Chapter 1
"Suddenly, the hands dropped his head to the floor. Fingers, gripping Alex's cock savagely, squeezed until, blood filling muscle, it hardened once more, quivered in a tight fist."
"Leaning forward, kneeling instead of squatting, the man bent toward the flailing fist and stiffened cock, stared as waves of blood suffused it, then receded, leaving the shaft white, squeezed the cock harder, clamping fingers roughly around it, and the head, expanding, seemed to burst. Alex writhed on the floor, and, as he cried out with pain, the man reached around, grappling for his throat, snarled, 'Shut up, you fucking pervert! Eat my ass!' and the hips descended again smothering his mouth."
"With the return of close, smelly darkness, he felt balls contract in their sac, snug to his underbelly, jerked his legs apart as wet blobs of gism spurted from him, again splattering his stomach and the hand masturbating him. He sighed, quivering, tongued the humid ass opening, licked the puckered membranes furiously with a slippery tongue..."
Staring at the sheet of yellow paper in his typewriter and the words he'd written weeks before, Evan wondered why the hell he'd thought the paragraphs good when he'd typed them. Now they read dull and unexciting although, as he touched his cock between naked thighs, it had hardened, projected now from his belly.
Got too much to do today, damn it he thought; then, so what would jerking off do for you this morning? Better keep your head straight, man, you got too much to do, right? But the idea of easing tensions, the cramped feeling in his mind, had been rather exciting. He fingered the slick, moist head of his cock again, thinking, Well, what harm would playing with the fucker do, just a little jerking, not too much? then thought about the time. Yeah, man, forget it! You got too much to do today.
Although early (a wall clock in the kitchen section read six-thirty) the trailer was stuffy and hot though he'd left all windows wide open the night before. October in New Mexico could be very warm, but the clean air, by contrast with polluted, unbreathable stuff in California, more than compensated for the heat, the sweat-itch in his crotch. Evan poured himself another coffee from the electric percolator into a pottery mug, stared blearily out the windows at a split-rail fence two hundred yards distant, checked his mind for the morning's agenda.
Make certain there was enough feed and water for Tazel (the Arabian horse he'd spend so much money for); get to the Court House exactly at nine (mustn't give these fucking Spanish-Americans a chance to prove their sneering slur he was nothing but a sneaky, corrupt Anglo, or give the Goddamn judge, Emilia Lujan, the chance, either); dress in a businesslike suit, not too square or Establishment looking, but in something that'd make him look like a solid-citizen type (which he knew he was not); be sure his lawyer, David Caruthers (Certainly, a "corrupt Anglo" if I ever saw one but a clever manipulator of court battles!) had all the facts in that fancy briefcase he carried.
A thought swirled in his head. How dumb can you get? You don't stand a chance! He glanced quickly out the window at the graded slope of his land, which slid into an arroyo spiked with pinon trees, the soil parched gray-brown in the sun.
Screw them! I'll never let them force me out!
On the table, his typewriter squatted ominously as if to remind him he'd not paid any attention to it these several weeks, too preoccupied with his impending court tight harassment and ambushed gun shots in the dark. His eyes shifted from the arroyo to the trailer interior again and words on a sheet of yellow paper rolled into the machine.
"No rise and fall. Azimuthal movement, a continuing circle with no horizon to guide his internal clock, that directional finder for inner rhythms. He flounders against reefs of air, whirls aimlessly in space, unreal, although the naked body beside him is real, and warm hands, also real, coursing over his nakedness, seem to try to anchor him to the bed, to stroke his flesh back to some form of actuality. Horse charges through his veins like an enraged beast."
"Sighing, Alex wonders if these maneuvers on the battlefield of love are as mechanical as they seem to be; and if there is more to it than salivating mouths on stiff muscle, a surge of gism. If true, then what? A hot crotch of damp fur pressed to a nose? Fingers on his cock, now, squeeze the head and it becomes glossy, engorged with blood in a fist around it, warm ooze lubricating the skin. A voice mutters, 'Wanta fuck me with that thing or blow me?' and he hears a low laugh. 'I got a rubber asshole, man, but take it easy.' The words -- casual, taunting and brutal and, certainly, sensual -- cause his introspective thoughts to vanish like a tiny speck of light on a TV set snapped off. No point answering such a question. Demonstrate!"
As he rises to stare down at the other naked body, the fingers on his cock withdraw, and the body flattens in the bed, a long rod of hard flesh arching from a smooth belly blurred with blond pubic hair. His eyes rove for a moment over the body; shoulders not yet fully-defined but capped with strong deltoids lengthening to well-formed biceps; chest muscles, rounded arcs tipped with erect nipples; the smooth belly, the mound of downy pubes, and rigid flesh, hot and almost steaming, a small sac with surprisingly large balls. Eyes, liquid blue, stare at him.
"Jesus! When this kid grows to a man, he'll knock everybody on their ass!" He is breathing stridently, now, wonders, not really caring, how old the boy is: Seventeen... eighteen? It doesn't matter.
"With the touch of wet lips to his cock, the kid arches, and a brief grunt issues from his mouth as he falls back into the bed. Stiff flesh in Alex's lips jerks. The taste of young dick, unwashed, heady and sour, stimulates him, however, and he sinks further over it, hearing the loud grunts and moans; hips under him squirm; large balls pressed to his chin wiggle."
"Excited by the kid's submission to a master, yet his apparent sensual enjoyment, Alex slowly clamps teeth to that young dick, feeling the body under him tremble and convulse, rise in the bed. With narrow hips jerked upward, the cock lunges deep in his throat as the kid moans, grinds pubic hair to his face. Balls, large for a kid, are squashed to his chin, and the moans and brief grunting noises grow louder."
"He lets a spasming shaft slip from his lips, sucks in a crinkled sac, licks slippery balls, swallows them. Moaning and groaning, the kid wallows in the qbed, raises his legs and paws the air. As it licks a hairless underbelly and seminal cord, Alex's tongue feels the tensed, waiting surge of sperm, and he quickly encloses the cock once more with a warm mouth."
"'Wow, oh, wow!' a voice shouts, 'I'm coming!' and thick, glutinous gism pours in his throat. Swallowing the slippery mass, he forces the cock deeper, engulfs it completely. The orgasm seems to go on and on as he..."
Evan ripped the paper from the typewriter, and, frowning, stared at a note under the double-spaced words. "Use quote from Donald E. Carr? Olfactory powers of moths that pick up the female miles downwind -- since in the moth's case, it is simply a signal 'female', it is not a single individual that the moth is locating. He doesn't care whether it is Florence or Mame or Dolly, just so it is not Jack."
Crumpling the yellow paper in strong fingers he tossed it to the trailer's rose-patterned vinyl floor. Whirling aimlessly in space! Olfactory power of moths! No question, he was spooked, dried up, immobilized by the Maes family persecutions, his brain turned to garbage! Sonovabitch!
His stream of thought is interrupted by the snarling ring of a telephone and, for an insane moment, he's not sure where he is, the ringing shrill in his skull. Eyes swiftly circle the trailer's dun-colored walls for a clue, back to the open window and New Mexico vistas, alien, unfamiliar, and he wonders, with a shiver, how he got to this place, not remembering he's living here for almost eight months on this land bought by his father twenty years ago; and, as he does remember suddenly, the time interval is impossible, yet California, which he'd left without a backward glance, seems more concrete and real than this parched earth shimmering in heat, black-green shapes of pinon trees his eyes still stare at.
He stood up, blinking, lifted the clanging phone from its hook, said into the mouthpiece, "Yes? Evan Lambert speaking." There were not many friends, the few he'd made since moving to this state, who knew the phone number. He'd had it installed out of desperation only three weeks before because of rifle shots in the dark, words whispered from the black shadows of chemisa bushes, these terrors, finally, forcing him to the telephone as a tenuous connection with an outside, if unfriendly, world. "Yes?" he said, impatiently, to silence in his ear, felt sweat course over his chest, gather in pubes surrounding a heavy-hanging cock. He listened for an answer, scratched absently at the damp hair, heard low breathy noises like someone in torment. "Who the fuck is this?" Evan shouted, exasperated by the heat, the panting sounds, repeated again, "Who the fuck is this?"
A voice with a slight accent said, "That you, Lambert? You fucking Anglo pervert." There was a bark which might have been laughter. "Lay off the court suit," the voice continued. Now he thought he knew who the caller was. "If you don't man, you'll get your Goddamn balls busted!" A crash of the other phone slamming down split his eardrums painfully as the line was disconnected. One of the Maes brothers -- probably Hilario!
As the brutal, naked figure had done in his manuscript, Hilario, suddenly, stands before him, the same black-haired muscular body, the same snarling voice, the same immense dripping cock and glittery black eyes.
In his hand, he holds a coil of braided leather, and Evan's imagination sees the leather whirl; strike him, pain searing his flesh. But he doesn't cry out or cringe under the punishment, permits Hilario to beat him unmercifully with the whip. As the leather wraps his chest the man yanks at the whip, pulling Evan to him until the two naked bodies are standing close together, and Evan smells his horny, rancid odor, his garlic breath, stares into those cruel black eyes.
Dropping the whip to the floor, Hilario grips him in muscularly naked arms, squeezes him savagely against sweating, wiry chest hair, and Evan feels himself tremble in the grip, slips his hands down between the two bodies, fondles a stiff rod and its slimy surface, cups hairy balls beneath, as Hilario laughs, grinds wet lips into his mouth.
He is shoved to his knees, a huge rod of slippery flesh held in a fist rammed to his lips. Opening his lips quickly to let the cock be plunged into him, he feels it sink in his throat, slide to his gullet, as hips on either side of his face ram convulsively. The taste of the saliva-drenched cockshaft is sour, fouled with unwashed come, the smelt of shit in cheeks of that ass pungent. The Spanish-American, holding the back of Evan's head, slides the immense length of cock out of his mouth slowly to its expanded, glazed head, manipulating his throat with rough fingers, then shoves the rod deep, choking him. The cock's head seems to bloat to an even larger, bulbous thing, clogging his wind-pipe; wiry pubic hair, filling his nose, suffocates.
He imagines, in the fantasy, he moans, utters words which might be, Whip me, whip me! but a thick, glutinous flood of gism pours into his mouth, and drops drool from his lips. Hilario continues to fuck his mouth as his moans turn into shouts -- leaning against the wall, he was dazed by his fantasy. Why Hilario? He'd never thought of the Spanish-American or had sex dreams about him, actually hated the man because it had been he who started the persecutions which had caused Evan to call the police and demand they stop the Maes family from doing what they did.
Placing the phone slowly on its hook, he stared out the window at the corral. Who else would know about the court trial but the Maes, his suit against them for harassment over an access road to his property? Hilario, next to youngest of three sons, had assumed head-of-family since his return from the Marines, and his father, old Nemecio, his mother, Rosabel, let their service-educated offspring do as he pleased. And Evan knew it was Hilario who'd begun the harassment three months before barbed wire strung across the road; a demand for $5,000 to permit him to pass through to the trailer; the police injunction and fence removal followed by his hiring a lawyer; the court suit set in motion. And subsequent rifle shots night or day, never aimed directly at him, shouting and mysterious curses in the dark, his dog poisoned, fears for Tazel, the Arabian horse. Sudden appearances of snakes, not native to New Mexico while he rode in the arroyo, frightening the animal so it almost threw him. Goddamn those Maes! Those fucking prick Spanish-Americans! Yet, here in the Southwest, he, like other Anglos, was the minority, but he'd decided to hell with that started the court suit, and for the past two weeks, there'd been few incidents, the Maes either too surprised by his guts or restrained by the police injunction. Now the Goddamn telephone call on the first day of the trial!
No sense showering in this heat but he shaved carefully, put on a dark suit, a sober-looking tie, a white shirt for the first time in eight months. Before climbing into the station wagon, he checked the corral to see if there was enough feed in the trough, water, patted the animal's neck. The thought that something might happen to Tazel bothered him. Then, realizing if something did there was nothing he could do, he locked the gate securely, glanced over a shoulder at the Arabian's rolling eyes. As he drove over the rutted road, he thought how foolish it was for anyone, particularly him with his big-city background and reliance upon civilized means of protection, to live in such isolation. He didn't even own a gun.
The road ran close to a barbed-wire fence, the eastern side of his land. This fence continued around the acres his father had bought twenty years before with the plan of retiring to the peaceful countryside of New Mexico. He thought, grimly, of this as he maneuvered wheels between dried-up furrows of hard clay, the station wagon lurching precariously toward the wire. Rounding a curve, the road angled through flat fields of chemisa bushes and pinon trees. In the distance, houses appeared, made of adobe and surrounded by low walls of plain brown mud bricks. These were two of the Maes' homes each side of the access route; further on, along the county road, more Maes houses created a small community of solid, Spanish-American hostility. He'd have to drive through them to the county road which would lead him to the city.
Stones shattered against the car windows and he pressed hard on the accelerator to jump the station wagon forward at high speed, as fast as the impossibly furrowed road would permit. He wondered why in hell the county graders hadn't appeared in four months to resurface the damn thing? He ignored the thrown rocks, hurtled through an open barbed-wire gate onto the less battered county road; someone shouted. He turned to see a woman standing under one of the Maes house's portals, arm raised in a threatening gesture.
By Christ, we'll see about those Goddamn graders! Caruthers subpoenaed two to appear at the trial this morning to testify! If the access road is serviced by the county, the fucking Maes' can go fart in the wind! Now, his anger with the thrown stones, the woman's raised arm and insulting gesture gave him new determination and purpose. I'll win this suit if it takes every cent I've got.
The town, sleepy in the heat, seemed wrapped within itself behind closed shutters as he drove into a parking space behind the County Building, hopped from the car, and locked the doors, noticing several Highway Patrol cars and officers with sweat-stained uniforms slumped in them. One lifted a hand to his cap, saluted mockingly, grinned broadly from a dark-skinned Spanish-American face. Striding swiftly to double doors, Evan shoved through them into a cool hallway, marched to a front lobby and a desk. The girl behind the desk, Spanish-American of course, when asked where Courtroom Five was, glanced at him. "Why do you want to know?" The question was said with the same insolence he'd become used to when Spanish-Americans spoke to Anglos, but the girl's cool contempt angered him. "Well, for chrissakes, I'm to appear before Judge Lujan, that's why!" He watched the girl's hand with heavy-lacquered red nails point to the right. "Thank you, Miss," he said, cooling it, hoping to appease any malevolent Spanish Gods who might be auditing this conversation. A loser's day? And would it slowly disintegrate to a rotten shambles?
He hated Judge Lujan's face on sight, sat in a chair next to David Caruthers, who turned to smile at him reassuringly. Unable to control his temper, Evan muttered, "That lousy cunt out there on the desk!"
The lawyer raised an eyebrow, whispered to him, "Keep your voice down. She's Judge Lujan's niece!" Glaring up at the judge, Evan muttered, "Must be out of my fucking head to think I'll win this suit!" then, calming, added, "Shit, David, I'm beginning to think the whole thing is a waste of time and money!"
Lujan banged his gavel and a bailiff called the case after two Sheriff's officers led a bedraggled drunk from the bench to a jail side door. Eight or ten spectators in seats at the rear shifted restlessly. There was the loud sound of popping gum.
Evan glanced across a narrow aisle to several people seated there, three older men, a young boy, two women. The Maeses! As the bailiff's voice droned on, he stared at the woman sitting on the aisle seat. Her eyes turned to meet his, and he recognized Antonia Maes. Old Nemecio's daughter. She smiled at him. The man next to her with an Anglo face was her husband, Scott Michaels; seeing his wife stare, he switched eves to Evan, who thought. Goddamn good-looking dude. Wonder how old tyrant Maes ever permitted him to marry his daughter. The solid shape seated beside Michaels was Rosabel Maes, the mother, a face, in profile, aristocratic though mounded in flesh, nose aquiline and fierce like a bird's beak. As he stared at her, glittering black eyes shifted and the woman glared at him. She was dressed completely in black, as if for a funeral.
Evan's eyes moved to a smaller, less erect figure in the chair next to Rosabel, saw the pale face of the youngest son everyone called "Jimby". His full name was Jaime Bernardo. He concentrated on the boy's profile, much like his mother's, but, softer with similar hidden beauty, liquid black eyes, curly locks of black hair falling over a pale forehead. The kids a real doll. He'd paid little attention to the youngest son since taking over his father's land. Evan had heard, also from his few friends in the town, that the boy was a retarded child but now seemed to be normal enough to attend the local college.
Next to Jimby sits the huddled figure of old Nemecio Maes in a dirty jeans jacket of faded blue, a rumpled felt hat pulled down over graying hair, craggy nose, skin like elm bark, a predatory face. Nemecio disdains to turn to look at Evan so he shifts his eyes to two larger, bulkier men in the next chairs. Hilario and the oldest son, Valentine. They stare stolidly ahead at the bench.
In Hilario's features there was something of the craggy look of his father but the face was handsomer with full-fleshed red lips, a shock of curly black hair like his younger brother, his mother's fine aquiline nose. He was large for a Spanish-American, over six feet with a muscular body, massive chest and powerful arms; he was dressed in black pants and shirt a silver-studded belt, as if for a fiesta.
As he concentrates on Hilario's macho features and body, massive shoulders and powerful arms, an image of the brute standing over Alex in the manuscript, a foot on his chest, fills his mind, and a college Spanish course definition of the word glows there. He-mule, male, male-animal -- and macho cabria, he-goat. Look at that surly, brutish face and cruel black eyes!! he shivers, turns to see if the lawyer has noticed, shifts eyes back to Hilario.
The Spanish-American's face and muscular body are superimposed on the apelike man in the manuscript, but in place of Alex he lies pinned to the floor under the heavy, masterful foot. The foot is not bare, but wears high black-leather boots, and mammoth thighs are encased in tight black-leather pants which gleam, slick and shiny, like the skin of a porpoise.
He is naked, trembles under the boot with delicious anticipation as Hilario leans over him, lowers a zipper of the leather pants, draws out a long, thick length of light-brown flesh, waves it. "You dig Mexican cock, Anglo?" a harshly masculine voice asks. He sees clearly the cock, the color of its pulpy head, the pale-chocolate, wrinkled skin around the head's enlarged ridge, the way the cock flops toward him as Hilario strokes the huge, flaccid pole; drops of ooze form at an inflamed gash as the hand playing with it milks fingers from its base. Hilario starts masturbating the shaft more rapidly, as Evan trembles once more.
The leather pants sink until knees crush his chest forcing breath from him. The cock, soft in the man's fingers as he plays with it, touches Evan's lips and nose; he smells its unwashed odor, tastes a bitter flavor. Hilario's laugh is loudly raucous. "Go ahead, you fucking pervert, suck the bastard!" The shaft sinks between his open lips and, sighing, he sucks it avidly. The erotic images fade.
Evan glanced at Caruthers from the corner of his eye, then back to the Maes family, seated in a row across from him in the court room. He felt his cock jerk in his underwear, quickly placed a hand between his legs to hide an embarrassing bulge. He wondered if sex with the Maes' next-to-youngest son might be as he'd imagined, stared at the oldest brother.
Valentine, with reddish hair slightly balding, paler skin and light-brown eyes, could have been from a different family. There was no resemblance to either Nemecio or Rosabel. Shorter, less bulky than his brother, he had the broad, shoulders of a wrestler. Evan had heard, from his gossipy town friends, that the Maes' oldest son was considered shiftless, a drunk, too easy-going by his father, which may have been the reason for Hilario's taking over the family leadership after his return from duty in the Marine Corps.
Aside from Nemecio, with his rather brutal face and scowling eyes, the Maes did not appear to be villains but more like simple peasant-types (if one ignored the faintly aristocratic look of Rosabel's cold profile). Evan noticed Valentine's wife, Merlinda, was absent, remembered the woman with arm raised in a threatening gesture under the house portal. Why do they hate me?
Caruthers stood as the bailiff ceased droning in broken English, asked the judge for permission to call his first witnesses. Lujan nodded with slight astonishment as he might at some minor annoyance. The lawyer called the name "Albert Chaparro" and Evan recalled that would be one of the graders for the Highway Department instructed to appear and testify. A man in tan shirt and trousers, heavy leather boots, rose from a chair in the rear of the court, was told to sit in the witness box. He had a broad, sweating face, small shifty eyes.
Going directly to the point, Caruthers asked a it was not true, he, Albert Chaparro, had graded a road from the county highway across the Maes land to property now owned by Evan Lambert? And, in the past eight months of Mister Lambert's ownership, had not he, Chaparro, performed this duty several times?
The small eyes went from the rear of the court to the ceiling, then slid across the Maes faces. "No sir. I don't know where you got your information, but I never graded no road like you describe. No, sir, I never done."
Ryan's attorney's youthful face flushed slightly. "Come now, Mister Chaparro, there are records in the Highway Department we can check if necessary. Matter of fact, they had told me the area I describe is part of your regular itinerary when roads need grading or resurfacing, which..." and he laughed, "is less often than the citizens of this town think necessary. Do you wish to reconsider your answer?"
"No sir." The reply was sullen.
The next witness, another grader by the name of Nazarlo Sena, as his co-worker had, refused any knowledge of having graded that particular road. Caruthers turned to the judge. "I believe, your honor, these men are tying. Can it be coincidence both are cousins of the defendant, Nemecio Maes?"
The defense attorney rose angrily, nodded to the Maes family, walked toward the bench. "Your honor, prosecution counsel is intimidating the witness. Let me remind you that to accuse a man of a lie is slander!"
The two attorneys argued: the judge yawned; the Maeses sat stolidly in their chairs, and Evan began to wonder once more how foolish this suit was and how stupid he'd been to ever think he could win it. After a long, detailed examination of a man from the Highway Department and heated discussion over the admission of state work-sheets for grading machines, Judge Lujan announced a two-week adjournment for defense to study testimony. There was nothing for Evan to do but leave the court. As he strode angrily through swinging doors, he grabbed Caruthers' arm. "That does it. Deal me out! I'll pay your fee but dismiss the fucking case." As the lawyer frowned, stared at him, he added, "Oh, for chrissakes, lay off the shit about ethics and principle of the thing. These people run this state, so to hell with them!"
"Turn that around for a moment, Evan. We're lucky Lujan didn't adjourn for two years, which is more his style. Then the suit could just be quietly forgotten as it usually is in civil suits between Spanish-Americans and Anglos over boundary disputes. I think you should continue to fight on principle or whatever the hell you want to call it."
"Well, I'll think about that, get in touch with you next week. Right now, all I want is a drink to cool my fat head. See you around," and he ran for the back door and his car. The two Highway Patrolmen were still lounging in their limousine and guffawed at the way he fumbled with the key in the Ford lock.
Later, he wasn't able to recall how long he stayed in that noisy place off the highway, a bar with slithery Spanish-American girls in tight hot-pants and skimpy bras, the blare of a juke. He'd had three bourbon highballs, drank slowly, the interior of the place air-conditioned and more pleasant than the noise and cheap cocktail waitresses. Not that Hollywood, or any part of southern California, had been any less vulgar. Christ knew, the sordid vistas of Los Angeles, heightened by smog and an increase in crime, were dreary enough, the town's bars crowded with worse types.
Abstractedly, as he sipped the bourbon, he thought of four years at UCLA in the Creative Writing school, his objective a career as novelist or playwright; and subsequent disillusionment with the only available means to stifle his father's demands for him to be "independent", that rotten job hacking out scripts for Disney Productions. This had taken four more years of his life. His escape to New Mexico had come after his father's death. Dear old Dad and his land. What would I have done with myself if I'd not had it as a refuge?
There was no question whatsoever. He was born a loser!
And the Goddamn typewriter, white keys sneering at him like some evil mouth. When he'd taken over the land, he'd thought it would give him the opportunity to create and a chance to prove those four years in college were not a waste, as old Dad had accused. In that vast empty state he could work a lot more easily than surrounded by temptations (both emotional and physical) of the Hollywood scene! (Or so he thought.) He considered the fact rather dully that he'd not had sexual contact of any kind in the past eight months, his long rides on Tazel a sublimation for normal urges and something other than his own hand, although there were numbers of attractively sensuous boys of Spanish-American ancestry with liquid black eyes and graceful ways of undulating their asses in tight pants. But, trained to caution by past experience; he'd not given in to his, urges, continued, when necessary, to jerk off in his bed, more often now than eight months before. The quick flow of gism in his jerking palm was merely a relief.
He'd made a few friends, young people of his age into other "creative" efforts -- handmade jewelry, pottery, painting -- but these artisans thought of Evan as a California-refugee with amusement, and he was not part of their group. He admitted some of the parties were a gas with pot smoking and so on, most of the group into drugs of various kinds; he learned to use peyote which, his friends argued, was less messy than horse and more glorious. It was. However, he seldom left the trailer now, spent long days trying to pound sentences into syntax, plots to probity. Rut the portable sat on the table plaguing him and refusing to type what went on in his head. Along with his other frustrations, the Maes attacks (the telephone call that morning), he now had to add the castration of 'creative effort' which drove him back to the syringe and his gear (spoon, heating lamp) and a quick insertion in a vein, pleasant dreams until he woke with splitting headaches in the trailer's heat, wondering where the fuck he was.
The habit had become a part of him, as it had with other students at UCLA, rather as a surprise, not planned, as both he and his friends maintained, a spin-off from smoking weed. And he knew he could kick it any time he wanted to. And he had in the past eight months, except for occasional "lows" when he had to use the needle. When you ran out of peyote, what else was there to do? Goddamn!
A fantasy scene began to take shape in his mind (there were times when, with his frustrations, he stubbornly tried to continue "creating"); he thought about the crumpled sheets of yellow paper on the trailer floor. Let's see... where were we? Uh... now you have Alex and the kid in bed and Alex is blowing him... and where do we go from there?
"The tall figure in black leather moves sinuously towards him. In the shadows of the beach, the tight sheen covering a muscular body, seeming liquid or molten, gleams in moonlight. A gloved hand reaches for him, grips the back of his head, and a hot breath is close to his face. The hand forces Alex to jerk forward, then shoves him to his knees in the sand; he stares up, fascinated, as black leather fingers quickly unfasten buttons of a fly, lower the black leather pants to expose pale skin. Two hands, gripping his ears, force him to the smell of leather, a warm opening and his mouth to wiry pubic hairs which tear at his lips. The odor of the nakedness under leather is pungent, slightly fetid, male, and he inhales deeply, trembling now, his own cock hardening, wet in his shorts. Leather falls away from massive, hairy thighs on either side of his face and a huge erection springs, slick with ooze, against his nose."
"Alex opens his mouth as the hands at the back of his neck pull him forward brutally and the cockshaft sinks deep, knees are clamped to his neck. He cannot breathe but his excitement is too unbearable for him to shove himself away from that hot crotch, that fetid odor, and, gagging, he tries contracting throat muscles to make the cock erupt before he loses consciousness. Opening his eyes, hairs like giant snakes enlarge in his vision, a black sky above him whirling and spinning as a blow strikes the side of his head."
Gulping the last of the third bourbon, he was aware of his rapid breathing, the hardening lump of flesh in his pants. Evan fingered the bulge between his legs under the bar, glanced at the bartender to see if he'd noticed anything, motioned to him for a refill. With self-amusement, he thought. Man, you're hotter'n a pistol... your own eroticism turns you on! Better hurry back to the trailer and beat your meat.
As he swerved the Ford onto the access road, wheels bounding aver mud furrows, he heard a loud roar, saw the long barrel of a rifle pointed skyward and a vanishing face, had the quick, raging impulse to jump from the car, find whomever it had been and beat the shit out of him, but instead, drove on, around behind the trailer to the corral fence. As he opened the padlocked gate, Tazel limped towards him, a leg bleeding and torn. Evan rushed to the animal, took the leg in both bands angrily; the tear looked like a fence wound as if frightened, the horse that pawed a hidden nail. And he thought of the rifle shot. Those fucking Goddamned Maes! His first thought was to telephone a veterinarian over on the highway, then he decided to wash and bind the wound himself phone the doctor later. After binding the leg with gauze and ointment, he fed Tazel goodies from a box in the barn, rubbed his warm nose, then walked to the trailer. He'd started for the phone when a voice said.
"Was waitin' for you to get here, Lambert. What took you so long?"
He whirled around, saw Hilario Maes seated at the table, a cup of coffee in his hand, glanced into the small kitchen section to see he'd left the percolator on when he'd rushed away earlier. "Help yourself," Evan muttered shifting his eyes to stare at the Spanish-American's naked torso.
Filmed with sweat and clinging damp black hair, the massive chest seemed swollen, its skin the color of toasted almonds. Eyes staring back at him were jet black, but, in their depths, he saw a lazy, sexual glint -- no mistaking that look! Beneath the naked chest, the lower part of the man's body was clothed in torn Levi's, cut short; a huge bulge protruding from the crotch was very evident. "You know, don't you, Judge Lujan is my father's cousin?" Hilario's voice was deep, rumbling, and he grinned. "I don't tell you this for any particular reason, Lambert." White teeth flashed in a tan face. "But I think you dig me. Might just as well call off the Goddamn trial, is what I'm saying, okay?"
As Evan stared at the grinning, moist red mouth, he controlled his anger but asked, "What right do you have busting into my trailer?" I strode to the wall phone, adding over a shoulder, "I'm going to call the fuzz, okay? My horse has been injured and I think you know how, you bastard. If you're still around when they get here, I'll have them lock you up."
Lifting the phone from its hook, he pointed a finger at the dad, and the voice behind him said, "Wouldn't advise that you and me can come to an agreement without bothering the fuzz, right? No sense, anyway some of those boys are relatives, too."
He put the phone back on the hook, walked to the kitchen, poured coffee into a mug. As he sat across the table from the Spanish-American, Evan glanced at the bare upper body, the matted black hair, wisps of black hair at armpits, the rigid tips of nipples. Following his stare, Hilario casually touched a nipple with his finger, then flipped it with a fingernail. "Come on, Lambert, I been around. In the Marines, us leathernecks knew what guys like you want." Black, cynical eyes glanced down as the hand slid from caressing the nipple over a sweat-filmed belly to the torn Levi's, unfastened a top button, then scratched at a bush of black pubes which protruded from the opening. His red mouth formed a lewd pout, the tip of a tongue poked from moist, salivating lips. Evan stared at the man's enticing display of flesh, now revealed as the fingers unfastened the last button.
"I like guys to suck my dick," Hilario said smiling. The hand withdrew a long length of pale-almond skin, the cockhead exposed, wet, beginning to expand to a slick shine. "You give me a blow job, Lambert, and I may reconsider use of our access road. That is if you do a good job, no jacking-off shit, just plain fancy sucking. Get me?"
He got up from the table unsteadily, eyes still glued to that sinuous length of hard cock. With his own cock hardening, he'd thought for a brief moment, Why the hell not? but, anger resurfacing as his face flushed hot, he shouted, "You fucking bastard." Striding to the phone again, he jerked it off the hook, spun the dial.
Hilario shifted on the plastic padded seat, stood, the Levi's shorts sliding over hairy thighs to the trailer floor. The cock in his fingers stuck straight from his belly, its head a bright red. "Get away from there, Lambert." Shuffling towards Evan, the massive cock slapping each thigh, he jutted his jaw in close to Evan's face. "Jesus Christ, are you dumb? I told you we can figure this out between us. All you gotta do is..."
Evan yelled into the phone, "Operator! Get me the police!" His hand was gripped and folded around warm flesh; a hot breath and grinning red lips said, "You want it, Lambert? Go ahead, mouth the fucker, I won't hurt you." Fluid, oozing from the cock onto his palm, was sticky as Hilario squeezed his hand; then, shoving him roughly, Hilario raised the Levi's shorts over narrow hips, and strode to the screen door.
He said angrily, "This is Evan Lambert, South Gallisteo Road near the Maes property? Can you send a squad car out here?" As he turned to stare at the Spanish-American by the screen door, he added, "I've had some trouble. When? No sooner?"
Replacing the phone, he thought, The sonsovbitches can't get here for an hour! and glanced at Hilario's grinning mouth.
"Like I said, Lambert, some of those boys don't like Anglos any more'n my pa and me." The tall muscular body moved back to him. He raised a clenched fist, tapped the knuckles on Evan's chin. "Okay, you fucking pervert! I'll find another way to get your Goddamned ass outta this state!" Turning, he strode back to the door, hipped the screen shut.