By Perry Brass
(Perry writes per introduction: “Sex Stick” was one of the first stories I wrote for FirstHand Magazine back in the mid-1980s, when that magazine and the great writers who worked for it, like Lars Eighner and T.R. Witomski, were part of what has been called the “Golden Age of Gay Porn.” The story is actually based, somewhat, on my experience working my way back from Europe on a German freighter when I was 21 years old. The freigher was rife with very covert homosexual activity—you could smell it in the air. And “Sex Stick” recounts some of that atmosphere.)
Hans, the German able-bodied seaman, approached from around the corner. I wondered what he was doing down there. It was as dark as a cave down in the second storage hold where I was working, and by orders he was supposed to be up front, scraping and painting the fore deck on the second shift. Hans was a looker. Your eyes, without any effort, could stick to him. First of all, he was built like a brick shithouse. He was all hard muscle and had thick, powerful biceps and forearms that weren't just for show but for real work. He had a thick neck and corn-silk white hair. He looked like a pale, blond bull. As he approached me, I thought about his small, blue eyes. There was something quick and sexy about them, like they were taking in everything. As if they did more than simply see, but felt as well. I was sure Hans' eyes had to be to his brain what a warm tongue was to a mouth. His eyes tasted as well as saw.
|Hans, the able-bodied German|
But then, I couldn't even see his eyes. It was too dark, and I was supposed to be jotting down the stock numbers of barrels of naval stores in my manifest. Each barrel of this goo had a number with something like twelve digits in it. Part of the number showed where it came from and the date it was moved to our ship. I had to connect all these numbers, make some kind of pattern out of them, and then feed them to the ship's computer. It was a boring job, and I didn't let it take my mind off Hans for a second.
I remembered the way his eyes looked at me across the table in the seamen's mess. I sat across from him a lot. The ship had two messes—seamen's and officers. Occasionally, passengers came aboard—usually trying to find a cheap ride between places like Pago Pago and Bora Bora. The freighter was not equipped for passengers; no pool, no dance band. But they did get to eat with the officers, a repressed, stuffy bunch. Their food wasn't any better than ours, but their mess was quieter. The seamen were loud. So loud that if my eyes drifted over to Hans and just stayed there, nobody noticed. Being in the merchant marine is about nine-tenths boring and the other tenth worth all the hours of sitting with your thumb up your butt. Believe me, I'd been waiting for this other tenth to pop up for a couple of weeks.
That is, to be precise, I kept expecting at least one—and hopefully some—of the guys who worked on this tub to come on to me. I was getting tired of just jerking off down below deck in my cabin. I'd signed on with the boat because I knew one other guy, Casey, who was also gay and was a cook's assistant. Casey was short and in his forties and very quick witted. "You gotta be a little more forward," he said to me. Casey had grown up in Pittsburgh, but had an accent that was kind of half Irish and half all over. He was great at filching booze out of the locked steward's cabin. The steward, who was a horse's ass, had caught Casey once with a half bottle of Drambuie. Casey just said it was for the chief engineer, whom I have a feeling was secretly a brother of ours—if you know what I mean. Casey could steal, but would never snitch. I had tried to psych him out about Hans and all he'd say was "Nuthin' ventured, nuthin' gained!"
You had to be very cool out there on a boat. It wasn't so much that people would nail your ass if they found out you were queer. It was that there was a lot of resentment about 'special relationships.' Of course, I'm not saying that you'd never run into boat-bound psycho cases who might try to murder you if they suspected something gay about you—there are bad people on dry land, too. But out in the middle of the Pacific, you can't run away from them, so it's a good idea to keep your hands to yourself. But this Hans character was starting to seep into my dry dreams, not to mention a couple of wet ones.
Just the thought of his hot body could get me hard. And the sight of it—wow! I ran into him once in the shower. He's over six feet with one of these great German butts, solid, from lifting barrels with his legs. On the boat, you learn quickly to lift with your legs, and that made his butt look great. I would say he was about thirty—close to my age—and he was generally very quiet. My knowledge of German is limited to "Guten Tag," but I don't think that was what held us back. See, there were five other Germans on board—including the ship's cook, whom Casey swore was trying to poison us ("A German cook," he said, "is like a tone-deaf musician. The Germans fry an egg for an hour!"). I noticed that Hans didn't talk much to them, either.
Besides the six Germans, there were a couple of hot South Americans, who never seemed to be around when you wanted them. The rest were Americans, although the freighter, for tax reasons, was not registered as American. The boat was registered in Monaco, which gave this sleazy barge a kind of romance. I loved telling friends that my working address was care of the Principality of Monaco. I had as little to do with the Americans as I could. I had joined the merchant marine to get away, and I didn't want to be one of those Americans who dragged America, along with the shopping malls and Golden Arches, with them where ever they went.
I'm not sure if that was exactly why I was drawn to Hans, but it seemed as good a reason as any. "Hey—Hans!" I shouted to him, and shined my flashlight over to his direction. "Guten Tag!" His small eyes, almost hidden behind his cheekbones, lit up, like little metallic points of blue. I liked those crisp, blue eyes. I really did. He flashed a great smile at me.
"Ist das you here?" he winked. "I think you down here schlaffen."
If only, I thought to myself, I was schlaffen, and with him.
"No," I said. "I'm not sleeping. Just working."
"Das ist nicht gut," he said, and winked again. "All verk and no play is no good." He pushed his large hands across his massive chest so that his tee shirt pulled away from his pants, clearing his taut belly. Now I sincerely wished he hadn't done that. The thought of his stomach, with just the smallest mouthful of fat on it, laced all over with fine, blond, German hairs, got to me. If he was playing with me, he was now pouring gasoline on my fire. I wanted to eat his dick right then. But I knew I'd better hold back. One thing was really certain: you could get into a lot of trouble on a tight ship like this one, loaded with Rotarian-type American officers who never seemed to have enough paper work to do. I could see the First Mate right now seriously explaining to me how this "breach of morals" would cause him to dump my ass out on the first port. That would mean hitching back to the States from somewhere in Goa on the next boat, and there was no telling what kind of garbage float that could be.
"Viel Arbeit?" Hans said, sympathetically getting closer to me. Suddenly, his heavy hand went up playfully to my chin. He ran his hand through my hair. He was driving me nuts.
I took a deep breath. "Yeh, hard work," I said. That much German I knew. I tried to think straight ahead. I counted backwards from five, so that the stiffening in my crotch slowed down. Then I explained slowly to Hans that I had this work to do. The completed manifest had to be ready by nine the next morning. It was already 7 pm. Nineteen hundred hours. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to be down here half the night," I said.
"Captain, he son-of-bitch," Hans said. I agreed. The Captain was actually a Harvard man. He kept thinking this was the H.M.S. Pinafore. I smiled and asked Hans why he was down in the second hold, and not up. He told me it was getting too cold up on the deck, which I was sure it was. This part of the Pacific, roughly two hundred miles out from from the southern coast of Chile, near Concepción, started to dip very cold in August, as soon as the sun went down.
"Too cold up there?" I said, looking into his eyes with the flashlight on.
He nodded his head.
I decided then I had to do something. Okay, I'd throw a bit of caution to the wind. I told him I was really glad he was down there. I told him I was happy to see him.
He looked at me as if he didn't quite know what to do with words. I realized that the men never talked to each other like that, at least not in English. Then his eyes suddenly warmed up. I could feel it. He smiled sheepishly, then said: "Why, you glad?"
I told him I was just bored.
"Bored. What means bored?"
I tried to pull in as much German as I could. When you've knocked around a lot, you pick up languages the way some people pick up men. Out of nowhere, a suitable word came to me. Langweilig. Boring. The word just hit him. I told him the work was sehr, sehr langweilig. He smiled. His biceps flexed, and he started rubbing his stomach, so that shots of hairy belly and chest came through. As cold as it was up on deck, it was hot down in the hold. But whatever the cause, langweilig started Hans rattling away in German about a mile-a-minute, and much faster than I could understand. But I did catch that he, too, was bored. I caught on to that. Bored, and lonely. I'm not sure what the word for lonely was, but I knew it was there. I could see it, even in the dark, on his face.
I liked hearing that he was lonely. I'd even forgotten how lonely I got on a ship, even with Casey around to pop in and josh with me every now and then. I got up from the floor, where I'd been pretending to check out more of the stock numbers, and where I'd really been checking out Hans' crotch. I'd gotten a great view. I saw the part where his heavy balls had been making impressions in his dirty, white seaman's pants. I was sure he didn't wear underwear, but I couldn't see the outline of the head of his dick, either.
As soon as I was up, clipboard in hand; he got closer to me. Very very close. I realized how dark it was. I'd gotten accustomed to the dim light down in the hold, but now with him just about a nose away from me, it seemed even darker. I could feel his warm breath on my face. What was going to happen now? I remained really still. His shoulders shifted; both his big hands went up to my shoulders. Then I felt his left hand gently touch the left side of my neck. My mouth went dry. "Beer?" he asked. "I go up, get beer, be back!"
Now, things were definitely looking better. I watched him climb the stairs up at the other end of the hold, several rows of barrels away. Just before the hatch door closed, he rang out to me, "Be-back-right-away!" The hatch door clicked shut, and I was in darkness again. I loved the sound of it: "Be-back-right-away." That was merchant marine talk. Everything was "be-back-right-away!" I'd met Nigerian sailors who knew eight words of English: Coca-Cola, beer, pussy, money, and "Be-back-right-away!"
I scribbled down some more of the numbers, and decided that I'd overbooked the job. It would not take me as long as I thought. I could have the whole fucking job finished in a little more than two hours; then I could grab some sleep and get up early in the morning to type out some shit to give to the Old Man. The Captain would have to go through the manifest, but he actually didn't knew crap about what went on down in the holds. And this was one time I was very happy for that.
I'd already gone through about four hundred barrels of turps, oils, greases, and I was now at something called naval jelly, which is not something you stick on your belly button. Naval jelly is a very thick form of grease. It looks like a viscous, high grade of cum—maybe darker. It's used as a water proofer and as a soluble for other greases. In other words, you always use one greasy product to dissolve another one. I thought about that for a moment. Perhaps it should be a law of life itself. I liked the smell of naval stores. The stuff smelled strong, piney, with just a tang of salt in it. It reminded me of boats and men.
A moment later, Hans was back with half a dozen large, cold bottles of dark German beer. Real lager. I wondered how he was going to open them, but he knew exactly how to pry off the caps with the metal rims of the naval barrels. "Here," he said, softly, like this was a great secret between us, and he offered me the first bottle he opened. I lifted the bottle to drink. It was thick, delicious, and cold. The head of the beer rose, creamed, and foamed on my lips. It swirled in my mouth. I swallowed some and then licked the sweet saltiness off my lips, while I watched Hans. He heaved his head back and chugged half the bottle. I was sehr impressed. "Gut?" he asked. I told him it sure was. We soon finished the first two bottles, then he opened two more.
I took my time drinking the second beer, but he was rapidly into his third. I knew the Germans could drink beer, but Hans was a professional. I smiled. It got warmer down in the hold, especially with another body next to me. Suddenly, after I was through with the second bottle, the beer hit me. Technically, I was supposed to be working. By regulations, I wasn't supposed to unbutton my collar and take off my tie. But I said fuck it and I did.
"You hot?" Hans asked me. I told him I was. He smiled and immediately stripped off his white tee shirt. He was just a seaman, so that was all, by regs, he had to wear. I, being an asshole petty officer—hardly above an office boy—had to put up with the tie-and-clean-white-shirt routine. I still ate with the men, but I was supposed to be a notch or so above them. I looked up at him. A quick flavor from his armpits hit me. It wasn't rank, just piquant. Salt. Sweat. Nice. Hans was bigger than I remembered, even from that shower we took together. Now, I couldn't get my eyes off him. He had beautiful, hard looking nipples, that begged me to want to play with them. But right then, being slightly tipsy, all I could do was smile.
I must have looked like a Cheshire cat.
"Why you smiling?" he asked. "Want another beer?"
I wasn't sure what to tell him. I was smiling because I sincerely wanted his cock in my mouth, but all I could say was that if I drank another beer, I'd have to piss my brains out. "Piss brains out!" he repeated, and then laughed some more. Then he started to rub some of the heat away from his chest and push at his nipples. One of them, I could see, was harder than the other. His head nodded at me. "You want to pees brains out?"
Then it dawned on me how funny that sounded.
"No, Hans, I want to piss piss."
He laughed again. "I got to piss, too." His hand ran down to his crotch, which now poked well out of his baggy whites. Now I could definitely see some of his thick dick in there.
I nodded my head, and walked with him, weaving back and forth both from the beer and some of the movement of the boat, halfway down the length of the hold. I'm sure he could see I was tipsy. Sometimes I had to hold on to the barrels. Then I grabbed at him. We stopped moving, and he laughed while I held on to him, right under his bare armpits. He looked at me, and I could feel his breathing in my face. I could taste the German beer in the air from him. I wanted to eat it right out of his mouth, but didn't. I pretended to tickle him, but ended up pulling at his nipples. Like it was a game. He smiled innocently, as I did it. I think he was only pretending that he didn't notice, because he never moved away.
Halfway down the length of the hold, there was a place reserved for guys working down there to piss. It was supposed to be a single toilet, but actually it was just a drain used for emptying mop buckets. The drain was slightly sunk into the floor. It was about a half foot in diameter. We all knew you could piss there; each hold had one. "This best piss place," Hans joked. He laughed some more, and then unbuttoned his pants.
I asked him what was so funny. He started howling. Spitting from laughter. Then he calmed down, and said, "Can not speak in English this."
"Why not?" I looked directly at him.
He suddenly turned from me, embarrassed. He nodded his head. "Alright. Piss hard-on, you call it?"
I told him that was the word, and then, quickly—I admit it was crazy, but I wasn't going to wait long enough to talk myself out of this situation—I reached into his fly and started to fish around for his pecker. I found it soon. It was wonderful. Large, fat around, I swear, as my wrist, and, like most Germans, uncut. I pulled the head out of his pants, and he didn't fight me at all. He just stood there, and then took the rest of his cock out himself, and held it, at the base, down there next to his swelling balls.
"This is good," he said, in a low, very German voice, half sex and half growl. "I like my Schwanz. You like it, too?" He was hard as a rock, and his dick started to glow with heat. I must say, I couldn't help myself after that. It was too much not to get into. So I started to suck him off. I pushed the head of his meat, with the foreskin rolled back, into my mouth. The head tasted great. Very clean, with just a certain warm, crotch smell to it. I pushed my nose down to his balls for a second, and got a light whiff of them, too. They smelled great. I wondered if he'd just washed his privates off. The smell of shower soap was still on them, although I don't think I would have minded the slightest hint of cheese.
"This is my sex stick," he said. "You like it?"
I stopped sucking him long enough to tell him—I loved it. Then I went back down on him. I forgot about pissing myself, since my boner was now pretty much as big as a house. (Okay—truth—a small house.)
Suddenly, he said to me, "Smoky, you want me to play, too?" I wasn't sure what he meant, till he pulled me up and with one arm held me against a row of barrels, and then with his left hand started to unzip my pants. "Let me see what you got," he smiled.
I got my dick out, and he caressed it with his large hands, working it bigger and harder with both of them. The scene was getting too hot for pants, so I managed to get out of my trousers, while Hans pulled his baggy whites off.
Hans was then totally bare-assed, but would you believe I still had my shirt and tie on? They were somewhat loosened. They looked like they'd been put through a wringer, but I still had them on. That started to turn me on even more—that I was still half-dressed while Hans bent down over me, and put his thick mouth on my meat. We started to trade head for a while, and he sucked me while I fed him my dick, then we reversed. I'm not sure why I didn't just get down on the floor with him, but I didn't. I don't know how I managed to keep my head and not turn into a rutting pig, crawling around on the hard, dirty floor of the hold, while I ate Hans' cock, but I'm proud to say I didn't. A man's gotta have some pride, right?
I'm also not sure if Hans normally sucked cock. Maybe he just got so hot down in the hold—from the beer and the moment—that he'd do anything. Believe me, that happened fairly often on boats, if you were lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.
After we'd been doing this for a while (but to tell you the truth, I had no idea how long), I realized that neither of us could come because of all the beer we'd drunk. There was too much liquid in us. Hans must have had the same idea. "I better piss," he said.
I let him go for a minute. He aimed himself right over the drain. Now everything got silent down in the hold. I could tell he was holding his breath and waiting for his dick to soften to get the pee out. Then, through the darkness down there over the drain, I saw a thick, golden, warm spray. He exhaled, so that his whole body relaxed.
I was tempted. Drunk. I knew it. But I didn't know what to do. I couldn't figure it out in this inebriated state: if I got any piss on me, I was afraid it was going to dribble some of it all over on my pants—and I knew I'd have to put them back on to go back up. But I'd gone so far, and I was so turned on by everything, including the outrageous danger of the situation, that I said, why not? I grabbed his soft cock while he was peeing and he squirted right on my crotch. It felt great on my legs—warm, heavier than water. Some of it ran down my balls. Hans started laughing again, but he shut up quickly when I started drinking his piss directly from his cock. The feeling of his thick, meaty dick head and the warm piss running down my throat was great. His piss came in blasts and between the blasts his cock would soften a bit. Then he'd blast again, and get hard again.
I took a lot of it, and a lot of it drizzled over my legs and lower body. I decided to take off my shirt. I did this while he finished pissing. A few drops of the yellow liquid shone at the end of his peter, until the head started to retreat back into his thick, German foreskin.
I pulled his foreskin back and played with his meat some more. The skin of his foreskin felt slightly loose over his large, firm pecker.
"Now me," he said and laughed, and I obliged him by peeing on him. He loved it, and I liked watching it. Piss splashed against his heavy legs and big thighs, swirling with coarse, blondish hair. Suddenly, I wanted to lick out his navel. It was thick, and ridged up slightly over his belly muscles. I ran my tongue into, and then worked my mouth down down to cock. He grabbed at his large, full balls, and became more excited—became really out of it, like he was in that hot, grunting, animal state that great sex is all about, whether we want to admit it or not. Then—I don't know why, I wasn't sucking him that hard—he started to come. I can still taste the fresh, clean flavor of his jism, mixed with the yellow, saltiness of some piss that remained on him.
While he came, I jacked myself off, just gobbling up as much of his swollen dick as I could in my mouth.
We kicked back for a while, as reality set back in. You know, the hold of the ship. Dark. Are we going to get out of this alive and not get noticed? That sort of stuff. I jumped up and sat on a barrel. It felt nice and cold next to my extremely warm ass.
"That was sehr gut," Hans said. "That is why I came down here."
"You did?" I asked, surprised. It was really dark down in the hold now. I knew it'd be black as hell up on decks. I could feel the ship moving under me. It's a great feeling, once you're used to it. "What made you think I'd be sex?"
"I been watching you," he said and smiled. I kissed him on his large mouth, and then ran my tongue over his eyelids. He'd been watching me? Now that was a switch. The whole time I thought I'd been watching him. Then I remembered those small, intense blue eyes. They did work you over, like a soft tongue.
I felt a bit groggy, from the heat, the dark, and the great sex. With a little bit of luck, we could get our clothes back on, and dash for the showers next to my cabin. After that, Hans would have to get back to his shift. But first we'd have to climb out of the hold, and hope that nobody—especially anyone with a nose for piss, beer, and cum—was around.
Luckily, no one was up on that part of the lower deck where the hatch was. I did see the Old Man striding around at the far end of the deck, trying hard to look interested and busy. I think that was what most captains did in public. He didn't see me. He might have been just a tad tipsy himself—I knew the Old Man went in for a usual martini or two after the sun went down. We got out of the hatch quickly, and I whispered for Hans to meet me in the shower.
Well, he did. We stayed in the shower for about twenty minutes. Since the shower was fairly private—I shared it with another petty officer whom I knew was asleep before his shift, I got to soap Hans down the way I wanted to. Slowly. Nicely. With much attention to his feet, ass, and balls. His ass was large and muscular—not one of those tiny, twinkie asses that so many guys go for—but it really turned me on. So much so that I didn't even hear Casey come by the head, and I thought I was going to have a minor heart attack when he popped in, fully dressed, to have a look around. He caught me on my knees, starting to go again at Han's dick.
I sprang to my feet.
He only smiled, and pretended to be shocked. "Busy house tonight, boys?" he asked, and shook his head.
I told him to shut up and get lost, and turned the shower head right into his direction. One second more, and I would have drenched him. He left the can, and I managed to get Hans back to my cabin and into my bed before he was due on decks.
"He a friend yours?" Hans asked.
"You could say that," I said.
"I think so," Hans said. "You call him your buddy?"
"No, just a friend."
"Gut. Maybe I be your buddy now."
I managed to smile at that. It seemed like this was going to be a great trip. A few minutes later, Hans left my cabin, and I decided to grab some sleep before finishing that manifest that the Old Man wanted. I shut my eyes, and drifted off for a few minutes, but woke up again, horny as ever. I knew then that all I could think about was getting my hands back on Hans.
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