The Biker Next Door

 

 

Merv Griffin was about to hand me the Nobel Prize on national television when I heard a crow cawing loudly. I started to turn around to find out where it was when the TV studio disappeared. My eyes flew open. The apartment was a jumble of murky shapes just barely lit by the dying sunset out the window. Somewhere nearby, the crow was continuing its performance.

I stared at the ceiling for a few minutes to gather my strength. Somewhere I'd read that getting up from bed too quickly can trigger a heart attack. What with all the stress from my jobs--back then, I worked construction during the day and then came home to compile indexes for textbooks--there was no reason to take chances. The sofa felt good under my back and legs, anyway. The crow kept on belting out its two-note blues, and rock music thumped dully through the walls. Maybe my psycho fundamentalist neighbor had finally moved on. A breeze entered the room through the window and stirred the fur on my chest and belly. I reached up to scratch my side and knocked over the jar of lube cradled next to me. My hand was all greasy, and so was my cock. I must have fallen asleep while jerking off, probably because I was tired of just jerking off to the same images stored in my head. Why couldn't I get laid in this town? Was I really going to have to shave and look more respectable? I threw that thought out on its ass as soon as it crossed my mind--the kind of man that interested me would not want me looking like some preppie lifeguard. I wouldn't fuck me if I looked like that, and my grandma always told me to trust myself.

Looking down at my glistening cock, I tried to rally some desire to finish up what I'd begun. I clenched it in my fist and thought about Tom, that guy back in Elgin with the red hair and thick legs, about how his cock tasted in my mouth when he would fuck my face every lunch hour. Yeah, it'd be pretty difficult to get tired of that fucker. My dick got thick and hard, but then a sharp pang of adrenaline ran from my neck to the base of my spine. Grandma's birthday was tomorrow, and I needed to bake some brownies for her. I'd promised. It was already sunset. I had to make them tonight or it wouldn't get done and I'd feel like a heel. So I got up from the couch, went to the bathroom, and washed up. The music from next door was more insistent there; I could almost make out the lyrics. Didn't I own this album? While drying off, I checked myself out in the mirror. I've gained a few pounds since I turned 30, but I thought I looked just fine. A few of my friends had even suggested that I shave not just my beard but my body--"You don't have body hair, Will, you have a fucking pelt," Jerry had said one night after too much beer (he was married, but I let him have his way with me anyway)--but I just couldn't imagine myself that smooth. My muscles seemed perfectly happy in their fur coat. Besides, this way people couldn't tell that my tattoos were in need of a touch up. Too much sun.

I walked back to the kitchen, got out the recipe, and scanned the area for ingredients. Everything was accounted for except sugar. I don't use the stuff much myself, and I didn't want to buy any if I could avoid it. It's like my one concession to health consciousness. I stood there in the heat of the evening, the smell of cocoa wrapping around me like a heavy wool blanket, and listened to the music from next door. Either Mr. Johnson had developed a taste for electric guitars or someone else had moved in. Perhaps that someone had some sugar I could borrow. I grabbed a teacup, looked at it, threw it down, and then snatched a large soup bowl. I actually had the door to the hallway wide open and myself halfway outside when I felt the air rush past my balls. The second time I attempted to leave the apartment, a few minutes later, I had thrown on an old T-shirt and some faded corduroy cutoffs.

Normally the hallway was almost silent. I used to think that it was, as they say in the movies, too quiet. I suppose that the seven of us living in the building were just considerate of each other, but after a while it was almost like a dare hung in the air--we dare you to make a racket. We were all friendly strangers to each other, except for Mr. Johnson, who had made the rounds every so often with an armful of vindictive comic-strip pamphlets. I had told him he wouldn't know Jesus if He walked up behind him and fucked him up the ass. He turned purple and I closed the door. Thus ended our short relationship. So now someone new had moved in. I was sure of it. The music was clearer. Mr. Johnson wouldn't approve of Creedence Clearwater Revival. I knocked on the door; a second later I could barely hear the music.The door opened and there stood my new neighbor.

He was slightly taller than me and built like a rock. His shoulders were massive; his arms were thick and sinewy, with a tattooed spiderweb covering each elbow; the outline of his torso, covered in fur that partially hid more tattoos, was framed by a green sofa behind him. I wanted to run my tongue along his side from his armpits to his waist. His face was sun-reddened and handsome, framed by shaggy dark brown hair and a thick reddish-brown beard that hung halfway to his pecs, which were round and firm, with small nipples. His stomach was slightly rounded yet hard, and his legs were as furry as a carpet, which I could tell because he was in his underwear--white briefs about a size too small. I wanted to stare and wished that I could without appearing obvious, so instead I put on this blank face that I save for situations like that and locked eyes with him. Damn, were they blue.

Summoning up every drop of classical restraint, I deadpanned, "Hi. I'm your neighbor next door . . ."

"It's not the music, is it? Sorry, man, I love Creedence."

"Oh, no, I like the music. Turn it back up if you want. I just came over to see if I could bum a cup of sugar off you. And introduce myself. I'm Will." I reached my hand out and he grabbed it firmly, shaking it like a dog shakes a squirrel. I thought, does his dick get this hard? Does he put this much energy into fucking? My own dick began to press against my shorts.

"I'm Mongo. Nice to meet you, Will. Sure I've got some sugar. C'mon in--hope you don't mind that I'm in my shorts. It's too fucking hot."

No, I don't mind, and yes, it is too fucking hot with you in those shorts, but that's okay, I thought. But it was only 80 degrees or so. Where had he moved from, Greenland? I stuck my hand in my pocket.

"Not at all," I said, speaking the truth as much as I ever had in my life. He turned and stalked into the living room, and I followed, watching his shorts clung to his ass, the blue shadow of his crack. His back was a marvel of muscle covered in fur that hid more blurry tattoos--looked like a giant octopus attacking a ship or something, too bad I couldn't get a lot closer and check them out. I knew I'd be jerking off to images of Mongo for a good long time, but I also knew that a lot of guys like him weren't exactly fond of homos like me. Besides, I could see a big-haired blonde with beachball breasts sitting astride a chopper on the calendar taped to the wall. The dude had to be straight. But he seemed like the kind of guy who'd want to be friends with neighbors who didn't mind loud music, and he probably wouldn't catch on to me being gay--it's surprising how many people still think all gay people look "gay," whatever that means--so I'd at least have a good excuse to come over, ogle him when he wasn't looking, and dream about sucking his dick.

I stood next to a couch, listening to him clatter and bang his way around the kitchen. Finally he returned with the soup bowl heaped high with sugar. He seemed to be staring into the middle distance, so I took a gamble and looked at him. His shorts clung to a healthy bulge. A real healthy bulge. I hadn't tried to look earlier, so I didn't know if he had been half-hard before, but he was now. The head of his dick , a faint blue crescent against the white cotton of his shorts, was all I wanted to see. OK, so I didn't mind seeing the rest of him, too. Jesus, I thought, this guy is hairier than I am.

I ordered my eyes away from him and sent them to check out a bookshelf down the hall. It's always best, I've found, to meet the eyes of a man you've been looking over and who may have noticed only after looking away and regarding something else. Then I brought them up, where they met Mongo's curious gaze.

"Is this enough? I got more if you need it," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. Had he noticed my fascination with his crotch? What should I say?

I took the sugar from him and replied, "That's plenty. I'm just making some brownies for my grandma." Dim tattoos regarded me from behind the fur on his thighs. He really did have a lot of them.

"Baking on a sweltering fuckin day like this? You must really love your grandma, Will," he drawled, one eyebrow arching like a cat at me. He was about three feet away. "You'll need a beer before hot work like that. Shit, I'd probably die of heat working in a kitchen even if I was naked. Don't get me wrong, I like heat, but I figure it's time to stop wearing lots of clothes when it happens." He was grinning at me through that beard, an easy grin that was matched by his eyes, and I could feel the heat radiating from his face. Even if he couldn't, I told myself. I put the sugar down on the end table next to the sofa.

"Well, I'm with you there, man," I laughed. My stomach was starting to do little flip-flops on me, which I made worse by telling myself not to get nervous, because I wanted to make a good impression on this guy and get invited back. But he was still looking at me, and the pauses in our conversation were getting louder.

"Yeah, it's fucking crazy doing otherwise. When I'm riding my bike, of course, I wear leather no matter what the weather is, 'cuz I figure road rash is worse than a little sweat."

"You've got a bike?" I asked. I hadn't seen one around. And leather? Maybe I could think up some excuse to get him to model for me.

He frowned, his red forehead furrowing. "Well, yeah, but it's in pieces right now."

"Harley?"

"No, actually, it's a Triumph. You ride any?"

"No, although I've thought about it. Too many assholes on the road for me to try that. That's what my dad always told me, anyway. I just don't have the balls for it, I guess. So how long you been living here? And where'd you move from?" I kept on looking at his face and smiling and fighting my desire to get on my knees and start sucking him off.

"Las Vegas."

"Yuck. That must have been real weird. And hot."

"Whaddaya mean, 'yuck'? I liked it, thank you very much, but I needed to get away from my ex-wife something fierce. And it's kinda hot here, too, in case you haven't noticed." His eyes focused on me and flashed.

"Sorry--it's just always seemed like one of those paintings with melting watches to me, you know, Caesar's Palace and all. And sorry about your, uh..."

"My ex-wife? No, I'm sorry. It's just kind of strange having the woman you've spent ten years with decide she's a lesbian." His face was composed except for that one eyebrow that curved upwards. "We're still friends, but it's hard, man."

"Yeah, that must be a strain," was all I could say. A lesbian ex-wife could be just the thing to crack the ice and introduce the subject of homosexuality, male, his thoughts on, but I didn't want to talk about it if it'd bum him out. "So you were saying something about, um, what was it, beer?"

He slapped me on the shoulder and winked. "I sure could fuckin use one. Be right back. Have a seat."

Mongo turned and walked into the kitchen--in an apartment complex like this, all of the units are laid out the same, so just like at my place, I could see into the bedroom from the living room couch. Huge piles of clothes surrounded the bed. I imagined some of the scenes that bed must have been witness to. The apartment was not filthy by any means, but it was obviously the home of a bachelor. A slightly tilted bookshelf to the left of the TV in front of me was stuffed with old biker magazines sporting more mammary-enhanced blondes, motorcycle and car repair manuals, sci-fi books, and a huge dictionary. I studied the literature and rehearsed a volley of questions that I could ask him about his taste in reading. Any excuse to get a lengthy look at him--and he seemed civilized enough, what the hell. I was beginning to think that even if he were completely straight and weren't so gorgeous, he'd be fun to hang out with.

And fuck if he wasn't still just in his shorts. As he strode back into the room with a beer in each hand, I really, honestly tried to keep my eyes on his, but then I thought, Fuck it, the guy's a walking tattoo gallery, he wants to be looked at, I've got an excuse, and anyway, if he is going to hang out with me, he's going to find out sooner or later. So I let myself linger on his body. Instantly I could feel my ass wanting his cock buried deep within it, and my own cock grew fatter. He had a tattoo on his stomach--damn, that must have hurt, I thought--and it looked like a Chinese dragon, although with all that hair it could just as well have been Dwight D. Eisenhower. The dragon's tail pointed downward and stopped about an inch above his shorts.

"That's quite the collection of tattoos you've got there," I managed to say as he came closer.

"Thanks. Too bad you can't see 'em too good, hairy fucker that I am."

"So that's a dragon on your stomach, right?"

"Sure is. I noticed you have a few. Here, have a look." With that he put a beer down next to me, put his down on a table, and then stood two feet in front of me with his legs slightly apart. "This here," he said, pointing to an indistinct blob on his shoulder, "is a can of spinach. 'Cuz of Popeye. And this here," he pointed at his thigh, right in front of my face, "is the ship my oldest brother was on when he got killed in Viet Nam."

"Sorry," I offered, and looked up at him. He smelled like fresh sweat, and the heat from his body was undeniable. He met my gaze and then turned around. His cheeks glowed in the white shorts, and then he grabbed the waistband in back and pulled them down. My mouth gaped. What an ass! And . . .

"There on the right, that's my wife's name. Ex-wife's name. Sherry. On the left it says 'Hold on here' because she always liked to grab my ass when she gave me a blowjob, so one day I thought I'd make it official."

"Well, at least you'll only need to get rid of one of those." Oh fuck. Had I said that? I hoped he realized I was trying to make light of a bad situation.

"If I'm lucky, yeah!" he giggled, which surprised me even more than his not decking me. He turned around to face me again, lifting his shorts up as he did so. Then he tilted his head back and narrowed his eyes at me. "I, uh." He started to smirk and continued, "I'm just driving you crazy, aren't I?"

My stomach turned several times and did a nosedive. "What do you mean?"

"Come off it. You're so horny I can smell it." My mouth opened slightly. "I mean, you are gay, right?" One of his hands now rested on his hipbone just where the waistband met his fur.

"Well, yeah," I confessed. "But I'm--"

"No need to apologize. If anyone here needs to apologize, it's me, because I'm being a pricktease. Look. When my wife went off to be a lesbian, we had a talk, and part of what I told her--was that I could sympathize 'cuz I've sometimes thought about, you know, guys in a sexual way, but I've never done anything about it, and she said that I should check it out. So check this out." His hand grabbed the waistband and lowered the shorts, letting his cock spring out like a greyhound. It was eight inches or so long and pretty thick, too. And there next to his swelling cock was a tiger.

"It's grrrrrreat!" was the only thing that came to mind to say, so I said it.

He smiled at me and lowered the lids of his eyes. "Would you like to suck on this?" he asked as his hand gripped his meat. "Go ahead."

I reached out and felt his dick harden immediately. The aroma of his sweat took on a new and urgent tang. My hand rubbed his dick as my eyes traced a lazy pattern over his corded, hairy thighs. Then I moved to feel his balls, watching as his dick continued to rise above them. His navel, nestled in a whorl of chestnut hair, gazed back at me like a lower eye, an eye of lust and simplicity. Mongo moaned. "God, I've never had a guy go down on it before, but I really want to cream down your fuckin' throat. Go ahead. Suck it." I looked up at him, in awe of his powerful body and his face, framed by such a lavish beard, that regarded me with a look almost of pain. His eyes blazed blue as the lights on a cop car, but the skin around them seemed to be bunching up a little. He really wanted it, but some part of him--despite his boldness--was in struggle over the whole question of liking a guy and admitting it to himself and then doing something about it. For a second I wondered whether I should back off, but he brought his hand up to his chest to scratch in an awkward way, as if he was trying to act absent minded or casual, and then cradled the back of my head, pushing me to his cock. My tongue darted out of my mouth and licked the sensitive point where the flesh of the balls and the cock merges. A shudder passed through Mongo, and he whistled through his teeth, grinding himself against my face as one of my hands cupped the rock-hard calf of his right leg and the other slid under the back of his shorts to feel his ass. My tongue ran up the ridge of his dick, pausing at the point just below the head, where I planted my lips and applied a little suction while continuing a gentle back-and-forth motion.

"Oohh, yeah, Will," he groaned, "eat it, I can't wait, man, I'm gonna fuck your face . . . AAH!" I opened my mouth and feasted on him, dilating my throat as far as it could go and working his shaft like mad with my jaws and tongue. He grabbed the back of my head again, with both hands this time, and pumped me like an animal, grunting and huffing. I had to time my breaths with his thrusts to keep from choking. Suddenly he stiffened, curving his torso back from me, and yelled, "Christ, I'm gonna shoot!" His cock began to pound like a drum in my throat, and then he let loose a huge gush of delicious, red-hot cum as he bellowed in ecstasy. I kept my throat open as he throbbed inside my head and neck like a fat snake in the sun. His groans and sighs continued as flood after flood of cum--a lot of cum, how long had it been since he'd shot a load?--slid down to my stomach. I noticed that he was shaking like a junkie in need of a shot, and then he fell to his knees, hugging me to his chest.

After a minute, Mongo pulled away from me and stood up slowly with an indecipherable look on his face. Well, I thought to myself, he's probably trying to think of what to say to the . . . guy . . . who just sucked his dick into the twelfth dimension. His mouth opened and closed faintly, as if he'd hoped the right words would appear in the nick of time. Then he spoke.

"I assume this wasn't the first time you've done this," he drawled.

"I sure hope it's not the last time, either," I replied. "What fine cock on such a fine man."

He looked at me for a few seconds. "So I guess this is it," he finally said, sighing. "I've always wanted to try gettin' it on with another guy, but I was always afraid people were gonna find out about it. So you can't tell anyone about this, y' hear?" His eyes meant business.

"Of course I won't tell anyone about this," I shot back. "After all, I don't want to get beat up. I'm not into pain. I just want you to fuck me five times a day." I was all wide-eyed innocence.

Mongo cracked up, lowering his head into his chest and chuckling. Damn, he was bashful now, I thought, and I got even hornier, if that was possible.

"You know, I like you so far." His hand reached out and grabbed my hard dick through my shorts. "So, like, what can I do for you? I mean, in bed."

"Or right here?" I suggested.

"Or right fucking here," he replied. His cock was still hard, jutting up from between his hairy legs, cum still dripping slowly from the slit. Then he scratched his shoulder, staring at me.

"I love to get fucked, " I said. "I could shoot my load just thinking about your dick up my ass." I began to play with my left nipple, and then Mongo reached over and continued playing with it. My breath caught in my throat, and he grinned, playing a little harder.

"You wanna get my dick up your ass, huh? I've fucked women up the butt before, 'n some of 'em like it a lot and some of 'em say, pull out, it hurts, you know . . . I'll love it, but what's in it for you? Besides my dick, of course," he added and grinned. "Really, how does it feel? Do you come from getting fucked? I want to know about this stuff"--he glanced downward quickly and then directly at me--"cause I know how to make a woman beg for it, but . . . ."

"Well, you gotta go in real slow, especially with a cock like yours, and it usually hurts a little bit, but you just have to get over it and not let that make you tense up, which will just make it get worse. But once I'm used to it . . . I've never come just from getting fucked, but I've gotten pretty close . . . it can last for a long time, too . . ." I watched Mongo's hand move under my balls to my perineum and squirmed under him.

"So . . . Oh, fuck, yeah," he said as he stood up over me. "Excuse me, I'll be right back." I watched the crow's feet around his eyes ripple as he smiled and leaned over to slurp loudly at my nipple. His tongue on me felt so good, and his beard was warm on my belly. Then he whirled around and ran into the bedroom, emerging after a few seconds with some lube, walking with an exaggerated aren't-I-hot-shit bounce that made his hardon wag. My own cock almost hurt, it was so hard. Damn, the look on his face--he really was getting into this now, he was really taken by getting another guy hot out of his mind. Mongo sat down next to me and yanked at my shorts. "Off with these fuckers," he growled, "let me see what you got." My corduroys were unbuckled and unzipped, and my cock sprang out, dripping precum I was so turned on.

"Yeah, so . . ." I watched as a puddle of lube formed in his palm. Wetness on my dick. He rubbed lube on his index finger and sucked my tits while he reached behind me. "You gonna let me in there?" he asked. "Up your ass?"

"Fuck yeah," I hollered, "do it!" I felt him probe, then plunge. He backed up from my chest and grabbed me with his other hand, pumping me slowly.

"Yeah, I'm going to finger fuck you this time to see what you like"--he was all the way in me now, touching here and there, jerking me off, that pressure and pleasure, his finger found my prostate, I yelled and writhed on the sofa, one of my legs now on his shoulder as he pounded my cock in his hand and kept playing with my prostate--"yeah, fuck you there, fuck you right there, you like it there, right, Will, make you fuckin come, motherfucker!"

Ah, Mongo, man . . .ah . . . I . . ." was all I could say before he withdrew his finger and stood over me again, his hardon throbbing in the air.

"I can't pass this up, fucker. You want my cock, don't you? You want me to stick my cock up your ass." The muscles in his forearms rippled under the fur as he poured lube on himself and started stroking himself; then he knelt down in front of the sofa and stroked me, too. I wanted this guy so bad, I couldn't wait any longer.

"Yeah, man, fuck me now," I begged. He turned me around on the sofa so that my head was up against the back, got my legs on his shoulders, and then before I could prepare myself, all of him slid in me and I lost it, screaming and howling like the world was going to end. His balls slapped against me as he pumped me. My fingers ran through his chest hair and then seized his ass, guiding it deeper and deeper into my hole. He started grinning at me and then kissed me hard, his tongue probing my mouth. Over his shoulder I could see us reflected in a wall mirror, and the sight of his mighty back and ass thrusting into me, of his balls right up against me, sent me over the edge. I came all over myself, my body in spasms, jism in my chest fur, his cock still fucking me, his hand still sliding over my own cock. I called out his name, my head only had enough space left in it to think about him and his body on top of me, fucking me, and that just made me come more. It was too much; I grabbed his wrist, I was shaking, my heart was a drum. He drew back a little, grinned the biggest shit-eating grin I'd ever seen, and then jumped on me and gave me another sloppy tongue kiss, grinding into me. I grabbed his ass. I thought of Grandma.

"Oh, man, I've still got to make those brownies," I groaned through Mongo's face.

He raised an eyebrow and said, "You're a real nice grandson to think about your grandmother at a time like this. Such devotion. 'Yeah, Grandma, I had to pull this guy's dick outa my ass--' "

I burst out laughing. He pulled out of me, sweat dripping down his legs, his dick still rock hard. "You'd better get going now, but I expect to see you again real soon. I get real horny a lot, so anytime you wanna . . ."

"You know where to find me," I replied as I pulled on my shorts and the T-shirt, which sopped up the cum that was now all over me. Hopefully I wouldn't run into anyone in the hall. I reached for the bowl of sugar and stopped dead.

"Say, Mongo, you wouldn't happen to have any, uh, more sugar I could borrow? I don't think this is food-grade anymore."

"What's up? Lemme see." Mongo walked up from behind me, sticking his hardon in the crack of my ass and putting his hands on my hips, and peered over my shoulder at the huge splat of cum that covered most of the sugar with pearly whiteness. He rumbled a low laugh and lowered himself slightly so that his dick pressed right against my hole. I pushed back and impaled myself on him again, gasping at his size.

"Yeah, let me get my nut again, yeah . . . yeah" he moaned as he fucked me. He bit into my neck slightly, rubbing his beard against my back as he pushed faster and faster. One of his arms cradled me from the front, and the other reached around to grab the bowl. His grunts turned into a long, low sound of pleasure as he pulled out quick, moved me to the side, and brought the bowl in front of him.

"Oh, yeah, Will, here, have some . . . Ah! Ah!" Thin ropes of jizz sprayed over the already drenched sugar as his furry body quaked in the aftermath. When his dick stopped pumping, he set the bowl down and hugged me again. "Let me wash up and get you some more sugar, honey," he said and lumbered away to the other end of the apartment. I watched the tight calves of his legs as he ran off and thought, Life is really okay.

So I'll spare you all the awkward leave-taking stuff. Eventually I made it out of there, after we decided that we should really shower up before I went off to cook, and I'll leave the proceedings in the shower to your imagination. I don't want to brag or anything, you know. But I remained true to my word and got Grandma's birthday brownies out of the oven at 2:30 A.M. When I brought them to her the next evening after work, she patted my hand and peered at me through her bifocals.

"You know how I love brownies, Will, thank you! But you look like Rome after the barbarians came to visit. You're working too hard, eh?"

In different company I would have made some comment about having been sacked and pillaged, but instead I said, "Sure am. You wouldn't believe my schedule these days."

"Well, if you're this busy next year around this time, I want you to have some fun for my birthday, OK? Now, Will, these aren't sugar free, are they? I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, but . . . you do remember that last batch, don't you?" I had tried using honey instead of sugar once, and we discovered that using enough honey to sweeten the brownies sufficiently made them the consistency of the La Brea Tar Pits, and about as attractive.

"Of course not. There's plenty of sugar in there."

"So you've decided to keep it in your apartment again? I swear, you kids and your health fads. Look at me, I'm 93 and I never gave anything up."

I couldn't help cracking a grin. "Actually, I had to borrow some from my new neighbor. Nice guy."

Grandma smiled warmly back at me. "Well, you just tell him I thank him the next time you see him."

"Why, I'm going over to his place later on, and I'll be sure to tell him." Images from the night before flickered in the back of my head as I reached for a brownie from the tray. "The pleasure was all ours, believe me." I popped it into my mouth. Damn, it was tasty.

"You know, Grandma, I might just develop a sweet tooth after all."

 

© 2000 Gregor Everitt