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Southern Comfort


  1. Cover
  2. About this book
  3. About the editor
  4. Title
  5. Copyright
  6. Introduction
  7. Searching for (and Finding) the South
  8. White Rose
  9. Looking for Bubba
  10. Kissing Cousins and Other Family Matters
  11. Hotter than Hell
  12. Like Father, Like Son
  13. Good Night, Irene
  14. Southern Discomforts
  15. Resisting
  16. What Ails You
  17. Homecoming
  18. Soul Food to Satisfy All the Body’s Hungers
  19. Gravy
  20. Good Home Cookin’
  21. Recipe
  22. The Antebellum (and Bellum) South
  23. The Tutor: A Gothick Romance
  24. The Very Private War Between Private Johannsen and Private Fontana
  25. Race and Class
  26. Billy Bob Barstow
  27. Seeing Red
  28. Burning from the Inside

About this book

A scorching tour through the less-traveled territories of gay desire!

The American South is sweltering—and not just the climate. Indulge yourself in 16 tales of homosexual lust! Take in the distinctive language, the rich food, the tumultuous history—and of course the many contributions the Deep South has made to the image of the American male.

About the editor

David Laurents is the editor of numerous anthologies of gay erotica, including Southern Comfort, The Young and the Hung, Feeling Frisky, Rough and Ready, and Overload. His anthology The Badboy Book of Erotic Poetry was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award. He lives in New York City.


More than almost any other region, the American South has produced a literature with its own peculiar and distinctive flavor. Language itself, when spoken in the South, takes on a different sound: the drawls, the soft accents, the dialects. The writers in this book have, with all the wondrous and myriad peculiarities of Southern fiction, turned their attentions to stories of the South focusing on sex between men.

Southern life (and fiction) focuses on the small-town experience; almost every story in this book, with the exception of those pieces set in New Orleans, has a rural and exurban setting. And New Orleans itself is an oddity as cities go, being focused less on commerce than on serving as a nexus for decadence and excess. There are, of course, major urban cities in the South—Atlanta, Nashville, Louisville, etc.—but the heart of the South lies outside of them, in the hills and the back country.

Hillbillies and rednecks people the land and these stories. They are men who exude masculinity in their every movement, their jobs, their sweat, their whole being. You’ll also find blue-blood aristocrats in some of these stories, and escaped convicts, and even some Northerners, come looking for those special fabled Southern comforts—all consorting with one another. Given the South’s rigid social hierarchies and histories, there is an intense erotic power to breaking these societal taboos; men sleeping with men instead of Southern belles, and with men who are further set apart by class and/or race.

The Southern intolerance of homosexuality also has its charge, that frisson of flirting with danger, or sometimes outright danger and pain, which plays an important part in most of the stories in the section “Southern Discomforts” as well as in other pieces in the book, such as “Looking for Bubba.” The stories in this volume span the gamut, from the lyrical and tender, as in Scott O’Hara’s “Recipe” or Simon Sheppard’s “Hotter than Hell,” to the angst and emotional suffering of Poppy Z. Brite’s narrator in “Burning from the Inside,” to the outright violence in Luke Ryder’s “Homecoming.”

The South alternates between intense repression and the utter carnality of Mardi Gras. In a letter from Andrew Holleran, he bemoaned:

The trouble is I’m living Southern Comfort, and it’s mostly just frustration and—o cripes, the trailer-stories, the … eeeeeeeek. There’s not much comfort in it, it’s mostly closet-queens and “bisexuals” and “Don’t say hello to me in public,” etc. That’s the South. The life of a cockroach.

Many of the stories in this book reflect this lifestyle: the furtiveness, the uncertainty of a receptive welcome to certain advances. The stories set in New Orleans, by contrast, have characters who are living openly queer lives, as do those pieces whose protagonists are moving through the South.

Now, let all these fine writer folk show you some Southern hospitality. Imagine they’ve poured you a large glass of lemonade, sat you out on the back porch on a lazy afternoon, and in that storytelling tradition that’s so strong in the South, they’re about to regale you with tales to entertain you and to awaken in your loins a heat as burning and insistent as the stifling swelter of a summer day working out in the tobacco fields.

David Laurents

Searching for (and Finding) the South

While all the stories in this book are about desire, and especially the desire of men for each other, for their cocks and asses, and for their bodies and their hearts, the stories that open this book are specifically about wanting and going out to find the things you desire.

I won’t say much about Killian’s story “White Rose” lest I spoil its surprises for you. It’s a quirky and offbeat tale in the tradition of Flannery O’Connor’s traveling Bible salesmen who’d take a girl someplace and steal her wooden leg. It might’ve fit in any number of the book’s categories, because it’s the sort of story that escapes easy definitions, even while fulfilling many of them. So I decided to open with it.

Christopher Morgan’s tale, “Looking for Bubba,” is a much more straightforward quest, with its own nods toward tradition, in this case to John Preston’s classic novel Mr. Benson and the stir it caused upon publication, resulting in T-shirts bearing the slogan: LOOKING FOR MR. BENSON. In this story we have a Northerner come looking for a physical embodiment of all the almost-mythic qualities of the South and Southern men, and his various encounters along the journey.

White Rose

by Kevin Killian

The doctor’s waiting room, which was very small, was almost full when I entered, bleeding from my right arm. After speaking to the nurse, I stood by the magazine table, sizing up the seating situation with a steady, expressionless gaze. There was no air. I waited a few minutes, studying a young man who sat in the next chair, his legs crossed, a slick magazine in his lap. “Scratch ’n’ sniff,” he said with a grin. When I peered over, I saw his hard dick, about a yard long, inching up the open magazine between his legs—Field and Stream or something. He winked at me, then opened his red mouth and let his tongue loll out one side. I stood up and told the nurse to cancel my appointment.

“I thought it was an emergency,” she clicked in reproof. “That’s a bad cut you got on your arm there.”

Two options lay open to me: I could have my arm seen to, bandaged up, or I could take the boy in the chair somewhere and suck his cock. He was not a bad-looking young man though he had on a bright blue suit and yellow socks that were not pulled up far enough. He had prominent face bones and a streak of sticky-looking blond hair falling across his forehead. He beamed at me, pointing to his magazine and what it contained. I crossed back to where he lounged, ordered him to go with me.

Told him I’d take care of his problem.

“Suit yourself,” sniffed Nurse Ratched.

I followed the boy out into the hot late summer, the sun slamming us in the face. The tar shimmered with jets and stars of black, looked like melting water under our feet. I couldn’t take my eyes off the small of the boy’s back as he swaggered in front of me, peeling off the jacket to his bright blue suit. He was a white boy, just under six feet tall, with a big red Dodge pickup gleaming in the afternoon sun. In the countryside, fifty miles west of Atlanta, nearly everyone’s got a pickup and most of them are red. He jiggled the keys, cocked a lean hip against the red-hot hood. The zipper to his suit pants was still undone, but I couldn’t really see anything now, for the sun slanting hungrily into his crotch was far too bright “Let’s ride some,” he said. “When we get to where we’re going you can take care of my problem.”

I slid in beside him, asked his name, what county he came from. “You’re not from around here,” he told me. “Everyone knows me who lives here in Milledgeville. Call me Eric.” The cab was strewn with old beer cans, fried chicken pieces, shotgun shells, and cash. The radio tuned to some local country station, Randy Travis, George Strait. He grabbed my left hand and undid his seat belt, shoving my hand into the tight space between the seat covers and his butt, so he could sit on it as he drove out of town.

“You like that?” he asked. He kept compressing, then releasing, all the muscles in his butt, so I could feel the whole area with my good hand. “I knew early on I was never gonna be the kind of boy my mama and daddy wanted me to be. I got married, got kids, but that’s far as I go in their direction.” I envied him his courage. Felt a bit sorry for his kids and wife, but hey, life’s a bitch. In the meantime I had but one mission in life—to get into that perfect little ass.

Eric chucked off his blue wool necktie, tossed it back into the cab, and unbuttoned the first three buttons of his soft white cotton shirt. On the radio the news announcer told us that the “Misfit” had broken out of the state pen in Angola and was seen heading for Georgia. I pushed the button, off. Eric pushed it back on. He said, “There’s just one thing I don’t do. I don’t get fucked.” Okay, I thought, that’s fair speaking, but I’ll teach you to like it, Mr. Eric-with-the-blue-suit. I’ll teach you to beg for it like a seal.

After ten miles and two beers apiece, Eric pulled the Dodge off-road into a clearing set in the middle of a patch of ironweed, under a big tree with branches that reached halfway to the pale, flat sky. He slammed his door and walked around to mine, like he was going to open it up for me, like I was some lady-friend of his, maybe his wife. He opened the door and I opened his pants and tugged them down to his hips. Underneath he wore a pair of tangled Fruit of the Looms, tangled with his cock, half in, half out, like a briar rose. He was embarrassed, he said, cause his dick wasn’t big enough, not really. I said it was fine. I leaned forward, put my mouth round its head, felt it swell up, big as a plum, sweeter; then I grabbed the funky underwear apart, so I could cup his balls in my greedy palms. I felt something rip, the sound of cotton splitting apart. I grabbed me a cute chunk of his butt and pulled, squeezed, while I dipped his cock deeper in my mouth, tasted its wiry freshness and sweetness. He patted my hair, like he was starting to panic. “Boy,” I told Eric, “you were bold in the doctor’s office, but you’re one scared rabbit, ain’tcha?” I like ’em kind of scared, like they never done this before.

His pubic hair was red and gold, felt like it was on fire as it scratched my face, and his dick got hard in my mouth, my tongue teasing at the long blue vein on its underside. My tongue could feel that vein pumping up and down like a wild pulsebeat.

“I don’t want to come,” he said.

“Boy, you’re gonna come,” I said, like it was an order.

He grabbed my shoulders and the pain in my right arm flared up, opening the knife wound. Blood began to trickle down my arm, soaking through my gray prison overall. His eyes widened, but I glared up at him, his cock rock-hard in my mouth, and maybe that’s when he started putting two and two together about the Misfit’s prison break. I dabbled some blood from the long cut that serrated my bicep, smeared it along his dick, then gobbled it down. “Yeah, baby,” he moaned. “Make me come all over your face.” I was still sitting sideways on the passenger seat, my jaws full up with his works. Again and again he thrust that skinned manmeat down my hungry, burning throat while I swooned a hundred times. His big balls banged against my chin, and I tried tickling them from underneath with bloody fingers. “I’m a hard come, Misfit,” he wheezed. “Quick,” he cried, “put something up my butt. Your finger or whatever.”

Without thinking I brought out the snub-nosed .38 out from under the seat of the pickup. I parted his heaving buttcheeks and mounted its cool nose right there at Eric’s tiny wrinkled hole. “Scratch ’n’ sniff,” I grunted. He knew what it was, all right. His blue eyes grew wide, his balls grew heavy and tight, and he unleashed a furious volley of cum down my throat like a fire hose.

“Christ almighty!” he hollered. “You are one sick son of a bitch there, son, come on, now, come on and fuck me!” I milked his silky, pulsating dick for all it was worth, then wiped my mouth on his thigh and plucked the gun out of his ass, slid it in my pocket. He stared at me with the stupid, happy, vacant gaze of one who’s shot the biggest load of his young career. He dressed again, found his keys, and we took off down 217 toward Marietta. Kid. A kid who wouldn’t have been so bad if someone had been there to stick a gun up his ass, then pulled the trigger, every day of his life.

“Where we goin’?” he asked.

“Just shut up and keep toward the right,” I replied.

My arm was hurting me again. I ordered him to rip up that soft white shirt of his, bind my arm with the pieces.

“I like doing it in the woods,” Eric said hopefully. “You feel more free there, not all cooped up.” By the side of the road a patch of marigold peeked out from the underbrush, bright orange in a snarl of brittle thorn branches.

“We’re not goin’ to no woods,” I told him. “And hey, Eric, I’d appreciate a little manual stimulation right about now.”

“On your arm?” he said.

I shot him a withering glance.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’m gonna let that big rod of yours be my stick shift.” His hand touched my cock through the rough fabric of the overall. Don’t think he knew what the Lord had in store for him. His hand kept traveling, perplexed, finger by finger like the Yellow Pages ad. He couldn’t find the end of it.

I said, “Just grab onto what you can, my friend. And that, incidentally, should be your motto for life.”

I made him pull over to a barnlike structure just outside Marietta. It was a place I had brought many men, young and old, black and white. No one had been by for many years, but it was the house where I was born, now covered with the cobwebs and mildew of disuse. In the loft above the barn the sun had cooked the pine boards to well done. Smooth pine, like the inside of a coffin. He peered out the dusty window, tried to tug it open a bit, but it was stuck fast. I slipped up behind him and crossed my thick, sunburnt hands around his little old waist. “Don’t,” he said, scared, backing into me, so that his hindquarters brushed against my hard-on. The layers of cloth between us infuriated me; the heat blinded me. Blind and hot with impatience, I ripped the thin belt off his pants and smacked it on the floor. His pants sagged past his hips, and the cheeks of his white ass leaned out like two friendly pups lookin’ for affection. I could see the tight asscrack, luscious, like a promise of greatness. His hands flapped in space as I pulled his bright blue pants down to the dusty pine floor.

“Bend over for Papa,” I whispered to him. Particles of bright dust, dazzling, fell and bounced from the bare wood floor beneath my boots. Christ, was it hot! Felt like we were two chickens roasting in a broiler. Naked but for his yellow socks, Eric grew skittery, his easy Southern charm beginning to fade at the edges. “I told you, I don’t like nothing anal,” he sighed, bent over, ass up in the dusty air.

Two low red patches sat on the cheeks of his butt. Otherwise that little fidgety ass was completely white, satiny, like a white rose. The shadow of down that outlined his crack, and the sweat that glazed it, looked like pollen in the shadowy heat, pollen attracted to the sweet heat of his asshole. A fly zigzagged in lazy loops through the air between us. I raised my hand, sucked on my fingers, one by one. I could smell his fear. “What’re you gonna do with me?” he said, a tremor in his voice.

“I always wonder,” I snapped.

“You’re the Misfit … aren’t you?” he asked. I sucked on his shoulder blade, felt around a bit, my left arm extended to his cock and balls, squeezed them like a sponge dipped in water. He grew in my hands, then he grabbed himself with his own hands, anxious to keep hard. I studied the twin globes of flesh beneath me, then applied my wet fingers to his firm buns and pulled them open like curtains. Inside the crack, lined with blond fuzz, I saw his moist, rose-colored hole, staring back at me, afraid, like all of us, of the open air, and I put one finger on top of it, slid it up and down, felt it twitch. Scared. “Don’t hurt me none, now, Misfit,” he said with a low voice.

“If I decide to, I’ll let you know,” I replied. “And if I do, you’ll enjoy that too. Because I am the mouth of the South.”

The fly dropped to the dusty floor and we watched it expire of heat, I suppose: heat and thirst. He trembled. One drop of sweat trickled down from the nape of his neck and seeped over his shoulder blade, stopping on a freckle a few inches above his waist. Then, as I gazed in wonder, the entire surface of his bare back broke out into a shimmering mist of sweat, translucent and clear, like the fog that hovers over the lowlands right after dawn in late summer. I plunged one finger up his ass, up to the second knuckle. He yelped, drew forward, hard, like he’d been burnt, and hit his head on the wall like a damn fool. I twisted my finger round and round, inside the warm red asshole, its lips the same red color as his mouth. They moved like his mouth, with an inadvertent smirk. Another finger shot up, through the wet ring, and I began to rotate the fingers in his butt like I was dialing a number on an old rotary telephone. The kind of phone everyone used to have when I first went to Angola.

Eric wriggled and jiggled under my pressure, moaning and squirming like a little boy. I pulled my hard cock free of my overalls, and it leaped up at the sight of my fingers—three of them now, rough and callused from hard labor—working inside that greasy red asshole. Yes, it fair jumped up like a snake, ready to bite that boy’s plush, soft interior. Sharply I slapped one cheek of his ass. “What you in the doctor’s office for, boy?” I said.

No answer, just more pressure round my wiggly fingers. I smelled his sweat on me, his sweat and stink. I slapped him again, harder, saw the pink flush rise up on his skin in the exact print of my hand. He made no answer, just little grunts and moans you couldn’t even call English, but I ain’t picky. I jammed my thumb up his writhing hole, told him to talk. “AIDS test,” he said presently, peering up at me over his tanned shoulder, that greasy lock of blond hair flapping over his eyes. Staring at me as if to say, You ast for it, Misfit. I wanted to fuck him more than I’d ever wanted to fuck another human being in my life. He reached for his pants, which I’d kicked across the hot pine floor, and pulled out a rubber all wrapped in foil. I made Eric open it with his teeth, then slapped it up and over the first part of my straining hot cock. “Please don’t fuck me,” he said. Aw, I bet he said that to all the fellas in Milledgeville.

“I need you to tell me you don’t have AIDS.”

“Swear to God I don’t,” he cried. “Where’s the gun, for God’s sake?”

So I withdrew my hand and looked right up his gaping red butthole, which was begging for it. What had once been a tight, virginal rosebud was now, after lube of spit, sweat and elbow grease, almost wide enough to accommodate me. He groaned with anticipation, saying, “I’ve got money, Misfit.”

“That I knew right off,” I whispered. “This is a class thing after all.” With one sharp thrust I entered him, yowling that I was gonna commit murder, and he crashed to his knees, me still inside him, my mighty arms hugging his skinny ribs. Inside Eric was hotter and wetter than any pussy in the world—and he knew it, too.

“That’s it, Daddy,” he howled, scrabbling on the dusty floor, while I kept fucking him with long, steady strokes, strokes that scraped the lining of his guts and glands. “Kill me with that big motherfuck dick of yours.” His yellow socks bobbed in the air as his feet kicked under mine. I slammed his head to the floor. God, did his white butt feel good eating my dick like candy. Clear pearly beads of sweat, his and mine both, commingled, came sluicing down his bare back, flowing down between his ripe asscheeks, right into the space where his hole was stopped up by my big, stiff woody. Sweet sensation bucked and bounced along the throbbing length of my dick, buried deep inside him, and the little hot cherry gland right under my balls.

“I’m a hard come, Eric Blue Suit,” I told him. “You and me could keep this up an hour or more.”

“Oh, God,” he called out. “Fuck me, man, hard now, harder.”

“We could stay here till sun-up, but I need this one thing to pull my trigger.”

“Oh, God,” he said. “What is it, Daddy?”

“Tell me you’ve never done this before.”

“I …” He tried to speak, but I put one big meaty hand over his red lips, pressed down, felt his tongue and teeth trying to talk.

“Tell me I’m the first man who put his dick up your ass.”

He kept nodding, frantic, but couldn’t speak—not with my fist jamming his throat. His eyes grew wider and wider, till they resembled two wild jewels, but he couldn’t speak. I kept fucking him, managed to switch on his prostrate. His poor worn-out dick stood straight out, dark red, almost purple, and a big grin came to his face, a grin I could feel through my fist. My cock filled to bursting point, swollen by the uncountable contractions of his asshole muscles. “Tell me what I want to hear,” I called down to him.

“You’re the first, the only,” he mumbled, his eyes closed now as the seed flowed from him, shot out into the narrow space between his body and the floor. Yes! Yes! My dick exploded in a series of mighty paroxysms. The dusty, hot loft vanished, and we were whirling in space together, a space without prisons, class, money, or whatever. Like a comet out of the heavens I came and came, up the narrow channel of his butt, a river in full flow. Then, still inside him, I took his head and swiveled it round so I could gaze into his blue eyes, face to face. And I knew he was lying at me …. All would have been fine and dandy if he hadn’t lied at me ….

Looking for Bubba

by Christopher Morgan

“Seems like ya found yerself one sorry-ass fuckin’ faggot, Charlie!”

“His ass is sure gonna be sorry when we finish up, ain’t it, Hank?” This was accompanied by a jerky, tortured spasm between a giggle and a snort, an almost spastic, growling, snurfing sound that might have been a death rattle or someone laughing so hard they had forgotten to breathe.

“You bet, Charlie.” Hank fingered the fly of his ancient, dirt-encrusted no-name denims and scratched the thickening bulge while expertly ejaculating a thin stream of shit-brown spit into the dust. “Less see if his purty mouth is any good first, okay? That’s what faggots like to do, right? Suckin’ a real man’s fat cock? You want my big fat cock, don’t ya, faggot? Tell me ya want my dick in yer cocksucking faggot mouth, and maybe me an’ Charlie’ll be nice ta ya. Like maybe we’ll let ya keep a few teeth!”

Suddenly, coming South for my summer vacation didn’t seem like the brightest idea I’d ever had.

There’s a certain mystery in whatever you don’t have at home—isn’t that always the truth? The allure of the strange, of the unpredictable, of anything that’s just damn different.

But I never counted on the killing summer heat.

City born and bred, the product of three generations of college-going, proper upper-middle-class accountants and civil engineers and car salesmen, Catholic and Democrat—my existence was nothing but comfortable and educated and, well, civilized. I didn’t turn out bad, coming from all that. At twenty-four years old, master’s in hand, I was capable of doing just about anything I wanted. My family was supportive, encouraging, even enthusiastic when I told them I was going to do a little traveling before settling into some nice, comfortable, predictable job. They might have been a little perplexed at my stated destinations, but still they saw me off with all due fanfare for my summer of adventures.

No one warned me about the ’skeeters.

But then, I never told them exactly where I was going—only gave them a rough idea. When I said Georgia, they assumed Atlanta. When I said Tennessee, they might have thought Memphis. (I’m sure my sister did, because she asked for a souvenir of Graceland.) I don’t know what they made of Alabama. Maybe they assumed it was a package tour—take two states and you get the third one free.

So, all their warnings were of the typical worried-family type—don’t flash your money, lock your valuables up in the hotel safe, take your vitamins.

Maybe if I’d said more, someone might have mentioned that I should probably travel with a companion. Someone who was bigger, stronger, and much more willing to fight than me.

In the final analysis, I should have done more research. After all, it was my bliss I was following—it might have made sense to know a little more about it! But I was obsessed with my goal, my treasure of the South. I was looking for Bubba.

Not a specific Bubba, mind you. But not just any Bubba, either. First of all, he’d have to be queer, like me. I knew that wasn’t going to be very easy. But then, I didn’t want him too queer. After all, I can get a dozen fairy cowboys with weird accents on any night down at the Roundup.

No, I wanted a real Bubba. A born-and-bred Son of the South; a backroads, white-trash, drawl-speakin’, coon-eatin’, huntin’-and-fishin’ Bubba, complete with beer can and pickup truck. And I was confident I’d find one, too. My experiences out west, at college, had taught me that we were, in fact, everywhere—even in Hickstown, USA. And the eye contacts, subtle signs, and blatant cruising that worked in Chicago worked twice as well in rest stops in the Middle of Nowhere, Nebraska. In fact, the men who lusted after dick and lived in the sticks seemed even more willing to duck into a stall, or behind some bushes, or—rarely and wonderfully—in the “coffins” of their eighteen-wheelers, for a blowjob or even a quick screw.

I will never forget that big-bellied trucker from Iowa, whose body was as hard as it was huge, and whose dick was an uncut masterpiece of manflesh. He spent six blissful hours fucking my mouth and ass, snoring between bouts, keeping his meaty hands on my body at all times. I staggered from his truck, dizzy and exhausted, and didn’t even mind having to wait until the following morning to catch a ride back to school. Hell, would you?

But my one idol, the kind of man I’d lusted after since I first realized that it was men who turned my crank, was not the Midwestern blue-collar worker, the Eastern sophisticate (or his California/Seattle counterpart), or even the Western cowboy. I wanted Bubba. A tobacco-chewin’, whisky-drinkin’, old-car-on-cinder-blocks in the front yard, thumbs-in-the-overalls, cap-wearin’ Rebel Howler, whose daddy taught him how to shoot, and whose mama taught him how to treat a lady.

I dreamed of him at night, alone in my bed, my hand busy on my cock. How he’d appear—scruffy and arrogant—the hole in his jeans put there while “rasslin’,” or even by just plain workin’, not by some sissified city-bred designer. I dreamed of his voice, rough and teasing and slow, and the smell of his breath, tainted by old smoke, barbecue, and beer. I saw his thick, heavily veined cock, never deprived of its foreskin, and his low-hanging, fat balls. I felt his hard, callused hands grasping my head or my butt as he speared that dick into me, cursing and spitting and slamming into my faggot holes until he was finished.

Okay, so my fantasies are a bit on the self-hating side; but just as I hear some women get off on rape stories, so did I. Over and over again. Except that really, I didn’t want to actually be raped. I just wanted to find me a queer Bubba.

It turned out harder than I thought.

I started out in Atlanta because it was cheaper to fly there first. And, of course, I ran into nothing but the biggest queens I ever saw in my life.

You’d think they learned all about how to behave by watching Gone With the Wind! And every one of them had their lovely accents dulled by years of watching television, or by a conscious effort not to appear as though they came from the Bible Belt. One young piece of manflesh, who had attracted me with his cutoff sleeveless shirt—which exposed the proudly waving stars-and-bars tattooed on one rippling bicep—turned into a genuine Southern belle after I admitted I’d recently gotten my degree.

“Oh, honey,” he exclaimed, running one finger down my arm, “I love a thinking kind of man. Want to show me your thesis?”

I left Atlanta as soon as I got hold of some maps.

My first forays took me to the scenes of my best hunting: roadside rest stops. Once on the road, I hitched rides and took local busses from town to town, slipping out at likely places whenever there appeared to be a preponderance of pickups and old Chevys in sight. It was a brutal summer—daytime highs made me dizzy, and the bugs were so numerous I thought I’d stumbled onto a section of the Amazon by accident. I doused myself with sunblock and Off!, and suffered through it all, looking for my knight in overalls. At one genuine truck stop, I took up my place at the urinal as soon as I saw this one guy saunter through the door.

Oh, here was my Bubba! Six feet of purebred, pork-fed, back-country gristle, sweatin’ like a pig and stinkin’ of the road. His long, dirty-blond hair was caught up in a red bandanna that was oil spotted and threadbare, and there were cracks in his heavy shit-kickin’ work boots. I slid my eyes over to his meat and was rewarded by a heavy, long dick that curved down in a perfect angle for my very hungry throat. He pissed a thick, yellow stream that splashed noisily against the back of the porcelain and sighed as he let it go.

“Ain’t nothin’ like a good piss,” I said, sighing myself.

“Uh-huh,” he grunted. He shook himself, once, twice—and oh, yes, there was that telltale third and fourth shake. I trembled as I put my own equipment away. I dared to look into his eyes.

They were blue, of course. He looked me over and gave a shake of his head, toward the door. At that point, I would have followed him to a KKK rally. I eagerly trailed him between the rows of tiny crash rooms, and when he unlocked one door, I almost came in pure excitement.

I was on the thinly carpeted floor as soon as he closed the door behind us.

There was barely room to move around—the bed took up most of the floor space. But I didn’t care; I needed that dick socketed tightly in my throat!

He whipped it out and presented it to me and I swallowed it whole, in one long, loud slurp—that’s how starved I was.

This was my dream come true, my Bubba, in the flesh! Sure, he was cut, but he had a big ol’ dangly dick that slid down my throat like butter over cornpone. My own cock was pressed so hard against my fly I thought it would rip right through. But I didn’t want to offend this good ol’ boy by taking my dick out—if he wanted to see it, that was fine. But I was prepared for hostility at the possibility that we might get so “queer” together.

No, I had what I wanted—a big cock down my throat, slipping back and forth over my tongue. I worked it as well as I could, and was delighted that he didn’t at once take hold of my head and just fuck my face. How nice of him!

When I backed away and licked at the head, he even moaned a little, and sighed heavily when I sucked my way back down the shaft.

Then, suddenly, I did feel his hands on my head. “Slow down,” he said, gently. I was so startled, I left off sucking and looked up at him.

“Man, you’re good!” he said, stepping over me and plopping down on the bed. “But you’re getting all the action! Come on up here and let me see that nice chunk of meat you’ve got on you. Let’s sixty-nine!”

His voice was pure city, not a trace of a drawl or accent! I gaped for a moment, and then blinked. He chuckled. “Well, come on up, kid, I haven’t got all day! Got to get back to Detroit the day after tomorrow. Let’s get it on!”

Great. I’d come to Nowhere, Georgia, to meet a trucker from Detroit. But he did have a nice cock, and it had been a while—I climbed into bed and we did indeed suck each other’s wangs until we both had a respectable orgasm, after which I made my farewells and spent five dollars on a shower and a burger and hit the road again.

And that was the first scene in my summer vacation comedy of errors.

In Calhoun, I found a former professor of English literature at a country/western bar, arm wrestling for beers. We had a lovely chat about post-Enlightenment novels, and whether Gatsby was a repressed homosexual.

Outside of Chattanooga, I was picked up by a redneck auto mechanic who, after shooting down my chest within moments of my first slobbering on his dick, sat down next to me under a big tree and sobbed about how his wife caught him looking at Playgirl once and threatened to tell the minister, and how he couldn’t leave her, ever, and my God, wasn’t he a big sinner? I swatted mosquitoes and tried to comfort him as best as I could.

On my way to Shelbyville, I thought I was going to get it bad when the cowboy type I eyed in the roadhouse bar stood up and growled at me. But his friends calmed him down, and I figured I’d escaped a bashing. But later on, as I walked toward the motel that the highway sign promised was “just down the road a ways,” that same cowboy pulled up in a red pickup. I stared up at the guy when he popped open the passenger door.

“Come on, pal,” he said, in a perfectly clear and educated Atlanta accent. “Don’t you know some of these boys can be dangerous to your health?

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