Stranded Out Here

Sadjams: Making Do in the Rustbelt

Ch.1

Stranded Out Here (Aren't we all, bud?)

Ryan and Ian [Unrequited]

The call came at 10:45 at night. You never call. I never call. No one makes phone calls anymore, unless -- so I swiped open the voice line.

"What?"

"Hey, buddy." You're making a good try at sounding upbeat. Though you're always friendly. Something is 100% up.

"What's wrong?" I'm looking down at myself, sprawled over the couch and ottoman with nill but a pair of boxers and a second beer just short a few sips. I'm only awake because it's my Friday and the book tented over my thigh is just about to climax.

Turns out you're stranded across town. It's less than an hour hike, but it's just cold and drizzly enough for it to be a wretched walk. I've been there. Good pneumonia weather.

"I'll put on shoes. Send me a map pin." You start to thank me, about to gush relief through the receiver, but I don't really want your messy thanks in my lap, so I just say "yeah," as sincerely as possible and hang up.

I slosh some mouth wash, pull on some bronze-age-ancient black jeans and a bitchy t-shirt. With a tucking of boot laces behind black lolling tongues, I casually shamble down the apartment stairs to the stubborn rust bucket. It only takes one tweak of the ignition this time before it growls like a memory of the 90's.

Should have grabbed a jacket, but I just crank up the heat, and then the radio with "Something Fast," though I drive the slick streets in no rush.

Pulling up I realize I didn't even ask you how you got stranded out here, huddled under the illuminated plastic and old grime of the awning outside the gas station. Blond hair cut cheap, short guard all the way around, damp white shirt, jeans a size too large, and big puppy eyes. Your shivering shoulders visibly sag of relief when I flash the headlights. As the car door opens a blast of hot air and sordid rock music rolls out, pushing back the chill and the awkwardness of waiting alone.

No, I don't want anything from inside. It's cool. I don't know where to put your gratitude, so it just kind of piles up until the banter wheels off elsewhere while we pull out of the greasy liminal space. The radio is already loud and you just shout over it. Times like this I momentarily wonder why I keep hanging out with you. Or anyone.

The car and the conversation grind to a halt outside your place. While I'm turning down the radio to actually say goodbye, you give me one of those real big smiles, looking like a wan cheeked doll under the sickly orange streetlight. Exactly like a bit of kitch picked up at a gas station.

When you come in for a hug I give you a good one back -- tonight has been a

drag for you and it's a cold world without enough love in it. It's a good hug. Now it's lingering. My advanced gaydar pings tells me you're thinking to try something. You press your hot, damp forehead against my cheek. Holding very still I can smell your nervousness, and my own stale workweek stress. You tense in my arms and I hear you thinking and psyching up for a kiss.

I grab the nape of your neck, holding your head pressed where it is. I don't want to kiss you. A lot of things are unclear between you and me, lots of grey area, but that is one thing I know at the moment: that I don't want to kiss you.

You're leaning in across the center console and drop your hand lightly on my crotch. Crude, maybe desperate, but effective and clear. Sometimes you're a better communicator than I am, honestly. You moan when my tool twitches under your fingers, and the moment stretches like a midnight boner under the patter of rain, periodic thump; thump; thump of the wipers, the moaning and throbbing of bass and solo of my chronically depressive music, on this ugly street in broke-down yester-decade's suburbia.

My cock stretches too, yawning to distend with blood, pulsing and waking up hungry at your prodding. You give me a little press, trying to get your fingers edged around, despite the snug fit of my jeans. I let you. I let the shivers of pleasure wash over up to my temples and away. It feels good to let my overdriven brain liquefy with basic animal pleasure. It's been that kind of week, long and rough, that I've been just passing out and then brushing my teeth to run out the door, too preoccupied with obligatory wage-work for 'morning glory' or "extended coffee break"s.

I put my hand over yours, feeling you shiver and relax at overt approval. With a grunt you begin rubbing fervently on my jeans.

"Hey, you know you don't owe my anything, yeah? I picked you up just because." I pronounced in between two growling little moans.

After a pause, "I want it," you replied, " I just want it," with hint of odd finality.

When I glance up to check, the street is as cold, wet, and empty as my heart and your head. Gently I reach forward to kill the engine and the lights.

With our extended rendezvous out of the likely moment for locking lips, I carefully I let your nape go and pop my bucket seat to recline a few notches. You adjust your pose, twisted and leaning across the arm rest to accommodate your own budding wood, then start to pull apart the double fangs of my belt buckled. My breath starts to come in deeper and heavier with the ache to be touched more, and I push your pale fingers down to the shadows where my cod is straining against cotten. There you agreeably squeeze a moan out to me once, twice

"Yeah?"

"Mhmm."

I'm sprawled comfortably back, letting you service me: tracing fingers and trying your grip out on my cock through the fly. I let you stroke it for a while, pushing your hand down over my sac a few times and back to the shaft. You're a a touch clumsy but something about your naked sob of Want turns me on. I like the way you 'mmmm" and watch my thickening cock like payday takeout after a crappy month.

You look up at me like you want something. It isn't the hot kiss you want, but I stare you down and nod my pleasure and approval, something I suspect you need. My left hand inches over yours, slowing your hard, hungry strokes, and we squeeze on my rod together. Through your faded out jeans I can see your stiff prick. I thumb my glans a little. "fuck..." you breath as I pulse firmer and harder in our hands.

You lick your chapped pink lips and lean down. My hips rock up an inch in anticipation with a want of their own, but I put my quickly reach for your shoulder;

"Hey. One sec..."

You stop and look up. I can't make out your look in the dim, but I can smell the fear of rejection, so I rub the back of your shoulder. "Don't worry; I'll fuck your head, man. Just let me wrap it up nice with a bow for you, huh?" Sliding my arm to the back seat I fish a couple of condoms out of my fraying army map bag. Squinting in the gloom I discard one and gingerly tear open the second, strawberry 'flavored' (scented, we all know).

Together we squeeze your fingers around the root of my rut, and your rubbing yourself while I squeeze the jiz nub on the rubber between thumb and forefinger and push the roll down with the rest of my digits.

"Safety first, cum-slut," I chide dryly.

You laugh with the true amusement special to the naive.

I'm not sick in the dick, and I'd give you benefit of doubt, but I hate surprises, and fucking barrier-safe is easier in the long run. I'd rather lose a little sensation than lose sleep, or lose this chance to fuck your thirsty mouth.

You're almost on your knees, in the passenger seat still, propped up on the center console. I stretch and settle in my pilot's chair, elbows propped casually like I own the place. (I do, no one will lease to me).

"Suck."

You jump the gate, mouthing over my whole glans and sucking, getting into a rhythm. It's a been a while since we fucked around but I can tell you're trying to do better, less clumsy. Instead of smashing my bolloks and doing the industrial vacuum impression you get to stroking my shaft and swirling your fat tongue around my tip You still moan and slobber uncontrollably, but those are desirable features as far as I'm concerned.

The rain patters on the metal roof and makes devil halos on the windshield with the streetlights. After a while I start to rub your back gently, and you relax a little despite your slavering fervor. I stroke your neck just lightly and you moan and stroke my bone a little faster while I play with your hairline.

You whimper the moment I grip your close-trimmed skull with my strong, long, musicians fingers and slowly start to force your face down. You moan long and obediently and try swallow as much of my slowly encroaching rod as you can. It's no monster porn dong, but I'm glad you've got a wide mouth, though I'm not fooling myself about getting the above-average all the way in your face at this angle.

I let you test it out for a bit, choking and swallowing and coming up with a little gasp. I gently stroke your soft little hairs with my thumb. You're quivering ball of lust and inferiority complex; I want you to practice and relax a little,

You've been stroking your stiff sex half absent but quick, and now thumbing your scroat while I grunt and murmur encouragement. "Aren't you a happy little cocksucker?" I husk between shivers with all the warm masculine beneficence you probably never got from your absent brothers, smart but timid mother, and shitty drunken stepdad.

Then you're virtually howling, a choking ecstatic clamor on my cock, bucking blindly into your free hand and a seizing. Perfect. I start thrusting out of the seat, grinding on your soft pallet, your lips locked firmly around. There's something especially erotic about fucking your muffled screams, strangling your moans as you spill the contents of your twitching prod all over jeans and seatcover.

I let you a couple extra gasps and get back to hammering your gullet, rubbing my bone hard along your tongue. I get quiet, throat tight with tension, focusing on your hot wet mouth and your hungry obeisance. With a shout, strangled like a abductee by the vague memory of the shadowy public street, I buck and pound into you, jamming as much of my climactic throb into your drooling face as either of us can manage. Teamwork. I've still got that tight grip on the back of your skull as my thick cum catches in the latex, though I imagine it dripping from your nose and gaping lips.

You kiss and lip on my tender for a second before I urge you off to let the cum-tremors die down, massaging my bollocks and suddenly craving solitude as you collapse back into the passenger seat. The pleasure noises, mine and yours, die down to quiet panting. The street is wet and empty as your pummeled mouth.

"... You okay?" I ask after a while.

"Yeah, great," you sigh, wiping your face, slaked but still hungry for... something.

"Okay, good," I chuckle, giving a glance, a little smile, a pat and brief squeeze half way up your thigh, just short of the sploodgy mess.

"Get by with a little help from friends, hm? Better put your dick up and get out of those wet cloths before you catch a cold, buddy," I say, occupying myself with the disposal of the floppy prophylactic and repackaging of my spent chub.

You sit quit a minute and glance up from my zipper

"I gotta go home and crash. Goodnight, man," I say, friendly, trying to head off you asking me to come inside.

"You want to come in and pass out?" You ask. I have failed. One more in a long line.

"Nah, I've got to wake up at home if I want to get anything done tomorrow. I'll talk to you later though," which is completely honest.

You make a two-thirds hearted effort not to look as bummed as you probably are. I feel a little rough about it watching you jog up to your porch where no one has left the light on for you. I know what we've got going on, not even quite 'a thing' isn't ideal for either of us.

With deep fatigue of the body and soul I sigh softly under the crank of the engine, "Sorry man. I'm still carrying that torch. And there is easily someone better for you out there than me."

On the way home the streets are quiet, wet, and empty. On the drive home I am quiet, my cheeks are wet, and I feel blessedly empty.

(This series is an exploration of relationships in the slim pickings of the small cities and towns of the rustbelt. It follows the perspective of a gay goth-flavored musician who has yet to escape the cornfields after high school. It will involve some bummer feels, references to bigotry, nose-thumbing at the establishment, and blurring of the lines between Dekoship, Phadship, Seropship, and Mudship. There may be implications of mental and physical unwellness, as it is want to occur in The Rustbelt. And the greatest disclaimer: of course it is not feasible to live alone on one income in this economy. That's purely creative license.)