Date: Fri, 4 Jul 2008 07:24:59 -0700
From: "titboiSanDiego @msn.com" <titboiSanDiego@msn.com>
Subject: OUT OF A KANSAS CANYON   (Part 2-B: Wednesday evening)

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 is flying out on Thursday to San Francisco to serve
J.D., a San Francisco top.  Tonight, he is having dinner with Warren, a guy
from work, who seems to be more into kink that Russ ever realized...

___________________

OUT OF A KANSAS CANYON      (Part 2-B: Wednesday Evening)

On my way to Warren's place, I started reviewing the previous 24 hours:
getting hit up online by J.D., taking a dump afterwards in my backyard, not
to mention the promise of a free trip to San Francisco, to be worked over
by an African-American top...

But the hell with the last 24 hours.  What had happened just that afternoon
with Warren in the bathroom would be enough to keep my head spinning --
and my cock hard.

Warren and I had known each other since before kindergarten.  We were grade
school nerds and high school jocks -- an achievement only possible
because the Kansas town we lived in was so small.  On the night of
graduation, we had attended an after-party that I still remember vividly,
but which I suspected Warren would just as soon forget.

After that, we drifted apart.  There was no fall-out: I attended Warren's
wedding and even danced with Susan.  But it was as though we had
independently arrived at a decision that we had been through enough for
now.  It was time to take a break.  That was 10 years ago.

Small towns can be weird: although we no longer saw each other socially, we
ended up working along side each other on the morning shift at LuDeen's
Lair, a 24-hour diner on the town's main drag.  The complementary nature we
had developed over the years served us well there also: he hated cooking
eggs, but I didn't mind.  He preferred prep work and I liked the challenge
of a breakfast and lunch rush.

And so the years had passed, with us navigating separate paths that had
kept us from really talking.  Until today, that is.

That morning, Warren had stood up for me in an argument with the boss over
my trip to San Francisco (although I don't think he believed the cover
story that my grandmother had died).  At the end of our shift, while we
changed clothes in the locker room, Warren dropped hints -- whether he
even knew he was doing so or not -- that he might be open to a round of
water sports.

So when I rang the doorbell, I thought I was ready for anything.  The door
opened and a six-year-old girl looked up at me.

I smiled at her.  "Hello.  I'm here to see your daddy."

Staring at me, she screamed at the top of her lungs, "Da-a-ad-d-dy!"

Warren came from the kitchen, wiping his hands.  (Was it my imagination or
had he showered and shaved as well?)

"Daddy's here, Anissa."

"Bye," she said and ran into another room.

I held out the bottle of wine I purchased impulsively on my way over.

"Thanks.  Been a long time since anyone brought me a gift."

Warren went through the motions of showing off his model tract home and I
went through the motions of admiring it.  We ended up in the kitchen where
he picked up with the prep work for dinner.  In the other room, Anissa and
her sister were running around making a lot of noise in front of the
television.

"Want something to drink?" he asked.

I pretended that this incredibly clever suggestion would otherwise never
have occurred to me.  "Sure.  What do you have?"

"Beer, -- "

He started to list them all, but I made it easy.  "Beer's fine."

He wiped his hands.  "It's in the -- "

"I'll get it," I said, moving to the refrigerator.

"You know what?" he said, sounding as though the following clever idea
would otherwise never have occurred to HIM: "Would you like to barbecue?
We could sit outside."

Later, after the dishes were done and the girls were in bed, we sat
watching a particularly dazzling sunset.  Warren uncorked the bottle of
wine.

"You should save that for something special," I said.

"This is special enough."  He held up his glass to clink.

We sat quietly as the sun rimmed the edge of the canyon.  Without
conversation, it could have been easy to feel self-conscious.  But Warren
seemed to be enjoying the moment so much that I decided to relax as well.
A beautiful odor wafted across the lawn.

"Hyacinth," he said, without being asked.  "Know how gardenias can fill a
room?  That's nothing.  Hyacinth can fill an entire yard."  We breathed it
in together.

"Flowers are like DNA," he continued.  "You put a clipping in soil and it
takes on a life of its own.  The more you do it, the more life you create."

I looked at him, trying not to appear too fascinated by this side of
Warren.

He shrugged self consciously. "So... need a ride to the airport?"

"Uhm, sure.  But it's an hour and a bit," I warned him.

"'S okay.  I can help a friend."

"Sit out here a lot?"

He thought for a moment.  "No, actually, I don't," he said, sounding
surprised.  "Should probably have done it more."

"Still can."

I looked around at all he had worked so hard to create.  Warren cleared his
throat.

"Susan is graduating from that community college, you know?  Getting a
degree in accounting.  And, uhm, she's going to be able to get a great job,
pretty much anywhere she wants.  You know?"

"Uh huh."  (After two "you knows," it seemed appropriate to agree.)

"There's this guy who wants her to join his firm.  North Platte."

I looked over sharply.  "Isn't that -- what?  A hundred miles?"

"One hundred and nine miles each way, to be exact."  He cleared his throat.
"You know Paul Vaney?"

"Lawyer, right?"  After Warren nodded, I added, "Heard of him."

"Been thinking I should talk with him."

I nodded.  "Might be a good idea."

Warren laughed suddenly.  "What about that place over yours?  Still empty?"

I had to think for a moment to make the connection.  Was Warren saying he
needed a place to live?

"Place over mine?  Yeah, it's open.  Going on a year now."

The sounds of crickets and the fragrance of hyacinth filled most of my
senses.  The rest were filled with bursts of surging energy that passed
between us, much like they had that afternoon in the locker room.  At
least, I thought they were passing between us.  Warren sat there seemingly
unaware of anything different.

"Gotta piss," Warren said suddenly.  "You probably do too."

"Uh, no.  I'm fine."

"Walk me?"

As we walked across the lawn, the last rays of the sun slipped away.  At
the fence, Warren unzipped his pants and reached in.  I did the same.

"Might as well do it now too, I guess," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

It seemed weird to be talking while we "voided" (the term they used when I
was in the hospital once).  We kept the conversation going, as though it
were the most natural thing in the world to talk while we urinated or took
a dump.  Clearly this was something that cool guys did all the time.

Even so, it was hard to imagine Butch and Sundance doing it.

Warren cleared his throat.  "You're probably gonna think this is weird,
but... "

(Weirder than talking while we piss together? I thought.  Not likely, but
go on.)

"I like to go to the bathroom outside.  Sometimes."  He shook his head like
there was no way to make sense of it.  "Pretty sick, huh?"

"Maybe.  Maybe not."

"Yeah?" he said with disgust. "Who else do you know?"

A go-for-broke moment.  "I understand the cooks on the morning shift at
LuDeen's are outdoorsy when it comes to bodily functions.  I know for a
fact that one of them did No. 2 in his backyard just last night."

"You kidding me?"

"Wanna stop by and check the logs?  They'll be fertilizing that hedge for a
while."

"That what you guys call `em?  Logs?"

I nodded and we lapsed into silence.  Suddenly, Warren spoke in a burst.

"You're going to think I'm bullshitting you, but this is the God's truth.
After Susan went to bed last night, I came out here and dropped a couple
myself.  Felt so good to be out here, squatting naked, not caring if anyone
saw.  'Bout 11 o'clock or so.  What time you'd do yours?"

"After midnight."  I glanced around casually.  "Think we could still find
`em?"

"Would you like that?" he asked softly.

I looked at him and nodded.  Warren moved closer and I felt that surge
again.  Considering that the energy (or whatever it was) was raging in me,
I couldn't believe he didn't feel something, but his face remained
completely placid.

"I'm still peeing," he whispered.

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"I can hear it," I said.  "Kinda reassuring.  Like rain."

"Always liked watching you do it because yours works different."

"Works the same.  Just looks different.  Want to see?"

He nodded.  I shifted my hand and slid the foreskin back and forth as he
looked on, fascinated.

"Would you like to hold it?" I asked.

He nodded, too full of emotion to speak.  I placed it in his hands.  "Now
jiggle the hood back and forth," I said.

"That what you call it?  Hood?"

I nodded.

"You can piss with it open or shut?" he asked.

"You're supposed to skin it back, but sometimes it's fun to pee through it.
Makes it crusty afterwards."

He continued caressing it, breathing slowly all the while.

"You guys drink it too sometimes, don't you?" he said, trying to sound
casual.

I nodded again.

"You ever done that?" he asked, shyly.  "Drink a guy's piss?"

"Oh, sure," I said, trying to make it sound like it was something that was
far more common than most people ever let on.

Warren stared at the cock in his hands, toying with sliding the skin back
and forth.  Without a word, he sunk to his knees and pulled me closer.  He
skinned it back and licked under the hood.  Suddenly, he put my cock in his
mouth and sucked hard.

I winced.  "Teeth!"

He loosened his mouth and placed my cock on his outstretched tongue.  He
grasped his hands around my waist, looked up at me and nodded.  I urinated
very slowly and he closed his mouth, gulping.  When I was done, he didn't
want to give it up.

Apparently he realized there was probably a pair balls nearby.  He reached
through my fly to fondle them while he continued sucking.  He looked up at
me and then away.

"I've never done that before," he said, defensively.

"But you've wanted to?"

After a moment, he nodded and hung his head.  I reached down, pulled him to
his feet and hugged him.

"Guys do this more often than you know.  Could I do you?"

Without waiting for an answer, I sunk to my knees and surveyed what lay
before me.  There was no way that I was going fool around through his fly.
I pushed his cock back inside and reached up to unbuckled his pants.  As I
pulled them down, the hairy stomach and legs that I saw five days a week
suddenly took on a different meaning.  His stomach muscles were taunt.  I
reached up and inserted my fingers at the sides of his briefs.  With one
motion, I pulled his underwear down and took in what lay before me.

Hair everywhere.  The bush around his genitals was the same brown coppers
that were on his legs, only thicker.  His balls were furrier than anyone's
I had ever seen.  I could smell the distinctive crotch odor of a rutting
man.

It had been ten years since I had seen Warren in gym class.  I had
forgotten what a nice piece he had: short and thick -- cut, but not too
tight.  I could not imagine anybody -- even Susan -- not wanting to
have it between their legs at least once or twice a week.  As I caressed
it, it spazed and a shrism of urine shot forth.

"Sorry," he whispered, appalled.  "Did I get any on you?"

I shook my head to reassure him and put it in my mouth.  I looked up and
nodded.  As I sucked, I reached around and found that his firm buns were as
hairy as his legs.  When I put my hands on them, Warren twitched
momentarily.  I went on sucking his cock and massaging the hairy mounds.

I let my hands brush lightly again the cleft at the top of his crack.
Again, he twitched, but let me continue.  After a few minutes of that, I
brushed against the crack itself.  Another twitch. I let him get
comfortable with that before I took the next step: I massaged my fingers
into his trench, preparing for him to buck away.

He didn't, but he did freeze and clench his buttocks, inadvertently
trapping my fingers.  He unclenched, but if he expected that to make me
remove my hand, he was mistaken.  As I brushed my hand up and down the
length of his trench, I could feel things in there besides hair.  I was
dying to see how grungy and filthy he might be, but I decided to let that
discovery wait.  Instead, I turned my attention to the cock in my mouth.

While piss had been shooting out of it, Warren's penis remained pliable and
easy to get my mouth around.  Now that he was finished pissing, however, it
was getting hard.  It may have been short and thick before, but now it was
longer and a lot thicker.  Just trying to keep it in my mouth and breathe
at the same time brought tears to my eyes.  I pulled back a little, and
grabbed onto his balls.  They didn't hang all that low, but it was one more
part of him covered in fur that I could play with.

As I inched my fingers closer to his hole, I picked my way through all
kinds of gunk... shit or clumps of toilet paper or who knows what.
Finally, I reach the entrance.  But when I touched the tender flesh around
his hole, he bucked away and grabbed at his backside.

"You can't fuck me!"

(What is it about "straight" guys worrying all the time that they're going
to get fucked without warning?)

"Warren," I explained, "I'm kneeling in front of you.  There's no way I
could fuck you from this position even if I had a 14-inch cock, okay?  So
relax."

"Then why are you putting your finger in there?"

"Because it will feel good."

"What are you going to do?"

I decided that the best way to do this was walk him through it.

"I'm going to slip a finger -- just one -- up your hole."

"No!" he said panicky.  "It won't fit."

I pulled my hand around to the front and held out my index finger.

"Have you ever had a bowel movement bigger than this finger?  Because if
you haven't, we'll stop right now and I'll take you to the emergency room."

He laughed a little, nervously.

"Now, I can slip this up your hole and you'll never feel a thing --
except great.  Trust me on this one, okay, buddy?"  In the absence of any
response, I took the next step.

"Look," I said, holding up my finger and swabbing it around in my mouth.  I
tasted the combined slime, grunge and funk that was already on my finger.
It made me want to cry, to think he didn't know how guys would give
anything to have a go at his nasty hole.

"It's all slick with spit and stuff," I continued.  "I'm moving it around
to the back.  Okay?"  As I did, he shuddered.  "Now, if at any point, you
say stop, I will stop.  Okay?"

Still no response, so I rubbed all my fingers through his hairy trench and
pushed the index finger right against his hole.  He tensed slightly.

"Now," I said in what I hoped was my most intoxicating voice, "I'm just
going to rub around the edge, okay?  Might feel a little pressure, but it
won't hurt."

Just as I started, Warren shouted, "Stop!"

I took my hand completely away from his hole and leaned back on my
haunches.

"Sorry," he said, sounding embarrassed.

"'S okay."  Because I knew what had happened: he was testing me.  "Told you
I would stop if you asked me to," I said.  "And now you know I will.
Okay?"  I nodded up at him sympathetically.  "Okay?" I repeated.

Finally, he nodded back.

"Now, I'm going to wet my finger again."  As I did, I couldn't get over the
assortment of flavors just waiting back there to be discovered.  Did he
even have an idea how much guys would pay to line up and rim him?  I pulled
the finger out, dripping with as much spit and mucus as I could find in my
mouth.  I held it up for his inspection.

"Now," I said very calmly, "I'm going back there again.  You know that if
you want me to stop, I will, okay?"

Instead of responding, he edged closer.  (Whoa!  We would be going to third
base -- at least.)  I moved to get my finger into position.  Instead of
forcing it in, I used the spittle on my finger and the grunge around his
hole to grease up my finger.  I swirled the tip around in circles and then
slowly angled one edge in.  Warren twitched and gasped, but nothing more.

I pulled my finger out, intending to put it into my mouth again.  (This was
as much to get the full flavor of his hole as it was to reassure him that
my finger would be slippery.)  But I felt something.  As I pulled my finger
around, I took a look What the fuck is this?  TP?

(Note to the file: if Warren ever comes out, explain that it is totally not
cool to have bits of toilet paper stuck in your crack.  Gunk, crud and
grunge are all fine.  Even bits of turds.  But I can't stand finding
leftover toilet paper in a guy's trench.  As Jon Lovitz used to whine on
SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE, "Or is that too much to ask?!")

Spitting out the TP, I took my hand back to his crack.  This time, after
greasing up my finger with more butt slime, I slipped it in and then worked
it slowly all the way into the hole.  I stopped before the first knuckle
and let him catch his breath.  I put his cock into my mouth, grabbed onto
his furry balls with my other hand, and went back to maneuvering my finger.
He winced slightly, but he also had the presence of mind to push out
against his hole, knowing that would let my finger in more easily.  Finally
it was done.  I took my mouth off his cock.

"Warren.  My finger's in all the way."

"Already?" he said, surprised.

"You okay?"

"Sure," he said so casually that I thought he might shrug.  The
apprehension of something like this was always worse than the act itself.

"Okay," I said before putting his cock back in my mouth.  "Get ready for a
great ride."

I started sucking on his cock, playing with his balls and twisting my
finger around in his hole.  There was enough lubricant inside of it that I
didn't have to worry about my finger not sliding around free.  Once he got
used to that, he twisted his ass a little to push more of my finger in and
pushed out against his hole.  Finally I reached his prostate and from there
on, we were soaring towards home plate.

There was a sharp intake of breath, followed by the most heartfelt moan I
ever heard.  He bent over, wrapping his arms around my shoulder and pushing
out on his hole so hard I wondered if I might touch a turd.  But no such
luck -- at least not this time.

I could feel his cock getting thicker.  To make sure he didn't come in my
mouth, I pulled off, leaving globs of spit on it.  I moved my hand off his
balls and grabbed his shaft.  To complete the switch, I started sucking on
his balls.

Another groan escaped from his lips and he tensed.  Cords of sperm started
spewing forth everywhere: on my hand, the ground and even a little on his
pants.  His hole clenched at my finger, and there were even a few flutter
farts to compete the event.  We both stopped and took in what had just
happened between us.

Warren remained bent over, his arms wrapped about my shoulders and back.
His underarms were drenched in the kind of sweat whose fragrance turns me
on even more than the flavor of a man's ass or poppers.  His breath came
back and after a couple of minutes, he straightened up.

"You've come once or twice before, haven't you?" I said, hoping that a
light comment like that might produce a chuckle -- and it did.  "You
gonna be okay?" I added.

"Uhm," he said.  "I'll live."

As I pulled my finger out, he clenched at it, unwilling to give it up.
This boy caught on fast!

As I stood up, Warren reached over and pulled the shoulder of my shirt down
to expose the tattoo.

"I haven't seen this up close since -- I don't know when."

"I do," I reminded him.  "The night of graduation."

He smiled slyly, but turned his attention back to the tattoo.

"What is it?"

"What does it look like?"

"Duh.  It's a butterfly," he said, rolling his eyes.  "But why a
butterfly?"

Rather than answer the question, I changed the subject.  "Let's see yours."

Warren never needed an excuse to shuck his shirt.  Even ten years after our
football workouts, his pecs were firm, if a bit more furred.  Over the past
years, I had not felt comfortable staring at him openly when we changed our
clothes after work.  However, now that we had each swallowed a load of each
other's piss (and I had jerked him off over some of his Hyacinths), I
didn't think staring at him next time would be a problem.

On his back deltoid, up near the neck, was a tattoo.

"Now, that's a tattoo," he said, outlining the eagle against an American
flag.

"Uh huh," I said noncommittally.

"A real tattoo," Warren added.

"Didn't know there were fake ones."

When I used that line with J.D. the night before, it got me in trouble.
But with Warren, it was a revelation -- and a joy -- to see him laugh
so heartily.

"You know what I mean," he said.  "Were they out of swords or eagles the
day you went?  Or a heart that says, `Mom'?"

"No.  Plenty of those."

"Then why the butterfly?  Some of the guys thought it was kinda faggy, you
know?"

"Turns out they were right, weren't they?"  After a moment, I added, "It
was right after my parents were killed."

"Oh, God.  Sorry.  I wasn't thinking."

"It's okay," I said.  "Anyway, that butterfly means something to me."

"Don't want to say what?"

I shook my head slightly.  "Haven't told anyone.  But if I ever do, I'll
tell you."

Warren pulled on his cock and let a final shrism of piss shoot out in an
arc.  While he was zipping, he spoke, trying to sound casual.  "You, uhm,
ever do this with other guys?"

"Pee?"

"Or other stuff."  (My, my.  Perhaps Warren was broader minded than we
realized.)  "Gonna do this in San Francisco?"

"At my grandmother's funeral?"

"Save the bullshit about the grandmother.  I'm not gonna tell anyone.
Gonna see some gay guy there?" he asked.

"Some gay guy," I thought.  Warren's innocence was endearing.

"Yeah, I'm going to see a gay guy."  After a moment, I added, "Are you,
uhm, familiar with the phrase, `doing the deed?'"

He repeated it and shook his head.

"Let's just say that there are things you can do with excrement that some
guys think are pretty hot."

"Nasty," he blurted out.  `Doing the nasty.'"

"Is that what you call it?"

"Never done it.  Only heard about it."

"Now you know someone who's done it.  And who's gonna do it again."

There was a pause and as he let this sink in.

"You're actually going to eat this gay guy's excrement?"

"If he'll let me."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"It's complicated.  I have to earn it."

Warren sighed. "This is all so new to me."

"Won't take long to catch on."

He smiled wanly.  There was a long silence.  Finally he cleared his throat.
"Wish the girls didn't get up so early."

I took the hint.  "I should probably get going anyway."

I followed him towards the house.  Suddenly, he spun around.

"Would you kiss me?"

"Here?"

He shrank back.  "Sorry."

"I was just surprised, that's all."  I pulled him closer and tilted my
forehead towards his, draping my arms around his neck.  He hung his hands
on my arms and we stood there for a moment, smelling in everything about
each other that there was to smell.

"Daddy, can you tuck me in?"

The innocence of the girl's voice brought us back to reality with a jolt.
For a moment, I thought I saw frustration and despair in Warren's eyes.
But he was immediately a father.

"Sure, sweetheart.  We're just going to say goodbye to Uncle Russ.  You
want to do that with me?"

A child's giggle can be one of the most reassuring sounds in the world.
She came over and fit her hand into the hollow of mine.  The three of us
walked to the front door.

"Thanks again for the offer of the ride," I said to Warren.

There was still one way we could express what we wanted: when we shook
hands, Warren brought his other hand to grasp my forearm.  I did the same,
and in the way that totally innocent gestures can sometimes be because of
the setting, that handshake was far more erotic than a kiss would have
been.

All the way home, I thought about how much fun it would be if Warren moved
into the upstairs apartment.  I could cook every night, and he would have
the backyard to raise whatever flowers he wanted.  Plus, with both of us
dropping logs, that hedge would hit 10 feet in no time. In the evening,
we'd sit and watch the sun set behind the canyon.

"Watch it, boy," I warned.  "You're letting your imagination run away."
But I couldn't resist looking up at the second floor, which had been empty
all this time.  Wouldn't it be nice to have a neighbor?  (And wouldn't it
be even better if the neighbor were hot?)

I even fantasized that I wouldn't go to San Francisco after all.  (Sorry,
J.D.!)  Instead, Warren would leave Susan -- this very evening.  He'd be
calling any moment now to ask if I had keys to the upstairs.  "No," I would
tell him, "but you can stay downstairs with me."  So he would do that --
just for tonight, of course -- and then...

"We shall never be parted, and there's an end to it," as Scudder says at
the end of the movie, MAURICE.

Better watch it, I warned myself.  You want to be named as a correspondent
in a divorce action?  Or just cited for alienation of affection?

You mean I have a choice?

(Boy, these inner dialogues can wear you out fast.)

As I walked across my yard to the back door, my cell phone started ringing.
Warren had his bags packed and was waiting for me to get home.

"Hello?" I said.

"How you doing tonight, pig?" came a booming voice.

"J.D.?"

"J.D.?" he replied with a high pitched whine that was presumably an
imitation of mine.  "Who else calls you pig, pig?"

"No one, Sir," I said, thinking this was the last person I needed to deal
with right now.

"You sound like I'm the last person you want to hear from right now."

(Forgot how good he was at this.)

"No, Sir," I lied.  "It's just that I'm packing and... I dunno.  Guess
I'm... well, I'm just excited."

"Got a piece of paper and pencil?"

"Yes."

"Ready?"

"Yes," I said uncertainly.

"Here's the info about your plane ticket."

"Oh... right!" I said.  "The ticket.  Right!"

"Everything okay, boy?  Sounds like you forgot."

"No, Sir.  I just said I was packing.  I'm looking forward to this."

"The ticket'll be at the Fed Ex office on, let's see here," he said,
reading off the receipt, "Beech Street.  That near you?"

"Close enough."

"11 a.m. tomorrow morning."

"I'll find it.  Thank you, Sir.

I began to feel guilty about wishing J.D. were the last person I wanted to
hear from or even thinking that I might not fly out there after all.  As
much fun as I had had with Warren, he was married and decidedly unsure of
what he wanted.  What I expected to learn from J.D. was on a completely
different level of intensity.

I thought again about what it was going to be like being naked around him
all weekend, servicing him on request.  His intoxicating bass voice would
lull me into doing things I had never done before, and he would discipline
me if I didn't.  I knew I needed to be stronger, more decisive, and I had
this gut feeling that a couple of whippings from J.D. could do it for me.
I felt I owed it myself to find out.

"Hungry, pig?"

"I'm always hungry," I said, trying to roll the "always" for effect.

"You said you like the pebbles more, right?  More than the mushy stuff?"

"Yes, sir.  Always like hard rock butt candy."

"'Cause I've been eating pizza for both of us.  Any particular topping you
want?"

His laughter was contagious.  It didn't matter what topping I wanted.  I
would have to eat anything that came out of his hole: pebbles, soup and
everything in between.  Still, it was nice of him to ask.  His next comment
that caught me completely off guard.

"Hope you didn't take a dump, pig."

"What?" I said, hoping I didn't sound too surprised.

"I asked if you had taken a dump since we talked last night."

I racked my brain trying to remember when he told me not to.

"Did you take a dump or not?" he repeated.

I tried to pretend I was tired.  "Uhm, not sure really.  Can't remember."
I stretched and yawned.

J.D. immediately assumed the persona of the man I was expecting to mold me.

"If you give me an answer like that while you're here, son, I'll have to
whup your ass, but hard.  You know by now that I don't ask questions I
don't expect answers to.  I'm only going to ask this one more time: did you
take a dump or not?"

"No, Sir, not really."

"`Not really?'  What the hell kind of an answer is that?  Did you do it
outside and somehow that doesn't count?"

(Omigod... He is SO good at this!)

"I want your answer, pig, and I want it now."

"Yes, Sir, I took a dump outside."

"Why didn't you just say that?"

"I don't remember you saying I couldn't dump," I protested.

"Even so, if you lied to me, then I'd have to whup your backside, wouldn't
I?"

Now I was really lost.  Had he told me not to take a dump or not?

"Pig, I just told you I don't ask questions I don't expect answers to."

"Yes, Sir," I said, not even sure what the question was.

"`Yes, Sir,' what?  Yes, you took a dump, or yes you lied to me or yes you
know I'd have to work your ass over?"

"Yes, Sir, I took a dump."

(By saying that, I didn't have to mention that I also lied.)

"What did it look like?"

"Hard.  Nice solid one."

"Eat any of it?"

"No, Sir."

"Why not?"

Why not? I thought.  I dunno.  Just didn't occur to me.  He's waiting for
his answer.

"It just didn't occur to me, Sir."

"Good answer."  After a moment, he added, "Wanna know why that's a good
answer?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Because it's what you were thinking.  When I asked if you took a dump, you
were trying to figure out what answer I wanted.  That's how you ended up
lying to me.  This time, you just said what was on your mind: you didn't
eat it because it just didn't occur to you.  Good answer."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Can't say I liked your other answers much."

"But, Sir, when did you tell me I wasn't supposed to take a dump?"

"Never did," he said as though that were obvious.  "If you took a shit,
that would have been fine."

"Then where did I go wrong?"

"You lied to me.  Didn't you?"

He doesn't ask questions for which he doesn't expect an answer, I said to
myself, almost by rote.

"Yes, Sir," I said.

"I never said you couldn't take a dump.  You assumed that.  So instead of
answering me, you floundered around, trying to find the answer you thought
I wanted.  Isn't that so?"

"Yes, Sir."  I began to see what he was saying.

"If you had said, `Yes, Sir, I took a dump,' that would have been end of
it.  Where you when wrong was in trying to anticipate what I wanted to
hear.

"I told you before that I don't ask questions for which I don't expect
answers.  In addition, the only answer I want is the one that's on your
mind.  Not the answer you think I want.  So don't try to anticipate me,
son.  Those are two good lessons to know about life in general."

"Yes, Sir," I responded quietly.  I got hard hearing him call me "son."

"It's also a reason why I think you need discipline."

I reached down to fondle my crotch, wondering if he would know somehow I
was doing it, but he just continued along.

"While you're trying to fall asleep tonight, you think about what you
learned.  Think about it real hard, because I guarantee you this: if you
haven't learned it by the time you get here, it's gonna hurt a whole lot
more when I have to teach it in person."

I didn't know whether to be scared or turned on.

"That's enough for tonight," he said.

I actually breathed a sigh of relief.

He was immediately suspicious.  "You sure you're up for this?"

"Yes, Sir," I said, because that was the answer on my mind.  "I need to be
disciplined.  I need it bad."

"No shame in saying you've made a mistake.  Not everybody can do this.  Or
even needs to."

But you paid for the plane ticket already, I thought to myself.

"The plane ticket don't matter."

Omigod, I thought, shaking my head.  How does he do it?  And then I
stopped, afraid he would say, "Don't shake your head at me, son."  (He
didn't.)

"Don't worry about the plane ticket," he continued.  "What matters is what
happens between us.  So if you can't do this, just say so."

"I can do it, Sir.  Because I need it."

"What do you need?"

"I need someone who cares enough about me to discipline me."  I felt my
butt hole twitch.

"I don't know you from Adam.  How could I care about you, pig?"

"But you do, Sir.  Otherwise, you wouldn't be spending this time with me.
No one who's cared for me ever disciplined me.  They all want to get into
my pants."

"You think you're that cute, pig?"

"Don't know.  But that's what they want.  And they wouldn't whip my ass
when I need it.  But you will."

I waited for his next question.  But like so much about J.D., he was
completely unpredictable.

"Okay, then.  See you tomorrow night."

And he hung up.

In the mirror, I saw the face of someone who didn't know whether he was
coming or going.  Who didn't know whether he wanted a Black master in San
Francisco or the nerdy boy-next-door type that Warren was.

You laugh now, I said into the bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth, But
it won't seem so funny when you're named on the front page of tomorrow's
paper as "someone who was arrested in San Francisco for eating shit in
public."  Or who is cited as "the other man" in a divorce case.

He's right, you know, I told myself.

Boy, this out-of-body thinking sure can wear a guy out.  No wonder Gollum
looked the way he did at the end of LORD OF THE RINGS.

(End of Part 2-B.)