Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Behind the Shed

I grew up out in the middle of nowhere. For those of you a little younger than I, it might be difficult to comprehend a life out in the countryside where five whole channels of television arrived on rabbit ears and most households lacked a computer. The Internet, while invented, needed more than a decade before reaching the masses.

Even today as I drive around my old lurking grounds, I wonder how I managed to figure out my way in the world. “Gay” wasn’t a word unless it was a name of an older female. “Faggot” might have been uttered on the school playground or under someone’s breath. As for “homosexual,” I’d either just found it in a dictionary or soon would.

When this occurred, it would be a year before I figured out I could cause myself to have this intense pleasure followed by a sticky mess and about three days of overwhelming, debilitating guilt.

The summer intensity in the South remains infamous with the incredible humidity that accompanies it. But I found myself on my bike, riding back and forth in front of my neighbors’ home, debating whether I should venture down the long gravel driveway. Finally, I’d done the long loop and returned home.

The screen door followed me inside with a little slam when my Mother called from the dining room. I was to get back on my bike and ride over to that very neighbors’ home. They had a few too many ripe tomatoes in the garden. I was to go and fetch.

My heart leaped a little but my gut also had a growling. My balls tickled a little but I began to sweat. Not the heat or the humidity. Still, with all the speed my lanky legs could muster, I pumped back the half-mile down the road to that familiar gravel drive.

“Bill’s out in the garden,” his wife told me as I rode up. She was in the kitchen, looking through the screen of the open window above the sink. “He’ll get you the ‘maters your Mama wants.”

“Thanks,” I called back and started toward the garden.

Shirtless, he bent over and plucked the tomatoes from the vine, its bushy leaves quaking with every yank. I could see the glistening sweat on his back and his tighty whitey waistband above the khaki shorts.

I could see him glance back because I didn’t exactly approach with stealth. My cock ached. It bulged in my too-tight athletic shorts and my own Fruit-of-the-Loom undies. He stood as I got closer, turning to face me but he obviously did not look at me. He looked past me to the house, to where he wife might be watching. Her perch had been on the other side, facing up the drive. Now we stood to the side and slightly behind the house.

“Help me pick these,” he mumbled. I couldn’t help but notice I was not alone with a hard cock. His was not at full hardness, but it had certainly reached its full length. I could see the outline. As I knelt down, he seemed to adjust himself in those khakis. But when he bent his knee, I could clearly see what he’d done — unleash his monster from the tighty whiteys. His shorts’ leg gaped on his left thigh. I could see the head, peering at me in the shadows.

We started picking silently. The basket was just to his left and I deposited my first tomatoes silently.

“Got yourself a girlfriend?” he asked.

I flushed and paused, perhaps a little too long. “No.”

“You need to get one,” he continued, shifting a little. “People need to feel like there’s nothing wrong with you. They could think you’re a homosexual.”

So that was the word. So that’s what I might be. So that might explain why the Farrah Fawcett poster in my room seemed to just be weird. My friends talked about it. They talked about it and the other “Charlie’s Angels.” But I would stare at the glossy paper, at the bright eyes, dirty blond hair, the all-too-white smile and the slight hint of a nipple. I wondered what the magical hold this poster held.

I had been too quiet.

“Do you want to be a homosexual?” He said, somewhat under his breath.

I blushed. “I don’t really know what that is,” I said, my eyes darting from dirt to his cockhead to his face and back again.

“A homosexual likes this,” he said, grabbing his cock. “Do you like my cock?” He shook it at me a little.

I was mesmerized for a moment. Did I like his cock? Did I want to touch his cock? Did I want to lick his cock? Kiss his cock? Feel his cock? Stroke his cock? Did I imagine myself hugging his cock against my body, its throbbing hardness against me?

“Do you?” he whispered this time.

My eyes met his for a moment. I then dared to look at his cock, seeing that its head was now emerging from the shorts into the sunlight.

“I don’t know,” I finally mustered.

We went back to picking for a moment, but he shifted so the tomato basket sat between his legs. I dropped one tomato in and then another. But on the third, he grabbed my hand and pushed it into his shrouded cock. I stared at the cock. So magical. So interesting. Such the object that I tried not to think about but it was all I could think about.

“I think you are a homosexual,” he said, but he made sure my hand stayed on his cock. “I think you want my cock. And I think you’re going to hell.”

Those words stung and I jerked my hand away. I was a faithful churchgoer and believed in Jesus Christ as my personal savior. I’d been saved just a couple years before and had joined my church. I was active, prayed, sang in the choir, taught younger kids in Sunday School and attended to church meetings with my Dad. I never, ever, ever wanted to go to hell. Hell was the worst place.

I tried to concentrate on picking. I tried not to look at his cock. But as I would deposit the next tomato, I could see something glistening at the pee hole. I wondered what it was.

“Do you want to go to hell?” he asked, again in a low voice. I didn’t answer. “Do you?”

“No,” I snapped finally and started to stay something more.

“You want to suck my dick, I can tell that,” he said. “I think you want to go to hell. But you want worse to suck my prick.”

He stood and walked away to the yard shed, this old, gray, wood building by the garden. It wasn’t the barn. The barn was down back. The horses lived in the barn. Here you could find old lawnmowers. I waited. I didn’t follow. But I couldn’t just sit here. I didn’t want to go to hell. But I wanted that…. well… that thing in his shorts leg.

So I slowly stood. I almost sat back down, but ended up turning around. My conflict may be there, my fear of hell, the fear of what it meant to be a “homosexual.” As I put one foot in front of the other, I rounded the corner and he had his buttons and zipper open, his huge cock hanging out. I just stood in front of him for a moment, when he grabbed the back of my head.

I must be honest. Every time I think about sucking him, I just remember the first suck and his cumming. I don’t recall the many strokes I must have used, but I just remember how his cock got so much larger as my mouth got closer. It was in my mouth. I can feel its thickness, taste its acidic flavor and sense his throbbing pulse. And in a moment, he was shooting and I was swallowing.

“Did you swallow?” he asked as I stood.

“Yes,” I replied.

“You are going to hell.” He said plainly, closing up his shorts. “You are a homosexual.”

I stood there dumbfounded. I figured I would get him to open my shorts and let my aching cock free. But he started to walk off as I just stared at him.

As he rounded the corner of the shed, he stuck his head back.

“What is it?” he asked with irritation.

“Ummm,” I stared.

He asked again, “What do you need?”

“What about me?” was all I could say.

“I’m not a homosexual. I’m not going to hell, like you.”

And he was gone.

I pulled up my shorts and fetched the basket. I could see him walking toward the house. My cock throbbed but I kept thinking about hell. The guilt was there, but it wasn’t unbearable at this point. And, you may wonder why I didn’t take care of myself. I didn’t yet realize what jerking off was and that I could do it myself.

I look back now and know that my blue balls were matching my blue shorts.

He was in the back door when I approached my bike.

“Get what you need?” his wife called from the kitchen, where she still stood.

“I got the tomatoes,” I said. “Mom will be happy.”

“Good boy,” she said. “Be careful.”

My ride down the driveway wasn’t fast and I took a leisurely pace home, thinking about what had happened. It didn’t seem fair. I wanted more than ever to stain the sofa again, like last time. But that didn’t happen.

Was I a homosexual? What was a homosexual? Would I go to hell for it?

My intellect began to swirl around these questions and slowly I forgot about my hard cock.

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