Warning: the following story contains graphic descriptions of sex between consenting adult males. If you are underage or do not wish to read such materials, or if reading this sort of material is illegal in your jurisdiction, then read no further. If you have any feedback or encouragement, feel free to drop me a line at niftyguy_30307@yahoo.com.
Blue sky, green trees, a white clapboard church, and the good red earth floated through my field of vision as I brought myself back to focus on the black-suited preacher. His voice had merged with the hum of the locusts singing in the shimmering heat of an early summer afternoon, and I could feel a trickle of sweat roll down my back between my shoulder blades. Sunglasses in the rental car, I closed my eyes against the penetrating rays that shone down.
Even now, it's hard to believe that, just four days earlier, I had been standing in the kitchen of my apartment in New York, opening a can of soup, when the phone rang with the news of Uncle Ed's death. The sweet Southern woman on the other end of the line explained how he had suffered a stroke in the frozen food aisle of the Piggly Wiggly and never regained consciousness, despite the best efforts of the staff at the hospital in Augusta, the closest city of any size to the tiny town of Dumont, Georgia, where my uncle had lived his whole life.
"Mr. MacNeil, in your uncle's medical records he had listed you as next of kin. Did he have any other relations in the area, anyone who could help with the funeral arrangements?"
"No, I'm his only family. My mother, his sister, died ten years ago, and he never married." I paused. "I'll fly down in the morning."
And with that decision, I turned the page on a new chapter of my life. It would be an understatement to say that I was ready for a change at that point. I was thirty-eight years old, newly single after the dissolution of a ten year relationship with the man whom I thought would be mine forever, and contending with the worst case of writer's block I had ever faced, serious enough that work on my second novel had ground to a complete halt. Aside from semi-regular royalty checks from my first novel, about all I had going for me was a rent-controlled apartment in the Village, but even that had its downside, because it kept me tied down in the familiar place that I had shared with another. Faced with all of that, it was almost a relief to board the flight to Atlanta and leave some of my cares behind. Burying my uncle, who was also a friend, would be hard, but at least it held the promise of jolting me out of my torpor.
The next four days passed in a blur of meetings, handshakes, decisions, and fast food meals. The funeral itself was my first real opportunity to stop and think, remember and say goodbye. After it was finally over, I drove back to my uncle's house, a big, old, rambling Southern clapboard house, ringed by broad porches and surrounded by dogwoods and magnolias, filled with antiques and family treasures, memories and maybe even a ghost or two. It had originally belonged to my grandparents, and then to Uncle Ed, and now to me. It was, and still is, a house that holds the entire history of my family. I had always suspected that the ancestral homestead would come to me, and my uncle's attorney had confirmed that when he approached me after the funeral to give me the thumbnail sketch of my uncle's assets and their disposition. All were now mine, save for a couple of small bequests.
I hesitated for a moment before using the heavy key I had always kept on my key ring. When I finally turned the lock, the mechanism resisted for just a fraction of a second before the hidden metal jigsaw puzzle fell into place and the door swung open. Inside it was cool and quiet, save for the ticking of the tall clock in the entrance hall. I sat on the sofa in the parlor for maybe twenty minutes, just looking around and taking in all of the familiar things, when a knock at the front door roused me out of my reverie.
I opened the door to reveal a young man, probably in his late teens or early twenties, holding a casserole dish. He was quite handsome, in a corn-fed, stocky, muscular sort of way. He wore his dark hair short, in a style that skated pretty close to a crew cut, and his short-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned far enough down to reveal the smooth, tanned skin of his broad chest. His most distinguishing feature by far was the deep cleft in his chin, the kind that would go a long way in Hollywood, or on Christopher Street.
"Hello," I said. "What can I do for you?"
"Uh, my mom wanted me to bring this over for you. We live over there," he said, indicating the two-story house directly across the street. It was somewhat less well-kept than Uncle Ed's house.
"Well that's very kind of you," I said, reaching out to take the dish from him. "My name's Jefferson MacNeil, but I go by Jeff. I'm Mr. Mayhew's nephew."
"Yeah, I figured as much. I'm Toby Wilson, and my mom's Ada Mae Wilson. She wanted you to know that your uncle was a real good man, a real good neighbor. We never had no trouble or nothing. I even did some odd jobs for him."
"I'm glad to hear that." I watched as Toby shifted somewhat nervously from side to side. "Tell your mother that I hope to meet her at some point soon."
"Oh I don't know `bout that. She don't get out too much. But I'll tell her."
There was an awkward silence. "OK, well, Toby, I'll get this dish back to you as soon as possible."
He nodded and smiled a crooked smile at me as he turned to walk back across the street. I experienced a twinge of guilt as I momentarily lusted after the fine specimen of sturdy, young Southern manhood who was walking away; I had just buried my uncle, for God's sake. I had to smile, though, at the thought that I probably wasn't doing anything Uncle Ed, a "confirmed bachelor" of an earlier age, hadn't done on many occasions.
After eating some of the casserole Toby had brought, I spent the evening puttering around, walking from room to room, examining long-forgotten things. By 10:00 I could tell that sleep was not going to come easily, so I poured myself a stiff scotch on the rocks from one of the bottles in the liquor cabinet and took a seat in the dark out on the upstairs porch, right off of the largest of the four bedrooms. I rested the glass on a small table, next to a pair of field glasses that sat there, and contemplated the sultry evening. Compared to New York, it was just so damn quiet.
I relaxed there for a bit, sipping my drink and examining the heavy binoculars, wondering if Uncle Ed had become a bird watcher in his old age. If he had, he'd never said anything to me about it. Before too long, however, a light came on in one of the upstairs bedrooms in the house across the street, where Toby lived with his mother. Uncle Ed's house was perched on an ever so slight rise, and the extra elevation enabled me to see clearly down into Toby's small room, where he was puttering around, shedding clothes and evidently preparing for bed. Pretty soon he had stripped down to nothing more than white briefs, and he flipped the switch that extinguished the overhead light, leaving the room softly lit by a bedside lamp.
I became even more intrigued when Toby squatted down next to his bed and slipped one hand between the mattress and the box springs. He deftly extracted a large manila envelope, from which he produced a couple of magazines that he dropped on the bed before stretching out and leaning against the pillows piled up against the headboard. Wasting no time, he began to leaf through the magazines while simultaneously stroking himself through the thin white cotton fabric of his briefs.
I'm sure that I don't need to say that by this point my attention was completely focused on exactly one thing, and I suppose that is why I totally forgot for a couple of minutes that I was sitting there holding a pair of field glasses. When I finally remembered that they were there, I quickly raised them to my eyes and scanned the house across the street until I found Toby's wide-open window. While I couldn't see the pictures that he was looking at, I could definitely see their effect. A very large bulge appeared to be straining his underwear, and if I had to guess I would say that he probably had a pretty sizable wet spot forming right at the tip of his cock. With one hand he was flipping through the pages of his magazine, and with the other he was squeezing and pulling and stroking and teasing. Sweeping up from the point where a thin trail of hair entered the elastic waistband and across his rippling abdomen and up to his smooth, muscular chest, I could clearly see that his dark nipples had hardened into taut buds. My mouth watered at the thought of sucking on them, especially when Toby began to twist and pluck them with the hand that had been ministering to his fat prick.
It goes without saying that by this time I had sprung a huge boner of my own. I guess that I had been hanging to the left when I sat down, because my hard cock extended down the left leg of the loose boxers that I was wearing under my baggy shorts. Still holding the binoculars up to my eyes with my right hand, I slipped my left hand up the leg of my shorts. As I rhythmically slid my slippery foreskin back and forth over my swollen head, I watched Toby insert his fingers into the fly of his briefs and extract first his blunt, fat cock and then his heavy balls.
Just the sight of Toby's hard cock and balls protruding from the fly of his pristine white briefs was almost enough to make me lose it. I hadn't had sex with anyone for months, and my longing for contact with another man was intense. Almost hypnotized, I watched as he transferred saliva from his mouth to his twitching erection before beginning to really stroke the full length of his penis, every veiny inch. By now I had smeared slippery precum as far down my shaft as I could reach, and I jerked myself in time with his strokes.
I guess that Toby had finally settled on a picture that could take him all the way home, because he stopped flipping through the magazine, maybe in order to free up a hand, so that he could tug on the hard package of his balls, which I imagined to be swollen and full of his hot, white cum. Up and down he jerked with one hand, ratcheting up the stimulation that was clearly making him horny as hell, while simultaneously using his other hand to explore the rest of his body, from his balls to his tits. With the aid of the binoculars, I could see that his cock was turning a dark and angry purple, and he began to energetically pump his fist, bouncing his butt off the bed to meet his experienced hand. With each stroke, he twisted his thumb and forefinger around the sensitive flesh that formed the boundary between his cockhead and the shaft of his prick. His erection was thick enough that there was no way his fingers were going to meet in an unbroken ring, but he greedily wanted every square inch of cock to receive at least temporary stimulation.
I briefly scanned up to his face, which was shiny with perspiration. Judging from his half-closed eyes, I surmised that he could shoot at any time, and I increased the space of my own frigging as I returned my gaze to his crotch. I swear to God that I could see his balls tightening up, pulling up closer to his body, preparing to squirt their hot spunk out through the slit that bisected the blunt tip of his unbelievably sexy cock, and I couldn't stop myself from letting out an audible groan just as he and I both simultaneously erupted waves of hot, slick jism.
My orgasm radiated out through my entire body in waves, temporarily driving out all thoughts. As it slowly receded, I just slumped back in my chair, totally spent from what had gotten very close to sex with another human being. For months, ever since my breakup, I had tried to put thoughts of sex out of my mind, and now they were flooding back, released by my and Toby's unwittingly shared masturbation.
In that moment, I knew was that it was time to feel alive again. And life was what I would find in that small town, living in that big old house, meeting new people. I didn't know how long I would stay, but I knew at that moment that it would be for a while.