I stuffed out the joint, and turned up the music. I slid off my shoe and gripped the worn rubber and exposed metal of the accelerator with my big toe. I felt the vibration of my ancient vehicle in my whole body as I sped up faster than usual. I was anxious to get there. The shaking of the 1980 Honda Accord aroused me. The shorts clinging to my thighs and balls and slowly stiffening cock were all that clothed me.
No more.
I slid the shorts off my left foot first. Gradually I shifted to driving with my left toe. I slipped off the tattered rags from my right foot. Now naked, I resumed driving with my right foot. My balls felt huge in my left hand as I gripped the wheel with my right. My aching cock arched and slapped above my belly button. Gently, I stroked the soft skin of my horn and every time I was about to ejaculate I stopped.
Repeating this performance, I drove fifty miles until, unable to restrain myself any longer, I gripped my prick tighter and stroked hard one last time until out shot a hot healthy stream of sperm – squirting up and hitting just beneath my chin, soaking my jugular, dripping from my hairy chest and oozing down to my thighs.
Is nothing sacred worth a damn?
Nashville was large and welcoming, cowboy city lights and average American denim. I let the semen dry on my skin as I pulled into the Denny’s parking lot stinking of the fecundate eruption; mushroom soup and honey, bleach and soil. I dressed sticky and met Kramer at a booth in the back and ordered black coffee.
Kramer Lyndon and I went to high school together. He came here to Vanderbilt University to study the letters of dead men. On a different path, I joined the carnival and traveled across Canada in a beat up Honda Accord. I couldn’t afford school, financially, emotionally, spiritually or academically. I couldn’t sit in another classroom for anything.
“Whatcha been doing man?” and other boring conversations ensued.
I was starved and ate the rest of his French fries. We talked and talked and my nerves were cramped from the coffee, free refills – no cream or sugar for me, and a shit in the bathroom.
He told me all about his intentions on being an artist, a rock god, a poet. He regaled me with stories of being on stage and soaking in the lights and the applause. He told me about a group of young men and women he had come to know who called themselves The Church. The Church was short for The First Interplanetary Church of the Immaculate Deception. The Church was a group of punk poets and social misfits who started their own religion.
It sounded fun.
I was no Christian, but I was an American – free exercise of religion is granted in the first amendment to the constitution – so the founding fathers must have thought pretty highly of this particular freedom. Imagine the persecution in the past from the crusades to the inquisitions, the holy wars, the Jewish-Roman wars, the Arab-Israeli wars, Jihad, The Taiping Rebellion and on and on and on.
The cement floor of Kramer’s dorm room was freezing. I laid out every article of clothing I owned from my duffel bag and made a nest. He was too homophobic to share his bed with me – and rightly so – who knows how amorous I would have been with his small frame in the middle of the night.
Upon noon coffee Kramer told me, “Today I’m going to take you to meet The Pope.”
Whatever.
