Finding a New Sam

He gave up and became a whimpering, moaning rag doll under me as I continued driving him hard . . . until . . . finally, I found relief in release and the bullets stop whizzing and the explosions faded away.

I dragged him up on the bed—he gave me no resistance at all—and stretched my body along his back, holding him tight. I knew I'd go again. I hadn't cleared it all. I hadn't buried it all. It had been too long since I'd last fucked. And it wouldn't be long before I was ready to fuck again—to try to put it all in him. That was a good thing. He was completely loose, panting and moaning, now, but who knew how soon he'd recover—and if he'd want me to stop then? If he told me to stop, I would. Maybe not if I was reaching a climax, though. He'd have to tell me before I was going real good.

As I moved, I rolled the spent condom off, dropped it on the floor beside the bed, and pulled another packet off the nightstand.

"Oh baby, baby, that was incredible, but you tear a girl apart," he whispered. he turned his face to me for a kiss, but I buried my face in the back of his neck instead, latching onto skin with my teeth. I was hard enough again. I let my bulb find his opening on its own. Despite all the screaming his hole was gaping.

"Oh, shit. Not again, not so soon, not so deep."

"OK, then, you can get up and dress and leave," I said, pulling a bit away from him.

"Oh, baby, I didn't mean it like that," he said. "You're big and a good fucker in a good way. Go ahead and fuck me again, deep as you can get."

That was what I was trying to do. I wouldn't be fully satisfied until I'd done it.

I hauled him up onto his knees, with his cheek pressed to the mattress, mounted him, and thrust in deep again.

"Oh, baby, baby, please! Oh, fuck. Oh shit. Yesss! Split me!"

I did what I could, fucking him hard and deep. My hands went around his sides and latched onto his pecs. He had rings in both nipples and I worried them between my thumbs and forefingers. His back was covered in a colorful tattoo design, and I concentrated on the rippling effect of that as he writhed while I pumped him hard.

This time I did what I could to keep the anger and the bullets and explosives at bay. It helped. I set up a rhythm of the fuck and the young man settled down underneath me.

I just couldn't get more than eight inches inside him.

I woke in the morning, spread-eagled on the bed, my mind in a haze. I stared at the ceiling until I came to grips with where I was—what I'd done. With a low moan, I sat up on the bed. I listened for bathroom sounds, but heard none. I was alone. My eyes had scanned the room while I was trying to locate Sly—or whoever he really was—and what I saw was a room that had been tossed by someone looking for something. My eyes immediately went to the trash can under the desk and rose from the bed to check out what I'd hidden my wallet and roll of cash under. Something I'd learned in Baghdad. They never thought of money as being something anyone would put in the trash.

My foot came down on something squishy, though, and I looked down to see four used condoms. I only remember having filled three. So, Sly did deserve more for last night—but not the whole bankroll. Checking the can, I found the money roll and wallet intact.

I dragged myself back to the bar. Eddie was still there—and still, on Christmas Day at noon—we were the only ones in the bar. I'd slept the morning away, or at least the part of the morning I wasn't fucking the young whore.

"So, back for a nip of the dog?"

"Sure, I need it. Just one, though. I fought that battle years ago and don't want to fight it again."

"I hear you had quite a night of it."

"So, the rent-boy's been in here already."

"Oh, yes, and he wasn't walking straight. Took his money and hobbled out."

"I feel bad about that."

"You needn't. He was purring and all dreamy eyed."

"Still, do you mind if I leave another hundred for you to give him in case he comes in?"

"Fucked him that cross-eyed, did you?"

"I was an animal. I went too far. But he made me mad; he wouldn't drop the little girl routine. And it had been too long. It hadn't been enough, though. I had more to give. I needed to give it all."

"I understand, Keith," he said as he laid a hand on my arm. "I understand that it's rough—and I'll hook you up anytime you're going crazy for it—but, man, you need something regular again. You and Sam, now there was a pair. You need to get out of your house and go where you can shop for something regular."

"I came here. And there's just you and me," I said, giving him a level stare. I didn't know much about Eddie other than he looked good and was gay to be working in this bar. I probably could do a lot worse.

"Unfortunately, you and me want the same thing," he said.

"Ah. Pity."

"Yes, isn't it? Look, there's a center where guys go, down near where 64 comes into 95. It's call the Rainbow Connection. I know, I know, a fruity name, and I don't read you for a fruitloop kind of guy, despite that little piece you did last night. But they have gyms and sports activities too. Maybe you could—"

"Thanks, Eddie, but I'm not really the social kind of guy."

"You need to do something, Keith. You don't find a steady release and you might kill someone when you aren't ridin' regular."

"The rent-boy . . .?"

"Yeah, he said you almost killed him. Lucky for you he got to liking it. The building's down in the warehouse area on the other side of the tracks. Big rainbow painted on the side. You can't miss it."

"Thanks, Eddie. Maybe you're right."

"Meantime, I'll have my eye out for someone for you. Kind of hard to come by though—a seasoned soldier who's also a bottom and can take the size of cock this rent-boy described to me. He thinks it's bigger than legend has it."

* * * *

I had horrified myself for being such an animal with the rent-boy on Christmas Eve and thus holed up in my Richmond house for the next few days, not intending to go out at all on New Year's Eve, even though that had been a "let-all-the-stops out" party time for Sam and me—well, especially because it had been an "all-the-stops-out" party time for Sam and me. It was the one day of the year that we gave each other carte blanche at parties to fuck around. Then it was off to the clinic for both of us the next week to check on just how naughty we'd been.

My resolve to be a hermit that night was broken down by an old Blackwater buddy, Mike, who I had been bedding before I'd hooked up with Sam for a more serious—and mostly monogamous—relationship.

"Hey, guy, how are you making out?" Mike sounded over the telephone like he'd studied what to say and had been practicing it.

"I'm coping," I answered. "Every day is a chore, though." Mike, Mike, Mike, I was thinking. He was a strawberry blond, down to his bush. Had been a lot of fun. I remember counting his freckles out loud as I worked my tongue down his body. Always lean, he never could muscle up like the rest of us, although as hard bodied as any of us. And tight; it would take forever to work my way into him, during which he'd lay under me, stoic, his knees hooked on my hips, and only putting his own body in motion when I'd bottomed. But brave as all get out—or foolish. He was always the first on the move, changing positions under fire, charging into danger. It was a miracle he still was alive.

"Me and the guys were wondering what you're doing for New Year's."

"You and the guys?"

"Yes, those in the crew after we cleared out are in Washington, being grilled in congressional committees, and our gang thought they needed some cheering up, so we've booked a party room at a hotel near Dulles airport. Treating them for the night. We thought you might like to come up for it."

"Bad times for those guys. We got separated just in time," I answered.

"Yeah, we were lucky. So, it's the Holiday Inn on 28. I can book a room, if you like."

Booking a room for New Year's, I thought—Mike and me. Old time's sake. I knew Sam wouldn't mind. It was our tradition, anyway. Let loose for that one night. Thoughts of Mike under me, gripping my hips with his knees, holding still and looking determined as I worked to get inside him. But he'd take it all, which is more than most could say. And when I was in, he'd get animated and give me a good time, my curly blacks mingling with his strawberry-blond short hairs.

"Yeah, sure, I'd like that. Count me in," I said.

Except I didn't like it that much. Mike had been looking for me. I was late, as the Holiday Inn wasn't actually fronted on Route 28, and I had to do some driving around the area to get to it. And when he met me at the door it was to introduce me.

"You found us, he said. God, you're still looking great. Want you to meet my wife, Nadine."

She was a bouncy little buxom blonde, not more than half Mike's age—and he was a good ten years younger than I was—and the way she cooed and hung onto him, it was clear that there had been some changes in his life since Afghanistan.

I was happy for him, I really was, and the rest of the gang was there, and we had a jolly old time—a lot of it spent in cheering up the guys who had come later than us to Blackwater and had been caught in the investigations of how we got the job done. I made the rounds, having built up a need with the thought of Mike and me sharing a room, which wasn't going to happen. But I didn't see the hungry look in any of the other guys' faces. Most of them came with women anyway.

Maybe if I hadn't gone to my room early and fucked a pillow, the night would have turned out different, but, if so, I would have kicked myself into the new year.

About three in the morning, there was a knock on my door. It was Mike, and at last I saw that hungry look in his face.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"Where's Nadine?" I countered with.

"She can't take her liquor. She's dead on her tail in our room. Can I come in?"

"I don't think so, Mike," I answered. "Maybe if you hadn't introduced me to her. Go back to your room and see to your wife."

I didn't slam on the door on him, but I shut the possibility of him out of my life. So far the new year wasn't going at all well with me.

Chapter Two: Rainbow Connecting

I woke with a headache, flat on my back in my bed, naked, with my forearm flung across my eyes.

"I can't find the coffee."

It took me a few seconds to realize that I wasn't alone. I'd hardly be asking myself where I kept the coffee. I might not remember where it was, but I'd then know it was useless to ask myself where it was. I opened my eyes and turned my head. He was standing in the doorway, leaning into the door frame, hand on jutted hips. He was wearing the shirt I'd worn to the center the evening before. On him the tail of the shirt came down to his knees. Even though my cock made a jerk, I hated that he was posed that way. Another swisher. I wasn't in the market for a swisher. And I'd had no intention of bringing anyone home from the center. I'd just been checking the Rainbow Connection center in downtown Richmond out, anyway.

I'd been so frustrated coming home from Northern Virginia that, after a couple of weeks of being a hermit, I'd remembered that Eddie at the bar had suggested this Rainbow Connection place. He'd said it had a gym and sports facilities. If I didn't get some more exercise in beyond lifting weights by myself, I thought I'd go mad.

I almost didn't stay when I got there. They wanted to know so much, and they kept pushing activity brochures at me. I finally said, yeah, I'd like to do an Appalachian Trail crawl sometime when the weather was better but that, for now, I'd just like a pickup game of basketball. Did they have that?

"Yes, we do."

"Now? Can I get into a game now?"

"Sure. The gym is through there. Did you bring sports gear? The locker room is down the corridor over there. See the attendant there, Travis, for a towel."

The pickup game was fine. I was both the oldest and biggest guy on the court. I also was the best basketball player. I latched on to the next-best player, a black guy in his twenties, named Jackson, and we ganged up on the rest.

I fucked him—or got a good start on it—in a tiled room just off the shower room. I was to find that the Rainbow Connection facilities included a lot of out-of-the way cubicles like this around to accommodate the needs of its clientele. It might have looked like just a meeting place for gays for healthy activities among their own kind, but it had all of the services I'd ever found in gay bathhouses around the world. It was a social service they were doing here, but not necessarily the social service they were telling the public they were serving.

Jackson was more than willing, and I started with him after we'd done some touching and fondling in the communal shower, backing him up against the tiles of the wall, with him climbing my hips with his knees, and me fucking him shallow to work up his prostate with my bulb, ready to give him all of it, which he said scared him but that he was game for it. We gathered watchers, though, including the towel attendant, Travis, and they were coming in close and touching me and showing interest in what I had. I ended up sitting on a sauna shelf, with a series of mouths covering my cock until I exploded. Jackson was gone by that point. Travis wasn't. He wanted all of the cock, but said he was afraid—and was about to go off duty.

I fucked him twice—at least twice—on my bed that night. But he was a squealer and tight, very tight. He sobbed and was pulling out from underneath me constantly when I was about to dive for the money. A platinum blond little trick with a limp wrist—not at all what I was in the mood for intellectually, but my dick had decided otherwise. Twice—or maybe it was three times—he'd squirmed so much, and given me a jerk and his cum so quickly, that I too released earlier than I wanted and finally thought—and probably said—"Fuck it," and turned over on my side and went to sleep.

"Oh, lookee. Mr. Big is living up to his name and winking at me," he lisped at me from the doorway in a Betty Boop voice, apparently forgetting all about the coffee he was trying to make. I hated that, but my cock didn't care.

Travis came to the bed, climbed up, slit a condom packet, and crowned me. He daintily lifted a shaved leg over my hips and settled on the cock—only a couple of inches, though. He moved back and forth on it, my bulb rubbing against his prostrate and him sighing and murmuring how well I was fucking him. I wasn't fucking him, though. This wasn't fucking to me.

The young man was shaved close all over, pubes and pits and all. He had a slim, boyish build, with the tattoo of a little lizard—a gecko, he said—down low and to the left of his belly. He told me it covered his G spot, and, indeed, when I touched it, he became more animated.

I grasped his waist, with my thumb rubbing that lizard and took over the movement on my cock. He gave me a frightened look as I lifted him and pulled him down harder on the cock, again and again. Forcing his channel walls to expand and take more of the cock than the night before. He writhed on the cock, shuddering and moaning, beginning to gyrate wildly in a pattern that only helped me skewer him more deeply. Relentlessly, I pulled him farther down on the staff after each lift. Slamming him down hard, as he flopped about, panting hard and making little yip, yip sounds. His eyes rolled up in his head and he went limp. For all I knew he was unconscious. At that moment I didn't care a flying fuck if he was or not.

Like with the swisher on Christmas Eve, this wasn't what my emotions wanted, which made me angry. But it's what my cock had to have.

I turned him onto his back, and he went over like a rag doll, his arms flopping out at the side of his body. I slapped his trim, shaved legs apart, and he groaned and jerked as I thrust deep inside him and began to vigorously pump. It didn't take me long to ejaculate.

He lay there, in my arms, my cock going flaccid inside him but still deep inside his channel. He was panting hard and his eyes were slitted.

"Oh, god, it's gigantic," he murmured. "I won't be able to walk for a week."

"Too much?" I whispered.

"Oh, shit, no. Fuck me again, daddy. Fuck me hard. You're such a beast."

I was always good for seconds and a fast rebuild. He moaned as I set the reengorging cock in motion again, fucking him slower this time, but, if anything, deeper than before. He just lay there, legs spread, looking into my face in awe with a quarter pain, three quarters pleasure look on his face. Passive, taking what I was giving him, but giving me nothing in return except a pained expression, pants, and moans.

Afterward, I pulled out of him, sat on the side of the bed, and lit up a cigarette. I hadn't been able to get much more than seven inches of it into him.

"The coffee is in the freezer," I said.

"Who the hell puts their coffee in the freezer? And did I mention not being able to walk for a week," he murmured.

"I'll give you fifteen minutes; then a cup of coffee; and then I want you to leave." I tried not to make it sound harsh. I think it crushed him, though.

I'd gotten my rocks off, which was what my cock demanded. But he was just too swishy for me. And I had no intention of going back to the Rainbow Connection again—although, on second thought, I had some unfinished business with Jackson. I didn't really see myself with a black partner, but he was athletic, manly, and I didn't get full time with that sweet ass of his. Still, he hadn't been completely satisfying yet when I was pulled away from him. I'd been fucking him, but he hadn't been fucking me back. He'd been concentrating on taking what I was giving him—just like Travis did just now and the rent-boy had done on Christmas Eve.

As Travis hobbled out of my house, I couldn't resist taking and embracing him in the foyer. I kissed him and told him it was fine, he'd been great—that it was me; I'd recently lost a lover and was having a hard time getting back. He clearly didn't want to leave and clung to me, and we kissed.

"Give me time," he whimpered. "I can please you, I know. I can take it all. Just give me time."

"You did take it all," I said, lying; I'd had a couple more inches to give him when I decided he couldn't take any more. "It's not you; it's me. I can't control myself well enough. I didn't mean to hurt you." And it was true. My anger was getting in the way. I was looking for another Sam, and what I was getting was wanna be girls. I wanted another man—a man who could take it. I wanted a man who could and would take nine inches and buck with it like a bull with all nine super-thick inches inside him, a man who would come with me and then turn me on my back and ride it again like a bull. I wanted a Sam.

"Maybe sometime again . . ."

"Yes, maybe sometime again," I answered. I doubt either one of us thought there would be a "sometime again."

* * * *

"I think you should do the 100-mile Appalachian Trail walking trip."

I turned from where I was reading the activities board at the Rainbow Connection center and saw Jackson standing there in sweat-stained gray gym shorts and T.

"I didn't think you were here," I said. I'd come to the center for him—hoping he'd be here. I couldn't take any more hiding out in my house. I'd stayed hidden for nearly three months after the disappointment of the New Year's party and having had such an animal with the gym attendant who no longer seemed to be working here. I hadn't even gone back to Jimmy's bar, thinking I'd explode if all I found there was another swishy girly guy. Jackson was the only one since Sam died who I'd even come close to fucking who was a real man. He was black, tattooed, muscular, and athletic. He hadn't taken it all that first time, but we'd been pulled apart. I kept fantasizing doing him and getting it done—bottoming and keeping him with me, counterpunching to the end.