Gay Erotic Stories

If you are a Northerner (“Nawthunah”), you might not truly understand what I mean by a totally redneck bar. I know that there is likely some kind of equivalent, but for the life of me I cannot think of what it might be! I used to live up there, and I do not think there is, indeed, an equivalent. Even a lot of Southerners have not experienced the delights of being in a redneck bar. The reason for that is that no “gentleman” would ever go into one, even if he knew exactly what it was and where. By the way, we have a lot of definitions around here for a “gentleman,” but the one that I like best is that “a gentleman is a man who gets out of the shower to take a pee.” Now I regard myself as being from a fairly good family around here, but even I do not fit that definition! I also go to the redneck bars. My favorite one is a place just on the edge of town, but still on the main and most prominent street in this community. Somehow the little bar has survived the encroaching development, and remains as untouched now as it ever was. The exterior is painted a dark burgundy shade, and there is white trim on the windows and the edges of the building, making it look just a little like a gingerbread house on the wrong side of the tracks. The front window is filled with neon signs for most every beer maker that makes a neon sign. When you enter, the stale cigarette smoke hits you strong. It is unlikely that the smell of the smoke will ever disappear, it has been going on for far too long now. And since this state grows a lot of tobacco (bumper stickers on the vehicles in the parking lot proudly claim “This truck bought with tobacco money”) there is no chance in hell that there is ever going to be an enforced “No Smoking” section in this place. Inside NASCAR reigns supreme, along with the breweries, of course. There are the vinyl balloons of the various racecars, and banners that advertise the season’s schedule. There are a couple of life-sized cardboard cut-outs of a couple of the well-known drivers that can make you look twice if you stumble across them after a couple of brews. (I do not know why, but some of them are so fuckin’ hot, that I have thought that I would like to have one of my own: A cardboard stud for my bedroom. Sort of like a blow-up doll, only one-dimensional...wait a minute! I’ve known a few who fit that description!) The barmaid is a sultry and sloe-eyed young lady who goes by “CC” and that is because there are too many syllables in her given name for her to pronounce, which is something like Constantina Carmelina. She is strikingly pretty. She wears halter-tops that display her Dolly Parton-like bust line. She has never heard the word décolletage or understood what cleavage really means but, never mind, she has both. Her smile is charming, her manner disarming. Her bust measurement is a much higher number than her IQ, but she is not paid to be intelligent. She is paid to serve ice-cold beer to the local rednecks and she knows how to do that. Her ability to function in that capacity so effectively is the reason why I come here so often. Every red-blooded stud within thirty miles that has a truck and a dog and wears blue jeans and boots comes here to see if they can get into CC’s panties. From what the boys say, she is pretty good at that sort of entertainment, and no one seems to mind that she is not virginal (unlike the Southern belles and local ladies from the good families) and no one seems to mind that she is not very selective in whose bed she sleeps. There is a familiar camaraderie with the boys of “How was she?” and “What did you do with her?” and “What did she do to you?” For some reason, they seem to get bulges in their baskets when they all talk about her. She will float up and down the bar, and every now and then will correct some slur upon her character or misrepresentation of her bedroom performance. After all, a girl has to have some respect! The guys that come to see CC are healthy, hard-working lads, mostly in construction, building decks, or painting houses, or mowing lawns. They have built up their muscles, earned of hard work, and are tanned by the sun since they work shirtless for most days of the long hot summer. And in CC’s bar, they often throw their T-shirt on the counter on hot nights since there is no air conditioning, but simply a couple of slow moving ceiling fans. The guys do not know how appealing they are to men like me, since the only appeal that they seem to have is that hetero instinctive to all who fuck CC. They are breathtaking in their raw masculine beauty. If any one of them walked into a gay bar, the queens would fight to the last mascara-ed eyelash to get close to any one of them. I like to go there at the end of the day, when they have finished their daily jobs. The hotter the day the better I like it, since I know the shirts will be piling up on the bar. I also like to watch the guys play pool. Damn, I lust after a lot of the studs that position themselves with a hot ass on display as they arrange their pool cue: some are “pokers” and some are “strokers.” At the pool table and elsewhere, I imagine. I could describe several of them who are head turners. Marty. Rick. One of my favorites is a guy named Ken. And they are all buddies. Ken does lawn work and installs underground sprinkler systems for the grandees in the big subdivisions. Ken has arms that are to be admired. I have no idea how many inches they are, and I also frequently wondered about how many inches he might have in another part of his body. Ken, like many of the guys, likely had more inches in his cock than his IQ, if measured in centimeters. But, he was not being paid to be intelligent. He earned his living by working his body. And he had a beaut of a body. Ken liked me. Marty liked me. Rick liked me. Hell, they all liked me, and I got along well with the whole crowd of workmen. I was always good for a free beer, and they all knew it, but what the hell, I loved to mingle amongst these “Monuments to Masculine Machismo.” It was one of my truisms that the only difference between a straight guy and a gay guy was a six-pack, so I bought beers whenever I could! One hot and sultry evening, I had been drinking beer with Ken and the boys, Marty and Rick, and the need to drain the bladder became a pressing need, as it does when one is drinking beer (ever notice how you only rent the stuff?) Someone had holed up in the men’s room for a long time, however, and the prevalent thought was that he had passed out with the door locked. Either that or it was stuck. After a couple of attempts, Ken said, “Fuck this shit!” and motioned for me to follow him. Out the back door and twenty yards into the woods. We were out of sight and the glare of the street lighting seemed to stop at the very edge of the woods. The bladder was much relieved to let the beer escape, and both Ken and I were just sort of letting it hang out, airing out the cock and balls. I was getting an eyeful of Ken’s healthy equipment, but tensed up when I realized he was getting an eyeful of mine. Ever the exhibitionist, my prick seems to know when someone is paying attention, and then my cock develops a life of its own and gives them something to stare at. Ken’s staring was no exception. I rose to the occasion, and was pleased to see that he was doing the same. I wanted to say something to break the silence, to break this moment of mesmerizing fascination, but I couldn’t think of anything. Ken, staring at my growing stiffie, said it so elegantly and so simply: “I’m gonna suck that thang when it gets totally hard, OK?” “Ken, I didn’t know you liked to suck dick!” The words tumbled out of my mouth before thinking. (I should have just grunted a sultry “OK” but I got carried away.) Ken just looked at me, with head cocked, and drawled, “Hell yes, I like to suck dick. But jes’ cause I like to suck dick, I don’t want you to be thinking that I am gay or somethin’. Jes' cause I like lickin’ on a cock don’t make me no fuckin' faggot.” He was highly emphatic, all the while as he was kneeling down and holding my rod in one hand, licking it like a lollipop. He switched from licking the dick to licking the balls, then got serious about sucking, taking me deep in long movements. Damn, this was an unexpected pleasure! I should have let him just get on with it, but I was just too fascinated with his comments. I had to probe a bit further. “Yeah, same with me, Ken. I suck cock too, but I’m not a faggot either. You know any faggots?” He was polishing my head with his tongue now, obviously experienced in knowing what to do with a dick, and liking what he was doing. “Yeah, well, I know a couple of them faggots work in the flower shop, and I know one who does up women’s hair, some others around, but I stay away from all them queers.” By now, he had talked about all he wanted to, and he was sucking me in earnest. He paused only momentarily to say, “Take it out before you shoot,” and moments later, I pushed his head off, since that was the inevitable. He got a good grip, finishing me off by pumping my load onto his shirtless chest. He rubbed it in as he stood up and just matter-of-factly said, “OK, now suck me.” I did not even hesitate. He was wracked with spasms when he reached his orgasm, and did not even try to pull it out as I took his all. Back inside, we settled right back on the bar stools, and Marty and Rick sauntered up with their beers. Marty sort of nodded his head toward me, and Ken nodded back. With his velvety drawl, he said, “Yep, he’s a member. I jes’ initiated him.” His pronouncement was met with some redneck high-fives all around and a couple of guttural “All right!” approval comments. Don’t even ask. I’m not going to tell you where it is! Feedback to NC252GRN@aol.com