Wandering the streets at 4 am, He wasn't looking for a trick. He was looking for sex, but that was something altogether different these days. As he approached the corner, he spotted the slit in the pavement where the drain fell away into the underground sewers. His pants began to bunch up as He stepped off the curb, pulling out his cock and jacking hard to climax, His balls shaking as the big mushroom head swelled and puked down the storm drain, running like milk across the stenciled warning sign on the pavement about killing fish in Santa Monica Bay with engine oil and dog feces.

He couldn't remember just how it began. Fetishes, like any obsession, seem to grow out of vague suggestions like seeds into flowers.

Perhaps it was simply the copious heft of His orgasms. The one-two-three, sometimes four, long arcing heavy ropes of semen He inevitably catapulted onto His partners' chests or backs as He pulled out, tore off his condom and watched his swollen prick cum like some vomiting drunken college boy.

Maybe it was porn. The suggestion of a word: "Load." He laughed when He first heard that term used for what He'd always referred to as His cum or His squirt. But if load referred to anyone's pollen, it was His, considering the voluminous character of it.

But it wasn't just about His semen. Sexuality is like a gene for eye color. It may only manifest in one's eyeballs, but the DNA itself, the actual genome--the code--is in every cell of the body. Think about that the next time you look at some hot guy's chin. The gene for his cock (with all its directives for pronounced gnarled veins, thickness and curve, slack foreskin, each rivulet of skin on the scrotum, the size of the head and its slit) is sitting right in front of you naked, perhaps only hiding behind a little stubble, or maybe even quivering just now in the guy's vocal chords as he says, 'Hello.'

The load was in fact everywhere. Each morning after cereal and coffee, He'd take a dump. Later He'd go to work in a warehouse where He loaded and unloaded merchandise. Ultimately, before bed each night, He'd empty his low-hanging hairy balls, and while He slept they were re-loaded like a pistol or a cargo ship. It was all just loads being moved about, placed, lifted, dropped, unleashed, dumped. The more substantial the load, the more satisfied He seemed to feel. He liked a big dump in the morning, one that caused a little pain. He liked it when the cleaning fluid trucks with their palates of bleach bottles and cleaning solutions came in at the warehouse. Heavy loads that strained the long fangs of the forklift. And He garnered great satisfaction from His lovers' interjections when He unloaded his heavy dollops of sperm from the mushroom head of His cock, riding high and proud like some monster truck on the throbbing and grooved tire treads of his veined, rockhard shaft.

And so it was a completely unconscious remark when He said it to the new boy, Victor. It had simply drifted in via the film perhaps, gestated deep in the layers of His brain, in the pink folds, vaginal and cockhard all at once. And so it sprouted. They'd been at a movie, were having a beer next door. "You wanna go to my place?" Victor had suggested.

"Yea," and He gave him a seductive look, "I wanna dump my cum on you."

Victor had laughed.

"Yea, I wanna dump on you," he'd repeated, realizing yet another aspect of the word. He dumped on his fellow employees at work all the time; dumped on other drivers on the freeway; he dumped on his mother about what a shit he thought his father was; he dumped on God about his sorry existence.

But that night was Victor's. They hurried home. They dumped a few more beers down their gullets and then went mad on each other, the taste of beer and male saliva, the tactile thump of pressure as they ground their cocks together through their dickies. He was on his knees in a flash, because by now He knew He had to get a guy's pants down quick if He was to experience yet another part of His all-consuming longing.

He yanked Victor's pants to his knees, then pulled down the briefs as Victor's thick uncut meat was dumped over the elastic band of his shorts and into His mouth.

Once Victor's cock was hard, bobbing in His face between slurps, He half lost interest. Thank god for the slackness of big balls, He thought to himself briefly, nearly swallowing one as it rolled indolently across his tongue. Over and over again, as he layed himself flat on the floor He pulled Victor down by the thighs, dumping those big churning testicles onto His chin and lips, His wanton tongue. The way they mindlessly crashed onto His face, driverless, like fallen fruit.

"Let's fuck," Victor breathlessly pleaded, but He'd have none of it. It no longer suited Him. Sometimes He figured it was but a matter of time before He became a scat queen, though He had also noticed that sex with another person was becoming less and less necessary. Victor was, in fact, his first partner in weeks. They all wanted to suck and fuck when all He wanted to do was just open up the back of the truck and let it tumble crashing into some empty pit. Perhaps He'd purchase a pig trough, invite guys over to jack off with him until it was full. As it was, He'd taken to masturbating into his trash can in the kitchen. For thrills, He'd been going out late at night and jacking off into dumpsters, watching the tablespoons of jism slap against Corn Flakes boxes and Coke cans. The cataloging itself fed his obsession as he began to keep track of what he'd hit on His exploratory peregrinations among the back alleys of the business district. One night He nailed a Starbucks Venti cup, two diapers and a discarded cell phone. On subsequent nights, He pegged teddy bears, MacDonald's Big Mac wrappers, a shoe, someone's crumpled up poetry, a tampon, a face shot for some wannabe actor, even a used condom.

Victor and he were now wrestling like cats on the floor, their big cocks banging and sliding off one another like branches in a wind storm. Victor arched his back up.

"Dump it on me!" He commanded. The clinging vine-like veins on Victor's shaft were pulsing, his repeated sighs promising the viscous cargo that was simply a whore for gravity. Gravity made His cock throb, and what was His cock but an insult to gravity, or a challenge. He wondered suddenly if Newton had only claimed he'd figured it out with an apple, mortified in that moral age to admit he'd yelled 'Eureka!' as he shot his load into his apple tart.

Victor's semen arrived like good news. It plopped onto His chest like rain in a parched desert, as Victor's head fell back on his shoulders in an angry groan. He milked it, each drop that hit Him matched by a pulsation of lust in His own shaft, which was now readying its substantial freight for delivery.

He pulled Victor down onto him, the two of them squirming and sliding in Victor's sperm, their tongues wanton and muscular.

"Spit down my throat!" He ordered/begged Victor desperately, who noisily complied, dropping a doozy of phlegm as far back as His tonsils.

"Do it again," He whimpered/exclaimed. But Victor had given all he had and seemed uninterested in providing more, even as He now wished, and almost asked, that Victor go and drink another beer--or rather fill his mouth with it--and instead of swallowing, simply release into His mouth. It crossed His mind to punch Victor in the stomach which might induce a load of vomiting that He was sure would not nauseate Him in the least, but might in fact make Him cum even more than the usual four loads.

He rolled over on top of Victor then and began stroking His cock in earnest, His balls swinging like monkeys from the big bough of his marbled cock, the mushroom head now the size of a tangerine. But as He looked down at Victor's body--its big brown nipples, the handsome, grungy, wispy-bearded face; the wet limp meat of his cock lying sidewise across his belly in the jet black hair of his crotch; and those big balls of his so profoundly arrogant in their repose--something was missing. He looked to Victor's mouth, and pulling Himself forward with his free hand, He got his crotch up above Victor's face, clearly wanting to dump His load down Victor's throat. But Victor turned his face away, revealing an ear. Tempting, but too small, He concluded, so full of lust now for a ditch that He climbed up on his knees, His eyes wheeling around the room for something. Spotting Victor's shoes, he stumbled to them--all the while jacking His cock--and almost immediately delivered a dollop of his load into each, while the next two he directed into a discarded cereal bowl on the floor nearby, a remnant of Victor's mundane past.

"What the fuck man," Victor said annoyedly.

"Yea, what the fuck," He answered, shrugging his shoulders.

"Why'd you cum in my shoes?" Victor seemed sincerely perplexed.

"Your mouth wasn't available," He said matter-of-factly. Victor looked at Him, vexed, but soon shrugged it off. He thought then that Victor won't invite Him home again. Victor will dump Him or He will dump Victor. He wished He really could dump Victor, like out the window, watch him fall and splat on the sidewalk. He considered the eroticism of suicide from a bridge or tower. Even falling into a grave. He considered cemeteries as a destination for His next late night adventure.

He dreamed that night of falling, the weightlessness, the thrill of when will it end? He didn't wake up for fear of impact like usual; he stuck with the dream. He wanted to feel that sudden negation of nothingness into total somethingness, like a door slammed in His face; like a kind of contact so substantial it would flatten Him, squeeze Him to emptiness like a crushed toothpaste tube--deliver Him. Like a load.

©2002 Trebor Healey - Contributor's Bio