The Black Train

He tried to snap out of his warped sex-daze and say something. “I look forward to it…”

“Most folks don’t know a lot of things ’bout how people lived back then.” Speaking of this clearly enlivened her, her eyes even brighter now in the bagged lids.

But Collier’s brain continued to ooze the dirtiest thoughts. He imagined closing his hands over the plump breasts, which were surely as firm as grapefruits.

Then he winced at himself and ordered his mind off the subject. He turned quickly…

A large oil painting hung on the sidewall: a stern-faced man in coattails and muttonchops. His expression looked preoccupied and unpleasant. “Who’s that?”

Mrs. Butler’s craggy face seemed to grow more craggy when he asked. “That’s the man who built the house your two feet are standin’ in right now. Mr. Harwood Gast. The most famous man to ever live in this town.”

“The town’s founder, I presume.”

Why did she seem perturbed now? “No, sir. The town was originally called Branch Landing.”

“Same as your bed-and-breakfast. But…I don’t understand.” Without conscious forethought, his eyes were back to roving the richly curved body tight in the cotton garments. Jesus…

“The town was called Branch Landing ’cos three main roads branched out from it, to three major rail cities. But when Harwood Gast arrived with all his cotton money—and his damn railroad—the townsfolk were all too happy to rename the place in his honor. This house, in fact, was called the Gast House until the day I bought it from my uncle. See, he was related to the folks who bought the place in 1867. But the minute I took over here, I changed the name of the inn.”

The words floated. Collier, ignoring the woman’s old face, was rapt again on the filled bosom, and obsessed with the idea of what they must look like nude. But as the image percolated, he finally became aware of this strange taint of his character.

What the hell is wrong with me! he yelled at himself. At once he felt ashamed. I’m lusting after an OLD LADY, for God’s sake! Get your head on straight, you pervert! Then he shoved his attentions back to her discourse.

She changed the name, he thought. Why? “I’m still a bit confused. This entire town is a Civil War attraction. Why not call your bed-and-breakfast the Gast Inn? It seems to make the most commercial sense to keep the name of the town’s most famous figure, doesn’t it?”

Sullenness fell over the old woman like a cloud’s shadow. “No, Mr. Collier, and I’ll tell ya why. Harwood Gast weren’t just the town’s most famous figure. He was also the town’s most evil figure.” II

Another day, another hustle, the young man thought but then he said, “That’s it, bitch. You’re learnin’.”

The fat man, on his knees, moaned in anguish, his head going back and forth at the young man’s bare crotch. Tears flowed from squeezed-shut eyes—tears of joy.

The sun glowed on the younger man’s bare back; he always took his shirt off for this one. Sweat made the muscled lines gleam. He wasn’t attracted to the fat man at all, of course, which is why he filled his head with images of Hollywood’s most preeminent men: Cruise, Pitt, Crowe. It was always necessary when his “job” required him to perform in this rather opposite fashion. But no amount of fantasy could shut down the reality. The man so urgently fellating him was nothing to look at—and close to sixty—and whenever he opened his eyes, Pitt’s chiseled visage turned into the fat man’s bald head. Gotta get this over with. He grabbed the man’s fat jowls and pushed his mouth off, then began to masturbate…

“Yeah, that’s right, honey, you like that, don’t’cha? Yeah, you got some BIG fat tits on ya. Next time I just might have me a tittie-fuck as much fat as you got.”

“Oh, God, yes!” The fat man paused and sobbed.

A minute later, the deed was done, and the fat man—his face splattered—fell back into the grass, moaning.

“How’d ya like that, ya big fat bitch?”

“I-I simply adore you…”

The younger man stepped back in the sun. Poor fucked-up bastard, he thought. He’d made a mess of the fat man’s mustache and Vandyke.

“Game’s over,” the younger man said, hitching up his jeans.

“I-I adore you…”

“Aw, come on now. You know the rules. I gotta go.”

“But—please. Just—”

The gleaming washboard abdomen flexed when the younger man pulled his tight T-shirt back on. “Huh?”

Sheepish, embarrassed. “You know.”

The younger man frowned. “Oh, yeah.” He stepped forward and—

ccccccur-HOCK!

—spat in the fat man’s face.

“Oh, God! Thuh—thank you!”

I HATE turning tricks like this, the younger man thought. Now that he was done, he gazed across the sweeping field. Trace breezes shifted the miles of belthigh rye grass. He’d heard that during the Civil War, Gast’s plantation tracts took up thousands of acres: cotton, soybeans, and corn, mostly. Now it was just green wasteland, and he knew why. But he was not quite complex enough to realize how securely he was standing on a plot of significant American history.

The fat man was still on his knees, crying.

Aw, Jesus! “Why don’t’cha git up now? I need to be gettin’ back.”

Chopped sobs hacked out the words, “But you’re so important to me! I couldn’t live without you!”

Pain in the ass. The younger man only understood a little of this. Usually they pay me to do the sucking, not to GET sucked. Had he been more learned, he’d know that the sexual psychology of some folks was quite skewed. Debasement, like masochism, for instance, served a strange toggle in the mind that had been conditioned for years (since childhood, often) such that what tended to turn most people off—ugliness, abuse, exploitive behavior—lit the fuse of arousal. Oh, well. He didn’t particularly like the overweight bald man, but he similarly didn’t enjoy treating him like sexual garbage. He’d heard somebody talking once about this guy a long time ago named Hitler, who was, like, the king of Germany, and this guy couldn’t even get aroused unless a gal shat on him. The younger man guessed something similar was going on here. Weird, he thought. “Come on now, let’s git. Oh, and where’s my money?”

The quivering, plump hand held it out, a personal check for thirty dollars.

“Thanks,” the younger man said.

“Let’s go to lunch,” came more hacked sobs. “Anywhere you want.”

“Naw. Got business.”

Wet eyes implored him. “At least, at least tell me I do it better than your lover…”

A futile exhalation. “You do fine, that’s for sure,” came the overly generous charity. Actually, it was mediocre work. “But I told you, I ain’t got no lover, and I don’t never get attached in somethin’ like this. You know that. This deal’s gotta be like what we agreed. One thing in exchange for another. Right?”

Dismally, the fat man nodded.

“Here, lemme help ya up,” the younger man offered. He grabbed a fat hand. Ooof! Ya damn near weigh more than a fuckin’ washer’n dryer! Once up, the guy wouldn’t let go of his hand. Ain’t nothin’ worse than a mushy fag. He pulled away.

The fat man stared, tears still streaming. “I’d do anything for you…”

Oh, man! The younger man knew he needed to be careful. After all, this was good money for fast work. “Look, I can tell you’re out’a sorts right now, so I’m gonna take off. I’ll walk back. But just you stay here a while and calm down, git yourself together. You don’t wanna be going back to town all cryin’ like ya are. And wipe that mess off your face.”

A jowly nod, a handkerchief across the eyes, lips, and Vandyke.