Dave Rides the Rails

It was near the end of my freshman year in 1970 and I had just gotten a B- on a term paper in Poli Sci. Being an avowed procrastinator, I had waited until the last minute before it was due and then pulled an all-nighter so I was fairly pleased with my grade. Nonetheless, below the B- the Professor had written those dreaded words: See me.

I can't say my first year of college had been a success. I'd sure as hell drunk a lot of beer, smoked a lot of grass, and gotten down with more than a few hippie chicks on campus but I was only skating through my classes. I was uninspired, adrift, and wasting both time and money.

My problem was that things came too easy for me. Small town High School had been a breeze. As long as I stayed away from Calculus and Chemistry, I barely had to study at all. I was also gifted with natural athleticism, a combination of strength and speed. I made first-string defensive end on the football team and was a solid sixth man in basketball. Still, the only real skill I had developed that would translate to college was drinking beer, smoking pot, and chasing girls. That's where my true motivations lay.

I showed up at my Professor's door the next afternoon. He pointed to a chair for me to sit in and just stared at me for a solid ten seconds as I squirmed.

Finally, he asked, "What's your draft number?"

What? Those were the first words out of his mouth? I had assumed he wanted to talk about my paper's thesis regarding the Federalist Papers, not this.

"237," I replied.

"So there's no chance of you winding up in the jungles of Vietnam?"

I was shocked by the nature of his question. "Not unless I do something stupid like enlist."

"From the evidence before me, you are exactly that stupid."

Now that comment was uncalled for and it pissed me off. "With all due respect, Dr. Morrison, what the fuck?"

"No need to get angry. I'm doing you a favor by being honest."

"Well, pardon me if I don't say thanks. So were you doing me a favor by giving me a B- on my term paper?"

"No. Your paper absolutely deserved that grade. But I recognize a don't-give-a-shit, half-assed effort when I see it."

"Are you allowed to speak to me like this?"

"Report me to the Dean for all I care." He wasn't bluffing. He didn't care. "I listen to your comments in class. In discussion, your analysis is solid, your points are cogent, your argument is grounded in logic, yet your exams are piss poor. And now this? I get a B- paper from a mind that should be doing A+ work."

As angry as I was, I could see he had a point.

He continued, "When I look at you I see a man/child who is not ready for college. An adolescent who is not mature enough to take advantage of his opportunities. I'm just being honest. I figure you have two choices."

"Okay. What are they?"

"Report me to the Dean or grow the fuck up."

"I still don't think you're allowed to speak to me this way."

"Take a year off. Or two. Work some hard jobs, the shittier the better. Try to have the life you want on the paycheck you get. When you figure out you're capable of so much better, come back. The University will still be here."

There was a knock on his open door. A student stood there with term paper in hand. By the embarrassed look on his face, he had obviously overheard. "Excuse me, Dr. Morrison, I was wanting to talk about the C I got. I can come back."

Dr. Morrison's voice shifted to a kindly avuncular tone. "No, come on in. I'm done with this student."

Before I could get out the door he added in a voice dripping with condescension, "David, I sincerely hope I do not see you on campus next year."

As I crept down the corridor, I heard his sympathetic voice return. "Oh yes, I remember your paper. You make some good points but your reasoning could have been stronger ..."

I didn't go back to school the next year. After my last final, I went home and had a long talk with my parents. It was the hardest talk I had ever had with them but we all agreed I should take time off and get my shit together. Mom shed some tears. I think Dad sent Dr. Morrison a thank you note.

My cousin John had graduated with his CPA the year before and had started working in the accounting department of the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad. He called to say that the labor union and management were at loggerheads over a new contract.

"It's not officially a strike," he explained, "but some of the hardline unionists have walked out. I could get you a job as a brakeman in the huge Proviso Freight Yard in Chicago."

"Thanks, John, but I don't think I wanna be a scab."

"You wouldn't be a scab because it's not a strike. Most of the guys are continuing to work and everyone accepts that non-union workers are going to have to fill in for the hardliners. No hard feelings. But when they settle or decide to actually go on strike, you'll be out of work. Until then, the pay is good and I've got an extra room."

So that's how I became a railroad brakeman.

I started out working the board, meaning I was on call 24/7 to fill in wherever I was needed. Definitely chum in the food chain. I'd just fall asleep and the phone would ring. Then I had one hour to get wherever and do whatever.

And Proviso could be a dangerous place to work. It was a vast matrix of tracks, hundreds upon hundreds of tracks packed so tightly there was barely enough room to walk between. Rail cars were smashing together all around. You got from one place to another by climbing between cars that could suddenly jolt half a car length. At night it was dark and treacherous. When it rained it was slick steel and crushing wheels. And there were rats the size of bobcats, fat from spilled grain, that were mean and would hiss like rattlesnakes. My first night in the yard I came across a rat that had been sliced in two by a train car that lurched faster than he could leap. I looked at his squashed guts beneath my boots and realized that could be me.

My illusions of making the Windy City scene with my cousin were dashed. I was a cog in a machine that used me up and ground me down. A twenty-year-old, hormone-laden cog. I barely had time to eat, jerk off, and get a few hours of sleep before the phone would ring again. Every weekend my cousin would come home with a new chick, light up some killer weed, put some vinyl on his McIntosh stereo (best time ever for rock music), and ball her ball her in the room next to mine. I could only dream of having his life.

After six weeks of working the board, I got a relatively steady gig spotting rail cars in the industrial parks around O'Hare airport. We'd go from one factory to the next, remove the loaded box cars, and leave some empty ones. It was busy work. A lot of switching tracks, setting brakes, linking hoses, and breaking knuckles (train knuckles, not human ones). But the hours went quickly and I finally had a steady gig.

It was a crew of three. The engineer was a disembodied voice on the radio at least forty boxcars away. Paired with me in the caboose was Ernie. He was a short, nimble guy with a twitchy, kinetic vibe. I imagined he could scurry up a tree like a squirrel. Instead, he had been climbing boxcar ladders and scurrying between railcars for thirty years, always with a Marlboro dangling from his lips. He trained me right. Safety first. Which cars to switch and where. And most of all, how to make a hard job easy.

Mid-way through each night, we would move to another industrial park on the other side of O'Hare. It's a huge airport and the slow trip around it took over forty minutes. The two of us would sit on the cushioned benches across from each other in the dimly lit caboose as it swayed and clanked over the rails. Ernie would converse with the same staccato energy that he worked, always eager, always smiling.

He was very interested in college life. He would ask if the chicks were as loose as they said on TV. Is it true they don't shave their legs or their pits? Do they all go braless? Do they ever go topless? His eyes got wide with a leering smile when he asked, "Do you get a lot of pussy? I bet you do. You get a lot of pussy, don't you?"

He was sitting on the same side of the caboose as me so we didn't have to yell over the clattering of the wheels. "We don't really call it pussy," I explained.

"They do in the movies and on the news. I mean they cut out the word on TV but you can tell that they're saying pussy."

"Well, yeah, when they're making a point. When they're talking about feminism stuff. About taking control of their bodies, their sexuality. Well, even sometimes when they're just talking but ... Well, I guess they say it differently than you, that's all."

"I guess I don't get all that feminism stuff."

"Maybe that's it."

The next night he was sitting closer. It felt kind of weird but I let it slide. Very quickly in the conversation, he asked. "Have you ever fooled around with a guy?"

"Uh no, Ernie, I haven't. I mean, it's all cool but that's not my thing."

"But you've never tried it?"

"No."

"So you don't really know."

"It's not my thing."

"You should try it."

The conversation took a long pause as we rocked over the rails and there was creepy tension. Finally, Earnie asked, "Would you get mad if someone wanted to play with you?"

Without a word, I got up and moved to the opposite bench. I stared out the window, watching the airport passing by. The runway lights were red and green, kind of Christmassy.

"You're not mad, are you?"

"No, Ernie. I'm not mad"

That night was the end of our work week. I was glad to get away from the weirdness with Ernie. I really liked the guy but I wasn't into him or that. I ate dinner as my cousin slept late on his Saturday morning off. Then I smoked a little of his pot before crashing. My plan was to sleep until the nightlife started rocking then tear up the town with John. I was determined to get laid.

A few hours later the phone rang. "No," I was emphatically informed. "you're still working the board. You've got one hour." Figuratively speaking, my hopes for sexual release skipped town on a southbound train. More work then all too soon it was time to go back on the O'Hare industrial run.

Ernie was glad to see me. We were riding on the back of the caboose switching cars when he asked, "How was your weekend? Did you get laid?"

"I got called to work a derailment outside Palatine."

"Fuck. Those are usually long hours."

"Yeah. Seventeen hours on four hours sleep."

"That sucks. But the overtime's good."

"Not as good as sleep and a personal life."

"So you didn't get laid?"

"No, Ernie. I did not get laid."

When it came time to make the long run around the airport, Ernie plopped down beside me. "I caught a night game at Wrigley Field. Cheap seats and expensive beer. Cubbies lost."

"I envy you."

"Yeah, but neither of us got laid. I don't expect it at my age, but you? A young guy like you? Good looking. All full of testosterone. You must be so horny you're about to bust."

Boy, was I ever. "I've got a world-class case of blue balls."

Ernie's hand found the nerves where my thigh meets my groin. His touch was light and tentative. "Are you sure you'd be mad if someone wanted to play with you?"

We were swaying with the clatter of the rails. His touch was so enticing. It had been so long since anyone had touched me. Ernie continued, "I bet you'd like it."

I dared to glance his way. His eyes were locked on the swelling in my jeans. His fingers played a siren song atop that tender spot. I heard myself softly moan.

"It's fun," he added. "And we've got time to kill."

It felt like the two of us were cloaked within a carnal shroud, hidden from judgment, where all human urges were innocent and all animal impulses allowed. My resolve suddenly burst like a levee and I ripped open the buttons of my Levys then reached into my jockey shorts and wrangled out my stiffening cock. I heard him gasp at my sudden surrender and his hand found my flesh with a gentle caress. His fingers skated up and down my shaft before teasing the plump tissue of my crown. I threw my head back with a lusty groan. My surrender was total.

"Oh my god. You've got a beautiful dick. I knew you would." His fingers danced over every secret place. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

My eyes were closed and I was seeing auroras of pleasure play out behind my lids. His touch was deft and knowing and sensuous. My voice was trembling. "No. You're not hurting me."

His hand wrapped around my shaft and mimicked the motion of the train as he began to jerk me off. "Dave, you've got such a nice dick. So big and thick. It's a beaut."

Long strokes, firm around the base, gentle atop the head. His fingers rode up and down the shaft as if he was milking the nectar from a honeysuckle rose, urging my release. "You're so hard. And hot. I can feel heat coming off your swollen dick."

It had been so long. I was moaning and hunching with each stroke. A delirious pressure was building inside.

"You're getting close already, aren't you? I can feel your dick straining. Shoot for me, Dave. Let your cum fly." His touch got deeper. "I can tell your dick wants to." My erection swelled beneath his touch. "Come on, Dave. Shoot for me." I was reeling and straining against the rising tide. "Don't hold back. Shoot it. Shoot it, Dave."

I opened my eyes and erupted with a groan as a thick cord of splooge launched from my cock and arced through the air. I spasmed ecstatically as spurt after spurt of cum shot out until the last drop dribbled out of me into Ernie's cupped hand.

"Boy, Dave, you really needed that, didn't you? Did you like it?" I was breathless and couldn't answer. "I can tell you did. It was fun, wasn't it? I knew you'd like it." I was shocked when he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked up my cum. "God, you taste good."

When Ernie had cleaned my cum off of his palm, he stood smiling at me. "That was fun. And tasty, too." He rubbed his tented jeans. "Now if you'll excuse me ..." He walked out to the platform at the rear of the caboose where I know he jerked off. I appreciated that he spared me the sight that first time.

The next night started out normal. We just shot the shit as we went about our jobs. It was a busy night with lots of cars to switch out so I was ready for a break when we started the slow trip around O'Hare.

Ernie plopped down next to me. His hand was immediately on my junk, groping my swelling cock. "Do you wanna fool around now? It feels like you do." Without waiting for a reply, he started pulling my jeans open. He struggled to free my cock because it was halfway hard. "You've got a great dick on you, Dave. I really like playing with it."

My breathing was already heavy and fast. "I'm glad you do."

"Do you really like it?"

"Absolutely! It's pretty great the way you touch me."

I watched this time. I saw he had several techniques. "Does this feel good?" he asked. "How about now? Do you like it when I do this?"

"Yes. And yes again. Yes to everything you do."

He could barely tear his eyes away from my cock as he stroked and tickled and taunted it. There was a hunger in his eyes, a fever. I could tell that the sight of my cock unleashed something feral in him. Suddenly, he pulled his fingers away.

"I've got to pull out my dick, too. You don't mind do you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I'm not as big as you." He smiled at me as he struggled with his pants. "But I think my dick has character." He giggled self-consciously. "Personality."

There it was. It was about five inches long, nicely proportioned, with a slender cockhead. I had never seen another man's hard-on before. Dangling dicks in the showers, sure, but never a tumescent member. I felt something feral within myself.

With his left hand, he played with himself but his real attention was on my larger, thicker cock in his right hand. My fingers found their way to his hair as he luxuriated his fingertips up and down and around my throbbing hardness. My excitement mounted. I had better control than the first time but his touch was just so damn enticing. My fingers left his hair. I clutched his shoulder and pulled him tight as I tensed.

"Oh, come on, Dave. Let me see you shoot. Shoot for me, Dave."

Every cell in my body yearned to explode. Every cell strained to hold back longer. Then as my cock erupted, I almost lifted off the bench. Rope after rope of cum shot out. Ernie quit playing with himself to catch what he could.

"Damn, you came even harder tonight," he said as he slurped my splooge from his hand. "Halfway across the floor." He pulled out a pocket knife and notched the floor where my farthest drop landed. "That gives us something to shoot for."

Then he sat back on the bench and started jerking himself off in earnest. It didn't take long before he came. It was more of a dribble than a shoot but his joy and relief were evident. After a minute he gathered his breath.

"I really like playing with you. It's fun."

"It's fun for me, too, Ernie. I never imagined I'd enjoy it, but I do."

He smiled at me and began moving in for a kiss. I recoiled and he looked down in embarrassment. "Sorry. I didn't mean anything by that."

"It's okay, Ernie. It's just not my thing."

The next night as we made the slow trip, he was jerking himself while playing with my proud cock when he blurted "No. I can't just ..." He looked up at me with pleading, lust-crazed eyes. Then he sank to the floor between my knees, "I have to, I've got to ..."

Remember, this was in the midst of the sexual revolution. Women were proclaiming to the world that they sucked cock. They were bragging about it. And more than a few women had sucked my cock, but none like Ernie. On their best day, they had never come close to what Ernie did to me that night while the caboose rocked and the rails clacked. None of their tongues or lips had been so soft and urgent, none of their throats so yearning for my seed. I swooned as he sucked. I trembled as he took me up and down. I craned against my restraint and ultimately exploded in his mouth, gasping. As I tried to recover he continued to suck the last drops of cum from my cock while ravaging his own dick, then shooting his load at my feet.

"Man oh man, Dave, you've got a great dick. I love sucking it. Can you believe they pay us for this?"

"Go union."

Our little interludes had become the high point of my days. My thoughts of the girls I'd known on campus faded. It's not like I dreamed of Ernie. I didn't. I wasn't attracted to the 54-year-old bandy little guy who smelled like an ashtray. But damnation could he suck a cock. That morning (my night) before I fell asleep I jerked off recalling the marvelous sensation of Ernie's mouth upon my manhood. I came with Ernie on my mind.

The next night he took his time. I watched him stroke his cock as he played with mine. With the swipe of a finger he gathered his precum, then he mixed it with my precum and raised his finger to his mouth. With a devilish grin, he said, "We taste good together." Then he slid to the floor and assumed his position between my knees.

It was a slow blowjob. He luxuriated at various points as if tasting hundred-year-old wine. At each spot he was meticulous with his tongue and lips, applying different techniques in precise ways to elicit particular sensations that swept through my cock to my loins and up my spine. I sat with my head back and eyes closed in order to focus on every scintillation and tremor of delight. I got zen with every marvelous quivering of each glistening nerve.

Then he took me deep and sucked my shank from base to tip. His throat massaged my crown as his lips clenched my shaft before he drew his mouth upward. Again and again. His juicy mouth commanded my balls to unleash their essence. I clenched against the rising tide of cum that coursed upward from my loins. I resisted as long as my passion allowed. And then with a howl of release, my cock gushed a torrent of jizz down his throat. My body curled over his bobbing head as he sucked and sucked, and I spurted and spurted every last drop of sperm I could muster.