Tow Blow

an excerpt

Chapter One

TERRANCE J. HERALDS, III - Vice-President, Heralds Foreign New and Used Sports Car Emporium - has a hard-on. No missing it; it's big by any size-queen's stringent standards, although I'm certainly no size queen. His hard dick snakes his crotch, down his left thigh, almost to his knee, and - here's the clincher that it's one really gargantuan dick - it's alp-like ridge is evident, obviously circumcised, even beneath a pair of pants not exactly form-fitting.

Am I surprised that the cause, well, partial-cause, of Terry's presently hard cock is my just-finished discourse on the growing habits of the Louisiana Amaranthus crassipes? Nah! No more than I'm surprised that another client of mine, Gerald Hoffenstauffeur, gets all excited by my pissing on him, or that another client of mine, Valencio Rodringerer, insists I use farm-churned real-butter to grease his asshole before every fuck of it. Different strokes for different folks.

As far as Terry, it all boils down to his having had first sex, fixation having followed, with a gardener on the Heralds's long-owned Louisiana Delta estate. In fact, Terry would have become a gardener himself -or, a professional landscaper/botanist, as he'd attempted to impress his father - but Terrance J. Heralds, Jr., insisted Terry not be so fucking silly but join the family automotive business as everyone, meaning Terrance J. Heralds, Jr., always planned.

I lean back in my chair, let my thighs drop a bit farther open, and invite the comparison between the bulge made in my trouser leg, my Levi 501 jeans a helluva lot tighter than the pants of Terry's Brooks Brothers suit. He wins the compare-dicks contest hands-down; few dicks, mine included, ever - except through the grace of God - grow as large as his does. As it turns out, Terry and my long road to this near-end of our journey has seen my dick more than large enough to fit the bill; my acting ability has more than adequately compensated for any additional inches I, or he, might have wished between my legs.

I adjust my prick with my left hand; with my right hand, I reach for the phallic-necked dark-glassed Budweiser beer bottle on the table in front of me. As I take a long swallow of cold beer from the bottle, my hand that so recently realigned my cock now reveals a bit more of my genuinely well-muscled chest by unbuttoning one more button of my gray-plaid flannel shirt.

My jeans, my shirt, my rope belt, my socks, my work boots, even my Hanes white underwear, are all worn at Terry's instruction. As is my Old Spice cologne. If my costume has changed over the months, and it has, it has never varied from what a blue-collar gardener might wear to his local tavern on any night on the town with likewise blue-collar buddies. Terry and I often shoot pool as well as the breeze. Sometimes we play shuffleboard, which he usually wins. Sometimes we throw darts, which I usually win. We always finish our evening, like now, by discussing flora, usually indicative of Louisiana, since we're in New Orleans; it's always plant life that Terry has given me plenty of time to read up on.

Terry's original took-his-cherry gardener had been enough of a pro to know an Amaranthus crassipes an Amaranthus greggii, and Terry expects me to know the same.

"I'm thinking of planting Utricularia juncea." I take the initiative, which Terry always likes. Since this is session number five, magic-number swan-song for all of my known predecessors, there have been two from the agency I work for, I want my closing act with Terry a good one, in order, hopefully, to reap the same, or similar, benefits as those game-players here before me. "I'm thinking that although it requires wet, there are a lot of low-lying areas in your garden."

His resulting pause is for effect, because the guy has an encyclopedic mind as regards things biological and botanical. He may be in the car business, like his dear daddy intended and intends, but he can shift his expertise on a dime when daddy isn't around.

"Its leaves are minute and thread-like, underground and seldom seen, yes?" he says as if he really isn't sure. "Little bladders are on its leaves and the root system for ingesting small invertebrates? Its flowers are like a snapdragon?"

"Right," I concur. "Pouty, yellow, blooms."

"Make it happen." He sounds like some TV character -Captain Picard on Star Trek?-Gunn on Project Runway?

Terry smiles -a nice wide smile of capped teeth that cost a small fortune -which is a good sign that he's well-pleased. If I can just follow through with what's required from here on out until it's take-this-gift-in-parting time ...

He signals for the waiter who, waiting, comes on over and accepts payment for the bar tab we've accumulated during the course of the evening. Not that we've drunk all that much, but Terry does seem to require a few beers to get in the mood. I often wonder if the gardener of whom he's become so fond plied the young Terry with beer before taking advantage and indelibly imprinting blue-collar sexual sensibilities on the preppy schoolboy forever and ever, amen.

We leave the bar and exit into city landscape completely devoid of people, like one of those creepy B-movies, creatures lying in wait.

Automatically, we turn in the direction of his car. Before, we get there, though, I suggest a detour.

"This way, Terry ... with me, for a minute, in here."

"An alley?" He sounds as if he's never seen one before.

Fucking-A, it's an alley, Einstein. A dark alley. A dirty alley. A filthy alley. Piss stains on its enclosing walls. Garbage all over. Doesn't smell pretty, either. Smells damned funky, as a matter of fact. Smells rancid. Smells of sweat, of urine, even of shit. A blue-collar alley, to be sure.

"Why you? Why me? Why this alley? Why now?" I ask him.

"Because a dirty, filthy, funky alley is just the place for preppy you and blue-collar me to have dirty, filthy, funky blue-collar on white-collar sex," I answer my own question.

"Definitely not genteel sex, my preppy friend. Not pretty sex. Not refined, civilized sex.

"I'm talking raw sex. Animalistic sex. Dog-on-dog sex. Cave-men-ruled-by-hard-cocks, not-intellect, sex. I'm not talking mind-fuck here. I'm talking major butt-fuck, and mouth-fuck, and throat-screw.

"You. Me. Our hard cocks. Our cum-filled balls. Our grunts, groans. Our growls. The two of us metamorphosed into jungle creatures, doing beastly things, one to the other, and uttering jungle sounds in pleasure, in pain, and in protest.

"Strip!" I command. "Yeah, right where you stand, preppy car dealer. Peel off your suit coat and shirt and undershirt. I want to see that hair on your head tousled by removed material as your taut nipples come into view. Just like that. Exactly like that.

"Mmmmm. Jesus! What a white-collar stud you definitely are!" I'm appreciative. "Let me feel the raised ridge of your hard penis along your thigh.

"Let me lick ... mmmmm . . . the sweat couched by your jugular notch and spilling into your deep pectoral cleavage.

"Pampered velvety flesh stretched so tightly over your rich-man's-gym-pumped perfection. My blue-collar guy tongue tasting your white-collar salty flesh as I lick all of the way down to your...

"Ahhhhh, so hard - your nipple, Terry! See/feel it standing tall; first, because of my licking; then, because of how my teeth bite it just a little as ..."

He moans.

"Damned right, it hurts," I confirm for him. "You and I know that a little bit of pain can provide a whole lot of enhanced pleasure. And, it's pleasure I have in store for you, my handsome rich-man stud with your well-defined pecs, your six-pack abdominals, your nine-inches of hard cut erection, and your asshole deep and dark and pleasure-filled dank.