Even on Greenwich Avenue, Joey can smell kerosene from his nine-hour day at the factory. His thin, straight nose feels stuffed with grinding dust. When he licks them, his full lips taste metallic.

All summer long, the factory odors—the shrill sounds of grinding metal—give him hallucinatory dreams. Like an ether high. For three years now, he's worked every summer in the shop illegally. Under his old man's orders. The dangerous machinery's off limits to a sixteen-year-old.

Yeah, sure.

Joey keeps his hands in his pockets. No matter how he tries, he can't scour the grit from his worn cuticles, the black lines that map his knuckles like pine knots. His fingertips and palms as well. Despite the damp, eighty-degree heat, he wears a blue, long-sleeve shirt. One roll at each cuff. The grinding solvent that drips down his elbows all day leaves gray streaks. They make his pale, finely muscled arms look unclean. So he hides them.

Parted in the middle, his dark brown hair cascades halfway down his neck in large, shiny waves. Humidity makes his bangs curl. They dangle above tired hazel eyes, itchy, heavy with fatigue. His lean body's put on more muscle this summer. He's gotten taller as well. Five-nine and counting. He hopes.

For Joey, the worst part of work is forking over his pay packet every week to his old man. In exchange, Joey gets a slim allowance. It's not enough for a high school junior trying to squeeze some pleasure from summer vacation. Joey's dad wants to keep him on a tight rein. “Just like your grandpop did with me.”

Screw Grandpop, Joey thinks, as he walks along Greenwich Avenue, looking for some action. For someone who wants him. He'd gratefully accept a few hours—and just about any decent-looking taker. Most of all, he'd like to meet a smart guy. Someone who'd take an interest in him and teach him how to live his life. Escape the zoo at home. He can't wait until graduation next summer. Class of '67. Then he's free. Out of Jersey for good. Though where exactly, he has no idea.

The street clock on Eighth Avenue reads eleven. Thirsty and tired, Joey's been walking around the Village about an hour. He has to get up for work by seven. At least it's only a half day. Saturday. Almost today, Joey thinks, shyly checking out the pedestrian traffic for friendly looking guys. But he's too shy. And he walks way too fast for someone who wants to look available.

From across the broad avenue, some jerk keeps working his horn. Tires screech. A huge, white Chrysler Imperial makes a reckless U-turn. It idles near Joey with a heavy purr. “Hey, hot stuff. Where you going?” Joey's friend Crazy Philip sticks his blonde, close-cropped head out the front passenger window. Drugged-out, pale blue eyes squint from his boyish, chalky face. Phil's partial to speed. He likes to take it with downers his social worker gives him—in exchange for sex. The drug combo makes him slur. But very fast. Sometimes, he doesn't make sense, puts his words together crazy.

“How's it going, Loon Lad?” Joey asks.

“Fuck you,” Phil says, alerting Joey to quit the nicknames cause he's on a date. Phil doesn't want to appear unsexy.

“I'm sorry,” Joey says, and he means it. He likes Crazy Phil. Poor kid's still getting over his third suicide attempt. It's just another attention-grabber. This time involving slit wrists. Phil wears a guinea tee and tight black jeans. The pants coat his thin, long legs like lead paint.

“Wanna ride home?” Phil asks.

Squatting on his haunches, Joey checks out the driver. You never know who Phil might be with. He recognizes the guy from school. “Hi, Quill,” Joey says to the muscular six-footer. Quill likes to go by his last name. His first one's Maurice. No one ever razzes the burly redhead about his name. But Quill's still sensitive about it—along with his shovel-shaped nose, which he touches a lot when he thinks no one's looking. His nose covers a sizeable chunk of his broad, chiseled face. A handsome fit.

Joey's amazed to see Quill with Crazy Philip. He never would've guessed. Although Joey recalls getting goosed a lot by Quill in the gym locker room. Just as a goof. All the guys do it to each other. No wonder Phil's not been hanging out lately.

“Hop in with us. We have plenty of room,” a chick in the back seat answers for Quill, who stays quiet. She talks like some breathy debutante—or a Miss America contestant. Has a foreign accent too. Only she's not a chick, Joey sees, taking a harder look at the pretty, heavily made-up guy crowned with a high cliff of teased, blue-black hair. A kind of free-form beehive. “I'm Alice.” The guy gestures toward his flat chest, covered in a masculine checkered shirt, which really throws Joey. “And this is Mia.” Joey smiles at the tall, broad-featured brunette, decked out in similar fashion. Glittery pink eye shadow to boot.

“Okay,” Joey says, confused and curious, glad for the convenient transport home. But he doesn't get in just yet. Instead, he looks at Quill for the go-ahead. Quill nods, a big pink smile on his face that lingers in tight gray eyes. They keep looking at Joey in the rearview mirror. Joey smiles back to be polite. And because he likes what he sees.

“You can let me out here,” Phil suddenly says, all stoic and hurt feelings. Quill parks on Ferry Street, five or six blocks from Phil's home in the Ironbound section of Newark. Phil takes a cautious look round the deserted commercial avenue.

“What's a matter?” Quill asks.

“Not for nothing, but I thought we had a date,” Phil slurs. His hawkish blue eyes burn through his drugged haze. His small, upturned nose starts to run. “Alls of a suddenly, you wanna drop me off first?” Quill doesn't answer. Everyone in the car knows why. Alice and Mia flutter their false eyelashes at Joey. Quill has spoken only to him since the drive to Jersey began.

Joey almost offers to walk Phil home. Depending on his drug combo, Phil could get into a massive funk. Maybe hurt himself again. But Joey holds back, thinking about the long hike he'd have to north Newark. It's already twelve o'clock. His old man'll kill him if he's late for work again.

Anyway, he's so damn tired. The downer Phil gave him at the beginning of the ride has kicked in fast. If not for Quill's sexy attention, Joey would've nodded off in the back seat.

He'll be okay, Joey hopes. He gazes at Phil's narrow back, his flat blonde head. “I'll call you tomorrow,” he says as his friend stumbles from the car without saying the usual goodbyes. “Right after work.”

“Wow. I can't fucking wait,” Phil mutters, snapping his fingers in the air, weaving angrily down the empty street.

“What the fuck?” Quill stares at the thick red globs splattered along flowery linoleum. The worn floor resembles tree bark. Joey backs into the dark hallway, ready to sprint down Broad Street—bad neighborhood or no. Mia and Alice seem unconcerned. They confer in a language Joey's never heard before. If they spoke Spanish, he could follow. Maybe. Joey's been taking Spanish in school—inspired by his three-year crush on a handsome Puerto Rican boy from the projects.

“Ketchup,” Mia says in English for their two guests. Alice fingers a small red puddle, just to make sure. He looks embarrassed. But Mia seems happy as he leans into Quill and Joey.

“It's my husband, Calvin,” Mia confides in a hushed, feminine whisper. “We had a fight about me going out. Sometimes, he gets melodramatical. You know, when he—.” With bracelets clattering, Mia makes a fluttery drinking motion near his wide, burgundy-painted mouth. “I should go to him,” he says, trotting down a hallway to a closed door.

“Calvin's from West Virginia,” Alice says, like it explains the guy's behavior. “He works in the box plant down Neck. Part-time. With me and Mia. We all share the apartment together. We share everything—even hair shampoo,” Alice adds, as if shampoo were something special.

Mia's dramatic sobs penetrate the closed door. A strange, deep voice joins in, rumbling in a thick Appalachian accent baffling to Joey as a foreign language.

“Maybe we should go,” he says, surprised Quill hasn't made a move already. He turns away when Quill looks at him, blushes at the thought of being alone with him in the car. Joey's interested in Quill. More than interested. But he thinks it's a bad idea. He doesn't like to mess around with guys from school. In case things go bad.

“Don't leave. They're only gonna make up.” Alice sighs like he's seen ketchup splattered all over his parlor before. “Let's go in the kitchen,” he suggests. “Away from this.” He gestures at the red globs dotting the floor like tiny volcanic islands.

Not until Joey sits at the orange metal table—chipped and scored—does he notice the walls and floor have patterns that move. Unfazed by people or the sudden light, cockroaches wander around. They look well-fed and lazy. All different types. Some with long bodies, huge wings. Joey's never seen cockroaches in a person's home before. Only in some diner on the Lower East Side. That dive had an army of bugs that marched from hanging wine bottles meant for decoration. He left without eating.

Expecting a signal to cut out, Joey looks at Quill. But the other boy sits down next to Joey all smiles.

What the fuck? Joey thinks, wondering if he's imagining the vermin. No. When he closes his heavy eyes, they disappear. But it still looks like a dream.

“Would you care for some water or beer?” Alice asks all prim and proper, like a pack of bugs aren't on dawn patrol around him. “I think we have orange juice, too,” he says, opening the frigerator. A few roaches tramping along the frig door scurry to the floor. They make for the table. To scare them off, Joey taps his feet hard. Quill keeps staring at Joey. His big Adam's apple bulges like a smooth walnut. Joey's sure the other boy's lit on something. On the ride back, Quill wove the car between busy lanes like he was the only driver.

“Thanks Alice,” Joey says through his parched throat. “But I'm not thirsty.” Quill still doesn't say anything, which Joey thinks is rude.

So he says: “You want something to drink?”

Quill's small gray eyes do a horny stare. “Hey Alice,” he says, not even looking at the guy. “Why don't you leave us alone for a while.”

“Why don't I leave you alone for a while,” Alice says, a sarcastic echo. He's in the parlor like he disappeared. But close to the kitchen wall so he can hear. Maybe take a peak. Quill sometimes uses the flat to buy grass and bennies. In return, he lets Alice blow him now and then while he thinks of someone else.

Joey blushes under Quill's steady gaze. “How's it going?” he asks, watching a long, fat-waisted roach meander across the table. This ain't fuckin' happening, he thinks. He closes his eyes. Almost slips into sleep, roaches or no.

Quill puts a large, ruddy hand on Joey's thigh, squeezes it for attention. “Doing good,” he answers.

“Where you working this summer?” Joey asks, ignoring the hand pressure, his gaze focused on Quill's tasty-looking grin.

“Willowbrook. The nuthouse.” Quill smirks. His gray eyes blink in slow motion. “I'm an orderly.” He flexes his other arm for show. It makes a big hill. Then he pulls up his guinea tee, shows off his smooth, muscle-plated chest, which he scratches, leaving long red marks. “Mostly I'm sectioned to the criminally insane ward.” Quill sounds proud of it. “Said I was twenty on my application.”

“Must be scary.” Joey doesn't want to talk about this now. Not here. But he started it.

“No big deal man. The ward's got the most staff per inmate in the whole place.” Quill rubs Joey's thigh, palms his ass.

“Don't think I'd like that.” More than the job, Joey refers to Quill's wandering hand. He doesn't want to get all sexy. Not here. But he's reluctant to remove the other kid's hand. Quill's an okay guy, but quick to anger when he feels slighted.

“Took Phil to my job once.” Quill laughs hard, snorting in breath. His eyes tear up.

“You did?” Joey says.

Quill can't stop laughing so he nods.

“What's so funny?” Joey feels bad again. About the way he left things with Phil acting all hurt and jealous. He wishes he had walked the kid home.

After he stops laughing, Quill makes for the frigerator, takes out the orange juice Alice offered earlier. A brand new carton. Quill's face—all pink and angular—is even handsomer now that he's more alert. White teeth gleam against thick red lips. A real turn-on for Joey, despite his unease. Pulling the juice carton open, Quill offers Joey a drink. Thinking he might have to use a glass, Joey nods no. But he changes his mind when Quill guzzles straight from the carton's pristine spout. “I'll have some,” he says, extending his hand.

“Come and get it.” Quill's smiling gray eyes are bright and clear. Full of mischief, Joey thinks, cause he likes the word mischief. He walks unsteady. His legs are numb from the hard chair. And the downer. Quill admires Joey's thin, coltish body in motion.

“So tell me,” Joey says. Holding the carton, he drinks greedily. The cold, acidic juice eases his parched throat.

“About what?” Quill takes back the carton. He drinks the remaining juice as he grabs Joey by the waist, resting his hand inside Joey's pants. Joey's rising hard-on makes him forget his question. And then he remembers: “About Phil. When you took him to your job at the 'nuthouse.'”

Quill laughs. Kind of a manic giggle. “I take Phil to my regular ward,” he starts the story, snickering between words. “But I don't tell him it's for violent patients. Once Phil's in the rec area—where the inmates can hang out—I tell him the ward's full of murderers and rapists. While he's looking around bug-eyed, I pretend to leave him there. But all the time I'm at the entrance door, watching through the grating.” Quill has to stop cause he's laughing too hard. He leans his head against Joey's shoulder, catching his breath. His head's all hot and wet.

And then he says: “Phil has a fucking shit-fit. I can see he's got the shakes. His eyes go every which ways, gawking at the creepy fuck-faces stoned on zombie drugs. Sometimes, one of them lets out a scream. Meanwhile, Phil's turning every color of the rainbow. I go back in before he has a stroke or something.”

As Quill goes on another laughing jag, Joey backs away. “That's a really mean thing to do man,” he says, disappointed. Angry. This ain't someone I wanna be with, he thinks. He feels duped.

“What the fuck?” Quill says, clearing his throat. He's bent over a little cause his side hurts. “Hey. It was a joke, man. Fuckin' harmless.” Quill's voice sounds testy. His body puffs up with muscles, like he's being challenged. “Nothing would've happened to him,” he argues. “Shit man. There were three other orderlies in the room all the time. Phil could've fuckin' noticed.”

“But that would've spoiled your fun, wouldn't it?” Joey asks, tucking his shirt in his pants, feeling his pockets for his wallet. House keys.

Quill opens his mouth to disagree but stops. He's got a weak case. “Come on man. Don't be such a tight ass,” he grumbles all soft voiced, throwing Joey a contrite smile.

“Have to go now,” Joey says, trying for neutral. “Got work in the morning.”

“Come on. Stay a little longer,” Quill says, pressing Joey against the frigerator door, his eyes closed, his large hands roaming Joey's body.

All Joey can think of is cockroaches crawling down the door, getting on his body, in his clothes. “Quit it,” he says, pushing Quill hard. He has to get away from that frig. Quill's face goes all tense. His gray eyes squint and tear, like he's looking in the sun. One big arm crosses his chest. Poised to backhand Joey.

“Don't do that man,” Joey says softly. Backing away, he leans against the frigerator, his fear of Quill trumping any worry about cockroaches. “You're a better guy than that,” he says. He nods at Quill's raised hand. “A lot better.”

Slowly, Quill lowers his hand. The tension drains from his face, still red—from embarrassment instead of anger. “Sorry, man.” He hides his hand in his back pocket. “I'll take you home,” he mumbles, looking down at his work boots.

“No thanks,” Joey says before thinking it over. “I feel like walking.” He knows this sounds like bullshit. He's fucking exhausted. Probably looks it too. Anyway, who'd want to walk at this hour—in this neighborhood? But now that he said it, Joey can't take it back. He's got his pride.

“You sure, man?” Quill looks all surprised. He wants to say: I'm not gonna pull anything, but he holds back. After all, Joey did send signals. Quill knows he didn't misread them. Fuck you, Quill thinks. Go fucking walk for all I care. He's feeling all tired and drained as well.

“Okay then,” Joey says, wishing Quill might ask again. He could be persuaded. But Quill stays quiet. “Well. So long,” Joey mumbles, walking backwards into the parlor, past Alice—spread out on the sofa like he's sleeping. Only Alice's wide awake. Just waiting for Joey to cut out, hoping for some rebound action from Quill.

Broad Street looks awfully narrow, claustrophobic, in the black, humid night. Every third step, Joey wants to glance behind him. But he can't do it. The dilapidated cemetery he walks past doesn't worry him at all cause the fence's so high. Topped with spiraling barbed wire too. He keeps hearing grumbling noises though. Or thinks he does. If he weren't so tired, Joey'd sprint. But he can barely walk.

Behind him, the grumbling creeps closer. Gets louder. Too afraid to look, he quickens his pace, his gait wobbly from fatigue. And the downer.

“Hey, Joey,” he hears over the growling. He turns around.

“Fuck man—you scared me.”

“Yeah, well,” Quill says, grinning like it couldn't be helped. His red head hangs out the passenger seat. “Get in the damn car, will ya? Something happens to you, I'll feel like it's my fault.”

After a silent ride in which both guys are busting to speak, Quill parks in front of Joey's home—a flat above The Eighth Ward Non-Partisan Club. Men only. His father's a member. So's every adult guy in the neighborhood.

With the car all still, Joey can hear Quill's breathing, smell his pungent sweat, like clove or nutmeg. But lots better cause it's Quill's smell. He makes it. The aroma seeps from his hard body, the pale skin banded with light from a street lamp.

“Thanks,” Joey says. He should leave. Quill stares ahead like he's alone in the car. His jaw kind of slack. When Joey grabs the door handle, Quill says: “Thinking of joining the Army after I graduate. IF I graduate. The old man's gonna kick me out soon anyway. Gotta do something.”

“The Navy's better,” Joey says.

“Oh yeah?” Quill smirks. “And how'd you know ?” His voice cuts.

With a shrug, Joey says: “It's safer. You'll be safer on a ship than some jungle in Vietnam.”

“I'm not scared,” Quill says, angling his body toward Joey, moved by the other boy's concern coming out of nowhere. His own family could show as much worry. In shadow, Quill's bright red hair goes all mahogany. Gray eyes deepen to green.

Joey points to a corner store. “The butcher's son across the street. He lost an arm two weeks into his tour of duty. Got real mean when he came back—looking for fights and all.”

“No,” Joey concludes. “If you gotta go somewhere, you really should go in the Navy.” Joey doesn't look, but he knows Quill's smiling at him. The car gets even warmer.

“I'll check it out. Maybe,” Quill says. Joey fumbles in his pants for house keys. It'd be a lot easier to get his keys outside the car, but that's not where he wants to be. So he stops fumbling. Lets himself relax, sink into the thick seat. He closes his eyes for a minute. And he's asleep. Floating in darkness of his own making. Until Joey feels a hand rub his neck. Quill's hand. Squeezing the muscles. Massaging.

Joey sighs, arches his neck a little more. He lets Quill really work it.

“Hmmm man; kill me now,” he murmurs.

“Not yet,” Quill whispers; his mouth barely touches the other boy's lips. Opening his eyes, Joey smiles at the ruddy, broad face. “Yeah, man. Like you'd hurt me,” Joey says, thinking Quill really is a good guy, someone he can dig. Slowly, Quill tastes the other boy's cheek and ear. Joey turns his head to make room for Quill's tongue and—through sleepy eyes—he sees a tall brick smoke stack in the darkness.

“Where are we?” he asks.

“Parked back of your street, across the tracks,” Quill whispers in Joey's ear, sending a heat wave down his chest. “No one'll see us with all the bushes. Let's get in back.”

“Help me crawl over man,” Joey mumbles, locked between excitement and exhaustion. “Too beat to get out.”

Taking Joey by the waist, Quill bends him over the front seat, slides his hands across Joey's ass, feeling his crotch from behind. By the knees, Quill boosts the other boy over. Joey hits the springy seat on his back. One foot rests on the floor. Quill gets out, opens the back door.

He looks at the slender body all splayed out, vulnerable—available—and his cock pulses with tenderness as much as raw desire. Joey looks so peaceful. Eyes closed. His arms draped overhead. Curly brown bangs frame his pale, angular face glowing against the black upholstery. Quill almost feels like an intruder. It gets him hornier.

Between Joey's legs, Quill makes a space for his large, muscular body. Unbuckling the boy's belt, he listens to leather hiss against metal as the strap slips out. Quill works the pants button from its tight hole. Hears them kiss goodbye. The zipper crackles as—tooth by tooth—the handle makes its slow descent. Passing one arm under Joey's back, Quill raises the boy, gently pulls down his jeans. He works one side, then the other. Against the frayed white shorts—and Joey's swelling dick—Quill presses his broad nose, spreading his nostrils to lose himself in Joey's aroma. The smell of sweat and hair and pre-cum wetting the fabric makes him hungry. Hungry for Joey. The kid who wants him safe in the Navy.

As his underwear slides down, Joey feels cool leather against his ass, large warm hands come between. Fingers squeeze the firm round flesh. A rough tongue travels Joey's dick from root to tip. Lubed with pre-cum, the tongue glides down smooth, curls around Joey's balls. Hot breath gently tortures his shaft with its light touch. Quill's breath, Joey thinks. Or dreams. Quill sucking cock?

“You a dream man?” Joey mumbles. And then: “Oh boy,” he hears someone—himself?—say over and over, as wet heat engulfs his shaft, swirling around as Quill's lips retreat, advance.

“Ouch,” he says, bucking a little, jolted back into the car from wherever he's been drifting. He stares upward. The car roof's black interior is his starless sky. He steadies his breath as a long finger works its way up his ass. Far as it can go. Pumping in and out. His cock bounces forward with every thrust. Quill's finger, Joey thinks. He imagines hovering above the scene, watching Quill's bony digit climb up his ass. Quill's full mouth claiming his cock, his body. Even his fucking dreams.

“Roll over.”

To Joey, the voice sounds deep, distant. “What?”

“I wanna fuck you,” Quill says. He whispers in Joey's ear. Or does the voice come from inside?

“Do me first.” Eyes closed, Joey kisses lips wet with Quill, with himself. “Please man.”

“After.” The voice, impatient. “Promise.”

Joey feels himself lifted to his left side, his face pressed against the seat's back. “Cause you're bigger?” he asks, for no reason, his voice muffled by the upholstery. “You gotta be first?

“Shhhh,” Quill says. “Quiet now.” In the darkness, he sniffs the finger he put inside Joey, likes how it smells. Of soap and sweat. Of Joey's ass where soap can't reach. He wants his dick in there. Where his finger's been. But first he bends low, nuzzles his big, shovel-shaped nose around Joey's crack. Kisses the round, white melons—gives them playful swats. To activate Joey's ass. And himself.

When he's through, Quill feels under the front seat for the lube he keeps there for when he's got no place else to go. Like now. He starts putting it to good use. First on his dick. Then in and around Joey's hole.

The melting wetness on Joey's hot skin feels familiar. It's like grease he uses at the factory to keep finished steel pieces from rusting. “NO,” he mumbles, trying to keep his job out of his head. His dream with Quill. Too late. The buzzing, grinding, screeching sounds of the factory commandeer his ears. He smells kerosene too. Fresh sawdust. The raw odors mingle with Quill's sharp, nutmeg smell. His mossy breath caresses Joey's face as they each lie sideways, spooned together. Quill's long legs bend to give him room, to brace his feet against the door so he can plow Joey. When Joey's ready to take it that way.

“Please,” Quill says, mistaking Joey's mumbled “NO” for a rejection. “I know you like it man. Phil told me you did it before. Lots of times.” His right hand glides along Joey's stomach, his chest. Joey's crotch, his hard dick, press against the seat. Quill pulls the other boy towards him so he can grip Joey's cock, start working it gently as he rubs his own boner between Joey's round ass.

“This okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Joey answers. He's no longer in the car, but lying beside Quill on the wide, pitted break table at work. In front of them, rows of grinding machines screech and hiss under bright florescent lights. Steel dust mists the air. Yet the two are all alone. With bleary eyes, Joey looks out the rear car window. He sees the same bushes, the same Sumac trees that grow behind the grinding factory half a mile down the tracks. “Always the same,” he mumbles.

“What, baby?” Quill asks, squeezing Joey's dick, then releasing. Feeling it bounce around his palm like it's ready to pop.

“Fuck me,” Joey says turning back to the deserted factory floor. His dick pulses in Quill's grip. Both guys smell ripe from handling heavy steel all day. “No one here now man.”

Quill's dick slowly pushes in. Heat surges along the ring Joey's ass muscles make for it. He breathes deeply, turns the initial pain into fuel for his own cock. Quill gently slides in all the way. Soon, Joey's feeling nothing but good with every thrust.

While he's plowing, Quill stops working Joey's cock. But it doesn't matter. All he's gotta do is hold it. Joey's stick moves like a piston in his hand.

Heat in the factory builds. From the machines. From the two guys humping. Joey's all sweaty. Quill too. They glide against each other on the hard table, feel steady vibrations from the grinding machines bolted to the floor. Quill's knees press against Joey's, his free hand grabs a clump of wavy brown hair, pulling Joey's head back so Quill can tongue the pale ear.

More and more, the heat grows. Heat that melds Joey to Quill as they grind together, smelling their sweat mixed with factory funk, tasting salty skin with tongues that lick wherever they can reach. Quill turns Joey's head more. His hungry mouth seeks its match. Eagerly, Joey takes the lips, the tongue. He's thirsty too. He laps at Quill's mouth, needing the wetness he finds there.

Everything moves faster. His ass, his crotch, surge with energy. Energy from Quill, working him harder. Energy from the grinding machines, their engines racing to the limit. A knot grows deep in Joey's ass, in his dick that Quill keeps fingering like he's playing it.

“Too much man. You're fuckin' too much,” Joey moans.

Humming from the machinery turns into a growl. But the rough, animal sound comes from Quill, his mouth pressed against Joey's ear, building, relentless—like Quill's dick pumping faster, faster, racing like the machines, building too much heat, too much pressure for Joey to hold. And then he melts, flooding Quills hand, dripping onto the break table that smells of kerosene and steel.

Slowly, their breathing calms. Steadies. With his hand glued to Joey's crotch, Quill burrows against the other boy as they sink deep into shared sleep. The smell of saw dust and steel retreats. It's replaced by warm leather, drying sweat and cum. Gone as well, the rumbling factory noises. Everything falls silent.

In this stillness, Joey dreams he sleeps. He's aware somehow—from some watchful part of his mind—that the calm won't last.

And then he dreams he doesn't care.

 

© 2004 Lou Dellaguzzo - Contributor's Bio