Boxcars for Spent Artillery Shells |
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BAD LUCK’S NOT
ALWAYS SO BAD
As I applied for summer
work at the local ammunition plant after my freshman year at a Texas junior
college, I had no expectation they would accept the proverbial ninety-pound
weakling…well, one hundred-ten.
Nonetheless, on Monday, I
joined a crew at a railroad siding running alongside a series of warehouses on
the sprawling plant reservation. My stomach dropped into my shoes when I saw
the other college kids making up the gang. Big football players, hoop stars, brawny
men who shaved and everything. You
know, broad shoulders, narrow waists, strong jaws, thick unruly hair, and intriguing
bulges in denim trousers.
Steve, a green-eyed
lady-killer with curly locks and a swimmer’s physique, disdained sports discussions
but held his own whenever talk turned to women. Terry, short and shaped,
wrestled for SMU, and if he grappled as good as he looked, he was terrific. Bart
was a footballer, a tight end…something I better appreciated after examining his
manly butt. Then there was me.
My foreman, a beefy
red-neck named Cooligan, took one look, and his expression said it all. What
the hell did they send me this time? Physically immature but not dumb, I knew
exactly what they’d sent him…a scrawny queer in a time and place that did not
tolerate such creatures.
Cooligan’s gang unloaded
endless streams of spent artillery shells from Korea, a war the entire team avoided
by staying in school. Wrestling artillery casings half as big as I was by both weight
and linear foot almost did me in, but I managed…barely.
If the crew fit my
definition of hunky, the guy who really
sent my pulse racing was the foreman of a nearby warehouse, a tall, lean,
dark-haired Mediterranean type named David Amico.
Within a week, proximity
to all of those hot studs was getting to me, and all I could do about it was skin
the old pole after I got home, usually with Dave Amico’s hot, masculine image imprinted
on the back of my eyelids.
One day, a boxcar of spent
shell casings rolled down the track oozing evil. It happened sometimes; a load
came in that smelled like trouble … things like rotting human flesh, undetonated
explosives, and lumps of suspicious matter. It made a fellow reluctant to touch
the casings even with a thick pair of work gloves. This car, cooked by the
intense East Texas heat, trailed a particularly foul odor of putrefaction.
Cooligan did his Simon
Legree thing and soon had us unloading. It was so bad that every half-hour we
rotated working inside the car. I completed my turn in the hot-box with running
nose, burning eyes, and some serious gagging. As I rushed to get outside I stepped
on a loose casing and went over, twisting my ankle and banging my hard-hat
against the steel-sided car.
As you might imagine, safety is a huge thing at an ammo plant, so Cooligan charged inside, bellowing at the top of his lungs. When I saw who was trailing along behind him, I gulped hard and blinked back tears. My idol, Dave Amico gave me a sympathetic grimace.
As you might imagine, safety is a huge thing at an ammo plant, so Cooligan charged inside, bellowing at the top of his lungs. When I saw who was trailing along behind him, I gulped hard and blinked back tears. My idol, Dave Amico gave me a sympathetic grimace.
Bart unexpectedly came to
my defense. “Shell casing was loose and turned under him. Wasn’t his fault,
Cooligan.”
“Can you move your ankle?”
Amico asked. Those deep brown eyes almost made me forget my agony. Man, they
were beautiful.
“Yeah.” I rotated the joint
gingerly.
The hunky warehouseman
probed my injury, and like my mother’s touch, made it all better. That ankle hurt
so good.
“Don’t think it’s broke,
but it’s sprained.” He glanced into my pain-filled, adoring eyes. “You wanta go
have it checked out?”
There was a pregnant
pause. The last thing Cooligan wanted was an accident report, and the crew waited
to see if the pansy could take it like a man. I gingerly placed some weight on my
steel-toed clod-hopper and tested it cautiously.
“No, I’ll be okay.”
“Arright!” Cooligan
bellowed, pleased with the pantywaist for a change. “Let’s get back to work.”
Amico grabbed one arm to
steady me and Bart took the other. Sandwiched between those two dreamboats, I
made it onto the solid concrete loading dock where the warehouse foreman turned
to my boss.
“Clive, he can’t unload
shell casings in his condition.” That was the first time I knew Cooligan had a given
name. “I’ve got some office work he can do if you’re willing to keep him on
your roster.”
A minute later, with one hand on Dave Amico’s broad shoulder for support, I limped toward
Warehouse H-25 in utter painful bliss .
“Bad luck, man. Bad
fucking luck!” Terry, the wrestler, called after us.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Rotten
luck.”
My temporary boss sent me
to the rest room to remove my boot and wash the stink of that boxcar away. Then
I perched on the commode while he plopped down on a stool, lifted my naked foot,
and laid it across his manly thigh. I almost forgot the pain as he bathed my swollen
ankle in horse liniment. The smelly stuff cooled my flesh while his long fingers
heated it right back up again. As he turned to fish for a bandage in an industrial-sized
first aid kit, my foot slipped off his thigh and landed in his warm crotch.
It was an accident…scout’s honor! He didn’t even flinch. In fact, after he bandaged
my ankle, he stood and smiled while I oogled his full basket.
As I got up and turned to
the sink to wash my hands, my hunky boss leaned around me to put the first aid
kit on the counter. His thigh warmed the crack of my ass, giving me an instant
bone. The length of his body pressing against me set me afire. He shifted so
that his fly teased my ass. I wanted to lean back and make contact, but didn’t
dare.
“That butt’s been driving
me crazy all summer,” he whispered in a husky baritone. “Has it ever been
fucked?”
I shook my head.
I watched in the mirror
as he flipped the lock on the door. “Now’s as good a time as any to start breaking
it in.”
Excited almost beyond
speaking, I managed to squawk, “O-okay.”
He slipped my trousers
down below my knees and strummed my pucker hole like a guitar.
“W-wow!” I grunted and
started pumping my cock.
“This oughta send you
into orbit!” He shoved a finger past my sphincter and laughed aloud when I
jumped.
Dave slowly withdrew his
digit. “Kid, if you show up tomorrow, it’s not going to be my finger buried in
your ass.”
I gulped and whispered, “Why
wait until tomorrow?”
He took it as a challenge
and rose to the occasion. That hunky guy gave my virgin ass a fucking that left
me limping far worse than the twisted ankle I was nursing. That beautiful son
of a bitch was one hell of a man!
What was it Terry had
said? “Bad luck, man. Bad fucking luck.”
Don’t be so sure, my good-looking wrestler. Bad luck’s not always so bad.
Don’t be so sure, my good-looking wrestler. Bad luck’s not always so bad.
#####
Hope you agree that the pantywaist's bad luck was actually a
lucky break. Thanks for checking out the site.
Mark
New posts are
published at the first of every month at 6:00 a.m.
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