Rugged Mann

Chapter 3: Chess Road-2

Flynn won’t swear on the Bible. He won’t do a pinkie swear with you. But he will tell you that this is a true story; it’s really happened. Listen…

Once every week, usually on a Friday or Saturday night during the city’s heated summers he takes a drive by the Allegheny River on Chess Road. Almost twenty, Flynn’s not rich and he owns a Ford Taurus with a mangled front bumper. Some might consider him a fair-to-good driver, but he doesn’t think so, since he’s hit too many things in the last few years: an aluminum garbage can on Murray Avenue, a fire hydrant in Southside, and the sign in front of Davey’s Pizzeria, which he’s had to pay for by using a portion of three consecutive paychecks, mostly tip money from delivering pizzas.

Sitting behind the wheel of his vehicle he says a checklist out loud, “Phone. Check. Money. Check. Condoms. Check. Blanket. Check.” He’s forgetting something, but he can’t remember what. It will come to him, he hopes.

These drives are purely for pleasure, he realizes, telling Jason this. It’s sort of a wicked game he plays, just for fun. A fulfillment. A high. Life away from momma’s house, family life, and the pizza shop where he works.

He takes the left on Chess Road, through a mass of oaks and maples on both sides of the road that make it look as if it’s a tunnel. The high beams on the Taurus are dim: yellow-white color mixes with the lush green of summertime. There’s more dirt and gravel that make up the road instead of asphalt. At first, he doesn’t see anyone while driving a quarter-mile along the sleepy and dark river. Slow. Very slow. A snail’s pace. In a matter of seconds, a figure appears on the dirt and rocky road in front of him. It’s a masculine figure in the distance that has stepped out from behind a clump of thick tree trunks and appears, thin, bald, stubble on his cheeks and chin. The stranger’s clothes are muddy and brown. He looks as if he’s been homeless for the last few months, un-bathed, needing food, water, and attention.

Flynn pulls the Taurus up to the man and turns off its engine. He shuts the headlights off and climbs out of the vehicle. In his right hand is a knapsack. He carries it to the guy and says to his dimly-lit shadow, silhouette, “Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? I have food and water.”

“God bless you,” the homeless man replies.

They all say this. Every time he appears at night. Flynn feels like God. Someone important. Definitely a higher being. He has power over these men because of the food and water.

He wonders why these homeless men near the river can’t better take care of themselves. Why aren’t these people living in houses and have monetary incomes? Why are they hungry and showerless? It makes no sense to Flynn. Never does. Never will.

Flynn ignores the man and opens the knapsack. He pulls out a hamburger in a paper wrapper and a bottle of water. “What’s your name, guy?”

The stranger gobbles the burger down in just a few bites. He gulps water in the silver-white moonlight that shines between the thick elms and oaks. Burps. “Greg.”

Flynn checks the man out in a beam of silver-gray light: not a bad looking face, on the rounder side, small overbite, blue eyes, dimples, and broad shoulders. Smells like s**t, but who gives a f**k. Flynn has better things to worry about. Greg stands at five-ten. Big feet. Long fingers. Ripped T-shirt. Mangled tennis shoes.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“You do drugs?”

Greg nods. “Sometimes.”

“You want more food and water?”

“Please.”

“There’s a payment. You know this. Things aren’t free in this f*****g world. Turn around and pull your pants down. If you want to eat and drink, you have to pay me for it.”

Greg holds out a shaky finger at Flynn. “You’re him.”

Flynn chuckles. “You bet your f*****g ass I am.”

“You feed and water us…and…we give you our bottoms.”

“Only the men,” Flynn says. “I’m not into cunts and t**s. So stop the chatter and give me what I want.”

Sometimes it goes smoothly. No wrenches. No confusion. No swearing. No confrontations. The homeless men along the river almost always listen to him and do what Flynn says for food and water. They turn around. They drop their jeans or sweats. The screwing is quick and Flynn sometimes, after f*****g his prey, after he gets what he wants from them, offers them more water and food, emptying the knapsack’s confines as if he is Santa f*****g Claus and it’s Christmas.

Greg isn’t one of these men, Flynn surmises. He’s wiry, wacked, and a handful. Some homeless are like this, which is unfortunate for Flynn because he has to work harder at what he wants from them. How dare they think on their own and react to his conditions in a negative response. What makes them believe they can do this? What the f**k? Flynn is in control. Always in control. And they can’t do anything about it.

This visit to Chess Road isn’t Flynn’s first rodeo, and it certainly won’t be his last. He comes here frequently, searching out a semi-handsome man to get busy with. It’s his dating playground, no different than a queer bar. Cruise the area alongside the river, pick up a guy, and f**k him.

Greg doesn’t bolt away from Flynn, into the darkness. And Flynn doesn’t have to run after him. Flynn huffs and puffs, already hard for the guy and thinks, You want to get busy with me. I’ll let you. Tonight, I will become yours. All of me. You want me to be inside your ass. You won’t have it any other way.

This one’s easy to seduce tonight, Flynn determines. Greg is weak and horny. Probably hasn’t had d**k in a week, ready to burst a load. He doesn’t look unhealthy and emaciated, ready for a ride. He doesn’t seem to lack any energy, grinning at Flynn, wanting what Flynn has to give him. He won’t be running away, Flynn perceives.

Greg says, “Let’s get to it. I don’t have all night.”

Flynn chuckles because the guy has the rest of his everything. He watches Greg turn around and drop his sweats to his ankles. “Nice,” he says, checking out the homeless man’s bottom: tight, bulbous, surprisingly clean. Most of these men have dirty bottoms, but Greg’s is almost fresh looking and doesn’t smell half bad.

The joys and pleasures of tonight happens. Flynn applies a condom to his already-hard d**k; Flynn falls to knees; Greg calls over his right shoulder, “Don’t be nice to me. You can make it hurt. Get busy.” Flynn listens to the homeless man and steers his d**k inside his bottom and begins f*****g him. It’s a tight ass and somewhat bony. As he plugs Greg with his c**k, Flynn grunts while swaying forward and backward, pulverizing the guy’s rear with his weight, hammering his stick inside him. And Greg continues to beg beneath him, “Do it, man. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

It continues for five minutes under the shadowy moonlight.

It continues for six minutes in the ferns.

It continues for seven minutes next to the sleepy Allegheny River.

Flynn blows his load in the condom that separates the two men. He moans, arches his back, and drips sweat against Greg’s spine. After churning out his load, he whispers to Greg while pulling out of him, “The best tight f**k I’ve had in weeks from you guys. Thanks for the good time. You gave me exactly what I wanted tonight. Tell your buddies I’ll need some of their action.”