by Bob Vickery

Joe twists his body around and glances at the back seat. "Okay, folks," he says. "What'll it be, two rooms or one?"

The two girls look at each other and giggle. I know this is the moment of truth. "One room, of course, Joe," I say, my mouth dry. "You know that's all we can afford." If they all insist on two rooms, I'm backing out, I think. The only reason I've gone this far is to see Joe naked.

Joe gives a comic leer and waggles his eyebrows. "Uh, oh, orgy time, huh?" he laughs. His glance shifts from Carla to Angela. "How about it, ladies? You don't care that much about privacy, do you?"

The two of them exchange glances again. Carla raises her eyebrows and Angela shrugs. "It's okay by me," Carla finally says. "It'll give us a chance to see which one of you guys' got the most to brag about."

Joe looks at me in mock shock. "Jesus, Mike!" he says. "We got a couple of live ones tonight!" They all laugh, and I force myself to join in. My heart's beating like a goddamn piston.

Joe climbs out of the front seat and walks into the motel lobby. There's a sign above the door, in red neon, reading "The Seaview Motel". I can see Joe through the glass door, talking to the night clerk. They both glance towards the car, and Joe shrugs and gives the clerk an easy grin, pouring on the charm like only he can do. Carla turns the rear-view mirror in her direction and combs her hair. I glance out the window over towards the beach and the darkness of the Atlantic Ocean. I can just barely hear the music of the Asbury Park carousel over the thud of the surf. It was less than two hours ago that Joe and I met the girls there, riding the lacquered horses and giving us the eye. The bumper car rides and ferris wheel softened them up, but it was only after we all took a ride down into the Tunnel of Love that the girls agreed to the motel.

Angela nestles against me, and I absently put my arm around her. She reaches up and turns my face towards her. I look down at her. She's halfway between plain and kind of pretty. I close my eyes and kiss her, pretending that it's Joe I'm kissing, that it's his tongue I feel pushing through into my mouth. I think of Joe naked, and my dick stiffens. Angela reaches down and puts her hands between my legs. "Oh, baby," she coos. "You're ready for bear, aren't you?"

A couple of minutes later, Joe comes up, whistling. He dangles the key in front of him. "Party time!" he grins.

Angela and I are stretched out on one of the two beds, our mouths fused together, our hands fumbling with buttons and snaps. I unhook her bra and toss it to the floor. I glance over towards Joe and Carla. He's got his shirt unbuttoned and his jeans and boxer shorts down around his ankles, his face in nuzzling between Carla's breasts, and his back turned towards me. I take in his smooth, pale ass, the way it dimples as he grinds his hips against Carla. He pushes away long enough to kick off his shoes and pull his pants off. His dick is stiff and ready for action. It's the first time I've seen Joe's dick hard, and I drink in the sight: the thick, veined shaft, the flared head, the orange pubic bush. Joe has the pale, freckled skin of the typical redhead, and his torso looks like it was carved out of ivory. My eyes slide up his body. Christ, he's so fuckin' beautiful. And this probably is as close to having sex with him as I'm ever going to get. He glances over towards me, and our eyes meet. "You having a good time, Mike?" he asks, laughing.

"Yeah, Joe," I say, putting enthusiasm in my voice. "Just swell."

Joe reaches over to the night stand to turn off the light.

"No," I say, my tone sharper than I intend. "Leave it on."

Joe shoots me a quizzical look but pulls his hand back. I turn my attention back to Angela, stroking her breasts, kissing her, flicking her nipples with my thumbs and forefingers. She moans softly. I pull off the rest of my clothes and stretch out besides her. My dick is only half hard. I wrap my arms around her, and turn her so that I get clear view of Joe. He's on his back, eating pussy as Carla sucks his dick. His muscular body writhes under hers, and he thrusts his hips up, shoving his dick deep down her throat. What would it feel like to have Joe's dick in my mouth? I wonder. Does Carla realize how lucky she is? As I watch, my dick stiffens to full hardness. I turn back to Angela. Her eyes are hard and her mouth is pulled down into a small scowl. I slide my hand down between her legs, and after a few seconds she relents and opens up for me. I remove my hand and enter her, fucking her in long, slow strokes, my eyes fixed on Joe.

Joe is fucking Carla now, his hips pumping away, his mouth open, his eyebrows pulled down in concentration. I watch his dick plow into her, his balls slamming up against her with each stroke. It makes for an incredibly hot show. I time my thrusts with Joe's, pumping Angela in synch with each piston stroke of his. In my mind I'm plowing his ass, and then the fantasy shifts and he's fucking me, shoving his thick dick hard up my chute. It's hard to tell which part of Joe's body excites me the most: the lean torso, his face, his thick, veined cock, that beautiful pale ass...

"Get off me, you son of a bitch!" Angela snarls.

I look down at her, startled. "What?" She pushes me, and I topple off her, barely keeping from falling onto the floor. "What's your problem?" I ask, more surprised than angry.

Angela doesn't say anything. She starts grabbing her clothes and putting them on furiously. Her face looks like a fist. For a second her eyes meet mine, and I see pure hate. Joe and Carla have stopped fucking and are looking at us. "What's wrong?" Carla asks. She turns her eyes on me like laser fire. "What did you do to Angela?" she snaps.

"I didn't do anything!" I protest. Now I'm getting nervous. How much did I give away? I wonder.

Angela ignores us all. She's dressed now and flings open the door. She slams it behind her like she's trying to obliterate us all.

I pull on my jeans and run after her. I catch up to her half a block down the street. "Will you tell me what's wrong?" I ask.

"Fuck off!" She doesn't look at me or break her stride.

"Angela," I plead. I grab her arm.

She swings around and hits me. Not a slap, but an honest-to-God punch in the face. I stagger back, just barely managing not to fall on my ass. "You think I'm stupid?!?" she yells at me. "You think I don't know what you're up to?"

My heart skips a beat. "What are you talking about?" I ask, trying to sound angry. I feel blood running down my nose, and I hold my hand up to block it.

She looks me right in the face. "I saw you staring at Carla. You were pretending you were screwing her." She's crying now. "That was the only way you could keep your prick hard, you son of a bitch!"

I don't say anything. I mean, what can I say? No, Angela, I wasn't looking at Carla, I was looking at Joe. He was the one that was keeping my dick stiff. After a while I shrug. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, you can shove 'sorry' up your ass." Angela storms down the street. I stand there watching her until she turns a corner and is out of sight. My nose has stopped bleeding. Because I can't think of anything else to do, I go back to the motel.

Joe and Carla are at it again when I walk in. They break away, and Joe glances at me impatiently. Without Angela, I'm definitely a crowd. "I'll be out of here in a second," I mutter, pulling on the rest of my clothes. They don't even wait till I'm out of the room before they're at it again. I leave after sneaking one last glance at Joe's sweet, dimpled ass.

The amusement park has shut down, and all the rides are dark. The main video arcade is padlocked closed, and the booths selling sea shells, taffy and candy apples are empty. Except for a few stragglers and the homeless guys stretched out sleeping on the benches, I've got the boardwalk to myself. I don't have enough money for another room, and it looks like I'm going to have to spend the night out here, walking, until it's time for Joe and me to catch our bus back to Fort Dix. I couldn't be more depressed.

I hear the thump, thump of the bass beat before I can make out the actual music. It threads its way through the warm summer night like a heart beat, sometimes weak, sometimes strong and steady. Eventually I distinguish other instruments: guitars, the bleat of a saxophone. Having nothing better to do, I follow the sound until I come upon a beat-up, cinder block building squatting in the middle of a near-empty parking lot. A flickering neon sign bolted above the door hisses and sputters the words "The Hullabaloo Club." I pull open the door and walk in.

The place is small: a bar along the left wall, a cluster of tables and chairs, a tiny stage up front. There can't be more than a dozen customers scattered throughout the room, clumped together in ones and twos. They sit sprawled in their chairs, drinks in hand, shouting at each other over the music or slouched down and staring glumly at the stage. A smoggy haze of cigarette smoke hangs over everybody's head. What a dive, I think.

And yet the band is...not bad. It consists of a drum set, a saxophone, and two electric guitars. They're pumping out some kind of rock 'n roll riff now, the beat fast, the music lively. The two guitars take turns running up and down the scales, improvising around one string of chords that keeps making itself heard through all the variations it gets put through. One of the guitar players steps up to the mike and starts singing. I stand there at the door watching him. The song he's singing is pretty down stuff: loneliness, broken hearts, sexual longing, and yet he sings it all with this exuberance, standing up there on that cramped stage, his head thrown back, his hips thrust out, whalin' away on the guitar chords. I can't keep my eyes off of him. He's dressed in tight black chinos and a black T-shirt that fits him like a second skin. His body is lean and tight, and he moves it with an easy confidence that is a beautiful thing to witness. With his black hair greased back and his sideburns, he looks like a street hood. Yet there's nothing menacing about him, he's almost laughing as he belts out those lyrics about heartache and loss.

I grab a nearby table. A waitress comes over and I order a beer. The band finishes its song and before the echoes of the last note die down, it launches into another. The guy's still glued to the mike, his voice shooting up the scales to a falsetto, and then sliding back down to a clear, steady tenor. His eyes sweep the room, and when his gaze meets mine, he grins and winks at me. By the time the band's wrapped up its set, four or five songs later, I'm actually feeling pretty good.

The band leaves the stage and a few minutes later the house lights turn on. I glance at my watch. It's almost two, closing time. My good spirits come crashing down. Where am I going to go now? I wonder.

I walk out into the parking lot and stand there with my thumbs hooked into my jeans' front pockets. I have absolutely nowhere to go. People brush by me, climb into their cars and drive off. I just stand there and watch as the parking lot empties.

"You are one lonely lookin' dude," a voice behind me says.

I turn and see the singer leaning against the wall of the bar, a lit joint between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He takes a hit and then holds it out to me. I take the joint, hold it to my lips and inhale deeply. I return it to him. "Where's the rest of your band?" I ask.

"They split in the van," he says. He regards me with half lidded, sleepy eyes. His gaze flickers for a second on my hair. "Nobody has hair that short. You in the army?"

I nod. "I'm stationed at Fort Dix." He doesn't say anything, just stands there, leaning against the wall, his eyes fixed on me. "I'm on a three day pass," I add lamely. He still doesn't say anything. "I like your music," I say.

He laughs good-naturedly. "We're not exactly packing the place." He hands me the joint and I take another toke. "Where're you staying?" he asks.

I look out across the parking lot and then back at him. "Well, it's kind of a long story, but I'm not staying anywhere, actually. I'm just killing time until my bus leaves for Fort Dix tomorrow morning."

A cop car cruises slowly by, a searchlight mounted outside the passenger window. The singer hides the hand holding the joint behind his body, shifting his weight to his other foot. The beam sweeps over us, and for a second I'm blinded by the light. The cruiser rolls slowly by.

"Listen," he says, turning his face back towards me. "You want to help me finish this joint in my car?"

"Yeah," I say. "Sure." I hold out my hand. "My name's Mike."

We shake. "Bruce." He nods to some old Cadillac parked in the corner of the lot, the only car there now. "That's my car, over there." He walks over to it, and I follow right behind. He unlocks the front passenger door, and I slide in. Bruce climbs in behind the steering wheel.

"Christ," I laugh. "This car is a tank!"

Bruce grins. "I fuckin' love Cads, the goddamn, gas-guzzling monsters. I even wrote a couple of songs about them." He passes the joint to me again. "It's gone out," he says. He pulls out a lighter and clicks the flame on. He wraps his hands around mine as he lights the joint, but even after it glows, he keeps his hands closed around mine. We look into each other's eyes. My dick starts growing hard. He lets go and leans against the car door, his level gaze still fixed on me. "I bet I could write a song about you," he says. "Lonely soldier wandering down the Asbury Park boardwalk at two a.m., no place to stay. Handsome and melancholy. Probably lovestruck." He laughs softly. "Oh, the song I could make of you!"

I laugh along with him. There's a long silence. Bruce reaches over and pulls me to him, and we kiss long and hard, our tongues pushing deep into each other's mouths. Bruce slides his hand underneath my T-shirt and runs his fingers across my torso. He grips my left nipple between his thumb and forefinger and squeezes. My body tingles with sensation. I push against Bruce, pinning him against the door, grinding my body against his. He wraps his arms around me, and thrusts his body up to meet mine. He jams his elbow against the steering wheel, and the horn gives off a loud blast.

"Jeez," he grins. "It's time we moved this party to the back seat!" We scramble over the front seats into the dim cavern behind us. I stretch out onto the back seat, and Bruce sprawls out on top of me. "Christ, I love Cadillacs!" he laughs. "They're like motels on wheels." His hand slides down my jeans and clutches my hard cock pushing against the rough fabric. A street lamp half a block away bathes Bruce's face in its dim light. He's wearing the same exhilarated look he had when he was on stage pumping out his songs. "How about you and me getting naked, Mike?" he growls.

We pull each other's clothes off, with much wrestling and back seat contortions. It just takes a couple of minutes before I feel Bruce's bare skin against mine, his hard dick dry humping my belly as he frenches me enthusiastically. I slide my hands down his back and cup his ass cheeks, squeezing them as they pump up and down. I wrap my other hand around both our dicks, pressing the dick flesh together, feeling the warmth of Bruce's cock flow into mine. His dick feels thick and meaty inside my palm. I slide my thumb across his cock head and feel a slippery drop of pre-cum. I milk another drop out of his dick and slide my jizz-slicked hand up and down the two shafts of flesh. Bruce gives a sigh a hair's breadth shy of a groan. "Oh, baby, that feels so good!" he whispers.

Bruce covers my face with kisses as I jack us both off, pressing his lips against my eyes, my cheeks, down my neck. His mouth works its way south, his tongue flicking my nipples, swirling around them. He lifts my right arm and burrows his face into my pit; I feel his tongue tickle against the hairs as he laps my sweat up like some thirsty cat. I bend my neck down and stick my tongue in his ear, probing deep inside the fleshy hole.

Bruce sits up so that he's on his knees staring down at me. "Shift your body a little," he whispers. "Move into the light so that I can look at you."

I slide across the seat out of shadow into the faint illumination. Bruce stares at me, his eyes tracing a path down my body. "Nice," he says. He gives a low laugh. "I am so happy I got this handsome, naked soldier in the back seat of my Cad." He bends down and, starting with my balls, slides his tongue up the shaft of my hard dick, swirling it around my cock head. He does it again.

"You suck cock like you're eating an ice cream cone," I laugh.

"That's what you are," Bruce grins. "One big dessert." He pushes the tip of his tongue into my piss slit, and then takes my whole cock in his mouth, sliding his lips down the shaft until his chin presses down against my balls. He begins bobbing his head up and down, sucking my dick with long, slow strokes. I thrust my hips up, matching the downward slide of his lips. Bruce wraps his hands around my balls and tugs on them gently. I groan softly.

"Turn around," I urge. "Let's get a little '69' action going."

Without taking my dick out of his mouth, Bruce pivots his body around. I crane my neck up and suck Bruce's balls into my mouth, rolling them around with my tongue, gauging their heft and weight by how they fill my mouth, breathing in their strong, musky odor. I stroke his dick slowly, nuzzling my face into that warm, secret place behind his balls. My tongue slides down the hairy path that ends in his asshole. The picture flashes through my head of when I first saw Bruce, looking so hot on that stage, all that pumpin' energy, the lean body arched back, the face full of wild joy. And now I'm eating his ass out! I think.

We roll around in the back seat of Bruce's Cad, bouncing off of ashtrays and armrests, sometimes me on top, sometimes Bruce, grunting and eating dick or balls like there's hell to pay. The summer night is warm, and our bodies soon are slippery with sweat. We slide off of each other like otters in rut, our bodies making wet, slapping noises. The windows are fogging up, and what light there is comes through in a pearly glow.

Bruce breaks away and crawls over the front seat, his legs dangling down behind. I hear him rummaging around in the glove compartment. He comes back waving a pack of condoms and a small jar of lube. "Okay, Mike," he grins. "Audition time. I'm goin' to make you a star."

I lean back, raising my legs and Bruce proceeds to grease up my asshole. He slips a finger up my chute, and then another. I push my hips up as slides in to the third knuckle. I close my eyes, feeling Bruce's fingers playing my ass as skillfully as they did his guitar an hour ago.

Bruce pulls his fingers out. He hoists my legs around his hips, and slowly, patiently skewers my ass with his thick dick. When he's full in, he grinds his hips in slow circles, his balls pressed hard against me, his face hovering over mine. His forehead is beaded with sweat, and his dark eyes burn. He slowly pulls his dick out, teasing me, grinning but with his eyebrows pulled down. When the tip of his dick just barely inside me, he plunges his hips down, and his cock slides deep inside me. I cry out. Bruce pumps his hips, his fuck strokes hard and rapid. I push up to meet him, and we soon fall into sync, me thrusting up in time with each downward plunge of his.

Bruce wraps his arms around me and, without breaking his stride, pivots me over so that he's now on his back. I reach down and twist Bruce's nipples, not gently. He gives a sharp outrush of breath that trails off into a whimper. I bend down and kiss him, our mouths working together, our tongues pushing against each other. Bruce quickens his thrusts, grunting each time his dick slams hard up my chute. I reach back and tug on his balls, feeling their hairiness, their heft, how they fill my hand in such a satisfying way. I think about the load churning away inside them, waiting for the moment when it can spurt out. "When you finally shoot, baby," I growl, "I want to see it! You understand?"

Bruce's eyes are glazed now, his mouth open. He nods 'yes' but says nothing, focusing his attention on the serious business of fucking me good. His hands are gripping my torso tightly; they slide up across my belly and over my chest. He curls his hands into fists and punches me lightly on the pecs. "Fuckin' hot, naked soldier boy," he growls, "with that thick, hard dick and that handsome face and that pretty ass, sweet Jesus, but your ass is sweet, I could plow it all night!" He cups the back of my neck with his hand and pulls me down into another long, wet kiss. He plunges his dick in with a particularly vicious thust and then his body shudders violently.

"Okay, fucker," he moans, "You want to see it? Well, here goes!"

He pulls his dick out and whips off the rubber. His load spurts out, splattering hard against my face, raining down in thick, white drops. Bruce throws his head back and cries out as his body continues to tremble. He looks down at my cum-drenched face and laughs. "It looks like I shot you point blank, buddy. Right between the eyes!"

He slides his hand across my face and then wraps his cum-smeared palm around my dick and starts jacking me off, slowly, lovingly. I arch my back up, and Bruce watches me with glittering eyes. My load spurts out, caking my chest. I groan loudly, and Bruce laughs his appreciation. He falls down on top of me, our naked bodies pressed tightly together, our mouths fused to each other.

We lie there for a long time. I can just barely hear the sound of the surf, one block down and across the Jersey beach. I drift into sleep, then out, then in again. Bruce finally gently shakes me awake. "I gotta go, Mike," he whispers. "It's a long drive home."

At my request, Bruce drives me back to The Seaview Motel. It's almost four and everything's dark except for a night light by the registration desk. Bruce parks in the driveway and turns off the engine. He bends over and kisses me, sliding his tongue in my mouth one last time. "Thanks," he says. "Catch my act again some time. I'll be playing at the Hullaballoo till the end of the month."

"Yeah," I say. "I will." I climb out of Bruce's monster Cad, and stand there, in the driveway, watching as he drives off. I don't turn away until his taillights are out of sight.

I slip inside the motel room. I don't care if Carla is still there or not, I got to sleep in a bed for a couple of hours. The moon is up, and its light streams through the open window. Joe is sleeping on his back, his forearm over his eyes. To my relief he's alone.

I quickly strip and slip under the blankets of the other bed. Once again, I can hear the dull roar of the surf, louder now than when I was in the back seat of Bruce's Cad. Joe is snoring gently. I grin in the darkness. Well, it looks like we both got laid this weekend after all! I think. I close my eyes and think of Bruce, up on the stage, pumping his hips to a rock 'n roll beat, playing his guitar, belting out his songs in his clear tenor voice.