[Breeder] Earl

[TheBreeder]

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When I read over the last entry I wrote introducing Earl, I get a sense that I utterly failed to describe him well. I got the basic features wedged into my narrative—his insanely blue eyes, his blond hair, his rugged features, his chin with the Huey Lewis dimple. What I didn’t really convey is how different Earl looked from other men.

When I was growing up in the South in the seventies, the men fucking me came roughly in a few distinct types. There were the good ol’ boys, or the bad-complexioned rednecks, who drove pickup trucks into the parks with the Confederate flag proudly displayed in their back windows, and who had sex with their plaid shirts and cowboy boots completely on and their 501s unbuttoned and yanked down no further than the bottoms of their butts. There were the creepy, vaguely effeminate older men who would meet my eyes for silent confirmation with every move they made, as if afraid I might startle and bolt like a scared fawn if they made a sudden noise. And then there were the vast majority, the pale, doughy middle-aged WASPs with their round faces and thin hair, and pale lines on their ring fingers from where they’d removed their wedding bands before entering the parks or restrooms.

Then there was Earl. With his handsome features and good looks on a completely different scale than the low curve presented by my Virginian playmates, he was like a breath of fresh air in an arid room. Seeing Earl leaning against that tree, the day That Sprinkler Guy fucked me in front of him, had a bit of the unreality of being observed by a Hollywood star. When That Sprinkler Guy had finished with me, zipped up his fat dick, and given me a punch on the shoulder in farewell, I had to stumble out of the sunny clearing in the man’s direction. I was naked. My eyes were sun-bleached and dry. I had to blink several times in the shade before I realized that the man was holding out my top to me.

“You like what he did to you?” he asked.

Though his tone was grave, I knew he wasn’t judging me. For one thing, his deep voice was gravely with lust. His dick was showing quite clearly in his shorts, tenting them out near the hem. “Yeah,” I said, pulling on my shirt.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me around, then bent me over and fingered my hole. I was still wet with That Sprinkler Guy’s load. I thought he might take me right there, but he didn’t. Instead, he whirled me around again and handed me my shorts and underwear. “How long have you been doing this, kid?” I told him. His eyebrows shot up. “Are you looking for more?”

I knew this game. I thrived on men coming on to me, back then. I’d already stepped into my shorts, but I let them drop instead. “How big are you?” I asked.

“Not here. My place.” He seemed annoyed that I’d come onto him so clumsily, but his dick didn’t show any sign of deflating. He named a street and asked if I knew where it was. I happened to know it very well. One of the things I liked to do after dinner in the summer, when I wasn’t biking out to the park for even more sex, was to ride through the back streets of my neighborhood to Willey’s Drug Store, a good mile away. Outside that old establishment from the nineteen-twenties was a soda machine where one could purchase grape Nehis or milky-sweet Brownies in heavy glass bottles, for the bargain price of a quarter. Or else one could get a ten-cent vanilla ice cream cone from the drug store. The man’s house was on the very same street. He told the address, made me repeat it to make certain I had it right, and instructed me to meet him there in ten minutes.

“You’re going to show,” he told me. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” I told him. “Sure I am.” There was really no doubt of my keeping the appointment. I hadn’t been so flattered by a handsome guy’s desire in some time. “Ten minutes,” I said, over my shoulder as I walked to the tree where I’d parked my bike after unloading it from That Sprinkler Guy’s truck.

“I’m Earl,” he said, before he disappeared into the trees. “See you in ten.”

I parked my bike in Earl’s garage, as instructed, when I reached his place. I got to know his house quite well over the next three years, but not much of it made an impression on me, that first visit. I didn’t see the hidden rooms then, or the dark cellar with its equipment concealed in the shadows. What I really remember was the air conditioning, which blasted from the window units with a volume unmatched by my parents’ trickly old unit at home. “Strip,” he told me, the moment I stepped into his living room.

I removed my clothes while he watched, maneuvering myself into the stream of cold air so that it could play over my body. That Sprinkler Guy had fucked me for a long time in the sun that afternoon, and I could feel my sun-baked skin tightening as it began to redden. I had very long hair then, and glasses. The former began to block the latter as the fan-driven breeze hit the back of my head.

Earl unbuttoned his shorts and stepped out of them. He had no underwear on beneath. Off came his polo shirt, exposing a muscular and slightly hairy chest underneath. Save for a strip in his middle where he must have sunbathed in Speedos, his body was a dark tan from head to foot. His dick was long and fat, a cut of prime meat that was impressive as the rest of him. Its enormous mushroom head pointed directly at me. “Suck,” he told me, his hands on his hips.

I knelt down on the braided circular rug and took it into my mouth, aware that it stunk of precum and a half-day’s disuse. I sucked it anyway, loving how it opened the very back of my throat. Soon—too soon—he ripped it from between my lips and left them stinging with want. “Kneel on the sofa,” he said.

I was still wet from the fuck I’d taken earlier. Earl’s thick fingers made me gasp when he shoved them in. His dick followed, lubed by little more than his own spit and the residue of what another man had left before.

I yelled at the top of my voice. I couldn’t help it. I was mostly used to men who were too timid to do anything than take the slowest and gentlest approach with me, who treated me like a piece from a glass menagerie, liable to break with rough treatment. It wasn’t an approach I necessarily liked, but I was used to it. I didn’t often meet men who used me like fuck meat, right off the bat.

I looked over my shoulder, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. The man called Earl had a single-minded look of satisfaction on his face as he stared down at his dick—at the connection between us. His eyes glittered, hard and happy.

As I would learn in the future, Earl liked it best when he made it hurt.

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