before he stammered, "Say, I'm sorry to
bother you." He peered into the dark room. "Didn't disturb anything, did
I?"

"Sure," Pack replied. "Come on in."

The stranger entered the dark apartment gingerly, embarrassed by the
solitude he'd snatched away. "Feels good in here. My heat's not on yet."

"You moving in across the hall?" Pack called from the kitchen as he
fumbled through the tools.

"Yeah. Thought I'd get started right away. Heat's supposed to be on
tomorrow, but you know how the fuckin' gas company is."

"They were two days late turning mine on."

"Sounds like my sorta luck."

When Pack returned with the screwdriver the two of them couldn't help
staring at each other again. It was like some kind of magnetism. In the
dim light Pack realized the guy was well worth a second glance. And the
man's jeans poked out several inches around a bulge that he knew wasn't
bullshit. He could see the vague outline of a cock that seemed to be
getting bigger.

"Here goes," he said, handing the tool to the man. They both blinked, as
if jerked from a trance.

"Thanks a bundle. I really 'preciate it."

"No sweat. Need any help?"

"Naw. I got it licked now. I'll have this right back."

"Come in for a drink when you're finished," Pack invited, before he
realized what he was saying. "It'll warm you up."

"Don't mind if I do," the stranger replied with a countrified wink.
"Chill's already goin' away."

It wasn't long before he returned. Pack steered him to one end of the
sofa and chuckled. "I guess I oughtta introduce myself. Name's Tony.
Tony Strup. Friends call me Pack."

The other man smiled, his eyes level with his host's waist. "Yeah. Name
fits," he muttered, almost to himself. "I'm Jim Douglas."

The feel of Jim's firm handshake sent an odd sensation through Pack's
body. He realized for first time in a long time he was desiring a guy
again. It'd been so long he'd almost forgotten how it felt.

"Umm," Jim sighed, taking a long sip of the bourbon. "That sure hits the
spot."

"Nothing like Jack Black to take the bite out of a night like this."

"That's for sure. I knew it'd be cold up here but this is fuckin'
freezin'!"

"Where're you from?"

"Georgia," Jim replied, making it sound more like Joeja. "Ever hear o'
Valdosta?"

"Been there," Pack nodded, captivated by Jim's drawl. It sounded fresh,
all man, perhaps a little naive. A sexy combination, especially matched
with a body like Jim's. "At least as close as you get on I-75."

Jim laughed. "That's about as much o' Valdosta as most folks see. I
guess they figure it's enough. Anyway, I'm from right outside town,
'bout twenty miles. Grew up on a tobacco farm."

"Almost presidential material, huh?"

"She-e-e-t!" Jim chortled. "Folks had some respect fo' Georgia 'fore
peanut brain got 'lected."

While they talked Pack spent more and more time watching Jim's lap. The
newcomer seemed to be unwinding just fine. Nothing had been said yet,
but Pack had a feeling everything was okay. Jim's legs spread wide, his
tight jeans clinging to the well packed meat beneath. Now and then he
ran his fingers along the inside seam of the pants, brushing across the
rise in denim. Jim knew he was being watched.

When Pack rose to fix more bourbons he was aware of Jim's eyes following
his ass. "Like it that way?" Jim called, referring to the drink.

"I like just fine," Jim answered meaningfully.

It didn't slide by Pack. "You seein' anyone since you moved?" he asked,
slipping back into the sofa.

Jim shook his head. "Naw. Ain't had time to meet nobody yet. I 'spect I
will, at work, yunno."

"It's kinda lonely in a new town when you don't know anyone," Pack
mused. He realized he and Jim weren't much different. Even though he'd
lived there half his life Pack wasn't close to anyone in the city.
Everyone who'd meant something had gone. As the irony dawned on him his
mouth creased into a wry smile.

"What's so funny?" Jim asked, his leg grazing his host's.

"I been here fifteen years and I feel like a stranger myself," Pack
replied, letting his leg lean against Jim's and stay there. "Hell, I
might as well be in Valdosta."

There was long silence, each of them wrapped up in his own thoughts.
They seemed to be closer now, not only from the talk but from the touch.
Pack's head was ripe with the presence of Jim. There'd been quite a few
in and out of this apartment, but this is the first time it seemed like
there'd really been another person present. The slight contact with
Jim's leg filled him with desire.

His eyes met Jim's and he saw it there, too — the same longing, the same
animal hunger.

"You ever seen two guys fuck before?" Jim asked. The abrupt question
shook Pack out of his reverie. Something about that sparkle in his new
neighbor's eyes reassured him. It was cool. This was just his way.

Pack smiled a knowing half smile, feeling no need to pretend. "Uh-huh,"
he mumbled.

Jim looked him right in the eye, hardly blinking, in absolute eye
contact the way Southern men meet other men's eyes. The naked intensity
of Jim's gaze pumped up Pack like a drug. He felt his skin get hotter,
his dick swell beneath the denim.

Without breaking his concentration Jim went on. "I seen 'em do it once,
'bout a year ago. It was harvestin' time an' we hired on a half dozen
extra hands to do the pickin' an' bundlin' an' shit an' these two — they
was back in the ol' shed where nobody goes no more one evenin' an' I was
goin' to see if they wanted to come share whiskey with us an' when I got
there I heard these sounds, not loud, yunno, jus' kinda low sounds, so I
went in real easy and quiet."

Pack broke in. "Sounds like water running down a creek or wind rustling
tree branches. Sounds where you know someone's there but you know you
can't make any noise. You can't interrupt. Sounds like squirrels make
and you want to see but you don't want them to get scared. Those kinds
of sounds."

"So I eased on through the door an' the place was full o' the smell of
dried leaves an' shit, you know how it smells when it's still hot and
real still and quiet but the air is full of autumn. At first I could
just see one of 'em, his back. They was kinda behind an old stall or
somethin' an' I figured one of 'em was down on the ground on his knees,
'cause the one I saw was standin', so I crouched down real low behind
some old tools an' junk so he couldn't see me, an' he didn't have
nothin' on and he was lookin' down his waist at somethin' an' movin'
back and forth real easy, like when you're fuckin’, pushin' his hips in
an' out. I couldn't see low enough, but I figured the other one was
blowin' him."

"You were right," Pack filled in, still meeting the other man's gaze,
reciting the words as if he were a character in a play. "The other man
had been wanting it all day, dreaming of what that long, hard muscle
would feel like in his mouth while he watched his friend crouch and
stretch in the fields. When the day was done he tore into him like a
starved coyote. He was urgent with the need. He ran his tongue all over
the man's crotch, breathing in the smell of the sweat, licking him all
over, running his tongue along the shaft, feeling it bob with the need
to shoot a load, heightened by the day's field work. He took it in,
little by little, letting the head of the cock nestle against the back
of his throat, feeling his tongue relax to open a hole big enough for
the meat in his mouth, wanting it all, wanting it all."

Still fixing his eyes on Pack's Jim continued to detail the scene. "The
guy was groanin', pushin' back and forth faster an' faster, an' I
figured he was 'bout ready to pop it when it looked like the other one
pushed him back. He looked down, then kinda smiled, spittin' on his
rammer, then he sank down so I couldn't see nothin' but the top of his
head."

"He drank a spurt of cream, tasting sweet and salty, oozing like honey
down his throat. He knew it was time. Gently he pushed back 'gainst the
man's muscular, thrusting legs, feeling the hot sweaty hairs curl under
his palms. God, he wanted him. He wanted to drink him, every last drop.
But he wanted to feel him, too. He needed that even more, he rolled
back, flipping over on his wadded up jeans and shirt, arching his ass up
like a roll of land and spreading his legs. His asshole ached with the
need to feel that hunk of meat inside. He put a big gob of spit in his
hand and worked his fingers into his hot, tight asshole until it was
lubed. His own hard on pressed into the damp fabric underneath."

Without breaking the flow of thought Jim continued. "I crept up real
slow an' quiet till I could see through a slit in the boards. Man, I was
so close to 'em I could almost feel their breath. I still couldn't see
the other guy's face, just his ass. And was gettin' it! At first I heard
this hiss, like a rattler. I figured he'd rip wide open, or shit, or
somethin'. I ain't never seen nothin' like that! But he hunched back
'gainst that thing like he wanted more. That fucker looked like it was a
foot, biggest damn thing I ever saw, just glistenin' with spit and
sweat. Even if that guy'd hollered out in pain he'd a got it. There's a
time when you jus' can't stop, yunno? Anyway, this guy starts fuckin'
serious, grindin' away like a goddam drill. He held on to the other
guy's hips with these big hairy hands. I figured they must o' felt like
vices. He banged away so goddam fast it all blurred. All I heard was
this low hummin' noise from the one lyin' down, like he dyin' or
somethin', but I knew he wasn't 'cause he kept pushin' back 'gainst that
ass, o' course. I was gettin such a roarin' hard, you wouldn't believe.
Real gentle I unzipped my pants an' pulled it out and started jackin'
off, right there next to 'em in the shed, them havin' no idea."

"At first it ached. Christ, it was like a fire-hot splinter up his
asshole! Then the pain died away, like a bad dream, and all he could
feel was the big hunk of meat inside him and he thought he'd go crazy
with the feeling. He lurched back, ready for it, needing it, feeling his
own cock ooze pre- as the big head of that man size dick tickled his
prostrate." Pack's own rock hard rod lurched beneath his jeans while he
talked. "He tightened his legs so his legs so he could feel more,
wrapping them around the guy's waist, feeling every inch of that muscle,
gripping that fucker with his sphincter, working it like a goddamn hand,
eating it, every bit of it. When he could feel the man's balls bang
against the underside of his legs he felt himself get ready to explode,
felt them lay up against him like goose eggs, warm and sweaty, felt
chills run up his spine as the snake inside him seemed to swell and
lengthen until he thought he'd burst open."

"Man, they was fuckin' like two dogs in heat! I ain't never been so
turned on in my life," still gazing into Pack's eyes, aware of the
urgency of his own cock, aware of Pack, aware of the ozone smell of the
lighting storm in their brains. "All at once this guy starts groanin',
bangin' at that ass real rough and hard, grippin' the other guy's sides
like he was holdin' on to a life raft, his face all wrinkly likely he
was gonna die. Then I heard a cry. Musta been the guy underneath. All at
once that little ass started to push back an' forth with a life of its
own, sinkin' down on the guy's dick till I couldn't see none of it. I
could smell their sweat. Man, I was workin' myself fast by then. I knew
I was gonna cream any minute. Fuck, I didn't even care if they heard.
Well, this guy on the bottom starts to scream, not loud, you know, jus'
kinda low and brassy, when the one fuckin' 'im plowed in like a
batterin' ram, jus' sank himself in all the way. 'Oh Christ!' he
screamed. No lie. That fucker jus' let out at the top o' his lungs. I
guess he didn't care who heard. 'Oh fuckin' Christ!' He clenched his
hands on that guy's waist and gave a dozen heaves at that ass like his
dick was a machine gun. I figured that guy's asshole was packed with
juice."

"He felt the lurching and he knew it was time. Suddenly he felt
everything, every nerve was alive. He needed it harder now, harder and
faster. He started to move his ass back against the man, gobbling him up
like Saturday night's dinner. He had to have it now, no backing out. The
new thrusts came like bolts of lighting, halfway between pain and
ecstacy. The shots packed him till he thought he'd split. He felt the
fingers dig deep into his sides like needles and he was held, captive,
helpless to the drive of the man grinding away at his asshole. His
puckered lips were stretched and raw, aching with the friction. 'God,'
he thought, 'Christ, he's coming, fuck it's happenin', oh shit!' And he
felt his dick lurch under him and the spasm of hot jism splatter out
across his belly as the man fucking him buried his dick inside in a warm
jello of fuck-juice."

"Jesus, man," Jim said, breathing hard, "I never seen nothin' like it,
'swear to God. I shot a load like I never shot before, sprayin' it
everywhere. They both disappeared, pantin' and groanin', down under the
boards and I crawled backward real careful till I was outta the shed. It
was fuckin' unbelievable!"

"I know. He felt the man's body curl up behind his back, the half hard
dick finding its way instinctively between his ass cheeks, his asshole
hot and wet with the memory of that man size tool."

"You ever seen anything like that?" Jim asked, brushing his hand across
Pack's crotch surprisingly shyly.

Pack smiled, resting his hand on his visitor's leg. A dark spot on Jim's
jeans showed where he'd shot off during the conversation. Pack's own
pants were drenched with , too.

"Yeah," he said, still meeting the Georgian's gaze, "I've seen something
like that."

"You think it's fine." Jim's lips looked fantastic in the dim light, his
mustache just like Joey's. The little hairs would tickle against him
when they kissed. He could feel the eyes inside him, fucking him,
wanting him.

"Well, man," Jim said,, rising nervously, "I gotta run. Thanks for the
drink."

"No problem," Pack replied. At the door Jim glanced down at his stained
crotch and smiled. "Guess we'll be seen' each other now and then, huh?"

"Maybe next time we won't just talk." Pack walked back into the room put
out the light and smoked a cigarette while he slowly sipped a fresh
glass of bourbon.

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I lost the original image or delete it because I not like it - sorry