The Trick who fell from space




By Perry Brass


(Perry writes about this piece: "The Trick Who Fell From Space" comes from my 1992 short story collection, "Works and Other 'Smoky George' Stories," and dates back to the 1980s when it was written and originally published in FirstHand Magazine. It combines stark naked homoeroticism with science fiction themes (space travel, bionic creatures, etc) and a good dose of sexual politics, too. The narrator lives in rural Georgia, where homophobic violence was (and probably still is) rampant.)




I know—I mean I know—you won't believe this story about my friend Gary. That is, I call him Gary. But I've got to tell it to somebody. I'm not even sure why I should tell it to you, but sometimes you keep things a secret for too long and you even start to believe that nothing's real, and before long, you're screwy, and you're ready to be sent away, if you know what I mean.

Maybe I should tell you how I found out about Gary, but I know what I'll do, I'll tell you how I found him. That's the best way to begin. I'll tell you just how I found him.

Okay, you're not going to believe this. Shit! You're going to think I'm crazy, but alright, I'm going to tell you the whole thing anyway. He was stark naked. Gorgeous and stark naked. That's the first thing I've got to tell you.

He was stark naked

I was living in Atlanta—actually right outside of Atlanta, in this wonderful little town called Dawsonville. It was pretty and quiet, and the people were very polite. But it was a strange place to live. If you get my drift. That is, I was sure I was the only ho-mo-sexual there. (People in this part of the world always say the word like they've never heard it before. As in, "Is he a ho-MO-sexual?" They figure if they put enough "Mo" in it, we'll all go away.)

To be truthful with you, I'm sure there were others, because when I'd go out cruising in my car, which is the only way to go cruising in the Atlanta area, I'd usually find somebody in about ten miles. Usually, he'd be messing around in some park or at some rest stop. Often he'd be married, one way or another, and just out "for a little air," from the kids, wife, or his own husband. Although the rest stops get their occasional shake-up from the various cops, who must get bonuses from busting cocksucking thieves in the bushes (you never can tell when they're going to steal a bench or a picnic basket or do something else abominable like that), the rest stops along the interstates are busy locations in my neck of the woods. In fact, you can make a whole gay career out of rest stops in the Greater Atlanta area. Let me tell you that, personally.

Well, that day, about seven months ago—it was October and still very warm—I was, as they say, "tooling" out on the highway and I knew that at the junction of Highways 23 and 129, where the state road hits a decent-sized country road, there was a real hot rest stop. I was as horny as a wide-mouthed bass in heat, and all I really wanted to do was strip off all of my clothes and cavort in the woods a bit and suck some dick. I know, you think I'm a terrible person without an inch of socially redeeming value, but haven't we all felt like that sometimes?

I was, as they say, tooling out on the highway.

So, I got to the stop and damn, it was full of kids and families. They were yammering and blabbering at the two picnic tables, which were all set out with baskets of KFC chicken and those type of salads that begin with Kraft Miracle Whip and end up with canned fruit cocktail and little pieces of marshmallow in them. I was immediately disappointed, but I noticed that there were more than just two cars parked in the lot, so I used my amazing powers of deduction to figure that something or other had to be going on farther up the creek at the end of a little-used path, up a steep hill just above the small picnic area where the families were beginning to divvy up the drumsticks from the white meat.

So I put my wallet in the glove compartment of my Datson, locked it, then locked the car and left. I always carried a few dollars and some change, my plastic pouches of K-Y, just in case I got real lucky, and some pre-lubed rubbers, which are wonderful because they're so portable. I mean, if you plan ahead and have any sense, you can carry a whole sex kit in one front pocket of a snap shirt.

So, after briefly waving to all the tiny tykes down below, I started climbing up the path. It was a gorgeous day. I mean gorrr-juss! The sky was so blue you could have seen your face in it, and the trees were shiny with leaves—nothing had changed colors yet. The climb up the hill, above the picnic area, was kind of steep, but my heart was really pounding from expectation and excitement, not just exertion. I mean, I was so horny that if I didn't find anything, I was going to jerk off anyway and watch my wad glisten in the grass or a bush or just do anything crazy like that. I love being naked outside and sometimes that's such a turn-on to me that even just feeling my butt and nuts brush against leaves or soft, high grass without a pair of chinos or Levis between them and the world gets me going.

Nuts brush against high grass.

I couldn't wait to get my clothes off. Like I said, I was real horny and I was also, let me tell you, a bit anxious. I mean, let's face it, I figured I'd better darn keep my ear to the ground, like the Scouts do, just in case one of those families decided to start nature hiking. I could see them calling the State Police, and as we all know, things out in the rolling hills of rural Georgia are not quite as sweet and simple as we'd all like them to be all the fucking time.


State police in Georgia isn't quite as sweet as we'd like.

Anyway, when I rounded the bend at the tail end of the path, in some pretty high grass, with all this beautiful mountain laurel around—Jesus, they are so pretty—I started to strip my clothes off. First, I snapped open my shirt, and then took it off. My nibs—you know, tits—they just loved it. My body was tanned and the slight cool of the air made them start to harden like little jelly beans and the hairs on my stomach, which were bleached kind of copper, started to rake off in the wind a bit, just ripple on my chest. Shit, it all felt goooood.

I felt so damn good that I decided to take everything off and I pealed down to my sneakers and socks. I would have taken them off, too, but you know there is such a thing as poison ivy in this part of Georgia, and I did need to watch out for it. But I'm sure that the grass itself wouldn't have hurt my bare feet.

I'd been wearing a comfortable old jockstrap. I love wearing jocks, but I took that off as well. I figured why not go buck-ass natural? It was such a beautiful, natural place and every part of me started to come alive, right then. That's why I like to live out in the country. There are a lot of hick country people I can live without, the kind who think the KKK is a social service organization. They can be the fly in the ointment of rural living. But just the thrill of being out there, with my whole body starting to suck in that fresh air—okay, you can sure tell I was getting into it all—when "just around the corner," or about twenty feet from where I shucked off my jock, I saw this figure coming out of the creek. I thought my heart was going to collapse. I couldn't make out all the details, but what I did see was wonderful, I mean—Gosh!—what a strapping man! All there! I mean, he was naked as a fucking mud beaver, and he was right there in front of me. All I had to do was walk over to him.

You know, sometimes you have this feeling that a twenty dollar bill has been dropped by God's ever loving hand right there in front of you—well, in a way, that was what this was. I just smiled and walked straight over to him. I can still remember the way the grass crunched under my sneakers. My heart was beating so hard that my ears started to tingle. I'll never forget it. I kept trying to keep my hard-on from getting too hard. I know that the head of my thick little pecker must have been purple by then, but I kept trying to keep it from standing out at full mast as I got closer to this man-thing.

He had just got out of the creek, and was sitting down in a very sunny spot, drying himself naturally. He was about six-foot tall, and he was—I know you're not going to believe this—perfectly built. It was like he came right off the hunk machine itself. He was a hunkeroo! His shoulders and his chest were perfect, broad, I mean deep where they were supposed to be. He had everything. I mean I couldn't see all the details, but I expected that the cock that went with all of the above would not disappoint me, either.

He was bronzy colored, from a whole summer out of doors, I was sure. And he had deep, thick chestnut hair, so deep it was almost mahogany in places.


And he had chestnut hair

Suddenly, he turned around to me when I approached, and he just looked at me. And he smiled. I mean it was the most wonderful, open-mouthed smile I have ever seen since I was about eight years old, when kids really smiled at you and hadn't learned to be frightened of smiling yet. I mean, here we were, smiling at each other, and naked as jaybirds in this beautiful setting.

My mouth just dropped open. I didn't say anything for—shit, it must have been about a full minute—and he just looked at me, and he didn't say anything, either. But I kept looking at him, at his gorgeous chest, with just that slight amount of dark, almost mahogany hair on it. His chest tapered down to a perfect triangle and met with his waist. Not an inch of fat on him; it was such a natural waist, the kind you want to put your hands on. Then he got up and I could tell—immediately—that that throbbing, big-man-cock of his was just as happy to see my dick as my peter was to see him.


His big-man cock was happy to see me.

"Hi," I finally said, and he grinned at me and, then—God, did I dream all this?—he opened up his arms. It was like we had stopped thinking, worrying, getting aggravated and bothered, and just did what we wanted to do. The next few seconds spun by. I wanted to say some kind of bullshit, but I'm proud to say I didn't. All he did was just hold me, and then his large mouth opened and he kissed me. He had soft, warm lips and a clean, milky kind of breath, and I felt his lips glide over my face, right onto my mouth and then his thick, strong tongue settled into my mouth and filled it. My eyes closed. I could have creamed right then.

We started to roll around, buck naked, in the grass. I was sure some sort of snake was going to bite me and, hell, I wouldn't even know it! My hands kept roaming and touching him on his chest and that wonderful place where a man's hips melt into his ass, and then his butt which was as firm and warm as I ever wanted a man-butt to be.

Well, I just let go. I mean, I became one rip-roaring, hells-a-poppin', hundred perfect horny-ass faggot! My mouth couldn't get enough of him into it. I started at his nibs, which were wonderful, like hard little boners themselves, and went right down his chest, into his navel and then down to that place I told you about, just right there where the hips and the ass met—where some people, like most of us, have love handles—and I just chewed on that spot for a few seconds. Then I got his dick in my hands. I started to suck it. I mean, first I licked it, then just—shit!—put the whole dang thing into my mouth, from the thick, gorgeous head down to the veins almost at the very base, by his balls. Wow! What a trip that was—landed the whole airplane all the way—and he let go this deep, sweet "Ahhhh," as if he loved every, scrumptious second of it.


And he was so responsive.

And he was so responsive. Sometimes you meet guys and they're like wood. Nice statues to look at, but they're so tight and wooden you think you're going to get splinters from their dicks. This one was not. He kept twisting himself around to kiss me. He just wanted to kiss and kiss and kiss, and his hands were groping me and pulling at my dick-pipe, and I had to hold my pipe back, just to prolong it, 'cause my nuts were turning blue, they wanted to blast so much.

Then we finally got ourselves around into the most wonderful sixty-nine in all of God's creation, let me tell you. I was just stuffing his meat, all half a foot or so of it into my mouth, and feeling my tongue work on it, when I realized something.

It was a strange thing to realize. He had a third ball. I kid you not. This creature, nameless unto me, had three balls. At some point in my meanderings about his fabulous genitals with my intrepid tongue, I felt three balls.

Now, I have gone down on men with one ball. That is an unfortunate, but not uncommon situation. But three balls, and I realized that this was not your average run-of-the-mill trick. No wonder this guy was so oversexed.


This is a fucking miracle.

Well, I thought, this is a fucking miracle. I mean, of all the humans in the world, I, George, should get a fucking three-balled man. So, I just decided, why complain when you stumble on the gold fields? And I started to take all three of them, one by one, into my hot mouth and caress them in his ball-sack. And he was happy. Boy, was he happy. And I was happy, too. And, boy, was I ready to come my brains out.

But I held back a couple of minutes more, and he did, too. Until I just managed to get his cock out of my mouth—the head was so pretty then—and I said, "Man, I'm going to do it," and he didn't say anything, but a second later, he shot his wad into my mouth, and I took my dick out of him and blasted my cum all over his face. I'm not sure why that happened. It just did.

It took me a couple of minutes to return to Earth—full consciousness, so to speak—and I held on to him. I'm not sure which part I held on to, but it was some part between his wonderful, firm belly and his sweet ass. Then I realized where I was, and what I'd been doing, and I was really happy.

I looked over at him. I smiled and he smiled back. Then I did what I always do. Maybe it's a reflex, but it seemed like the most natural thing to ask. "What's your name?" I said.

He smiled. It took him a second, then he said, "Gary."

I smiled again. I liked looking at him. "Mine's George. Boy, that was wonderful!"

He got up and took my hand. My body was still itching from excitement and Georgia grass flies, and we went over to the creek. It felt great—cool but not icy—just great. We started to hold each other and I sucked on his nibs some more, and then I started to notice something else about him. Right above his ass, just at that point where normally the tailbone ends—a point that I really love to feel on a man—he had a small, very hairy projection. I wouldn't want to call this a tail, but it was certainly about as close to one as I ever felt on a human person.

But why point out peculiarities? I was happy. I couldn't help beaming. I love to smile, and I did. I felt goony with happiness. I lightly bit his ear lobe and then whispered into his ear, "You're a strange guy."


"Uh huh," he whispered back.

"Uh huh," he whispered back. Then he smiled, and he laughed. It was a dry, intelligent laugh, I will say, and I started to laugh with him. Then I started to feel him up some more. I had my hands around his peter, and I remembered his third ball.

I kissed him. My mouth just opened up around his. Then I said, in a whisper, "I've never made it with a guy who had three nuts before."

We got out of the creek. The water was starting to feel cold by then, and the air was so much warmer. I gathered up my clothes. We lay in the sun for a while, and then I put my jock on and he was still naked.

"Where are your clothes?" I asked him. I'd lit a cigarette. I don't smoke much, but after sex there's still nothing like one.

He looked at me and grinned. "I don't have any."

"You what?"

He shrugged his large, beautiful shoulders. "I don't have any. At least, I don't remember where I put them." He smiled sheepishly. "It's just a blank."

I nodded my head, like I actually understood what he was saying. "Where are you from?" I asked. He was lying on top of my left biceps, in the tall grass and we were looking straight up, into the sky, which had become slightly darker. It was about four o' clock and getting cooler now.

"I'm from a long way from here. A long way, George. Do you think we can go back with you, to your house?"

"But you don't have any clothes," I said.

"Don't worry. There won't be any people. I can tell you that already."

I was puzzled. Very puzzled. But this was not something I could just walk away from. We got up. I put on my clothes, and walked with him—he still naked—through the tall grasses, and around the bend, until we got to the parking. I was frightened. You never can tell when some Georgia state trooper, who might not look so kindly upon these things, might decide to pop up. But, just like he said, there was nobody there. He walked like being barefoot was very natural to him. The gravel in the parking lot didn't bother him. He showed me his car. It was an old, old one. I think it was a Studebaker, that's how old it was, with a Utah license plate.

"You actually drove that?"

He nodded his head, and he got into my car. Luckily, I had a tee shirt and an old pair of cut-offs in the back. I would've been happy as a pig in shit just to drive while he was naked, but truthfully, I don't live in the most sophisticated part of Dawsonville, and I could just imagine some of the hicks in my neighborhood when I drove up and naked hunkerama got out.


I could just imagine the hicks in my neighborhood.

In October, the sun, although warm enough, goes down faster, and it was twilight when we got home. My dog, Scooter, greeted us loudly at the door to my one-bedroom "condo" which I rent. It's called a "condo" because the real estate people think that's the hot thing for single people to live in. It's a "Condo Community" out there in the middle of the fucking sticks, which means that it also has a Jacuzzi hot tub in the back, which I have enjoyed on many a hot night, with many a trick, and a swimming pool, which is for the birds—too full of "singles" and too chlorinated.

I was hungry, so I pulled out some ice cream and some stuff like bananas and strawberries and I wanted to slather it and stuff it up various parts of Gary, but held myself back. I put the ice cream and fruit and stuff into two bowls, and we ate it on the carpet in the living room. Scooter, a fuzzy, brown part-terrier—part whatever, watched us a for while, then went under the sofa. He has this real ability to know when I'm not in the mood to pet him and want to pet somebody else. I'd eat some of the vanilla ice cream, then sucked on Gary's cock while my mouth was still cold. We got each other too hot for comfort and ended up in the bedroom. He'd never seen one of my rubbers, and of course I was too happy to show him how to use it. After I'd stretched one over his thick meat, I went down on it, a special treat, I must say, for the safe sex generation.

"Are you scared of AIDS?" he asked me.

I just smiled. I didn't want to think about that then. He fucked me so nice and afterwards we took the rubber off and I swear I wanted to suck it out, but I was afraid I was getting a little gross.

We lay on the bed for a while. I wasn't sure what I was going to do then. Then he said to me, "I don't have the same immune system you do."

"You what?"

"Where I come from, we already had the AIDS problem. We got rid of it. So my immune system is different."

I kissed him again. "A lot about you is different. Tell me about yourself. I want to know."

"I'm a real foreigner," he began. He held me very closely and was really whispering. "It would take you five years to get where I come from. But human beings have never gone that fast."

Suddenly it dawned on me that he was saying something I really couldn't understand. So I asked him the first question that came into my mind. "How come you're a homosexual?"

"We have three sexes there. I'm just one of them. It's very normal there to be what you call 'homosexual.'"

"It is?"

He nodded his head.

"You mean no one arrests you there for it, or bothers you, or hassles you ever?"

"No."

"It must be a nice place."

He turned his head away from me. "It's dying," he said. "One of our anti-pollutant systems backfired. The entire habitable part of the planet had to be evacuated. Everybody I knew went to our moon, but I ended up here."

"Here in Dawsonville?"

"No, in Utah."

"No, in Utah."

That made sense; the license plate and all. Utah was big, open, and lots of it was fairly empty. I looked at him much closer. God, his body was so beautiful and it had this wonderful warmth to it. I also noticed that he had six toes on each foot, a remnant of a tail, and three balls. Aside from that, he could pass as one of us, probably better than I could.

"Would you let me stay with you for a while?" he asked. "Money will not be a problem. My mental powers are good at getting around money—remember that I knew there was no one waiting for us at the parked cars? I can use those powers at machines that involve computers. But I must be careful that my transactions are not suspect and traced—so I cannot be greedy. I have some money in my car. I have used these powers to speak your language. But I have not been able to get any clothes, and have not met many people here."

He said all this calmly, as if everything he did was ordinary. He was right about the clothes—he didn't have a stitch of them. How he ever got all the way from Utah naked was more of a mystery to me than how he found me at the rest stop. I found out there were many strange things I'd learn to expect from Gary. His amazing intelligence, which seemed to float over things and then catch them, was only one of them.

He was very foreign. He stayed with me for a week. I'm not sure if part of the turn-on of this guy was that I couldn't tell anyone what he was really about, where he'd come from, or the secrets of his delicious body. But he was a complete turn-on anyway. He seemed to understand everything I ever wanted from sex, and with three balls, he was insatiable. We must have fucked in 62 different positions, and Scooter got used to staying under the couch, because we did it on every square inch of the living room, the bedroom, the bathroom, and even the kitchen.

He was very foreign.

He left as mysteriously as the way he came into my life. I just know that one day there was no old car with Utah plates parked next to my space in the "Condo" lot. But I keep hoping that one day he'll call or write, or maybe I'll be at another rest stop and find him.

He liked Atlanta. He said that it reminded him of the place he'd come from. Everything was either underground or air conditioned; there were parts of town you didn't walk into; there were dangers from people you considered alien. He made me realize how science fiction the South had become. It really opened my eyes up about a lot of things. We went to several malls and bought clothes. I remember him saying, "Why do they put a roof over the sky? Why don't they just let the sky in?" I nodded my head and tried to see the world through his eyes. And for the first time in a long time, from that summer day, maybe when I was twelve years old, and had my first hard-on when I saw a hunky naked man next to me in the showers of the downtown Lucky Street YMCA, I felt less foreign than the person next to 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

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