Surprising himself, Eric stood, stepped up to him — Shit blinked his green eyes — and opened his mouth as if he was going to tongue wrestle Shit again; but Eric took in the forefinger, with its salted crust. Shit’s hands were as big as Dynamite’s, with the same teeth-tortured nails. Eric saw — and a moment later felt with his tongue — the gritty forefinger. Again the kid hugged Eric — with one arm, this time, and kissed him.
The finger was now back in Shit’s mouth —
Till it reversed to push into Eric’s —
Then back.
Then back and forth…
Finally, smiling, Shit whispered, “You taste good.” Nodding toward Dynamite, he moved his face away, grinning. “It’s nice lickin’ piss outta somebody’s mouth or asshole. You go kiss on Mex. He always drinkin’ somebody’s piss — Jay’s or Jeb’s or some other nigger’s. Hey — I wanna shoot, now — I’m ready. You want it?” His jeans were up, but his cock — hard — and balls were still loose.
“Yeah…!” Eric dropped again to the tile. One of Shit’s pants legs was torn, and his knee’s smudged geometry showed through the rip. Since he’d have eaten out Dynamite’s ass out in a minute, Eric was not going to die from sucking Dynamite’s crap off Shit’s dick.
He took Shit in his mouth.
Shit grunted, caught Eric’s head, and, propping the toes of one foot on Eric’s knee, began to pump. Eric hugged his legs. The cloth was some sort of brown corduroy, Eric saw — but it had been hard to recognize, because so much of the wale had worn away.
In forty seconds, Shit shot, too.
It was thick and nut like. Eric swallowed…a third of it.
Lingering, Eric sucked, hoping for piss from this one.
None came.
Then Dynamite was beside him, tugging him up to cover his mouth with his own — stubble ground on Eric’s face — and plunged his own tongue as far in as he could.
Eric held to his hard shoulders, a head higher than Shit’s, wondering at having so quickly gotten five loads.
When they broke for breath, Dynamite stepped back, breathed in deeply, one strap fastened, one hanging. “You know — ” Dynamite grinned — “I was serious about what I was sayin’ before.” Their uncut cocks — Dynamite’s and Shit’s — were the same size, with the same down curve, same thickness. Eric held one in each hand. He rubbed the hooded heads together. “About that job — when Jay was introducin’ us.”
Both of them smiled, missing their different teeth.
Was Shit’s a hair’s breadth wider? Or maybe it only looked so because Shit was a hair’s breadth shorter…
Reaching down, Dynamite gripped loosely and supportively the complex construction the two — then three, because Eric pushed forward with his own — cocks had become.
Eric was about to answer —
— when, with his blond beard and missing incisors, towering Jay (as tall as Al) stepped up beside him, a hand again on Eric’s tank top shoulder, and pulled him away. “You know, you ain’t come yet yourself, puppy. Get on over here. We gonna fuck Mex’s face some — so you can get off and get outa here. Let’s stick some dick into this spic cocksucker and finish you up.”
“Huh? But I don’t — ” Eric gasped in a breath, looking for a sink or something to lean on, and settled one had on the urinal’s rolled metal upper edge — “know if I really have to…” Protectively, Eric reached down with the other to hold himself. Probably it was time to put it away —
“Hey, don’t worry.” Jay rubbed his own tattooed arm. “I’ll make you.”
The heavy black trucker said, “Yeah — Jay’s a good guy. He gets all concerned over that stuff.”
Al was looking thoughtfully around the room and shucking on himself — still in his condom, its front inch full and sagging and ballooning another inch-and-a-half around the head, its liquid the color of pus.
…Flosh, flap, flop, fluffle —
— on its timer (another five minutes…?), water flushed the urinal’s bright back.
Across his lighter palm, Al bounced his cock — or the half of it his hand held. On the urinal’s back plate, distorted to unreadability, mangled and mingled reflections — of his black arms and their blacker marks — moved in the same rhythm.
“I guess Ted was in a rush — ” Dynamite glanced at Eric — “but, then, he pretty much always is, ain’t he? Hey, Al? How’d you know you wasn’t gonna kill this boy here with that damned cattle prod? I mean, Ted’s one of your regulars. But ain’t that dangerous, stickin’ so much into somebody you ain’t gone into, a little more slow, before? I mean, careful, like?”
Chuckling, Al reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar tube: KY Lubricant. “Well — ” Al shrugged — “this done fell out his pocket when he reached in to get that paper you was writin’ on.” (Eric looked over, surprised…) “So I thought it was worth a try. It didn’t feel like he was having a whole lotta trouble takin’ my ol’ phone pole, any more than he had suckin’ on Dynamite’s ol’ pig fucker. Hey — ” Al grinned at Eric; no, they weren’t all there. But he had more teeth than either Dynamite or Shit — “you want this back, boy?”
“Oh…!” Reaching over, Eric took the tube. “Eh…Thank you!” No, feeling his pants he realized it wasn’t in his pocket — !
Eric pushed it in.
“’Sides — you muscle boys is always real nasty. Least ways, the good ones I know what come in here is.” Al grimaced. “Like Jay here.” He nodded toward the boatman, with his brilliant arms, bulked like some wrestler’s.
“Come on,” Al said. “Gimme a hand with this.”
Below Al’s T-shirt sleeves, the black etchings caught the light with a different reflective index than the rest of his dark, dark skin…though still unreadable.
Again, Al bounced his own — yes — massive dick on his palm. (Two of those in one week, Eric thought. Is that luck, or…?) Eric stepped over to him; both looked down at what he held. “Ted run outta here ’fore I got a chance to shoot. Since I spilled this up yo’ butt instead, dis heah is for you, now. Help me get dis fuckin’ raincoat off…” Eric reached out and they slid the condom, yellow like dried airplane glue but wrinkly as Saran, from his penis.
With one hand, tall Al held the condom, bloated with what had to be four or five tablespoons full. The supersized rubber was almost a quarter full! With his other, Al knotted its upper end. “Now, see, you got somethin’ to remember me by. A big ol’ load o’ prime nigger jizz — you carry it on home: dat can be yo’ dessert tonight!”
“I swear,” Jay said, “I seen horses what didn’t come that much. Al’s really half horse — everybody down here says that about ’im. Don’t they? Hey, Al — you ain’t gonna give that to Mex?” (Al shook his head.) “Fuck it, right now he’s sittin’ there grinnin’ and tryin’ to look big and brave for you guys in here, but unless I do sumpin’ special for ’im, later he’s gonna be cryin’ in my arms.” One hand on Eric’s back, one on his arm, Jay moved Eric toward the stall.
Some of them laughed — including the broad faced Mexican on the commode. His cheeks and neck were like raddled leather, with pits and indentations from long-healed acne. A fold of flesh along one side of his jaw half hid a dozen craters, which Eric had an overwhelming desire to finger.
Knees wide apart, Mex sat on the stained, seatless enamel, cradling his own cock in a red-brown palm.
Mex’s wide feet were as far apart on the floor as the black jeans around his ankles allowed. With thick fingers he lifted his cock now and again into sight.