My buddy Matt and I are downwind of the county fair as we approach, the smells wafting over us before we even walk through the entrance gate.
Did I say wafting? More like washing over us. They're an incoming tide of rich pure scent, submerging everything in its path.
The heady mix of odors swirling in the humid summer air and invading our sinuses is not subtle, but it is remarkably complex. I can pick out numerous individual aromas: Onion rings. Corn dogs. Tater tots, maybe skin-on French fries, or probably both. Funnel cakes. Smoky barbeque. Gooey chocolate chip cookies. Roasting sweet corn. Hot, squishy mini fucking donuts. And even the cinnamon sugar they're dredged in.
Once on the fairgrounds, the food smells mingle with waves of diesel exhaust and ozone from the ride motors, the body odors and the perfumes of the crowds jostling around us, and yes, multiple kinds of manure from the animal barns. All of these - and more - envelop us, adding a nearly palpable thickness to the air.
The sounds immerse us, too: Snippets of conversation amongst the crowd milling about. Barkers pitching overpriced amusements. Whirring motors from the rides, the periodic clack-clack-clack of ascending roller coasters, followed by the roar and rumble as they descend, twist and turn. Ecstatic screams from riders getting their thrills.
Almost as overwhelming as the smells and sounds are the lights and sights. The setting sun paints the scattered clouds orange and magenta for a few minutes, then quickly fades beneath the brilliance of the fair's more unnatural luminous attractions. Blinking and moving lights emanate every color of the rainbow, each hue coming at us in its most saturated form, blasting our retinas with trillions of photons. And, since our particular county's fair happens to fall on Independence Day weekend, at ten o'clock the fireworks will briefly outshine all of this candlepower.
God damn, this is America! Despite our intractable problems, nothing makes me more thrilled to be part of it all than the glorious sensory excess of a good county fair. Sure, if you're visiting America for the first time, you should see New York, in my opinion the world's greatest city and a fine distillation of American culture, even if it is more European than anywhere else in America. And you should visit LA, even if, as M. Doughty reminded us in Screenwriters Blues, "You are listening to Los Angeles" already by existing on this planet. Those places are fantastic, but they are outliers. If you want to really sample the distilled essence of America as most of us know it, pick any state and get yourself to one of its bigger county fairs.
Matt is in a particularly festive mood tonight, having driven us here in the 1969 Mach 1 Mustang which he recently acquired and started restoring. He has just passed the thousand-mile mark on the crate engine I helped him install last month (as described in my story "Cock 1"). And today, on our way to the fair, he finally got to open her up and see what she could do.
Which was a lot. He did a few effortless burnouts at stoplights to show off, careful not to stray too far above the speed limits. Then he came to a stop on the shoulder of a back road, cued up Babes in Toyland's "Sweet '69" on the new stereo and launched us. His tires smoked like crazy in the first three gears and barked in fourth, as he rocketed us up to a hundred-thirty and then stomped the newly upgraded brakes to wrench us back down from the felony zone. All of which happened before Kat Bjelland even managed to roar her first words, "I live it high." Yeah, well, today, so do we. Sure, this '69 Mustang's dashboard is cracked and its seats are tattered, but Matt'll get to fixing up the interior later this summer. In the meantime, this car drives fucking hot, not to mention looking hot in its fresh blue paintjob. Knowing Matt, he'd fuck it if he could. Probably while cranking out Queen's "I'm in Love with My Car."
When we finally got to the fair, he deliberately parked us a couple of blocks further out than he had to, finding a nearly empty lot where he could whip a perfect half-donut drift into our spot, leaving two sizzling skidmarks that ended precisely where his rear tires now sit.
So we're still buzzing from all that, adrenaline flowing and blood pumping, as the throbbing sensations of the fair flood our faces. And if that isn't sensory overload enough, Matt is hoping - as usual - to add sexual sensations to the overload we're already experiencing, by picking up girls.
I don't find that outcome likely, although sexual sensations still are. If he/we don't pick anyone up, we'll certainly suck each other off when we get back to his place. Matt's not very advanced in his Bisexuality, having never added anal sex, kissing or any real intimacy to the menu, but I do give him credit for having introduced me to manly blowjobs several years ago.
Whether or not we are to munch each other's wieners later, we munch corn dogs now, split some loaded tots and an elephant ear, and then go on a few rides to see if they can coax the greasy food back up.
< = = = = = = = = >
The fireworks' grand finale collapses into a vacuum of relative calm, and the crowd thins out to clumps of hormonal teenagers. While trying our luck at a shooting gallery, I hear a female voice shout, "Hey, Matt!"
It's Kaitlyn, who went to high school with us. I never knew her very well, but having not moved away after school like I did, Matt always knows everybody. They exchange a hug, then she hugs me too. "Joe, right?"
She's with her friend Brenda, who looks remarkably like her. We spend a few minutes catching up with Kaitlyn, who can't stop smiling at Matt while we talk. Brenda, while not quite flirting with me, is making frequent eye contact too. I'm interested.
"So I didn't know you had a twin sister, Kait!" joshes Matt. They could indeed pass for twins, even if Brenda has slightly darker hair and an inch less height.
"Everybody says that, but I don't even have a sister." She tells us they initially bonded years ago over their similar appearance, but have since become best friends, now spending much of their time together.
"Too bad," he says.
"What's that supposed to mean?" demands Brenda.
"Well, you could be ... you know, twins. Every guy's dream."
"Is it, though?" she challenges. "We all know how much guys like threesomes, but twins - or even sisters - can't do anything to each other." She leans in provocatively, appearing possibly a little buzzed. "And isn't that every guy's dream, really?"
Kaitlyn shoots Brenda a look to rein her in. Meanwhile, I'm semi-hard at Brenda's directness in stripping Matt's joke down to its core. I like that in a woman.
We all get ice cream in still-warm, still-chewy waffle cones, loaded with toppings. Matt’s taken such advantage of the toppings bar - hot fudge, gummy worms, jimmies, marshmallow creme, and God knows possibly more buried under all that - that Kaitlyn ribs him about whether there’s any ice cream in his cone.
"There's always cream in my cone, baby," Matt flirts in his typical way. To all three of us he announces, "And you losers are throwing money away. Properly done, ice cream is merely a topping delivery device. I'm fucking nailing this."
After a moment of quiet, I notice him staring at me. "Speaking of nailing, Barnes, who'd you suck?"
I guess I have a bit of an ice-cream moustache. “What, you forgot already?" I faux-hurt flirt back at him. "Don't tell me it didn't mean anything to you!”
“Guess I did forget, man," he deadpans. "Maybe it wasn't that good.”
“That's not what you said when you were painting this on my lips!" I taunt, luridly licking the white substance off.
"You boys gonna flirt with each other all night?" chides Brenda, grabbing my hand as we walk through the darkened area behind the Grandstand bleachers. "We're right here!"
"Sorry, ladies," Matt addresses the women, pulling Kaitlin close. "We promise to keep our attention focused on you. And believe me, Kait, you have always had my attention."
"Oooh, flattery will get you everywhere. For a fee, though," she giggles, giving him a little kiss. "First one's free."
"How much after that?"
"Ten bucks."
"Nice!" Matt says, pulling a ten out of his wallet. "That's a pretty cheap date."
"Careful!" Kaitlyn slaps his shoulder good-naturedly, but makes good on the kiss. "The prices do escalate with the action."
Brenda moves closer to me, flirtatiously asking, "So, Joe the Wingman," which is probably an apt description of my role here, "how often do you two team up to pick up girls at the fair?"
"In Joe's case, never!" interjects Matt.
"He's right, Brenda. Never, so far." I wrap my arms around her waist. "But you might be special." Our lips meet. Hers are glossy and delicious.
Matt finishes his ice cream, first licking his tongue around the dripping bottom end like it's the tip of a cock.
"Wait, now it looks like you're the one giving a creamy blowjob," jokes Kaitlyn, feigning confusion.
"Truth be told, I sucked him off in the car too, back at the parking lot," Matt replies. The truth is not at all being told in that statement, but given our relationship, it easily could have happened. He continues, "Paid each other 100 bucks. My license plate does say 69 4EVER, you know."
"Does not," laughs Brenda as she fondles my bulge.
"No, Matt really does have that plate," I tell her. "He's restoring a '69 Mustang."
This does not seem to impress the women nearly as much as Matt would probably like. Kaitlyn seems more fixated on, "So it was only 100 bucks for a blowjob?"
"Ha! I told you, Joe's wasn't very good! It was only worth a hundred!" General laughter ensues. At my expense, I suppose, but I don't mind where this could be going.
"So what would you pay for a good one?" teases Kaitlyn, grinding her pelvis against Matt's and kissing him again. "By the way, you're up to fifty dollars now. I'll run a tab for you."
"I don't know, I don't know. I better watch my budget here." Pensively, he inquires, "Hmm ... if it's ten bucks for you to kiss me, how much would you charge to watch you kiss Brenda?"
"Hey, that's premium action!" objects Brenda, who doesn't actually seem upset at the suggestion. "You some kind of high rollers here, boys?"
"Not really, just asking. Remember, you're the one who pointed out you're not sisters and can 'do stuff' to each other.'
Kait seems hesitant, but ultimately takes the bait. "Well, the price would have to be right. What do you think, Brends? Two hundred, at least?"
Matt fishes out his wallet.
"Hey, keep it in your pants," Brenda chides. "I mean your wallet." Seemingly still intrigued, she suggests, "Maybe we can trade for something we want."
"Like what?
"Did you consider that we might enjoy watching you boys kiss each other too? Like in Challengers, or Wet Hot American Summer? What do you think, Kait?"
"Ooh, I'd pay three big ones to see that," she says, wide-eyed. "Plus a free tongue kiss," which she gives Matt up front.
"I'll match that like a public radio donor," declares Brenda. "I know that's a big Rubicon for boys, so you can have two whole minutes to consider our offer. And then," she says, rubbing my crotch, "you can use the proceeds to buy favors back from us. Like watching us kiss."
Despite the fun banter about paying for sexual favors, these women are clearly not professionals in that sense. I hear a somewhat nervous "Are we really doing this?" from Kaitlyn as they walk twenty yards away, conferring and digging in their purses.
"Shit, dude," laments Matt. "I never thought they'd throw that back in our face when I asked to see them kiss."
"We don't have to do it," I reassure him, knowing how uncomfortable the idea makes him. I've kissed guys lots of times, and always enjoyed the hell out of it, but he never has.
"I think we better. I dunno if we can 'afford' to get blowjobs from them if we don't, and God knows what they'll charge for a real fuck."
"Either way, it would beat the hundred-dollar blowjobs we give each other." I joke.
"Which actually are worth more than a hundred, if I'm honest," he replies, having recovered his usual joviality. "Okay, fine. Let's just fucking do this. But remember," he cautions, flicking his tongue out suggestively and turning his ass, "just because I kiss doesn’t mean I put out. You're not turning me gay."
Fine. Whatever. A kiss is some sort of progress, and I do still hope to get in his ass someday. But not "turn him gay."
“Understood," I warn him, "but I can be very persuasive. I’ve turned at least one guy gay, you know.” There is some truth to this, as detailed in my earlier stories "Discovered!" and "Rediscovered!"
Thankfully, he seems unperturbed by this flirtation, retorting, "Yeah, but not me. I want my cock buried in Kait's tight little cunt, not your tight little ass. And that'll make it worth it. Even if you turn out to be a shitty kisser.”
< = = = = = = = = >
The women return, Brenda flourishing a thick wad of cash in one hand and whacking it several times against the back of her other hand. "Okay, boys, here's six hundred American dollars, enough for you to buy a fuckton of fun back from us, and we hope you spend it all. And all you have to do is kiss each other. With tongue. For ten seconds. Are you men enough?"
Surprising me with his lack of reluctance, Matt abruptly brings his lips to mine and shoves his tongue in my mouth.
I hear the ladies gleefully chanting, “One … two … three …”
After our initial, violent lip collision, our tongues start dancing, swirling, snaking. I'm not sure how Matt feels about this, but I'm loving it. Not in a romantic sense, but in the hot, testosterone-overload sense that I always feel when kissing another man. It's making me hard as steel.
“Four … five … “ they count. Then they both giggle, “Sex!”
Matt lets out a little moan and pulls me closer.
“Seven … eight …”
His hand actually reaches down and massages my hard cock a little. I return the favor.
“Nine … a perfect ten!”
Matt keeps kissing me.
“Oh! ... Eleven! Twelve!”
He finally pulls back, a little breathless. “Okay, okay," he mutters. "Not a shitty kisser.”
To be continued. The women will kiss next!
