Speedway

[EasyRory]

Chapter 1 - The Starting Gate


First of all, my name is not Racer. It's Brendon Race Tyree; but everybody calls me Racer. When I was little I ran every place I went; my daddy named me Racer and it stuck. The name stuck; he didn't. He didn't totally abandon us; he just wasn't around much. He traveled with a NASCAR crew and traveled and traveled and traveled. All my questions were answered by Momma with a huge sigh and “Oh, honey, I don't know,” as if just thinking about it made her tired.

I can't ever blame anything on my childhood. It was normal enough, so normal there's nothing to tell really. Take a kid, add food, and watch him grow. The only excitement was my job. When I was sixteen Daddy got me a job at Old Dominion Speedway in Manassas. I had the coolest job of any kid in Fauquier High; even the rich kids envied me. I was part of a pit crew that got hired by drivers who didn't have their own crews and that was most of them. Old Dominion Speedway was not one of the premier tracks.

“Work hard, learn everything, and never mouth off. Good luck, Racer.” That's what Daddy said when he dropped me off that first day. I worked there two years on and off according to the racing schedule, tried to learn everything, and finally with my earnings I bought a pickup for an amazing price from a guy at the track.

So with senior year winding to a close, I was eighteen; I had a cool job, a cool truck, and something in the way of prospects. I joined a traveling crew to work tracks around Virginia. I finished high school with bang. Literally. I banged one of the hotter chicks in school in my truck after the Last Dance, which was what we called the senior prom. The sex was so-so; I had expected more. “I see why they call you Racer,” was her only comment.

So things were looking good. There was just one nagging detail. To get the amazing price on my pickup, I had to let the guy blow me. It didn't seem like a big deal. It didn't take long. And he never asked again. But it nagged at me. It festered and worse. If I thought about it at night, you know, lying in bed, I got hard. And that meant I had to beat off. And everybody says when you grow up, you quit beating off. So, damn, I was grown up, mostly, and I was still beating off. A lot.

So I called up Roselle, the chick I had scored with, and asked her out. “Oh, Racer, it's so nice of you to ask, but ...” She had a list of excuses that even I didn't believe and used one on me every time I called. Wash her hair??? Really??? Finally at the end of the summer, she said, “I'm sorry, I'm getting ready for school, and it's in North Carolina, and, well, I just don't expect I'll be seeing much of all of y'all around here any more.”

That was when I discovered the difference between the guys who went to college and the guys who didn't. My cool job and cool truck didn't matter any more - except to the guys who weren't going to college. And that even included some of the high school jocks, who suddenly weren't cool any more if they weren't going to college.

Such a small distinction. It wasn't like I was dumber than the college guys. I wasn't. I got better grades than some of them. And my grades could have been even higher, if I had studied. It wasn't like I didn't have any money; I was doing more than OK as part of the pit crew. I was living at home, though. That was a negative. I wasn't getting laid. That was a huge negative. All because of that one small distinction, and who knew it mattered so much? One of those unwritten rules of life that just rears up and smacks you in the face without any warning.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself; don't get that idea. Well, maybe a little, but I'm not all torn up or anything. The only thing that bothers me is that blow job. Man, I shouldn't have done that. I'd say maybe I'm obsessing, but I'm not. It happened again. And it shouldn't have happened again. My fault. Totally.

The sun was setting and I was shining my truck at the track after we had finished for the day. “You're keepin' her right nice,” the previous owner told me. “Keepin' yourself right nice too.”

He walked up, unbuttoned my cut offs, and pushed them down. I should have stopped him but I was as dumb as a deer in the headlights. Frozen in place. His hand squeezing my cock felt so good. He tore my underwear getting it out of the way and then he sat me down on the rear bumper. After a quick look around, he knelt in front of me and sucked my cock.

It felt so good. I gave a little sigh and he laughed. “You're liking this, aren't you?” I didn't have to say anything; he knew the answer. He swallow me whole and sucked and swished his tongue and did amazing things to me. I came fast, way before I wanted to. He laughed as he rose and looked down at me. “Lose the boxers,” he said and walked away.

The next time we worked that track, I told myself no. I was honestly a little nervous; but the lure was irresistible. My no turned into can't help myself; the lure of sex was a giant magnet. At the end of the day I was out buffing my truck. Hoping? Expecting? A little terrified was the truth.

He approached and just looked at me. He said one word, “Yeah,” and repeated his last pproach. I trembled when he touched the button of my cutoffs. “Yeah,” he said again with satisfaction. When he opened my cutoffs, I was already hard. My dick sprang out into his hands. “No underwear. You're a good boy,” he whispered in my ear. The warmth of his breath was frightening. I didn't know what was coming next. His hands went around my waist and then moved lower as he knelt. He squeezed my ass hard until I gasped. At that signal he swallowed my cock again. His hands held me by my ass cheeks as he pulled me in and out of his mouth. He sensed my approaching climax and pulled off. He sat me on the bumper and raised my legs. I couldn't figure out what was happening until I felt his tongue licking my asshole and then poking me. I felt my ass yielding to him. It was so intense, so excruciating.

“Make me come! Make me come!” I begged. His mouth went back onto my cock and I exploded in his mouth.

He held me steady and sucked me until I was back in control of myself. Standing up, he looked down at me. “A fuckin' firecracker!” He sounded pleased. I didn't know what to say to him. “Here's something to think about: tomorrow we'll try fucking. I think you're ready.”

I could see the bulge in his pants. Maybe I owed him a little pay back. “You want me to suck you?”

“I don't like getting' blow jobs. I like fuckin'. So will you. Be here at the same time.” He walked away.

I beat off twice that night. I couldn't get him out of my mind. Clinton Spurlock was the name on the registration of the truck. I had never called him anything but “Sir”. I had no idea what I was in for. I was scared. I thought about his tongue and the warmth of his mouth. I wondered how big his cock was. I thought of all the words I knew for anal intercourse. None of them sounded at all good. Was it gonna hurt? The bulge in his pants had looked substantial, but not grotesque, not terrifying. I tried using a finger on myself. It hurt a lot. I tried again after putting on some sunblock, the only greasy thing I had. My ass felt pretty good as I lubed it. Fingering myself didn't hurt as much.

“What are you doing in there?” Momma called from her bedroom.

“Pushups,” I called back to her.

“Do them in the morning!” she grumbled.

I went to sleep and woke up with two things decided. I was moving out of my parent's house and I was buying some kind of lubricant first thing. It turned out neither one was urgent.

I got to the track and saw black smoke rising from the pit area. “What happened?”

“An engine blew in pit six. A couple of guys got hurt. Marv the crew chief and Clint Somebody. That guy was aces with brakes.”

I saved my money for a couple months and found a cheap place to live in Warrenton. I also got used to wearing cutoffs without underwear. It binds sometimes, but I like hanging lose.

I heard Clint survived the explosion, but I never saw him again. Roselle called in October. She was feeling a little homesick and came back for a weekend. She hinted and I asked her out. We fucked and it was a lot better than the Last Dance night. She said I had grown up a lot and she's right. I'm going to be nineteen soon and after the last year I'm a whole different person.

B.J. Carteret, who was the high school quarterback and got a full ride scholarship to George Washington, said hey to me the other day. He blew his knee and his playing days are over. They kept him in school but he flunked out. Now he's learning to sell used cars on Route 7 somewhere outside Leesburg.

“Lookin' good, Racer. Wanna hang out?”

“Sure. Wanna hit the Hangout Room? I'm off on Tuesday.”

“Nah, too many of the locals show up. Can be reliving high school forever. How 'bout someplace out a ways? I'll pick you up.”

I had to admit the Hangout Room was a lame idea. A non-alcoholic teenage place. I wondered where B.J. wanted to go. Still, this was awesome. Hangin' with the Beej! He never would have said hello a year ago.

 

[Craiger]

Ah! A new one started and with hot little Racer to boot. I wonder what the B.J. stands for? Maybe Racer will find out on Tuesday.... This sound like a great start. Thanks, Rory, for not keeping us waiting for another story.

Craiger

 

[EasyRory]

My trip got delayed and Racer has been telling me things. I had to share.

 

[Autolycus]

Nice one Rory! Keep it going

 

[Craiger]

Sorry about your trip being delayed, however, that is all the best for us.... We want to hear more of what Racer has to say.

Craiger

 

[EasyRory]

Chapter Two - Testing Out the Track


B. J., who had been the super cool, maximum stud two years ago, up close was an eye-opener. Just a year out of school had made a difference; he even looked different somehow. Older, obviously, but there was another kind of difference. He was still physically impressive, but most-likely-to-succeed was not a title you'd pin on him anymore.

We went to a restaurant off I-66 in between Front Royal and Strasburg and sat at the bar. It was close to the junction with I-81, so it was busy and full of transients. The waitress knew B. J.

“Two Bud Lights, please, Verna,” he said to her with confidence. She looked at me skeptically, but didn't ask for my not-too-convincing ID. “Can't be hangin' around Warrenton, Racer. All people want to talk about is high school football. I'm past that, you know? Done with it. It's over.” He drank off half the long neck in one series of swallows. I tried the same thing but the beer sudsed up and some spurted in my face. I wiped my face with a paper napkin.

A woman next to me said, “If you aren't the cutest thing. How old are you?” she asked. I stuttered a number that started with twenty. “Never mind … Ohhhh the things I could teach you ...” She smiled. I smiled and hit the trash bin with my balled-up wet napkin.

“We're here five minutes and you're getting' hit on. Another one, Verna?” B. J. didn't sound happy about the attention. “So tell me how are things going for you?”

“Pretty good. I'm working a traveling crew for ...”

“Things are great for me! Really great.” He didn't provide any details. “Remember that game against Culpepper? Man, we had ' em by the third quarter. I was throwing short and nailing it every time. Two plays and a first down. Marched their sorry asses up and down that field for the whole second half. So who got the credit? Fuckin' Dwayne Roosevelt. That's who. Picture in the paper and everything. Best receiver in Fauquier history, they called him. He couldn't receive shit if I hadn't been throwin' it.” B. J. laughed and took a big swig. “Come on, I don't want to be drinkin' alone.” B. J. signaled Verna for two more and checked the door, like he was expecting somebody.

“Yeah, that was a good season. We finished what? Six and four?”

“Shoulda been ten and oh, except for that asshole defense. Bunch o' pussies.” He checked the door again.

“You want to dance with me, sweetie?” the woman next to me asked. “Don't look so alarmed. Just a dance … I won't molest you.”

“Go ahead,” B. J. said.

She wanted to dance to “She'll Have to Go”, which I figured must have some meaning for her. I know it did for my momma. I held out my arms and we danced. She was very light on her feet for being slightly overweight.

“Closer, hon, I won't molest you,” she repeated. “Unless you want me to ...” She gave a breathy laugh and don't believe that you can't smell vodka on a person. Or something. It wasn't bad though.

“I am old enough to me your mother ...” she sighed and paused. “You're supposed to say something polite about now, like 'No you're not.' “ She switched our position and slipped her hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “You are just the cutest thing,” she said giving me a little squeeze. “My friend Luna, the frizzy blond over there, said I wouldn't have the nerve to do this.” She squeezed my butt again. “I'm Renee, by the way ...”

“I'm Racer.”

“Just humor me, Racer … ok?” She snuggled a little closer. “I won't bite.” I started getting a little chub from her rubbing against me and wondered if that part of me was the part she wouldn't bite when the song ended. We walked back to the bar. “Be honest now! Did I get you a little turned on?” She waited for my answer. “Luna, look! He's blushing!”

I don't know how she could tell I was blushing in the purple haze of the bar lights, but I was. I around looked for B.J., but he was gone. I said good night to the two women who left together and sat down with the rest of my beer alone. I caught Verna's eye. “Did you see my friend leave?”

“B. J.? He's doing a little business. He'll be back.”

“Business?” Verna pretended she hadn't heard me and made a vodka tonic for another customer. I sipped my beer slowly and waited for B.J.

“You're new here,” some random dude said and sat down next to me.

“I came with a friend, my first time here,” I answered, like what difference does that make?

“B. J. is your friend?” He laughed as if the idea was a joke.

“You know him?”

“A lot of people know B.J. Some people know him real well.” As he said that he nudged my leg with his knee. I shifted away. “You want to go outside and smoke a joint or something?” he offered.

“Uh … sorry, I gotta work tomorrow.”

“Fuck off, Darby,” B. J. ordered and the dude moved on.

“You're back!” I didn't know what else to say to him.

“You mind?” He picked up my beer and drained it, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. “Verna? Two more?”

I didn't want to ask him where he'd been, but the question stuck in my head. Twenty - thirty minutes? Business? The beers arrived and he drank half of his instantly, swallowing greedily. He wiped his mouth and let out a loud burp.

“Fuckin' faggots. I shouldn't have brought you here. Wanna go?” He put a twenty on the bar and waved to Verna. We were going unless I wanted to hitchhike home alone. I took a final sip of my beer and followed him out the door.

He got in his truck and reached across to open the door for me. As he did so he moved a grocery-store sized paper bag to the little cargo space behind the seat. “Ok, now there's room,” he said.

You know how some smells are distinctive? Smell them once and you never forget? The cabin of the truck reeked of marijuana. Not smoke. The raw weed - fresh, like cut down that very day.

“I deal a little,” he explained. “You know how it goes … deal a little weed … suck a little cock … or else spend all your days wearing a paper hat and throwing burgers out a window.” He burped again, adding the smell of beer to the atmosphere.

“Suck a little cock?” I was astonished.

“It was part of the deal. The dude played for Rappahanock. I killed him in football. Now the faggot won't sell me pot unless I suck his dick. Him and his brother … the fuckers ...”

“I … I ...” I didn't know what to say.

“I'm not a faggot!” He was suddenly defensive. “I'm not ...” He merged smoothly into the traffic of I-64. “I'm sorry I brought you tonight, Racer. It was just nice seeing a friendly face the other day. You know … kinda like being back in school.”

“Good seeing you, too, B. J. Senior year was awesome.” For B. J. it had been awesome, more like ok for me. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a flask. He offered me a swig but I declined. He took a big swallow.

“Hard to get the taste of cum out of your mouth, you know? Remember that game against Petersburg for the state finals?” Truth was I didn't. “I'll never forget that one.” He rolled his window down, took another pull on the flask, and spat out the window before going back to his story about defeating Petersburg.

His play-by-play total recall of the game was amazing; he actually made the game sound tense and exciting. He dropped me off and said, “We gotta do this again, ok? And if you know anybody needs anything, you know where to send 'em.”

The headlights of a passing car lit up his face. His smile seemed genuine; he looked young, just like the handsome quarterback he had been. I think he wanted to say something more, but he didn't. Just gave me a wave and drove off.

 

[bigcannon]

Wow, Rory. This is going to be another great one. Can't wait for more chapters. Sorry your trip got postponed, but happy to have you here and sharing your creative genius in writing for all of us. We are blessed.

 

[uncut702]

Awesome story, can't wait for more!! Thanks for something new!!

 

[rocabar]

Great new story. . . Thanks, Rory!

 

[Craiger]

Well, B.J. lived up to his name. Racer, as astonished as he may have been, probably enjoyed hearing the jock quarterback has taken on a new persona. Renee and Luna.....in a place like that? What won't those two do to try and relive their youth..... Looking forward to the next chapter. Thanks, Rory.

Craiger

 

[EasyRory]

In case 'y'all' can't tell, I'm having fun writing this. Let me know if I go too far off the rails.

 

[EasyRory]

Chapter Three - Yellow Flag


The bad part of being on a traveling crew is the traveling unless of course you want to be traveling away from stuff like wives, children, bill collectors, the law – trouble in other words. I wasn't up against anything I was trying to avoid, so the traveling was disruptive, more or less a pain every time. Ona, West Virginia was a special kind of pain. It took almost three hours to get there from Warrenton, and when I did there was nothing to do and I didn't know anybody but a couple of the crew members and they were old guys. Good guys, but we had nothing much to talk about except work and I was going to have to spend maybe three days talking about work.

I had never heard of Slick Parsons, the driver we were working for. His father had been on the tracks as a driver and then as a manager, so Parsons was a real name. Not a name like Earnhardt or Petty or Gordon, but people knew it.

His car arrived a day ahead or the race. It started life as a Ford, but there wasn't much 'stock' about it. I wasn't lead or master mechanic, just a gofer, so I did what I was told, checking the operation of lights and gauges, tire thickness and pressures, that kind of thing. By the end of the day I was alone, wiping down the car, checking for loose decals or anything that might catch air, that kind of thing. I was done, really, but I liked being alone with the cars. There was something purposeful about their altered sleekness. They looked like power.

“Nice, isn't it? I'm Slick Parsons.” The voice startled me and I stood up with a jerk. “I got some track time to check out the new tires. Is she ready?”

“Yes, sir,” I told him, giving the fender one last wipe.

I stood aside and watched him get in. He started the engine with minimal noise, just the low throb of power under control. He eased it out onto the track as carefully as a mother with a van full of kids and then slowly accelerated. In ten minutes he was back.

“I don't like the front end feel. It's pushing way too hard .” He meant the car 'pushed' up the track toward the wall in corners. “I'm calling the doctor.” He fiddled with his phone and then came back to me. “You take it out. Keep it under sixty for about six laps. We just want to get it hot.”

Me! Awesome!

I'd never driven one of the cars more than sixty feet from a car carrier to the pit. It was my chance. I got in and seated myself on the hard pan of the bucket seat. Nothing plush about a racer. Strapped in. Master switch on. Engine start. AWESOME! The car felt alive as the engine rumbled. My whole body felt the power through the combination of sound and vibration. I fed it gas and spun the rear wheels. WHOA! Slowly … slowly … Man, this thing could spin wheels in any gear. I was super cautious on the first lap, feeling the responsiveness of the throttle, the tightness of the steering. I think I held my breath through the whole first turn. The second was the same. Things gradually got easier. By the third lap I was varying the speed, feeling the physical pull on me, on the car … Newton Laws of Motion! Jeez … It felt so good I kinda got a hardon.

Just as I felt I was getting to know the car, the six laps were done and I wheeled slowly back to our laydown area. Slick was waiting for me.

“Man! Whoa!” My grin was so wide my face hurt. “What a ride!”

He smiled back at me. “I know. I feel the same way every time. Gets you right in the ...” He looked at the front of my pants and laughed. “Yeah, that, too.”

“That was my first time driving one of the cars more than around the area,” I told him. I was willing my dick to go down; but it wouldn't right away. Fortunately the light wasn't bright. I hoped my condition wasn't blatant.

“Thanks for giving me the opportunity, sir.”

“Call me Slick. You're …?”

“Racer.” He asked so I told him how I got the name.

“Cool. When I was about three, I asked for a set of racing slicks for my tricycle. That's how I got my name. Racer, huh? Well, you're about the right size.”

He meant short. Some aren't; but a lot of drivers are short - like jockeys. You don't need the car carrying extra weight and height is no advantage. All stretched out I was about five eight. I wished I was taller, but I'm not.

“Where are you from?” he asked. We continued talking, mostly about me, until the chief mechanic and Slick's manager got there. “Everybody know Racer?” he asked and the other two said hey.

The mechanic took the car out onto the track to get his own driving impression. Slick's manager started talking business with Slick, but Slick put him off. Instead he got a couple Cokes and passed one to me.

“Warrenton, huh? I've raced at Old Dominion some. Nice little track.”

“That's where I got my first job.,” I told him.

A lot of the drivers are all business and got nothing to say to the pit crew. Slick was different, asking all about me, never saying much about himself. He got serious, though, when the mechanic returned with the car. A brief discussion confirmed Slick's 'pushing' complaint. There were remedies, but they would all take time and there was no time.

“We race or not?” the manager asked.

“Up to you, Slick. The car can take it ... if you can drive it,” Chester the mechanic said.

Slick spent about two seconds deciding. “Let's race.”

“Ok, get some sleep,” the mechanic said to Slick. “Give her another quit wipe down,” he said to me.

I hustled to comply. Wiping down a hot car isn't the easiest thing to do, so it took longer than you'd expect. Slick left but his guys stayed to talk. I couldn't help but overhear; they were just on the other side of a flimsy wall.

“Racer.” The mechanic just said my name in an even tone.

“Yep, another one,” the manager responded.

“Seems like a good kid.”

“They all do ... at first.”

What the fuck was that about? The two guys left and I finished the wipe down. I was pulling the shed door shut when I heard, “Pizza?” It was Slick. “I know a good place in Charleston. Excellent pizza. Wood fires and the works. Interested?”

Slightly-famous stock car driver asks pit crew gofer out for pizza. Happens every day, right? Especially after taking note of the gofer's erection. It could be legitimate, right? Just the two of us. Right? Oh, FUCK NO! The thing is I like pizza. I like every kind of pizza. Even that garbage bowl they call Chicago style. What could happen? I went. The pizza was good. Slick's a really nice guy. Nothing happened. We talked. We ate. He dropped me back at my motel.

The only edgy minute? He said he was getting a massage. He liked massages before races. He asked if I wanted to go along. I said no thanks and that was it. No pressure. Just a little bit weird. Maybe he gets as lonesome as I do on these road trips.

Ona races run at night. The feature race comes around nine P.M. Slick was racing in the feature. We had the whole day to kill. I was getting paid, so I went to the track early. The chief mech had the front end of Slick's car up on a portable ramp. He was making adjustments to the front wishbones.

“Can I help?” I asked him.

“Nope. Not a hundred percent sure what I'm doing. Just kinda doing it. Like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. You read that book?” Chester reads books; that came as a surprise.

“No.”

“I quote: 'The test of the machine is the satisfaction it gives you. There isn't any other test.' I'm doing what I think needs doing. I recommend the book, Racer.”

The day dragged. The car came down and sat - I want to say - expectantly. The car actually looked animate. It was on edge like a dog who knows he's going hunting, just doesn't know when. Slick arrived and paced. Nobody spoke. We could hear the announcements coming from the main track. The race before the feature was about to start.

“Racer,” Slick said out of nowhere, “Take the car for six laps on the dirt track. I want to scuff up those slicks.” I drove the car to the trials track and did what I was told. The car was as exciting as it had been the night before. Erotic almost. I brought it back. Nobody spoke. Slick got in and joined the pack on the asphalt track.

Green flag. The roar of the engines gripped me. It was hard to breathe. I had to consciously relax before I could watch. Checkered flag. Slick won.

He drove back into the pit and jumped out. “Hire the kid; he's good luck. I want him to do a check ride before every race.” Drivers are superstitious. They like to stick with a winning formula.

Slick's manager talked to me alone. The offer was impossible to refuse. I said yes. He produced a blank contract and filled in my name and an amount. I walked away numb. It was a lot of money.

“Racer, let's celebrate! Let's get a massage.”

A thousand things ran through my head. Contract. Money. Slick. Money. Massage. Money. Which one of those things didn't belong? I was only nineteen, but sometimes you just KNOW something doesn't ring true. The only thing I knew about a massage was it involved minimum clothing. Was Slick gonna try something? Like Clint? What if he did? What would I do? I could handle a blow job. But with Slick? It would seem super weird? What if he wanted more? Could I do that?

“I was thinking about going to a book store. Chess recommended 'Zen and the Art ...”

“Suit yourself,” Slick said. “But can you really read after a win?” He was hyper. It was obvious he wasn't going to spend his night with a book.

“Why not?” I said aloud. “Let's go.”

It turned out not to be weird at all. Slick ordered two specials. We went into separate rooms. Shortly a not-too-skanky woman came in and smiled. “Your first time? You gotta take your clothes off, sweetie.”

She draped a towel over my butt and went to work. It hurt a little at first and then I started feeling a burn. Soon it felt good. Her order to roll over sounded totally professional. She worked her way up my thighs and then tossed the towel aside. My dick was limp and I swear it shrank some more as she looked at it. She chuckled and said, “You're makin' me do ALL the work.” She started licking and sucking. I responded appropriately. “Oh, yeah,” she said. Just as I was about to come in her mouth she pulled off and finished me by hand. As she pulled away my line of sight opened and I saw Slick standing in the doorway naked and watching me with a grin.

I probably don't need to say it's REAL embarrassing cumming all over the place while your boss watches. The masseuse wiped her hand on the sheet covering the massage table and walked out. “He's a cutie,” she said to Slick as she left.

“Come on, cutie,” Slick said, teasing me with the cutie part, “Let's get cleaned up. I'm hungry!”

He led me to a shower room with three nozzles. He took the middle one. The residual pleasure of the sex wore off and the feeling of something not-quite-right came back. Slick never laid a finger on me, but he never took his eyes off me either. He talked a lot, nothing about the blow job or my still semi-hard dick, just about the race which made it not screamingly uncomfortable, but his eyes were all over me. My dick stubbornly stayed harder than it should have been. He stood closer to me than he needed to while we toweled off. Then we got dressed and everything went back to normal.

The pizza was great. He was funny telling me stories about other drivers on the circuit. And then he took me back to my motel. “You should move to our motel,” he suggested as I got out of his car. “Your making enough money now.”

“But I haven't been paid yet.”

He laughed, said “See you in the AM.” He looked ready to go but he delayed. He turned to me and said, “You gotta tip 'em extra if you want 'em to swallow.” Then he drove off.

Nothing had happened, nothing the whole night that I could point to and say ah-hah; but I felt as shaken up just the way I did when Clint blew me. It was creepy and exciting and scary all at the same time. I couldn't really relax until I'd been in my room a half hour.

 

[bigcannon]

Very HOT, Rory! I can tell this is going to be a great one. You are having fun with this. Hurry up and write the next chapter.

 

[Kyanimal]

I'd like to say that I'm sorry that your trip was delayed, butt ... I'd be lying!

Rory, Buddy!

I'm having as much Fun reading this as you are writing it, if not even more so!

You've got "Golden Fingers", Dude!

Keep Smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Craiger]

Erotic little chapter, Rory. I wonder if Slick is playing it cool and drawing Racer deeper into the fold.... At nineteen and just hired for a great job kind of gives a feeling of obligation. Especially if the other person is as slick as Slick is.

Craiger

 

[uncut702]

Rory, another great story and another great chapter!! Looking forward to more!

 

[EasyRory]

Chapter Four - Pit Stop


I was sitting on my little front porch reading when I heard the screech of brakes. B.J. wheeled into the parking lot, parked his truck next to mine, and got out.

“There you are. Where've you been? I've been calling and calling.” He walked up with a bag in his hands.

“I forgot my phone and didn't bother getting another on the road.”

“Every time I called they'd say mail box full or the person you called is out of the calling area.” He sat on the top step leading to the porch and my front door.

“The mailbox still is full. I forgot my password.”

“Racer?” he hesitated. “We're ok, aren't we?”

“Sure. Why wouldn't we be?”

“Well … maybe because I sucked the Hinckley brothers' dicks. I KNEW I shouldn't have told you that but I could smell the evidence on me and I figured you could, too.”

“Worse shit happens all the time, Beej,” I watched his face brighten.

“If you got some tonic and ice, I got some vodka.” He held up the bag.

“I got some Mountain Dew.”

“The Dew will have to do.”

I returned to the porch with two glasses of ice and a can of the sweet soda. B. J. was sitting in one of the two slightly rusty metal lawn chairs I had acquired for my porch. He was looking at the book on the box I was using for a table.

“Whatcha readin'?” he asked as he mixed our drinks.

“The Kreutzer Sonata.”

“The what?”

“Something short by Leo Tolstoy. I'm only part way into it. So far it's about some people on a train in Russia talking about love. And one of them killed his wife over love.”

“I thought you had to go to college to read stuff like that.”

“I picked it up in one of the motels we stayed in on the tour. Can't find any printed warnings that say 'Must Attend College Before Reading'.” That got a laugh from B. J.

We sipped our drinks and watched the sun go down, trying to ignore the bumper to bumper commuter traffic a hundred feet away. “I like it here,” B. J. said.

“The nice thing about the traffic is the exhaust fumes keep the mosquitoes down.”

“You're sure we're ok? Nothing weird or nothing?”

“Nothing weird,” I told him. “Unexpected, maybe … but I've had my dick sucked. It happens, right?” I told him the story of how I bought my truck. “You want to know what's weird? My boss is weird. Super weird.” I told him the story of Slick standing in the doorway of the massage parlor watching me cum.

“Dude! That is two counties beyond weird! That is astrophysical!” He added some vodka to our drinks.

“But he never touches me – never even hints at the two of us doing anything … you know … weird.”

“Awesome,” B. J. said in wonder. “That reminds me of the second game against Petersburg that last year. I kept teasing them with play calls, faking them, and the ball was never where they thought it would be.” I was happy to listen to his play-by-play recap of the game. He had a soothing voice and could tell a tale. Well, not a tale exactly, I guess it was all true. He did win us the state title that year.

I woke up in my bed with no idea how I got there. That vodka is sneaky stuff. No hangover, though, that was a plus. After a month on the road it felt great to lie in bed with nothing to do, no reason to get up, feel the breeze coming in the window on my face, feel my erection, present like every morning, but undemanding of any attention. I gave it a little attention anyway, feeling its paradoxical hardness and softness. It was reassuring touching my cock, knowing it's in good work order, knowing I'm young and healthy, with a few dollars in my jeans … not a care … except I need to piss.

I came out of the bathroom, slipped on some shorts, and headed for the kitchen. I was surprised to see B.J. in the living room, sleeping in my chair and looking miserably uncomfortable. The only clothing he had removed was his shoes. “B. J.” I whispered.

He woke with a start, looked at me, looked at his watch, and jumped up. “Oh, shit. I gotta go. Catch you later, Racer.” He grimaced as he stretched the kinks out of his large frame; then without another pause he grabbed his shoes and hobbled across the rough cinders of the parking lot to his truck. The motor roared to life and he was gone.

After weeks of eating the same eggs-biscuits-and-gravy breakfast on the road it was nice and familiar to settle down to a bowl of cereal. I debated between Coco Pops and Apple Jacks and went with the chocolate kind. Very satisfying. I showered and decided I didn't need to shave, I was just a little scruffy. I sat with my book in the chair lately vacated by Vince. Damn, I gave up reading after one chapter; it's really a terrible chair. It might have been comfortable when it was new, but that was probably before I was born.

I went to see my landlady, Mrs. Luckett, who was always friendly enough unless the subject of money was on the table. “What about the chair?” she asked suspiciously. “I reimbursed you seven dollars for those lawn chairs you bought. It's a furnished apartment. That's all. Not a palace. Not for the rent you pay.”

“I want to buy a couch. I'll pay for it myself and you can have it when I leave.”

“ARE YOU LEAVING? We have a LEASE, young man.”

“I'm not leaving. Well, someday I suppose, but not now. I just want a couch … you know, in case I have somebody over.”

“And you'll leave it if you do … leave, I mean.”

Mollified, she gave me her permission and recommended a consignment shop where she bought her things. I should explain about Warrenton consignment shops. There are two kinds of things they sell: classy-looking but impractical, useless stuff the rich folks got rid of and crap the poor folks dumped. That's the kind of town we are, rich and poor and not much in the middle. Momma always said we were threadbare-but-clean poor folks, doing well but watching our pennies. There are lessons in being brought up that way. I used those lessons bargaining for a decent couch.

I had the clerk down from a hundred and fifty to one twenty-five and was going for another thirty, at least when I notice our dickering had an audience. Someone familiar, but no name came to mind. She had the same kind of puzzled look on her face; but her memory recall was better than mine.

“YOU!!!” she exclaimed, “are that EXCELLENT dancer I met a month or so ago. Uh … RACER!” Her eyes lit up as my name came back to her.

“Yes, ma'am, uh … Renee,” I answered. “You're very easy to dance with.” She pretended to blush but no color came to her cheeks.

The store clerk saw her negotiations temporarily derailed and said, “I'll leave you two for a minute for this other customer ...”

Renee watched her go and said, “My LORD, you're even handsomer in the light! What ever are you doing here?”

“Trying to buy a couch. That one.” I pointed.

She regarded my selection with a pained expression she tried to hide. “I have a much better one that I was going to bring to the shop next week. Would you like it? I was going to ask twenty dollars for it.”

I accepted and gave her the twenty for the couch sight unseen. She said she'd have it dropped off in the afternoon and asked for my address. “Where?” she asked again, bewildered. My street wasn't on most maps; it started as an alley behind a strip of stores and continued on for a bit. Three hours later, a very comfortable couch in a what I thought was a loud floral print sat in my living room. Mrs. Luckett checked it out and said I could move out any time I wanted provided she got the couch.

A busy day … I put shorts on again and sat on my porch with my book. I got another couple of chapters read before B. J. arrived. He was bubbling.

“I sold one! Finally, I sold one!” He had brought tonic this time and added it to some of yesterday's vodka. We sat and drank. He explained the intricacy of the used car business to me. He had successfully sold – unloaded, was the word he used – one of the cars that had been sitting on the lot for months. “There is like ZERO market for '87 Buicks and I sold one! Double commission!” We toasted and drank. He asked about my day.

“I got you something much better to sleep on if you ever crash here again. By the way, did you put me to bed last night?”

“Not really. I helped you to your room. You pretty much did the rest.” He left it at that but it seemed like there was more.

“What?” I prodded.

His brow knitted and he finally came out with it. “Why do you shave your bush?”

“Slick told me to.”

“He TOLD you to?!?!”

“We were in the shower after a massage and he kept staring at me.” I pointed at my crotch. “When we were almost done, he said, 'You should shave your bush. It's polite. So girls won't have to be pullin' pubic hair out of their teeth all night. Like mine … see?' ”

“Dude!!”

“Short but not shaved, he said. And then he took my hand and said feel it.”

“JEEZ!”

“I pulled my hand away and told him I got the idea.”

“You want another drink? I'm having one!” B. J. splashed more vodka into our glasses.

“So I trimmed stuff, you know, DOWN THERE … and the next night, after a win and another massage, he checked me out and said, 'It's lookin' good!'”

“Weird beyond all dreams of weirdness ...” B. J. commented.

We went out for some dinner and then came back. B. J. told me about the first game he played. He had me laughing hysterically at how bad he was. He's really a great story teller. Maybe the vodka helped, although we weren't anything close to drunk. In the morning B. J. said the couch was as good as any bed he'd ever slept in. He went into the kitchen and looked in the cabinets.

“Coco Puffs! Racer, I'm gettin' us some decent cereal. We can't be eatin' Coco Puffs.”

 

[uncut702]

Another great addition, can't wait to see what happens between slick and racer!! Thanks for writing!!

 

[Craiger]

So!!! Racer has a new roommate. At least it sounds as though B.J. would like it that way. Another mystery is...how did he know Racer shaved his bush???? What happened when Racer was obliteratedly drunk? We may be coming up with a tiny romance here.

Craiger

 

[Kyanimal]

Rory, Bud!

These characters are crackin' me up! Smilin' and laughin' in a good way!

Though Racer is a much deeper guy than his exterior might suggest, he certainly has that FUN factor about him.

Thank You for this new spinoff!

Keep Smilin'!!
Chaz