Neal wasn't the sort of guy people noticed much. He could walk through a room of people talking—even a room full of people he knew—and get to the other side without being greeted or noticed. He could have conversations with strangers and then the stranger wouldn't recognize him if they met again. He was a guy of no standout talents, no distinctive looks other than being smaller of stature than his age. He wasn't ugly; he was just plain and forgettable—and a little scrawny.
He also didn't excel at anything. Well, there were a couple of things, but these weren't anything you'd brag about in public.
He hadn't done well in high school and thus was studying auto mechanics at a vocational school instead of going to college. This wasn't really something that interested him all that much, though, so he didn't excel at that either. And he didn't really have many friends in vocational school. He'd had a few undesirable friends in high school, but they hadn't really been friends and they had taken advantage of his weakness and lack of self-respect and had been what had made him the butt of jokes and derision—so much so that he'd embraced his "nonpersonhood."
Still, he did have interests and desires. And that's what brought him into the big box bookstore in Warsaw, Indiana, on a summer Saturday afternoon. He wasn't from Warsaw, and it was important to him that he wasn't. He didn't really want to be known around here, although there wasn't much danger of that.
What it looked like was that he had gone to sleep standing in front of a book shelf, holding a book in his hand, way in the back of the store, oblivious to the funny looks people gave him as they wandered down the aisle. He didn't care what most people thought, though. He was interested in one particular kind of person.
"That the only copy of the book on the shelf?"
Neal turned his face to see who had asked about the book, John Rechy's classic gay journey book,
City of the Night
. That was the book Neal had been standing and holding for all to see in front of the gay and lesbian book section—just half of one shelf really—for more than thirty minutes. He took a deep breath and gave the young man a wan smile. He was more than Neal had hoped for. He looked like a construction worker who had just come off the job. A muscular Scandinavian type, not much taller than Neal was but built like a fireplug. The "coming off a job" look came from the cut-off jeans, muscle T, and heavy construction boots he was wearing.
"You want this one?" Neal asked, broadening his smile a bit.
"I'd like something, but not that," the young man said. "Something with more feel and bite in it than you'd find between the covers of a book. What d'ya think of that?"
"I think you should have whatever you want," Neal answered.
"Interested in going for a drive in my new truck?"
"Sure, why not?" Neal answered. And why not indeed? This was exactly why Neal had come a third of a way across the state of Indiana to stand in front of the gay and lesbian shelf in a big box bookstore.
The truck was a black and shiny Dodge Ram 2500 double cab model, all polished up like it was the guy's pride and joy, which was probably right. On the way to the truck, with the guy palming Neal's butt to guide him in the parking lot, the guy said his name was Chaz. He also was pretty clear about what he wanted and that he didn't want Neal to waste his time if that wasn't what he could have.
Neal introduced himself as an Indiana State University student named Jerry, home from Terre Haute on a short vacation—and said "no problem" to what Chaz said he wanted.
Neither of them believed the other as far as IDs.
Chaz drove the truck no more than four blocks before he nosed the Dodge Ram around to the back of a closed strip mall of five empty storefronts. He stopped the truck, reached over and palmed the back of Neal's head, and pulled him in for a short kiss. The kiss was short enough that it seemed like one fluid movement in which the palming hand moved Neal's head to Chaz' face and then down into Chaz' lap, where he had already unzipped himself.
As he fished his cock out of his shorts, he leaned back in the driver's seat and whispered a moaning, "Suck it, suck it, suck it, baby." With his head encased between Chaz' hands, Neal proceeded to do just that, having trouble opening wide enough for the dick. Chaz was built like a fireplug in equipment too—not long, but extra thick. Neal had some trouble covering the cock and gagged a bit as it pushed into his mouth cavity, but he kept at it. This is what he'd come to Warsaw for.
After a few minutes Chaz tightened his grip and pulled Neal's face out of his lap. "Geez, you've got a talented mouth," he gasped. "I want more, though, this time."
This time? Neal thought. I little chill of thrill went through his body. This wasn't just going to be a blow job and dumped out of the truck four blocks from his own car then, maybe.
Chaz opened the driver's door and rolled out of the vehicle. Turning, he grabbed Neal by the upper arm and pulled him out too.
Neal shuddered. He melted to rough.
Chaz slid Neal down the line of the shiny black Dodge to the tailgate, which he unlatched and let fall, with a bang. There was a pile of gunny sacks on the bed of the truck, which Chaz quickly fanned out. With a jerk, he pulled Neal's T-shirt over his head and tossed it into the bed of the truck.
"What the fuck?" he exclaimed. He jerked Neal's shorts down off his legs. "What the fuck is this?" he exclaimed again.
"Try it, you'll like it."
"A slip? You're wearing a woman's slip."
And Neal was. It was a black silky number, with lace cut into the plunging neckline and spaghetti straps holding it on Neal's shoulders.
"Don't it make you feel horny? Feel how silky it is. You can have a lot of new fantasies with this," Neal said in a husky whisper. "You feel horny, don't 'cha?" He was cupping Chaz' balls. Chaz hadn't bothered to push his cock back into his shorts or zip back up while he was pulling Neal out of the front seat.
