Date: Sat, 12 Mar 2011 09:33:32 -0600
From: Martin Heidegger <mheidegger@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Queer Road:  Gold Dick III

			The Queer Road

DISCLAIMER: These stories are works of fiction about teen aged boys and
young men in conflict over their sexuality.  There are graphic descriptions
of sexual activity, most of it homosexual.  If you aren't supposed to read
such material, stop now.  The author retains copyright.

			Gold Dick III


	Buster's mother asked me to be a pall bearer at his funeral.  She
asked Murray Gold too.  She said we were Buster's only friends.  Hard to
say no to that.  I was in my senior year at the state Ag college and came
home on a Saturday.  The funeral was at four.  Murray picked me up in the
black Buick that had been the scene of two dick suckings during our senior
year in high school. It was his car now; three years older but still shiny.
I'd seen him around town a few times during vacations from college but we
hadn't gotten together. He was a senior too, at Memphis State.
	"What happened to Buster?" I asked first thing.
	"You didn't hear?  Out of prison for two months and just couldn't
behave."  He pulled away from the house, leaving me with my question still
unanswered.
	"What, car wreck?"
	"You remember Clarence Dollar?  That old black man who lives out by
our farm.  We used to go out there to buy beer."
	"Yeah, always had a story about his days in prison, used to warn us
to behave so we wouldn't end up like him."
	"Yeah, well he was a fence for stolen goods too.  Buster broke into
some houses and stole some stuff; televisions, guns.  Clarence bought it
from him."
	"Smashed into some guys house who wasn't gone?"
	"Yeah.  Clarence Dollar."
	"Clarence Dollar offed Buster?"
	"Buster heard Clarence kept a lot of cash in the house, and one
dark night he went out there."
	"Clarence always told us he couldn't have a firearm because he was
a paroled felon."
	"Remember that switch blade?"
	"Yeah, used to pull it out to show us how sharp it was, and how
fast."
	"Clarence told the police he didn't know it was Buster until he'd
already cut his throat."
	"No shit?  Clarence cut Buster's throat?"
	"Ambulance guys said they never saw so much blood; pools of it all
over Clarence's kitchen."

	We got our instructions at the funeral home, then went to the house
to pick Buster up He'd been laid out in the living room for three days of
visitation.  I know, old school, but this was back when people did it that
way.  Creepy to eat and sleep with a dead relative in a casket in the next
room.  I don't know if they had it open all the time or just for a few
hours every day. We picked him up and put him in the hearse for the ride to
the church, then carried him down front and the funeral director opened the
casket.  Impressive, considering the way he'd died.  He looked a little
heavier than the last time I'd seen him, about two years.  Murray said he
had prison tattoos all over him, including his neck and hands, and Murray
would know.  Buster was dressed in a suit with a dress shirt and tie and
his hands were at his side so none of that showed.
	The service was long, and when his mother and sisters would break
down, every woman in the house broke down.  They sang all the old tear
jerkers, and the preacher called on half a dozen friends and relatives to
get up and have a say.  We heard repeatedly about his being plucked in the
prime of life, and how a promising young man was now gone forever to the
arms of the Lord.  My mind wandered back to Buster and all the trouble we
caused when we were young, culminating with the time we forced Murray Gold
to suck Buster off in the old Miller house.
	Buster didn't graduate high school with us because he was in reform
school.  He got his GED and they let him out on his 18th birthday.  Two
weeks later he robbed a liquor store and was caught with the loot and the
pistol. I last saw him while he was out on bail pending a plea bargain by
his lawyer. He blamed the liquor store owner for his failure.
	"I could have shot the guy, but I didn't think he'd make a fuss."
	He did make a fuss, with the shotgun he kept under the counter.
Buster was damn lucky to get away alive.  They caught him two miles down
the road running full out on the rims with two tires and the windshield
shot out.  He did two years in the big house for that, and had been out
only two months.
	After a long prayer it was over, and the funeral director closed
the casket and we carried him out to the hearse for the ride to the
cemetery.  All six pall bearers rode in Murray's Buick.  The other four
were cousins and uncles; a rough bunch.  We pulled the casket out of the
hearse and carried it over to the grave and placed it on two straps
attached to a winch device that would slowly lower him down at the proper
time.  The crowd was a lot smaller at the cemetery.
	"...ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the preacher said as the little
winch lowered Buster down.
	I couldn't help thinking about poor Buster, kicking down Clarence's
back door and rushing into the kitchen, expecting to see piles of cash, and
then that faint click behind him.
	 "That was awful," Murray said as we walked to his Buick.  "I need
a drink."
	"Yes."

	"Charles!  How's Millie and the boys?"  Murray said to the
bartender as we entered the bar at the country club, then circled the room
greeting the hand full of other patrons by name.  I hadn't been there since
prom more than three years before.  We settled at a table in the corner
away from the others.
	"Put this on the store account," Murray said as we ordered
cocktails. "You got any of those shrimp?"
	"Peel and eat or shrimp cocktail?"
	"Cocktail, with Millie's cocktail sauce," he said, leafing through
the bar menu while he talked, then turned to me as the waitress left.
"They get these shrimp in here sometimes, really good."
	And, they were.  We got six big ones on ice with cocktail sauce.
With the couple drinks we soaked up pretty quick I expected the
conversation to get around to Murray's fascination with my dick, but I was
wrong.
	"What's your major?"
	"Ag."
	"What's that?"
	"Well, you know, the economics of farming, crop science, some
chemistry.  You kind of customize according to what you want to do."
	"What's yours?" I asked.
	"Finance.  How to use money to make money."
	"Pretty different."
	"Not so.  You guys farm," he said, using a statement to ask a
question.
	"Yeah, my grandfather's place.  My uncle mostly farms it."
	"Cotton?"
	"Yeah."
	"Who do you sell it to?"
	"Cotton broker in Memphis."
	"He buys the crop before you plant it?"
	"Some of it.
	"Finance."
	What followed was an hour of Murray's plans for the future.  His
parents were cashing out of their retail business, and he was going to go
to work for his uncle who was a cotton broker in Memphis as a squidge,
which is the entry position in the cotton business where you learn to grade
cotton.  His uncle had two sons, also headed into the business.  His
parents and others in his extended family had offered to back him in
breaking off to start his own brokerage.
	"It's all about contacts.  I need somebody who knows farmers,
somebody who can take those accounts from the established brokers," he
wound up after three cocktails and a couple dozen of those big shrimp.
	"Sounds good, but when my student deferment is up, I'm gonna get
drafted, and you will too."
	"There's ways around that."
	"Well, you could tell them about you and Buster."  That stopped
him.
	"Or me and you."
	"That's our secret, remember?"

	A month before something happened that made this conversation
relevant.  I'd been in bed with my girlfriend, a nursing student.  She was
going to be commissioned an Air Force nurse in a few months and had plans
to see the world.  I wasn't in those plans.  Still, we dated, had fun, and
sex.
	Her roommate was out of town so we had her place to ourselves.  We
were stretched out on her bed, head to toe.  She was sucking my dick head,
slowly, like an ice cream cone, licking, sucking, just enough to keep me in
the game.  I was on my back with her knees on either side of my head.  She
moved her torso up and down, sliding my slurping tongue and lips from
clitoris to vagina and back, and she was working up to her second climax.
My view was of her butt and asshole, pink and winking.
	Suddenly I had a vision of a dick and balls, Murray Gold's dick and
balls.  They were hairy, like all of Murray, and the dick was long and
curved and the head was bulging and purple.  I buried my tongue in my
girlfriend's pussy, but I felt the sensation of swallowing Murray Gold's
dick, something I thought I'd never do.  I'd been totally passive in our
three encounters.
	She finished, then I climbed on her and finished and we went out
for pizza, but that vision lingered, and it bothered me.

	"On the day of a guy's funeral we should say only good things about
him.  Tell me about you and Buster," I said, after the draft board
conversation had led to some silence.
	"Not here," Murray said, summoning the waitress, more solemn now.
"Let's go for a drive."
	"You said your parents were in Europe."
	"Yeah.  You want to go to my house?"
	"Yeah."
	Murray snapped around to look at me, then just nodded.  We got into
the Buick and headed out, it was dark, but the town was busy on a Saturday
night.
	"Those first few sessions in Miller's house planted something in my
psyche," Murray said as we pulled out of the country club.  "I don't lust
after men, but the memory of his dick shooting off in my face that first
time is the most intense thing that ever happened to me; good and bad.  The
second time he caught me there, when you weren't around, was also intense,
because he threatened but didn't actually lay a hand on me; I went.  I
avoided him, because I was ashamed, but still I went whenever he would show
up."
	"I remember that time in the cotton shed.  Wow, was that
incredible," I said.
	"For me too.  I wanted to do it, but I couldn't look myself in the
mirror after, but my dick was hard."
	We rode in silence to his house.
	"Drink?"  He said after parking in the garage and closing the door.
	It was a very well appointed house, larger inside than it looked
from the outside.  Murray got some bottles from a cabinet and took them to
the kitchen where he mixed drinks.  He showed me some family pictures, then
we went downstairs.  There was a pool table, bar with stools, and a long
couch.
	"Buster called the night he got back from reform school, and we
went out.  It was just like old times; he shows up and summons and I go.
After a couple sessions, he didn't call any more.  Then, the same with
prison.  He calls the night he got home and we went out.  Transitioning out
they cut them off from the other prisoners for awhile, so he hadn't had any
sex.  It was hot!"
	'You ever do it with anyone else?"
	"No."
	Long awkward silence.
	"You want to?"  Murray asked.
	"Let me just look at it," I said.

	The Gold dick erupted in my mouth, filling it with warm salty
snotty goo.  Mesmerized, I hadn't expected it, though I'd been sliding my
lips and tongue up and down that thing for five minutes.  My hands grasped
his taut hairy buttocks and his hands gently held my head as he tensed and
grunted, letting go to grab the side of the pool table for support.