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Works


By Perry Brass


    I'd been eyeing Works, the foreman on the ranch outside of Modesto, all week. I'd been eyeing him and there were certain times he'd look at me and my knees went watery. He was tall and built like a cedar telephone pole—all muscle and fiber. Not bony, but beautiful, long muscles. It was the second evening we'd found ourselves stripped naked together. We were washing off in the irrigation canal a good way from the bunkhouse, after dusty work in the apricot fields we were re-fencing. It was a nice time for me to be doing that kind of work, some years ago when I thought I had time in my life to burn. I must have put on five pounds of muscle in that first week. And I'll tell you—with the heat of working in the fields and the hard work itself, I was itchy and horny to get at Works.

    He suddenly swam over to me in the dark, cool water. You couldn't drink it, but it was clean enough to wash in. Secretly, I knew I had a hard-on. I felt embarrassed and excited at the same time. The tip of my dick was starting to quiver, and there was a certain point where I knew I just couldn't hold back or hide it anymore. I got down further in the water.

    "This sure feels good," Works said and grabbed the large bar of Ivory Soap drifting beside him. He stood up. His cock, fairly long and skinny, but with a great, kind of baseball of a head, hung limply down him. He soaped himself quickly, but then spent a lot of time at his nuts.
    "That looks like fun," I said.
    "Yeh. I like playing with them," he grinned sheepishly.
    I thought I was going to pass out in the water. I could see the newspaper headlines the next day: "Man Drowns from Horniness."


Man drowns of horniness

    I decided then I was too far gone to hold back. He could fire me, throw me off the ranch, and I'd have to head back, defeated, to San Francisco. If things got really rough and he started to give me a hard time—well, I knew if I had to, I could try to beat the shit out of him. Or die trying. But at least I'd get one chance to put my hands on him. Then he could make up his mind as to what he really wanted.

    I grabbed the Ivory when he let go of it in the water. When he turned away from me, I started to soap down his back.

    "Like this?" I asked. He didn't answer, and I felt myself sigh from the pleasure of feeling his muscles under the pressure of my hands. His back was tight and ripply. It started to loosen up under my soapy fingers. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked when I reached around and grabbed one of his nuts.

    I told him I was just having fun. "Buddy, those are my nuts!" He tried to jerk away from me, but he must have known that he couldn't. I really had him by one of his cahoonies. When I finally let go, turned around and faced him, he could see that I was fully erect. Although I certainly wasn't as long as he was, I am proud to say I was fatter. My plug started throbbing.
    "Listen, man, you are not going to fuck me!" he said emphatically. There was a note of threat in his voice, as if he knew what the situation was and where it could go. This started to intrigue me.
    "You're right," I said softly. I began to stroke his cock with my soapy fingers. "I won't do anything you don't want."

    He looked up at me with a mixture of blankness and uncertainty. Then I saw something go through his eyes. It was the reflection of Diego, one of the Mexican farm workers, approaching us. They were migrant workers, and many of them, I admit, were hunks. They were treated badly by the owners of the farms and ranches in the area, but they managed to keep a proud streak through them. Machismo—attitude—call it what you will. I just knew that that streak would not look well on what I wanted to do with Works. And Works knew it, too.

    He instinctively crouched down into the water and I crouched down with him, not letting go of his dick. In fact, I had one hand on his testicles and one on his peter. And I will swear before any saint—or sinner—under Heaven, that his dick was getting harder down there in the dark water. His testicles felt warm, relaxed, almost gooey, in his long, loose ball-sack.

    "Hey, muchachos!" Diego called at us, and approached.


"They don't think men should do this with each other."

  "Oh, no ..." Works said. "If he knows what we're doin'," he whispered to me with fear in his voice, "all hell's gonna break loose. They don't go for this kind of shit. They don't think"—he paused for a second—"men should do this with each other."

    Works pretended to lie back, then sank his butt deeper into the canal, and I released his hose and the jewels under it. "Diego? Hey, you finished counting all them bushels of 'cots? Your tools put away?"

    "Sure, boss!" His face hit the dirt, as if he knew it would be a good idea where not to look. Then he turned quickly, and started hustling down the dirt road to the big barn where the bushel baskets of apricots were stored before the canning trucks took them off.

    I could tell there had been a funny ring in Diego's voice, as if he knew Works was only trying to get rid of him. I'd forgotten that there were certain things men weren't supposed to do, and they weren't supposed to have privacy, either, if they started doing it. Works looked at me. His eyes lowered, like he could finally relax. But just for a second. "Let's get outta here," he said, when Diego had disappeared into the distant dust. "If he saw anything, my ass is grass."

    We both got out of the irrigation canal. Works put on his jeans over his sopping body. It was so hot jeans could dry directly on you. Works didn't put anything on his tanned, lean chest. It was matted with thick, black hair across his pecs. His stomach was almost hairless. The pattern of hair and smooth on his body was nice. Satisfying. I could watch it, let me tell you, for a long time, if I was only into watching Works. Suddenly he looked over at me, and a smile rolled up his face. His thin lips parted, revealing his large, very horse-like teeth. "You gave me quite a surprise," he said.
    I nodded and then got into my jeans. They didn't feel good. They felt cold and clammy. I had a hard time cramming my male utensils into them, since I was still in a fairly excited state. We barefooted it over to the bunkhouse, which, I am glad to say, was empty.


I had a hard time cramming my male utensils.

  It was always dark in there to keep the heat out. I noticed that Works now seemed nervous and hot. Maybe it was a combination of anxiety and horniness, too. Perspiration came off his face. We walked to the back of the bunkhouse, farthest from the door. He started to bend over a bit to get his jeans off; they slid easily off. Then he stood next to me, really shy, like he was going to ask me a  personal question. But he was buck-naked, with his long pecker, semi-hard, aimed at my mouth. I sat on the edge of one of the narrow beds and tried to squeeze my jeans down over my extremely stiff dick. This was no easy matter with so much distraction—like Works' hot body—around me.

    Finally, after my jeans lay in a sloppy mess at my feet, I got down on my knees and took Works' full cock into my mouth. He was very hard now, and I was enjoying the hell out of it. I pulled his body closer to me so that I could smell the soap and irrigation water, all mixed with his fresh crotch smell. He pushed his hands through my hair and in about ten strokes of my mouth his jism was running down my throat. Some of it spilled off my chin and landed on my own cock. My heart pounded. In a second I was going to blast off myself, no matter what I did with my dick. I was that hot, and believe me, I could see the headlines from that, also: San Francisco Man, Now Ranch Worker, Explodes from Spontaneous Combustion. Explains 'My Dick Got Too Hot!'

    But I didn't have a chance to do anything before Works pulled his jeans back up and walked away. Casually. Like we'd just been sitting there, chawin' about the weather or something. He was still barefoot and bare-chested. His stomach glistened from sweat. It glistened like dark, freshly oiled floorboards. His black chest hairs sparkled. His tits were like little brown coffee berries and I wanted to bite on them, but he was already by the door. He turned sharply to me. "Listen," he said, with a real warning in his voice. "Don't tell Durrance about any of this. For your own sake. Okay?" The screen door snapped open. He was gone.

    He literally took my breath away—that is, if I had any breath left. I was too hot for breath. I went into the narrow craphouse at the end of the building, shut the door, and jerked off all over the toilet seat. I decided to leave it there. That would give the workers something to talk about. I ran some water from the small sink through my hair and counted to twenty to try to calm down. Back at my bunk, closer to the door, I pulled a fresh tee shirt out of my locker. I put on my sneakers and felt better.

I shut the door and jerked off

    The front of the bunkhouse was still empty a few minutes later, when Durrance, streaked with dust and very hot, stomped in.

    "See Works?" he asked. I was still sitting at my bunk; I told him no. "He sure looked funny. What got into him? I thought you and him was over at the canal to wash. Nice evening for it, ain't it? I'm goin' over there now." Suddenly he smirked. "You want another bath?"

    Durrance was about thirty-five, a few years older than Works. He was shorter and heavier than Works, but no bad looker. He had a bull neck and a thick but hard gut. But what really got you about Durrance were his eyes. They were blue and clear like a western sky. And they twinkled when he smiled. I was sure that in the right circumstances, you'd do anything for a twinkle from Durrance's eyes.

    But I figured safer was a lot better than sorry. I told him no. "Sure?" he asked, all killer smile. But I knew better. If Works didn't want me to mention any of this to Durrance, there had to be a good reason. I knew under that twinkle and the dimples in his cheeks, Durrance had a nasty temper. Everyone kept just a bit of distance from him, especially when he got into one of his moods. When he was in one, you knew it. In my week at the ranch, I saw him pound the hood of a car once with the side of his hand. He made a complete dent in it. The Mexican workers, who liked Señor Works, kept their distance from Durrance.

    Both Durrance and Works had come down to Modesto from Montana, and landed jobs at "Modesto Deluxe Produce," specializing in apricots, almonds, and celery. Durrance called the place "Rancho Dingo." He was a hot mechanic. He could take a tractor apart in three-quarters of an hour, and then put it back together. He was proud of the fact that he was not stupid, in a world of a lot of stupid men. I remembered Works' warning once more, and told Durrance I was hungry, getting ready to chow, in the main building about a ten minute walk from the bunkhouse.

    Durrance nodded his head. "Okay, no swim with me, right?"
    I smiled.
    "How long you figure you're gonna be here?" he asked me.
    I leaned my head back. I felt like I'd already been at Rancho Dingo forever, but I'd been there exactly a week. Jesus, what a week—what a different world! I gibbered something about "as long as I hold out," and Durrance smiled once more—that twinkle that just looked right into you—and left. I started to feel queasy. I went back to my bunk, and stretched out for a moment. I realized Works and Durrance thought I was a cream puff. I was from San Francisco, which might have been half-way through the Milky Way away. I don't think either of them had ever even been into San Francisco. Then I had this real paranoid thought: Suppose Works let any of what happened in the canal, and later in the bunkhouse, out? I knew my nuts had got the worst of me. Suppose Diego just let it leak to the other migrants that he thought he saw me and the foreman doing puto numbers down by the ol' watering hole?

"Okay, no swim with me, right?"

   A shiver shot through me. I saw the whole thing in my mind: the Mexicans came, in some ways, from a more repressed culture. Although they lived in the bunkhouse with us, there was often tension. I wasn't sure how all of this would sit with them. One night, suppose they—well—decided to rope me to a tractor, and see how fast they could drive it with me tied to the back of it?

    My nerves got the most of me. I wasn't sure I could go in for chow right then. My stomach started playing hopscotch. I thought about my past, and my distant life in San Francisco. I grew up in an absolutely uninteresting place in the middle of our nation, and at twenty-eight decided to go off to San Francisco and make it as a computer operator. I landed a job at the Bank of America, but after a year I discovered that my nine-to-five gig was really interfering with my real life: partaking in San Francisco's wonderful bar life, and getting some interesting cock when I wanted it.

    So, as they say in computer lingo, my input did not interface with my Main Frame. And, after enough lame excuses from me, Main Frame fired me. No severance. No benefits. Chicken scratch unemployment.

    In other words, in plain English, I was out on my ass with a heavy-weight apartment above the Castro. Bills were eating me up alive. Finally, one night in a leather bar, a very friendly guy told me about farm work out in Modesto. "It's not all Silicon Valley out there yet, and they don't give a shit about resumés."

    A couple of days later, I got a computer buddy from the Bank who had just arrived in the Bay Area to write me a check for three months' rent, plus a thousand bucks to sit on my chairs and use my sheets. I'd been in good shape from working out at the gym. I was still young enough to do hard work, so I figured why not just cast my ass out on the next bus for Modesto and see what pops up?
    The first day I arrived in Modesto, I met Works at the counter of a coffee shop. I'm not sure how it happened, but we smiled at each other. He looked at me and said, "I can take you back to Modesto Deluxe in my truck, put you to work, or you can stay in town and see if a better offer comes along."
    I asked him where his pickup was—he could have picked me up right then—and he said outside. I couldn't believe how fast it all happened, or that I had screwed it up so quickly by putting the moves on him.

They don't give a shit about resumés
    I was still feeling pretty low when Durrance came back in from the irrigation canal. He walked past without even nodding to me. This did not appear to me to be a good sign. Since his bunk was close to mine, he stripped down to a heavy but work-hard ass, and then put on some fresh work pants and a clean denim shirt that showed off his chest. "What's wrong? Ain't chowin'?"
    I told him I really wasn't all that hungry. He nodded a bit to me, seriously, without his usual twinkle, and left for the chow hall.

    A few minutes later, the sun was almost down, except for a ribbon of purple light at the horizon. It was darker and cooler. I left my bunk and walked outside.

    Suddenly, I genuinely liked being there. I didn't want to go back to the Bank, or any fucking bank, for that matter. Ever again. I climbed up to a place above the field we'd been refencing and watched the whole landscape pour out from under me. I felt like dancing. The stars were coming out, and they were bigger and more beautiful than anything in any disco in San Francisco. I felt so happy, as if perhaps I could find myself out here in some way. I thought about the life I'd led in San Francisco, the bars and the one-night stands with guys who never really became your friends. There had to be something else in my life than that, although to tell you the truth, I wasn't sure where to find it. But being out here with rows and rows of fruit trees and the celery planted the way it was—in perfect, beautiful lines—made me feel good about myself. I stopped feeling anxious and returned to the bunkhouse, got into my bunk, and fell asleep.

    I was awakened—I'm not sure when, but later—by a hand pressed firmly over my mouth. "Get him!" Durrance ordered, and he held me down while Works grabbed my feet and flipped me out of the bed. I looked up at Works, but he wouldn't return my look. He kept turning away from me, and every time he did, it was like being stabbed. I knew he was disgusted with me. I wasn't wearing a stitch of clothes, and I felt—unusual for me—embarrassed at being naked.

    Durrance grabbed my hair, and whispered into my ear, "Now, you make any noise, friend, and every Mexican from here to the Border is gonna wake up and I don't think they like people like you."
    His logic was pretty convincing. No, I didn't protest. They threw a sheet over me, and dragged me out to the same beautiful fields I'd been in before, by the irrigation canal. Durrance spread the sheet on the ground, and the two of them shucked off their jeans and work boots. They both kept their denim work shirts on. Durrance had a thick, stubby hard-on and he aimed it at my face. He was uncut and skin still covered the head. "I heard you like to suck dick," he said and forced my mouth open with his left hand, sticking his fingers into it. His hand tasted like slightly salty leather. His nails were ground down short; they tasted of heavy-grade lube oil.

"I don't think they like people like you."
    He stuffed his cock into my mouth. "I heard you made advances to my friend," he growled, and began to fuck my face.

    "Durrance!" Works said. "He didn't make no advances to me. I mean ... I coulda got away from him."
    "Shut up, bean-brain," Durrance cut in, then pulled his cock out of my mouth. I felt dazed, really numb, like I wasn't sure any of this was happening. It could have been a dream; maybe I was still asleep in my bunk. Maybe I was still asleep in San Francisco.

    I looked up at them, and wondered what was going to happen next. Then I heard some loud noises coming from the other side of the bunkhouse. Flashlights came out. God, I thought, they're all coming to get me.

    My eyes watered. That happened when I was under a lot of stress. But I could see that Works looked concerned. "Those Mexicans aren't coming here, are they?" he asked. "Durrance! I told you not to tell 'em. Shit!"

    Durrance's face became one big smirk. "Yeh," he answered. He had that smile again. It was wicked. All cold blue eyes. You could have frozen meat with those eyes. "They're comin' over here to watch!"

    "You ... you promised, Durrance!"
    "Nah, Works. Don't worry. I was joshin'. Diego's just going into town with some of the boys. They're gonna get some. Know what I mean?"
    Works looked relieved. Frankly, I felt better myself. Then Durrance turned around from me. His hard, naked butt poked out from under his denim shirt and glowed in the half-light of the moon. "Now, I'm gonna get me  some," he said, and he went over to his jeans and pulled out a tube of petroleum jelly from his jeans' pocket. I knew he used that on his hands for engine burns.
    "I'm gonna grease up my dick and fuck you like a pig," he said to me.

    Works turned away in disgust. He looked even more naked with his shirt on and his pecker hanging down limply. "Durrance, why don't you leave him alone? Make him blow you, but don't fuck him. That's ... not right."
    "Yeh, Works, you tell me what's not right!" He got down close to my ear and ordered, "Boy, you get on your stomach real fast!"
    I knew I had to do what he said. Then I felt Durrance's weight on top of me, and he was pushing his fat dick through my tight ass. When I got nervous, my muscles clammed up. "You gonna let me in there?" he asked. "Or are we gonna have to work you over?"
    I didn't have a chance to answer. Works started to jam his feet back into his jeans. "Durrance, I ain't doing anything. This here is not right." He started to walk off in his bare feet, carrying his boots to the bunkhouse.
    "Works ... oh, shit, Works...!" Durrance called after him.


"You, you promised."

  Works suddenly turned around. "Durrance, what the hell do you want me to do? I ain't gonna rape him. That's not right."

    Durrance pulled his dick out of me. It hurt. He'd been rough. "Shit, Works!" He suddenly sat up on his knees. "Works, you know I couldn't hurt him if you didn't want me to." He looked down at me. "Damn, it's okay, it's gonna be okay," he said softly. His attitude changed so fast I was shocked.
    He squatted down on his haunches closer to my face, and then started to stroke my hair. He ran his greasy fingers over my cheeks and down my lips. "It was just fun. We was just havin' fun. Shit! I can't do anything Works don't want."

    For a moment, I thought my heart was going to stop. These two cowboys had really scared the living hell out of me. But now they seemed very different. "Let me show you nice," Durrance said. His hard, slightly stubbly face came closer to mine. I could smell his cool breath, and the slight whiff of Vitalis on his hair. He put his mouth softly on my face, and then his thick fingers found my soft, very frightened cock. They warmed me, and I started—whether I wanted to or not—to stiffen. "We was just gonna scare you," Durrance admitted. Works smiled, and he shuffled back over. A breeze stirred up again. It seemed for a while that the air around me had gone dead hot. Suddenly Works dropped his boots, and unbuttoned his shirt and let his jeans drop in the dust. He took his long, skinny cock in his hand. It was more than half hard. The thick head was getting full.

    "We done stuff like this before with other guys," Works confessed. He brought his cock close to me, and I took it into my hand and knew that I wanted it back in my mouth again. He must have known what I wanted. "I gotta admit, Durrance gets real jealous."

    Durrance smiled sheepishly, then went down with his mouth on my dick. He and Works played with each other's bodies. They got excited and started panting. I watched them for a moment, and also saw the moonlight skimming off the irrigation canal. It made the water in it seem transparent. Now I felt I could really breathe there at Rancho Dingo, and I let both of them fuck me.




Perry Brass’s 19 books include fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and short stories. His work often deals with the intense, heartfelt feelings of men and women that came from his radical roots in New York’s Gay Liberation Front directly after the Stonewall Uprising. He is a founding coordinator of the Rainbow Book Fair. More info: www.perrybrass.com.

This short story appeared first in FirstHand Magazine, and was reprinted in Brass's story collection "Works," (Belhue Press, New York, 1996) 

Comments

  1. Nice job, Perry. Gave me a good boner and made me laugh too. I'm a fellow LustSpiel writer, Dangeris F.A.G. I dig your work. Cheers.

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  2. I love it when my work accomplishes 2 things at once. Thanks, Perry.

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