Date: Sun, 22 Jun 2008 02:56:33 -0700 From: "titboiSanDiego @msn.com" Subject: OUT OF A KANSAS CANYON (Part 2-A: Wednesday morning) General raunch, ws and other nasty things hot guys enjoy doing to each other. [Standard disclaimers apply, including that this story is completely fictitious and is intended only for adults over 18. A reminder to use condoms every time. (P.S. I haven't forgotten my other story, NOT SUPPOSED TO BE DOING THAT HERE. The final chapter will be coming, but I needed to write this story as a change of pace.) Feedback welcome: titboisandiego@msn.com. Thanks.] The story to now: Russ got hit up online by J.D., a San Francisco top, and accepted his offer to fly out there. Now he has to get the weekend off from work. ___________________ OUT OF A KANSAS CANYON (Part 2-A: Wednesday morning) The entire time I drove to work on Wednesday morning, J.D. was constantly on my mind. Not just the image of his photo, but images of what I hoped might happen: that he would make me service him and maybe even his friends. As much as I was looking forward to eating his dump and drinking his piss -- moving closer to becoming a full toilet -- what made my cock even harder was the thought of the discipline he had promised. I had always known I needed correction and authority. And along comes J.D., saying he would break me down and remold me -- work me over completely. It scared me to think someone had such high expectations of me. But it also made me proud that someone saw that potential in me. I couldn't let him down. Now all I had to do was get the time off from work. In the car, I analyzed the situation: I needed to give the manager, LuDeen Lewis, an excuse good enough to get me out of work for the entire weekend, but believable enough that I would have a job to come back to on Monday. Somehow I knew, "I'm going to San Francisco to eat a grown man's dump," was not good enough. I tried out various alternatives. "I'm going to be in my best friend's wedding." The comeback: "How long have you known about this?" (Good point. Even shotgun weddings have more than 48 hours lead time. Besides, it doesn't take a weekend to get married.) Or, "A friend of mine is sick and needs my help." (Don't even bother -- she would die laughing: "How sick can he be if he needs YOU?") The more I thought about it, the clearer it became that an out-of-town death was the only excuse that warranted so much time off on such short notice. But who died? As an only child whose parents were both dead, in a town so small that everyone's business WAS everyone else's business, I didn't have the usual array of relatives to fall back on. By the time I drove into the restaurant parking lot, there was only one relative I could think of -- that old standby from school for getting out of tests. It was totally unoriginal, but perhaps being brazenly obvious might turn the trick. I clocked in, grabbed my apron and knocked at the manager's office. "Uhm, Mrs. Lewis?" "Yeah," said LuDeen, an overly-made-up woman in her 50s. LuDeen rarely looked away from her terminal screen where she was supposedly working on spreadsheets that tracked food inventory, what dishes were selling and where to cut staff hours. Once or twice, however, she had been seen surfing the Internet, leading the waitresses to call her "LuDeen Lonely-hearts." "Mrs. Lewis, I gotta have this weekend off." The muscles on her face didn't even twitch. "Nobody gets weekends off." "I know, but -- " "And this weekend is graduation. Anyone with relations who live within 50 miles will be hauling them in. I'm expecting a $20-thousand Sunday. So nice try, but no way." "Still, I gotta. My grandmother died." She slid the half-rims down her nose and turned slowly to look me head to foot. "Your grandmother?" she said, clearly offended that anyone would dare to try out something so unoriginal on her. "Your grand - mother?" "Yes, ma'am. She died last night." "Kinda old to be having a grandmother die on ya, doncha think?" "But she didn't know that." (Do great comebacks like that just fall from the sky? I was so proud of myself.) She eyed me narrowly. "Both your parents`re dead, right?" "You played the organ at their funerals," I reminded her. I willed my eyes to tear up. "Grandma was my last relative." "Oh, give me a break. I haven't heard that one since I was in school myself, and I'm a lot older `n you." She paused. "How come you need the whole weekend?" "Fly out Thursday night. Funeral's Saturday. Fly back Sunday." "Where did Granny die?" "We called her Grandma." "Whatever." "California." "California?" "Yes, ma'am. San Francisco." "Oh, San Fran-cis-co." Her eyes lit up as she made four syllables sound like six. "Oh-kay, Russell Henry, whose-grandmother-has-ever-so-conveniently-kicked-the-bucket-so-you-can-ask-for-the-weekend-off. The hell with graduation. You go to Granny's funeral." "Thank you," I said, turning to leave. "Not so fast. Where's the ticket?" "The what?" "Exactly. `The What.' You flying there? Or hitchhiking?" (Hitchhike to San Francisco? What was she talking about?) "Flying," I said, sounding confused. "Oh, say it with more conviction than that!" she cooed. "Show me that plane ticket before you leave, or you won't have a job to come back to." I shrugged. "Okay." She looked surprised for a mili-moment. "You got the ticket?" "I will tomorrow." "Gonna buy it on your lunch hour?" "No, ma'am. It's being Fed Ex'd." "'Course it don't much matter whether you buy it today or tomorrow, seeing how you already missed the discount fare. If you want the weekend off, you're gonna have to pay through the nose for a ticket you won't never use. I hope she's worth it." She crinkled her nose suggestively. "Or is it he?" "My grandmother was a she." >From the kitchen grill, I heard Warren call out. "Yo, Henry! You clocked in yet or what?" "Anything else?" I asked. "Is there?" she asked, provocatively. I walked into the kitchen. Warren was scanning breakfast tickets. "What's up?" he said. "Nothing." "Nothing?" said LuDeen, leaning against a wall, her arms folded. "Russ didn't tell you his old granny died?" "Grandma." Warren looked at me, confused. "I thought she died when we were kids." "That was the other one. You get two." "`You get two!'" she laughed. "You can have a half dozen, so long as you show me a plane ticket to San Francisco each time you bury one." "San Francisco?" Warren looked from her to me. "That's where the funeral is," I said, hoping it sounded obvious. "San-Fran-cis-co," she said, drawling it out again. "If you ask me, he's got homosexual-faggots-by-the-bay on his mind." "Careful," Warren said. It had been a while since anyone had challenged LuDeen in her own kitchen. "What did you just say to me?" "`Faggot' is not polite. And `homosexual faggot' is bad grammar. Watch it or you won't have any cooks at all this weekend." I wasn't aware anyone was even watching until the kitchen erupted into cheers. Waitresses applauded and the "dish boy" (a man in his 60s who had been working as far back as LuDeen's mother) waved his towel in the air. LuDeen glared at us and walked away. Warren went back to scanning tickets. "You will not believe what people want to eat for breakfast," he said, shaking his head sadly. "Or even before." I stared at him. "You're not gay." "Never said I was," he said, looking up. "But `homosexual faggot' IS bad grammar." "Thanks." "Yo," he sang out. "Think we got any fish sticks in the back?" ____________________ When I walked into the tiny locker room at the end of our shift, Warren was taking a whiz into one of those stained porcelain monstrosities that ran all the way to the floor. As I waited for him to do his business, I wondered why LuDeen never sprung for newer appliances anywhere. Well, at least the old ones never had a modesty panel. "Any day LuDeen has to eat shit is a day worth cooking for," he called out, tucking his equipment away and zipping up. "Got that right." I mulled over the finer aspect of bathroom etiquette as we maneuvered in that tight space so he could move to the sink and I could get into position at the urinal. There is something totally cool about the way guys carry on conversations while they stand at urinals or sit on toilets. It's as though urinating and defecating are such natural acts that guys do them nonchalantly, all the while continuing discussions of sports, work and last night's conquests. "I'm gonna drop my drawers and a few logs along with `em," they seem to be saying as they scratch under their balls. "But you just go on with what you were saying about Rhonda spreading her legs last night." Warren Conover and I had known each other since before kindergarten. We raced our sleds down Bunker Hill Drive together, before becoming nerds in grade school and jocks in high school. In the strange way that can happen in small towns, we then drifted apart. After a memorable graduation party and Warren's getting married, we rarely saw each other. Even stranger still was that we had somehow ended up working side by side as grill cooks. All of this came to mind as I leaned in towards the wall. I was confronted with an age-old problem: my pee would not start. I tried to relax and think of things with water. Swimming. ("Would you like to skinny dip with that lifeguard from the summer you were a junior lifeguard?") Or water balloons (splattering against my crotch and making my jeans squishy wet). I looked at the walls and down past my hand to the pool of dirty yellow water. I realized with a jolt that some of that yellow water must be Warren's. I squinted. Sure enough there were bubbles just fizzing out. Amazing to think that something so intimate out of a guy's body could be lying right there for anyone who walked by to see. This kind of talk was getting me hard. Oh, no! I thought, grunting and pushing against my hole. We're going in the wrong direction here! I gritted my teeth and bore down, trying to force my cock to get soft -- a contradiction in terms if there ever was one. "Urinals take up too much damn space," Warren said. "Probably better if we just did it outside." This out-of-left-field comment was in direct violation of a basic tenet of the Universal Brotherhood code of toilet etiquette. Namely, that when two cool guys were in this most intimate of acts, they were allowed talk about almost anything: politics, mowing the lawn and (of course) Rhonda spreading her legs. But they never talked about the receptacle they were trying to fill. That would make the act they were trying so hard to be nonchalant about seem too obvious. I said nothing, and pressed harder against my hole to get the flow started. Perhaps Warren saw me strain or maybe I even grunted quietly. Whatever it was, something moved him to offer advice. "Think about the water slide." I tried to sound noncommittal as I said, "Ah," but Warren took this as an invitation to continue. "Senior class trip? Did you go on the water slide?" I shrugged. "Uhm. Probably." "Always liked the idea of getting my pants wet. `Course, you can't go around in public like that, no matter how good it feels, right?" "Uhm, oh-kay." I wanted to offer Warren whatever support I could in this mini-coming out he seemed intent on sharing with me. He continued. "But that day, everybody was walking around with their pants wet, so it didn't much matter. Every time I went coasting down that water slide -- " He stopped and looked around before continuing in a low voice. " -- Every time down that slide, I pissed my pants as hard as I could because I knew no one would ever know." He looked at me in the mirror and smiled. "But you know now." A chill ran down my spine at the same time the right combination of muscles unlocked. Urine came gushing out, tinkling noisily into the bottom of the urinal. "Ah," Warren said. "The sound of music." "Sound of what?" Warren shook his head. "Dunno why I said that." As I zipped up, Warren stepped aside so there was room for both of us. I couldn't embarrass him by not taking at least as much time to wash my hands. As we stood there, breathing in rhythm, I felt a surge of energy pass between us -- something unspoken that took my breath away. My face flushed. In the mirror, Warren was calmly staring at his hands. Perhaps that surge was just my imagination. I looked at my watch. "In a hurry?" Warren asked. "Not really. Gotta pack eventually." "Susan's got her final tonight. If you don't mind putting up with the kids, we could have hamburgers." This was the first time Warren and I had discussed anything other than work since the night of graduation. But I went with the flow (so to speak). "Sure," I said easily. "Hamburgers would be great." "Five o'clock?" "Fine. Can I bring anything?" "Just you." As he put his hands on my shoulders so he could pass behind me to reach the paper towels, I felt that surge of energy again. A quick look at his face made it clear that he wasn't feeling anything. What was going on? Or was anything even going on? (End of Part 2-A.) IN A KANSAS CANYON Page 7