Back in 1971, I was a rather naive 18 year old, but one summer afternoon I discovered a whole lot about human nature, as well as learning a valuable lesson. Never judge a book by the cover.
It was mid-morning on a weekday afternoon. The sun was hot and with high school already a fading memory, I was doing what most of my crowd did that summer before heading to college, which was hanging out.
Later in the day, we would gather around the field and end up playing baseball until supper time, but until then I was just sitting on our front porch killing time. Across the street and up a little way, I saw the garbage man pulling up to the Beckford's house.
That was weird because it wasn't garbage day, and the way that Carl Johnson, the guy that operated the rickety old garbage truck, was acting was even stranger. I mean, everybody knew Can Man Carl, a big black guy with a pot belly and a voice that sounded like that cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn, so it wasn't like he was exactly sneaking around, but he was acting funny.
It was as if he was trying to act like he wasn't up to something, and since I often acted that way myself, I knew better. Fancying myself a detective, I kept watching as he fiddled with the back of his truck while looking around.
Then, all of a sudden he ducked down the driveway beside the Beckford's house. Maybe he had to take a leak or something, I figured, and just waited for him to emerge from the little patch of woods pulling up his zipper.
When he didn't come back out after a few minutes, my curiosity got the best of me. Maybe he was casing the joint, although what anybody would want out of the Beckford's house was beyond me. Maybe some bibles or hymn books?
The Beckford's were the holy rollers of the neighborhood. They were both old, probably in their 50's, and John Beckford owned a store in town that sold religious goods. He looked like death warmed over, sort of like a skinny version of Lurch from the Addams family.
His wife Martha was an incredibly plain looking woman who was probably 6' tall and skinny as a rail, resembling Miss Hathaway from the Beverly Hillbillies. If she had ever smiled once in her life, I would have been shocked. I spent a couple of years in her Sunday School class in my younger days, and Martha Beckford did everything she could to make them the most tedious hours imaginable.
She spoke in a monotone, and when somebody would eventually start to nod off she would slam the desktop with a ruler and raise her voice for a few seconds before returning to her drone. Mrs. Beckford wore these floral dresses that seemed about 20 years out of style even to somebody as clueless fashion-wise as me, and she often wore these stockings that had seams along the backs of them.
So while I had no great love for either of the Beckford's, for some reason I had to know what Carl the Can Man was up to. These were the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer out in our parts back in 1971, before computers and video games, and I was bored.
I did my best to act just as nonchalantly as Carl had, and darted into the woods like Carl did as well, keeping my eyes out for the garbage man while trying to come up with a reason for being back there should I be spotted.
No sign of Carl, so I wound my way over to the side of the Beckford house, nodding over at the bathtub figurines and assorted shrines that filled the yard. I found myself outside what was the kitchen, and when I peeked inside I saw good old Mrs. Beckford sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea or coffee, wearing a bathrobe.
Oh well, I said to myself, and I was just about to head back home when I heard that familiar raspy voice on the other side of the screen window. It was Carl the Can Man, and while I couldn't make out what he was saying, that was partly because I was stunned at what I was seeing.
Carl Johnson. Carl the Can Man was naked, unless you want to count the towel he was moving back and forth over his back. He was dripping wet, and my detective skills led me to believe that he had just taken a shower.
And Mrs. Beckford was just sitting there like nothing was strange about this. She set her teacup down and swiveled in the chair as Carl came over to her, wet and bare-assed, his little round beer belly making him look like a Buddha.
What was hanging below the beer belly was what caught me attention, and until Mrs. Beckford's lily-white fingers wrapped themselves around that fat black snake, adding a sense of proportion to what I was seeing, I thought I must have been mistaken.
So black that it seemed to be a whole new color, Carl Johnson's cock hung there like a snake until Mrs. Beckford's bony fingers lifted it upwards. I had seen plenty of dicks before in the locker rooms, and while I never really paid that much attention to them, I admit to what I felt was a normal curiosity about them.
Some guys have little cocks, and some have big ones. Most guys, like yours truly, fall somewhere in the middle. What Mrs. Beckford was handling fit no category I knew of. Carl the Can Man's cock did not look human, and what was even more crazy was that old lady Beckford was sitting there pulling in it.
Martha Beckford? The Jane Hathaway of Sunday School? The woman who not only wouldn't say shit if she had a mouthful, but would smack your knuckles with a ruler if you said the word "damn", sitting in the kitchen of her house pulling on the longest, fattest and blackest cock in the world?
I would have given anything to have not only a picture of what I was watching, but also a picture of my reaction to this stag movie come to life right before my prying eyes, because it must have been comical.
The Can Man looking down on the puritanical Sunday School teacher as she kept pulling on his uncircumcised manhood, stroking her hair and then undoing it out of this bun she wore it in. Mrs. Beckford's hair fell down over her shoulders and back, long and straight black hair that now made her look entirely different.
Carl Johnson's cock kept getting bigger as Martha Beckford pulled it in, and it resembled an accordion the way it kept stretching and contracting. The head of his cock kept going in and out from under the foreskin, and the knob of his tool not only was as big as a plum, but also had that hue to it.
Mrs. Beckford looked up at the garbage man over the top of her glasses and then leaned forward, opening her mouth wide and putting the head of that monstrous cock inside. As she did, I realized that I was leaning against the house and my face was almost against the screen. If either of them ever turned my way, they would see me, but I didn't care because it was like I was hypnotized.
Carl Johnson was swaying as Martha Beckford's wide open mouth slid up and down the end of his cock while her hands held the rest of it, continuing to pull on it. It looked like the garbage man had an erection, because her hands started to move easier as they pumped away.
That proved to be the case because when the Can Man pulled away from Mrs. Beckford, his schlong was standing straight out like a salami, the head of it wet with Martha Beckford's saliva. I still hadn't recovered from the shock of seeing old lady Beckford giving head when Carl Johnson helped her up and pulled the robe off of Martha's shoulders and let it fall to the floor
