I was 16 when I first tasted the sweaty seed of another man. I met him at a gas station. He was older than me and told me he'd lost all his peers. I said I was sorry. But didn't know what he meant.
A year later I learned about AIDS. I sat in a doctor's office halfway across the city. Alone, in a box of hard plastic and artificial light. I didn't meet anyone's eyes that night. All I remember is the bright turquoise plastic floor as I was waiting for my results. I'd only sucked three more dicks within the year but the last turned out to be a loaded gun.
The test came back negative. I was relieved.
I still hate the colour turquoise.
It took another two years after the shock until I had the first cock in my ass. It wasn't very memorable. There was pain and I didn't like the feel of rubber in my insides. It made me think of the gloved hands of doctors probing my asshole for inspection. But I liked the stretch. It wet my appetite.
I never told anyone I was gay. It didn't feel necessary. My parents were dead and grandma must have suspected it after the fifth stranger awkwardly sat at dinner with us at her insistence. She tried to make conversation but I never picked them for their conversational skills. And they never came back. Maybe this was her way of scaring them off. To protect me from myself.
The list of nameless strangers I let fuck me is longer than I care to remember. I was never picky. Mostly I just didn't want to be alone. I craved the comfort of another's body next to mine. Their pulse on my tongue and their warm seed in my intestines. Lust has always made me stupid. I desire their fluids more than I fear the turquoise hallway. And it's never enough. There's something comforting about being reduced to meat. To melt into each other and surrender your dignity.
"Take the whole thing." A hand curls in my hair and pushes me down. The tip of his stiff cock jams against the back of my throat and I cough and gurgle and grip his thigh. My drool coats his length, runs down over my lips and stains his pants. "Yes. Like that," he breathes heavy. No doubt he enjoys my predicament. And I enjoy it, too. I wish he would touch me. But I don't want it to be over. I like aching. I like them hurting me.
I have to close my eyes to focus. To force back the reflex to gag. I don't want to throw up on him. My body jolts, and fights the hand pushing me down, deeper. My eyes water. I can feel him pulse in my mouth. He's close. I buck into the car seat. I need air.
Cum fills my mouth and it feels like drowning. I try to swallow but it's futile and I cough up what had been half-way down my throat. I lick and suck, like a starved man. After a brief struggle he relents with a laugh and I gasp for air.
My mouth hangs open, dripping milky white. A wet trail of tears stains my cheeks. My eyes are glassy and unfocused. It takes me a moment to realise that I'm staring at a stranger across the parking lot. He's standing by his car, watching me.
The hand that had been brutalising my scalp has changed tune and gently wipes my chin. Digits press past my lips and I lick them clean while I stare at the stranger. He grins and pushes the gas nozzle back into its slot with odd sensuality. Then he disappears inside the shop. Usually, people look away and pretend they don’t see the two guys fucking in the parking lot. Or they call the cops.
"I gotta go, sorry. Customer," I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I want to know who he is. I fish a packet of pills from my pocket and hold it out between two fingers. My companion grunts, obviously displeased by the abrupt end but hands me a couple bills in exchange. I count them, nod and climb out of his car with an apologetic smile. Andrew likes me too much to stay mad.
Out in the cool evening hair, I take a deep breath and swallow the salty taste on my tongue. I'm not sure I look as dishevelled as I feel. My throat aches. I readjust my dick to make my erection less obvious, trying to ignore how every little touch lights my nerves on fire.
I don't usually drop what I'm doing for a customer. I don't care enough about my job to be diligent and shut both eyes and pretend I don't see the crime. But I need to see him. Need to speak to him. Learn his name, maybe more. I catch my dimmed reflection in the glass window and pluck at my hair one last time. For some reason I want to leave an impression. I don't know what I'm hoping for.
The bell chimes and I amble to the register following a trail of sickly sweet rose. I can feel his eyes on me. I have ants under my skin. His hands are in his pockets, his posture is relaxed. The fit of his pants is anything but— glossy pleather clinging to his long legs like a second skin. His eyes are green and his hair bleached blonde. My eyes drift to downwards.
"Hi," my voice cuts through the tension. I feel like I'm moving through molasses. There's a grin on his thin lips as they form a 'Hello'. "Just gas? Or anything else? A Snack? Or a drink?" I'm blabbering. I bump into the counter and my cock twitches. God it feels good.
"Just the gas." He slides a fifty dollar bill across the counter. I stare at his hands and envision his slender fingers wrapping around my erection. I lean my full weight against the counter, the pressure feels nice and I start grinding my hips against it. He curls his fingers and raps his knuckles against the counter.
"So, this station full service?"
"Yeah," I say, then freeze when I realise what he really means.
"That's what I thought."
He looks so smug. Still, all I want is to pull him into the bathroom and feel his hands all over me, the cool tiles against my skin, and his warm breath in my neck.
I hand him the change. Our fingers touch and I come in my pants. My eyelids flutter as pleasure washes over me. A warm trail runs down my leg and I swallow a moan.
"Have a good night and please come again," I say mechanically as I cling to the counter for support, smiling, sweating, struggling to keep a straight face. His eyes travel over me, brush over my lips, my treacherous heart pounding against my rib cage and to my hands, cramped up and stiff. I barely dare to breathe. He laughs and I blush.
"Have a good one," he winks. I want to ask his name but he's already gone.
Exhale.
My legs are trembling. I look down and see the dark spot growing on my left leg like a confession. I touch it and I rub over it. It feels nice, soothing like a back rub after a long day of labour. I don't even think about anyone finding me like this. Just crash against the shelf and ride the high. What would I do if they did? Beg them to fuck me, probably. My fingers are wet. I'm a mess.
I don't expect many customers tonight (or any other night) but a wave of post-nut clarity finally chases me into the bathroom and makes me question my sanity in the mirror. My lips are swollen, my cheeks flush and my hair in tangles. Good thing I work alone. There's some suspicious, white residue I wipe off my face with my sleeve. It's time to get myself cleaned up.
The cold water brings new clarity. I splash my face and take off my jeans. My boxers are soaked, too and I'm not sure what to do. I wipe my leg and wash the cum stains out of my jeans. I feel a nervous force in my back, like someone's going to come in.
In the backroom I rummage through the box of lost and found. I find keys, lipstick, CDs... It seems like I'll have to finish my shift stewing in my own filth until an ugly pair of purple sweats saves me the humiliation.
Back in the bathroom, I take off my boxers and wash those, too. Then I hang both to dry over a stall. Wearing pants without underwear is not something I'm into but the feeling of wet fabric on skin is worse. This is a compromise. If anyone asks what happened, I'll tell them I spilled my drink.
And then its just me and the long night ahead.
The road outside is quiet. Just the latent buzz of cars in the distance. At around 2:30AM a truck driver enters the shop. He seems like a ghost the way he stalks around the two meagre isles in aimless pursuit of something he hasn't identified yet. He needs sleep and perhaps a snack. I offer him water and point him to the rest room. He's grateful. His name is Dwight. It must be lonely to be on the road, nothing around but vast darkness swallowing the land. Dwight says he's still got 120 miles till he reaches San Diego. He'll get there at sunrise.
I get lonely, too but at least there's people like Dwight sharing their journey with me. Everyone needs gas. Everyone needs company. I ask him if he looks forward to home. He says he prefers the road.
I like hearing their stories. For a moment, I can step into their shoes and imagine myself in a life in which I am someone, not just the gas station clerk. I dream of having a family that cares about me enough to fight with me, of being on the road long enough to see the dry chaparral change into lush forest. It's romanticised but it's pleasant. It's an escape from dull reality. I wish I could have made my grandma proud but I was too busy chasing cocks to stick it out with college. And even that wouldn't have been enough. I'd have exchanged the gas station shop for a classroom and the same tired faces staring back at me every day. The more I think about it, the more I'm glad that I didn't.
By 3AM I've finished my book. Twenty minutes later I'm back in the bathroom jerking off. I'd been denying myself the pleasure. The latent horniness combats boredom. But now i can't stop thinking about it, about him. His face and the sweet rose water. I think about calling Andrew for a second round. But he's probably passed out drunk and all I want is the stranger. Will I ever see him again? I don't even know his name. I'll have to get the security tapes.