Cant Get No

Scott felt him going soft. He'd been straddling Tyler's hips and riding him. He'd felt Tyler jerk and sigh, knowing that he'd come, but Scott hadn't come. He'd ridden on. He looked down now and tried to see into Tyler's face. It was too dark in their bedroom. But Tyler began to snore, so there really was no question.

Scott gave up and climbed off Tyler and stretched alongside him, on top of the sheets. The ceiling fan was going whoop, whoop, whoop overhead and Scott was sweating from the exertion, but he ran his hands over Tyler's chest and belly and down onto his thighs and found Tyler's skin cool to the touch.

Tyler was achingly beautiful, his facial features blond and ruggedly handsome, his muscles with the perfect definition that only long hours in the gym brought, curly down on his chest descending to trimmed and shaped pubes and a nicely plump cock and balls. Scott was lucky to have him. Tyler was probably the most popular guy at the small "jock's" prep school they attended, using their first two years of college to improve their grades enough to enter a university with academic qualifications to meet their athletic prowess. Scott was a swimmer. Tyler was tops at any sport he wanted to be. He was working lacrosse and tennis now. He said, only half jokingly, that he didn't want to mess up his face with sports not protecting it better lest his commercial worth was diminished when he went pro.

Any other guy saying something like that would draw a derisive laugh, but when Tyler said it, everyone took him seriously. All of the guys who wanted guys wanted Tyler.

But Scott had him.

Sort of.

Scott lay there, awake, most of the night, fretting and frustrated. They'd been together for a year, a year tomorrow—or today, he thought, as he turned and looked at the luminous dial of his nightstand clock.

As the fingers of light stole through the broken slats of the blinds on the bedroom window, Scott turned toward Tyler again. The young blond god's privates were captured in a shaft of light, and Scott couldn't resist sitting up and leaning over and sinking his lips over the shaft. He allowed his hands to wander, one to Tyler's day-old whiskered chin, down along his pecs and belly, and the other between Tyler's legs, cupping his balls and fondling them.

Tyler moaned, half awake. And as he slowly came awake, he hardened and his hands went to the back of Scott's head, holding Scott's lips over his skewering cock, and his hips began to roll.

Scott gagged as Tyler increased in size and his hands trapped Scott's head in place, not giving him release—not letting him disengage until Tyler had come, giving no warning, and shooting his load down Scott's throat. As Scott pulled away and coughed and fought to clear his passage, Tyler bounced out of the bed and bounded into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

While Scott was fixing breakfast, Tyler came into the dinette and sat up on a stool at the counter. He'd spent most of an hour in the bathroom. Scott was familiar with Tyler's morning ritual. Tyler had to have everything "just so." He was very particular about his appearance—even when he only was going to the gym. Which appeared to be what he intended to do this morning, what he'd dressed for.

"It's Saturday, Ty . . . and a special day. I thought after breakfast we might—"

"Can't today. Goin' to the gym and to the hair stylist after. Then tennis. We're going to Sean's tonight, remember. Thought you'd make that dip that went over so well a couple of weeks ago."

"Ty."

"I think I'll wear the red T tonight. It's dirty, though. Maybe you could run a wash."

Scott didn't make another effort. Tyler was already gone—and he hadn't asked why this was a special day.

That night, at Sean's, Tyler was the center of attention, as always. Scott sat in the corner, watching him, and wishing and hoping. Maybe tonight. Tyler had a buzz on and sometimes when he was half high, he was playful.

"He's quite something, isn't he?" Jackson had plopped down beside Scott on the arm of his chair and wrapped his arm around Scott's head and tilted it up so he could look down at him with pouty eyes. Jackson was a bit too flamboyant and obvious for Scott. And, besides, Jackson, who was also a swimmer—a diver really and probably better at that than Scott was at swimming, Scott thought, really wanted the same thing that Scott wanted.

Jackson had tried with Tyler—all of the guys wanting to be topped had tried with Tyler. But Tyler contemptuously called Jackson a girl. Jackson took it, though, because when all else was said, he still wanted Tyler.

Scott was thinking just then that most of the guys who pined for Tyler were ones who hadn't had him yet. Still, just looking at him made Scott melt—and wanting something, something he'd yet to have. Not just with Tyler, but with anyone. Scott had long ago decided maybe it was his fault. Maybe he wanted too much. Maybe what he wanted wasn't to be had.

Jackson had left him while he was still thinking about this, flouncing off with a "You're no fun," which Scott might have felt sorry about—but that was Jackson. There weren't any hard feelings over it. Jackson knew Scott didn't have what he wanted—just as much as Scott knew Jackson couldn't bring satisfaction.

While Scott watched Jackson shimmy away from him, his eyes stopped at a quiet guy who was sitting across the room and looking at him. Now that Scott thought about it, he realized that the guy—Dixon, who was in one of his classes—seemed to have been looking his way before. But Scott didn't keep his eyes on Dixon very long—they just slid off him and he was looking around for where Ty had gone off too. Dixon was on the wrestling squad, and he'd had an elbow catch him in the nose one too many times, it looked like. A good body, as far as Scott could see, but a pretty messed up face. And he seemed a little creepy in class. Mostly sitting there and looking intensely around. But that was because he didn't seem to want to wear his glasses, and his eyesight appeared to be for shit without them. He had them on now—old four eyes—and was staring Scott down.

After checking out that Dixon was watching him again, Scott moved his eyes to the corner of the room, which was dark—and occupied by a couple of guys moving beyond the definition of "making out." He felt a jog at the arm of the chair and Cody was there now. Cody was quiet—except when he was on the football field, when he was a lion. Cody was almost as good looking at Tyler was, but Cody couldn't give Scott satisfaction any more than Jackson could. All three of them were looking for the same thing. But Cody seemed comfortable with himself. Scott and Tyler had discussed Cody before.

"He's gettin' it from somewhere, I'm sure," Tyler had said. "He walks with a strut and hums. He's gettin' it from somewhere. And I don't think it's from anyone at the prep. I think I would have heard, if he was."

Scott had asked then if Tyler wanted to do Cody himself, but Tyler had unexpectedly gotten angry about that. It was only later than Scott decided that Tyler saw Cody more as competition than conquest. Cody was almost as hunky as he was. It wasn't a sex thing. Scott was beginning to think that none of it was a sex thing with Tyler, really—unless Tyler could have sex with himself.

"Frustrated?" Cody asked when he sat down beside Scott.

Scott looked at him in surprise. "No, of course not. Do I look frustrated?"

"Yes, a bit," Cody said and then he gave a low laugh. "You don't have to be frustrated, though. Let me give you a tip."

"A tip? That's something I don't think I need, is a fuckin' tip," Scott said.

"Yeah, you do. See that guy, Dixon, over there. He's got a monster and can go all night. Eight, maybe closer to nine juicy inches. And I think he's got the hots for you. He'd treat you right."

"Him? Give me a break. I've got Ty. Ty's a god against that guy over there. What would I need with him when I've got Ty?"

"You'd be surprised," Cody said. And then he laughed. "Well, I got another tip for you if you don't like that one."

"Full of good tips, are you?"

Cody didn't take offense. "I've been watching you. I think maybe you do. Remember this in case you want to try it out: Thursday, late afternoon, the truck stop out on 81. Look for a dark blue Volvo semi and ask for Elmer."

"Elmer?" Scott exclaimed, almost spitting out the beer he was drinking. "You putting me on?"

"Nope."

The noise in the room had changed, and both Scott and Cody look up. Tyler had moved toward the door out of the apartment and he had Alphonse, the hunky half-back of the football team, who Tyler had been going with before he and Scott had gotten together.

Scott watched as the two of them left the apartment together—without Tyler so much as looking back at Scott. On this, their one-year anniversary.

"What was that second tip again?" Scott asked as he turned back to Cody.

* * * *

Scott was standing in the truck lot behind the 81 rest stop. He'd parked his car in the auto lot in front and sat there for a good twenty minutes before getting up the courage to walk past the restrooms and to the back of the lot.

There were picnic tables in a grove of trees between the back of the restroom block and the asphalt of the truck parking lot. There were several rigs parked back there. A couple of them were dark blue, but Scott had no idea whether any of them was a Volvo. Three guys were sitting at one of the tables, drinking Cokes in cans and shooting the bull.

One of the guys was old and flabby, but the other two were younger and in pretty good shape, especially a red head with a florid complexion who had tattoos running down his arms from the armless T he was wearing.

They all noticed Scott walking up at the same time, and they all gave him sort of a knowing leer—enough so that he almost turned and walked away. But he didn't do that. He wanted satisfaction, and he wanted to know if that was possible. Cody had told him it was. But he didn't know whether to believe Cody or whether satisfaction for Cody would be much different than for him.

"You Elmer?" he asked hopefully, looking straight at the red-haired guy.

"Nope. You want Elmer do you?"

"Yes. Is he here?"

"His rig's here. And there he is climbing out of it," the fat guy said. He was looking out toward the trucks and Scott followed his gaze, and he felt the disappointment surging through his body.

Elmer was no spring chicken—or hunk for that matter. He was tall and rangy, wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a cowboy shirt, and a Stetson hat. In fact everything about him from this distance cried out of old, weather-beaten cowpoke loser.

"So, what'er you lookin' for, sonny?" the third guy asked. "Maybe the three of us—"

But Scott was already on the move, walking out onto the asphalt, toward Elmer's truck. That's the name Cody had given him. What he actually felt like was bolting altogether, but he'd come too far down this road not to give it a try.

The closer Scott got to Elmer, the uglier Elmer looked—all angles and stringiness. His face was long and thin and looked like he'd been hit with a shovel earlier in his life. He did look like he had all his teeth, though, which was a plus. As Scott approached, he lifted his hat up off the front of his face and his leg up on the running board of the sleeper cab—a pretty big one—behind the truck cabin.

He was staring Scott down real hard, like it was him deciding if Scott was good enough rather than the other way around.

When he got close enough, Scott stopped and drew a breath and said, "I'm told you'll give satisfaction for $50."

"How old are you, son?" The accent was sheer Texas. Scott looked at the man's hands. They were big, his fingers long and thin. Calluses on his palms attested to the hard life he led. His arms were randomly covered in tattoos and he was so rangy and hard-bodied that his veins stood out in blue, competing with the design of the tattoos.

"Twenty. Twenty and a half."

"You got ID? You comin' from the jock's prep school on the other side of town?"

"Yes to both." Scott took out his wallet and flashed his ID. He started to take bills out of it as well.

"Put that away for now. I guarantee satisfaction. You sure you want this?"

Scott hesitated a nanosecond, but then he gulped and said, "Yes."

"You gotta be sure at the start. You'll be tied. I won't stop once I start."

"Tied?" Scott asked, the concern showing in his voice.

"Yep. You don't want that, you don't want it bad enough." He reached for the handle to his sleeper cabin then and opened the door and stepped up on the running board and turned away from Scott.

Scott didn't know if he was being dismissed or being told to follow Elmer into the truck.

"I can go $75," he blurted out. "And however you want to do it," he added in desperation.

"Well, come on up in here, then. It ain't gonna get done out here on the tarmac."

The cabin was surprisingly commodious, although the single bed along the back wall took up much of the space. There was a shelf over the bed, so the headroom wasn't all that great. What gave Scott a pause, though, when he looked at that bed was seeing wrist restraints hanging down from the top of the side wall at the head of the bed.

"You can fold your clothes and put them up on the shelf over the bed."

As Scott was doing this, Elmer came up behind him and wrapped strong, sinewy arms around him. Elmer had already stripped—and Scott could feel he was ready for powerful action.

"Umm, I don't know. I—"

But that's as far as Scott got before he was fully under Elmer's spell. Elmer turned and gently pushed him down on the bunk spanning the back of the cab, holding him in strong arms. When Scott was seated, Elmer just continued on down on his knees between Scott's spread legs, and for the first time in as long as Scott could remember, someone was giving his cock and balls—and eventually the rim to his ass channel when Elmer rolled Scott's hips on up on the bed—total attention and loving.

Scott closed his eyes, not looking at the man making love to his cock—not seeing an old, wiry, weather-beaten cowboy. Just enjoying what that man could do with his lips, tongue, teeth, and hands.

Scott was moaning and moving his hips in an involuntary waving motion and gritting his teeth and groaning when he finally couldn't take any more and blurted out, "God, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come."

"Why yes, son, yes you are. If you got it in you, I'm gonna get it out. Let it go."

And Scott did let it go, jerking and flopping around and coming for all his might, while Elmer took it, humming, and telling him how good his flow was.

Already exhausted, Scott was flopped back on the bed, his head on the pillows, but pushed into the back corner, as Elmer stood up in the cabin. And when he did, Scott gasped and moaned at the size of the man's erect cock.

He whimpered softly and made hesitant moves to leave the bed, which was prevented immediately by Elmer, who reached over and took Scott's wrists in his strong hands, pushed them over his head, and trapped them in the wrist restraints.

Elmer moved his hands to Scott's hips and lifted Scott's pelvis from the surface of the bed to where the head of his club of a dick was kissing Scott's well-prepared entrance.

What happened after that was the fuck of Scott's life—and not just once, but twice, with Elmer riding him hard and deep, raising Scott on waves and waves of ecstasy at how well Elmer anticipated where the edge of the next plateau to heaven was. He'd linger there until Scott was begging for more, and then he'd have Scott burst through to a new level of satisfaction.

When he was finally done, having made Scott the center of all sensual sensation for nearly an hour, he reached up and released Scott's wrists. Scott couldn't move, he was so used and exhausted—and he didn't know what else.

"If you're satisfied, leave the fifty on the countertop right over there. You're a good fuck. If you're not satisfied, sorry I can't be a help to you."

Satisfied. That was it; that was the word Scott was striving for. It was what Tyler wasn't giving him. But now he knew it could be had.

Elmer was dressed and gone out of the cabin before Scott could even regain regular breathing. He dressed—rather painfully, but with a sense of awe—and left the $50 on the counter at the side of the bed. He would have been happy to have left more, but he was pretty sure that Elmer would take that as an affront to his pride and a put down to his class status. When he stepped gingerly down from the cabin of the semi, Scott looked over to the picnic area and saw that Elmer had joined the other drivers there and was jawing with them. None of them overtly seemed to be watching him as he stumbled to his car, but Scott got the feeling of three sets of eyes boring into the back of his head. But not Elmer's, he didn't think. He thought that Elmer probably was fully confident in the worth of himself—and of his fucking mastery—and Scott would not have argued with him.

He'd have to ask Cody if it was acceptable to have a return visit.

* * * *

The encounter with Elmer had been three days previously, and Tyler hadn't seemed to notice that anything was different. What he most didn't notice was that Scott wasn't asking him for sex—and wasn't coming for it, and didn't make any moves when they were in bed.

Tyler didn't make the moves either. And this gave Scott pause to think back. He couldn't remember the last time Tyler had made the moves on him.

What was the use of a beautiful body if the guy was going to be no better than a mannequin. Elmer had been old and ugly as a fence post. But he'd had a cock and a technique that sent Scott over the moon. What's in a face and toned body then?

Satisfaction. What constituted getting sexual satisfaction?

When Cody called with an invitation to a party at his place, Scott said he'd be there. But he said Tyler couldn't make it. He had no idea, of course, whether Tyler could have made it or not—or whether he'd even want to go. He wasn't going to give Tyler that option. He didn't need or want Tyler at the party.

"By the way, Cody, thanks for that tip . . . the one about the Volvo semi."

"Glad you decided you'd give the tip a chance," Cody answered.

There was a pause, in which Scott didn't say anything but neither one of them clicked off.

"Umm, Cody, about the other tip—"

"Those two tips went together, Scott. The biggest difference is that with Dixon you don't have to pay the $50."

"Well, umm. Is . . .?"

"Yes, Dixon's already said he's coming. I can certainly tell him you'll be there too. You want me to put a reserved sign on my bedroom door?"

"Yes, please."