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"Measuring Cornfields, Part 2"

OK, so it's summer again and I'm looking for work, and my dad's one- armed uncle, who used to be a farmer -- no kidding -- says to me, "Come on over to the Employment Office," which is where he works now, "We'll fix you up with something." And when I get there, he's all smiles (happiest guy in the whole family) and holds out his left hand for a handshake, his right one lost in a corn picker years ago.

I'm dressed in sport coat and tie, hoping for maybe a desk job in a quiet office. What he's got for me are two construction jobs and one for a farm hand. All good ones he's been holding back for me, he says smiling, take my pick.

What I take is the path of least resistance. I know farm work, having learned to drive a tractor when my legs were barely long enough to reach the pedals. I know construction, too, and as physical labor goes, prefer the solitude (some would call it boring solitude) of tilling row crops, irrigation, and haying. And anyway, construction workers just want to give you a hard time because you're a college kid.

Besides, this job offers meals and a room, and all I've got going in that department is a couch and use of the kitchen at my dad's trailer. So I think, what the hell, and my smiling great-uncle writes me up for the farm job. "Real nice guy," he says. "Not much older than you. I think you'll like working for him."

When he hands me the paperwork, I take a look at the name of this real nice guy, and I realize it's somebody I know -- got real familiar with, you might say -- the summer before, when I was measuring cornfields for the Agricultural Stabilization Commission Service.

I wait until that night to call him because, as it turns out, the he's got a day job hauling milk for Fair Acres, the local dairy. He drives a tank truck that makes the rounds picking up bulk milk from farmers. I know all about this because my dad used to milk cows.

"Mike," I say, when he answers, "I'm calling about the job." And we talk awhile, but I'm getting the idea he doesn't know who I am or even remember me. I'm a little hurt, you could say, because I haven't forgotten him. Have gone to sleep many a night since, with one sweaty palm around my dick and the image of him in my head.

We agree to meet the next morning, early, before he goes to work. He'll get me started cultivating corn and meet me later in the day to go over more of the details.

Next day, when the alarm goes off in the proverbial darkness before dawn, I roll off the couch and into my socks and Levi's. The fluorescent light in the kitchen glares down on me as I take my lunch pail out of the refrigerator, grab a denim jacket from the coat rack and head for the door. I wake up some time later, driving out of town on Highway 30, a thin layer of clouds in the east turning every shade of pink there is.

Mike has his Farmall gassed up and running when I get there; it's rigged with a 4-row cultivator. I'm parking beside his dusty black GMC pickup, and he's on the tractor, working the hydraulic controls, raising and lowering the cultivator. He jumps down when he sees me coming, and he's just like I remember him, only he's grown a beard, and he looks a little spiffier in his brand new Wranglers, tan work boots, and a blue Fair Acres cap and shirt with his name "Mike" stitched over one pocket. And, of course, there's his big grin -- a grin he must have for everybody, it comes so easy. He shakes my hand, and I try to match the strength of his grip.

Mike's dog, some kind of setter, looks at me like I'm an old friend, but from Mike there's still no sign of recognition.

"Think you can operate this?" he wants to know, and I assure him I could do it blindfolded, which of course I almost can.

He starts me out in a field that comes right up behind the barn. I hop up beside him, hanging onto the fender, trying hard as hell not to slip off and into the machinery, and he starts across the field, dropping the cultivator blades between the corn rows, throwing up dirt around the stalks to cover the weeds. There's nothing more to cultivating than this. You only have to stay awake so you don't drift to one side and tear up the corn, go too fast and cover it up, or hang up the cultivator in the fence when you make turns at the end of the field.

I'm watching him -- my heart in this excited little rhythm -- his shoulder muscles working under his shirt as he steers the tractor, his shiny oval belt buckle over the folds of dark blue denim in his crotch, snug jeans pulling tight over his thighs as he works the foot pedals. I glance now and then at his face, the thick dark beard covering his cheeks from ear to ear. He's let his hair grow, too, dark curls sticking out around his cap. He may know I'm checking him out, but his concentration is totally on what he's doing. He glances my way only once, shouting something, which I can't make out over the decibels from the tractor engine.

At the far end, he pops the cultivator out of the ground, executes a neat turn and then drops it again into the next four rows. He stops, throttles back the engine, and we swap places. I feel the warmth of his butt, radiating from the seat as I sit down. And while he rides beside me, I keep my eyes on the corn. Not that I have to. I get the feel of the tractor right away, and it all comes back to me. You know, like riding a bicycle. But it's his corn, and I don't want him to think I'm going to get careless and fuck up.

"Nice job," he says when we get to the other end. "I think you're gonna work out fine." I love praise and probably beam like an idiot. He's already hopped down and is looking up at me, hands on his hips. He's blinking into the early morning sun and explaining that he'll meet me in town at the B&E for lunch. ("Dinner," he says, of course, which is what they call it here. The word "lunch" would not signify a meal large enough for a man doing a man's work.) He'll find out how things are going, and we'll talk about the rest of the job.

"You're the boss," I tell him.

He likes that, turns to go, and then turns back to me still watching him walk away. "Weren't you the one here last year measuring corn?" he says.

I nod. "That was me."

"Kinda thought so," he says, gives me that grin again, waves a little, stepping back, and then turns and heads for his truck. I want to watch him in those Wranglers every step of the way, but figure I'll probably get a chance for that again this summer, and swing the rig around to head back across the field. Not so neatly as Mike. But not the maneuver of a rank amateur either. I'm fairly pleased with myself.

You already know what the rest of the morning is like. Back and forth across that field. As the sun gets higher and hotter, I shed my jacket, I open my shirt and pull out my shirt tails. I'm wearing a western straw hat, the brims rolled up on the sides. I stop for 15 minutes midmorning, take off my shirt entirely, and eat the ham and cheese sandwich in my lunch pail. I'm still hungry when I'm done. Mike's dog, Rusty, waits at the end of the field, watching me, and when it gets hot enough heads somewhere else looking for shade.

At the stroke of noon, I'm pulling into the parking lot at the B&E, a truck stop along Highway 30 with big semis parked everywhere, a garage full of mechanics, and a diner with what would be called "picture windows" where, if you're lucky, you can sit and take in the view of passing traffic, the gas pumps, and a weedy open field bounded on the far side by the Union Pacific railroad tracks.

Mike is inside, sitting on a stool at the counter. He's already started into his food -- chicken-fried steak on a slice of white bread with mashed potatoes, all covered with brown gravy. He's washing it down with coffee. I sit next to him.

"Order anything you like," he says. "It's on me."

A waitress, Doreen as I later learn, is pouring me coffee and handing me a menu. Mike wants to know how the morning went; he mentions some other things he'll be wanting me to do; and then he stops talking, just stuffing food into his face, one arm on the counter, chewing steadily, and waving to the waitress to top up his coffee.

When my food comes, he finally says, "You know, that night last summer. We got kinda carried away. I don't want you to think that's part of the job."

I don't know what to say. I swallow. "Don't worry about it," I tell him and try to make it sound like something I've never thought twice about. (Yes, I hate myself when I do this.)

He seems relieved. "So that's understood." Then he goes on "Now, there's an extra bed, and it comes with the job if you want it I'll throw in meals, too."

I think a little, and say what I've been thinking all along. "Yeah, I can do that."

"Good, you can move in tonight," he says.

And that's exactly what happens. About 5:00, when Mike comes home, I knock off and head into town to get my stuff. Most of it still in my duffel bag from school. I leave a note for my dad, who's a nice enough guy but will probably be glad I won't be underfoot and taking up space there all summer.

Back at the farm, there's one of those long, lingering summer twilights hanging in the trees, and Mike is out in the barn, with his friend Ed's horse, Ranger, who's been watching me off and on all day from the field next to the corn I've been working. Mike is scratching Ranger's forehead and talking to him. He's changed out of his Fair Acres outfit into a pair of torn jeans, an old sweatshirt with the arms ripped off, and cowboy boots. A couple of barn cats are rubbing against his legs and purring

Mike says if I'm hungry there's Col. Sanders on the kitchen table and pie and ice cream. Help myself. Which I do. Then I take a shower, and when I get out, wrapped in a towel, I find him in the darkened living room, his feet up, watching something on TV, and patting Rusty, who's stretched out on the floor beside his armchair

"I put all your stuff in that side bedroom," he says "You look like you're ready to call it a day."

I'm bushed, all right, and when he turns back to the TV, I say goodnight and head for my room. The bed beats my dad's couch by a mile, and I'm stretched out naked and still damp, feeling a bit of a breeze crossing from one open window to another. Mike has no A/C.

I wake up some time later, moonlight in the windows, and the house silent. It's that utter country silence; the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. It's so quiet I can hear Mike down the hall, snoring softly in his sleep.

There's not that weird feeling you get waking up in some new place. I know exactly where I am, and I also realize I haven't really been sleeping. Now, in fact, I'm wide awake, and the reason I'm awake is that my Dick is hard as rock, so hard it's sticking up from my belly, throbbing with my heartbeat, making jerky twitches whenever I think about it. All over, I feel warm and prickly -- too much sun maybe -- nerves synapsing everywhere just under the skin. I'm thinking, Walt Whitman once wrote, "I sing the body electric." This must be what he was talking about.

I lie like this for an hour. Maybe more. Every effort to doze off brings me around minutes later. I roll over, punch my pillow, curl up, stretch out, nothing helps. I'm still hard. My skin is still singing.

Finally I get up. I'm walking to the kitchen, thinking what I need is a glass of cold water. Maybe even pour one over my Dick The door to Mike's bedroom is open, and I stop just outside, listening to his steady breathing. Peering into the darkness, without my glasses, I finally make out his form in the big waterbed.

I go on to the kitchen and decide not to search for a light switch or rummage in the cupboards for a glass. Moonlight pours through a window over the sink, and I bend over to drink straight from the faucet, my Dick still stiff, bumping against the edge of the countertop. I hear the click of Rusty's toe nails coming across the kitchen floor, and then the touch of his cool, moist nose sniffing the back of my bare knees. I squat down, water drops falling from my chin onto my chest, and I scratch behind his floppy ears.

On the way back to my room, I pause again at Mike's door. I hear him stir, and then from the darkness his voice:

"Everything OK?"

"Can't sleep," I say.

"Got a problem?" he says.

Do I have a problem, he wants to know. Lumpy mattress? Too warm? Bad dreams? "Not really," I say, and before I know it, I'm walking across the room and sitting on the edge of his bed. I forget it's a waterbed and set off a wave that rolls out from under me and back.

Mike's lying on his side, facing me, one of his arms on the white sheet between us, in a dim patch of moonlight. "What's up?" he says.

I'm sorry, I can't pass up an opening like that. I take his hand, pulling it toward me, across my bare thigh, and press it between my legs. His fingers bump up against my Dick and then give it a friendly squeeze.

That's all the encouragement I need. I flip onto the bed, setting off more waves, and as the saying goes, I'm all over him.

I want to somehow touch all of him, all over, all at the same time. I've got my legs wrapped around him, my hands stroking his arms, back, chest, the soles of my feet rubbing his legs. I am kissing the side of his neck, sucking his nipples -- right, left, right, left -- running my fingers through his hair, opening my mouth against his beard and feeling the whiskers on my tongue, pressing my body against him, rocking from side to side.

"Hey, Tiger, whoa," Mike is saying. He twists around so he's lying flat under me, and his arms reach around me. I feel one hand stroking my back and the other gripping me by the ribs. "Hey, buddy, take it easy," he keeps saying.

I'm pushing down and bucking hard with my Dick against his boxers, and then I'm rearing straight up and shooting cum all over him. It's a genuine cowboy six-shooter, one blast after another, until I'm finally out of ammo, just the aftershocks and reverberations echoing off canyon walls a mile away.

I ease back down again, breathing hard, lying on top of him, his hairy chest and belly all wet and slippery under me, my face buried in his shoulder. His arms are still around me, hugging me, one hand kind of patting my butt.

"Man," he says, "do you always come that fast?"

My body has stopped singing now. It's just kind of humming, like it could hum itself to sleep. I feel Mike lift one arm, and a light over the headboard pops on.

"I wanna see what you look like," he says. He shifts and I slide off him to one side.

"Kinda cute without your glasses," he grins.

I mutter something and move farther away, covering my face. He slaps his hand on my wet stomach, spreading around gobs of cum and sweat. I feel his rough calluses on my baby-ass skin. Then he reaches down to my Dick, still full and stretched out over my leg.

"Looks good for another go," he says. And he bends down to my Dick and sucks it into his mouth with a pop. I roll farther backward, practically falling out of the bed. And he lets me hang there, one arm and shoulder over the side, as he begins to work his mouth and tongue over what feels like whole acres of nerve ends between my legs. I've had one blow job that lasted all of 10 seconds and another that happened in my sleep, but this finally is the real thing. In seconds I'm breathing hard again.

When I can't stand it anymore, I work my way out from under him and with some leverage push him onto his back. He's not putting up much of a fight anyway. I look at him in the soft light of the bed lamp, the hair on his chest and belly matted and wet.

"What was all that about this not being part of the job?" I ask.

"Shit," he says, "I was just waiting for you to make the first move."

His Dick is moving around stiff in his boxers, and I pull them down to get a close look. Without my glasses, this requires a really close look, and as I get my nose right down to the thick chunk of his Dick and the nest of thick dark hair around it, I'm breathing in the smell of him, feeling the glow from his skin, and I bury my face in his crotch, all warm, and damp, and soft, and hard, and hairy.

I glance up at him and he's grinning down at me. "Well?" he says.

And then I do it. I suck my first cock. The taste is the biggest surprise. I'm not expecting salty. And I'm not expecting firm and spongy, not both at the same time. I'm not expecting so big either. My mouth is full and I haven't got half of him.

"No, no, no!" Mike is laughing. "Not that way."

I stop whatever I'm doing.

"I know it looks like a hot dog, but it's not to eat."

I try it again, without teeth.

"That's better," Mike is saying. "Have you ever done this before?"

"Hm-mhunh," I shake my head, not letting his Dick out of my mouth.

"Aw, heck" Mike says, reaching down to ruffle my hair "I didn't know that." And, what a guy, he coaches me for a while, giving pointers, do this, now try that, yes, real good, getting better. It's Cocksucking 101. The guy's a born teacher.

Then he takes a turn on me again. "Are you watching?" he says, giving me yet another demo. "You can't see with your eyes shut."

Finally, after a half hour or more of this, and my head is so full it's swimming, he jumps up, grabs me by the ankles, drags me off my pillow, and then hoists up my legs so they're bent back over my head. "Pay real close attention to this," he's saying. First I feel his beard against my ass, and then I'm ready to swear he's got his tongue in my butt. The tears are practically rolling from my eyes.

"What are you doing?" I gasp.

"Nice, huh?" he says, and I can feel him mumbling something else into my crack, which makes my toes curl.

He works up to my balls and sucks on them, all the time exploring whatever he can reach with his fingers. Then letting my legs down over his shoulders, he's going to town on my Dick again. By now there's no holding back, and with my hips lifting totally off the bed, I'm coming again, this time in his mouth, and he's sucking me dry. Not a drop escapes.

I fall back like a sack of Purina feed and drop into something approaching a coma. Every nerve has gone on hold, and I'm deep in a dreamless sleep.

I come to some time later, feeling the waterbed rippling under me in a steady rhythm. The light is off again, and there is only the dim presence of Mike lying beside me, still awake, and working his cock with one hand. The thought comes to me that with his help I've come twice tonight, and I haven't done much of anything for him but sink my teeth into his Dick

I put my hand on his. He's gripping his cock and making quick short movements, and I go to bend down to him, my mouth already open for him. But he pushes me back, without a word, and presses his body against me, bringing his face to mine, and giving me the biggest, hungriest, wettest kiss I've ever had. And as long as it takes him to come, my mouth is full of his whiskery lips, his teeth, and his tongue pushing against mine. If we'd been chewing gum, I'd have lost track of whose was whose.

When he comes, I feel it shooting up to my chin, warm and gooey and smelling rich and strong. The hand on his Dick reaches around me now to my backside, and he hugs me hard. I stay awake as his hold slowly loosens and his breathing settles again into his soft snore. When he rolls onto his back, I put my arm across his chest and feel his heart beating against my elbow.

Before long, the first birds begin to sing in the morning darkness outside. I lie there remembering that summer night a year ago, well under the influence and feeling no pain, and how for the span of a few conscious minutes, I loved him more than I'd ever loved anyone.

As I drift off, I'm feeling a little of that again now.

End of Part Two of Three Parts:
Measuring Corn Fields" Part 3

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