Hard Top

HARD TOP
By Michael Williams
(Honcho.Sept.1981)

Dusty was hot stuff and he knew it. Young, lean, tall and torrid, he was a self-righteous ramshaft daddy who'd plug anything and anyone in a position to do him a favor here and there. His brain was small but his shank wasn't. Few dudes dated him just because they liked his mind. No, usually it was the eleven inch, forever-hard pillar that held the firm grasp of their erotic attention. Dusty was no Albert Einstein but he wasn't an amoeba either. He knew what he had and he had the know-how to use it. Some guys beat around the bush now and then. Dusty beat around everyone's bush, all the time. He was a caustic, venom-producing snake whose fangs were as deadly as they were satisfying. He was the ultimate dream fuck macho topman, who'd become just a little too convincing in his role.


The sun peered above the shabby horizons of a rundown apartment complex in East L.A. The neighborhood was reflective of every negative stereotype that ever existed about Los Angeles. It was tired, tacky, maliciously gaudy and a potpourri of poor examples with regards to the use of stucco. Dusty loved it. The neighborhood and he had a lot in common. The garbage trucks drove by every Tuesday and Thursday to pick up the trash sitting out in front of the dilapidated California cracker boxes. The trash that lived there was usually inside asleep. Dusty was a purely authentic, undereducated, inbred and illegitimate honky who had gotten nowhere in his life.

The young stud knew that he had only one chance to get out of the Appalachian-like ghetto in which he existed. He was aware of the fact that the opportunity was eleven inches long and dangled back and forth between his legs like the pendulum on a tall grandfather's clock. Games were great for the rich and okay for the middleclass. But when you're poor, and especially when you're poor white trash, there's no time for games. You've got to learn how to use what you've got to get what you need. If you hesitate, even for an instant, you can be sure that somebody else will rush in with a comparable product.

Fuckin' and cars — that was all Dusty knew about. He was a pretty good mechanic but an excellent lay. He could only tune two engines a day but he was able to easily screw five men in a night. His energy never ceased and his meat was hard more often than it was soft. The man was a walking pillar of passion, a six foot tall stud with a dynamic rafter that could pound, pound, pound from sunrise to sunset. If he was ever going to get to the top of the ladder, Dusty knew he'd have to fuck his way up. Undoubtedly, he was ready for the climb.

"I don't screw girls, they get pregnant," he told the mailman. "I just put it to men, straight, gay or bisexual, I don't give a damn. Spread the word on your route. Tell your single male occupants that you know where they can rent eleven inches of the hardest, thickest meat in L.A. For every John you get me, I'll give you ten percent of the take."

"I don't know what to say," the old conservative postal employee replied.

"Say yes, pops, and we'll both be eatin' out at fancy restaurants on Saturday night."

"Yes," the mailman responded. "Hell, why not?" They shook on the deal.

Dusty called the garage early on Tuesday morning. He was two months behind in his bill and was surprised they hadn't shut off his phone by now.

"I won't be in today, Mitch," he told his boss.

"You sick, boy?"

"No, I ain't sick. It's just a nice day out today and I don't want to spend it suckin' grease under some wreck."

"Yeah?" his boss replied, annoyed. "How'd ya like to spend today on the unemployment line?"

"How'd you like to watch your gas station burn this evening?" Dusty had a point.

"I'll be in tomorrow, Mitch."

"Okay," Mitch replied reluctantly, "okay."

Dusty worked on his own rundown wreck for half of the afternoon. Then he fell asleep on top of the hood, the color of his jeans almost blending into the blue-gray finish of the car. His ass was a study in taut mounds of rigid flesh. It was the fantasy butt that rarely got plugged. It took big bucks to cop a slide between those cakes. The hole was tight and sported a sphincter as tense from attitude as it was from lack of use. Topmen are like that. They'll stuff you for nine hours in a row but try to roll them over and you'd think it was the end of the world. Dusty rolled over, in fact, once you'd let go of your wallet. It was somewhat amazing how fast you could get a little slack from those humpy haunches.

Dusty was awakened by the ringing of the phone in the kitchen of his shabby apartment. He dragged his sweaty body down from the hood of the car. He answered the phone on the ninth ring.

"Yeah?"

"Dusty?"

"Yeah—"

"Dusty, this is Mark."

"Yeah?"

"Can't you say anything but yeah?"

"Yeah — I mean, sure — "

"Listen, are you doing anything this afternoon?"

"I can fuck you, Mark, but it's seventy five this time."

"Seventy five? It's always been fifty."

"I know but inflation's making the cost of everything go up."

"God — seventy five."

"Look, Mark. If it's too much for you, maybe you'd better call somebody else."

"No — no, it's okay. When can you come over?"

"I'll be over in fifteen minutes."

"No, I mean I need a little time. My mother's in the other room and she's staying for lunch."

Fifteen minutes or forget it, Mark. You decide what you want most, lunch with mommy or eleven inches of my meat up your ass."

"Okay, I'll get rid of her. See you in fifteen minutes."

Dusty was only successful at being a completely insensitive pig because his johns loved it and put up with it.

He really didn't give a fuck if he ever saw any of them again. It was a job to him, a part time source of extra money that he could earn quickly and fairly easily. When they were really ugly, he'd close his eyes and pretend they were someone else. His regular clients were faithful to him. He never stole from them and he always gave a good performance. He was a jack handle; the cold, heavy crowbar rod that rammed into the neck of a hoist, the interchangeable tool-for-the-tool without which the greater machine could not function.

Dusty saw Mark's mother's car pulling out of the driveway as he zoomed up in front of the smart suburban ranch house and screeched to a quick stop.

"Hi, Dusty, come on in. Would you like a drink?"

The young, hot-to-cop-bucks stud said nothing. He just pushed the middle-aged gentleman down onto the sofa and ripped off the client's worn out pair of faded corduroy pants. Before the john could object to anything, Dusty had his meat out and was getting ready to ram. Mark screamed as the giant throbbing rod was abruptly stuffed into him. Dusty was accustomed to the loud moans and groans. They come with the territory. The two fucking men rolled off the sofa and onto the thick brown carpeting on the floor. Dusty rammed and jabbed the tight quivering ass of the bottomed dude for almost forty five minutes. Suddenly, Mark came and shot thick rivers of gelatinous sperm into the dense pile carpeting. Abruptly, Dusty pulled out. He could go for hours without coming and he liked to save the load when he could.

"That's seventy five," Dusty said callously as he stood up and zipped his fly.

"Let me catch my breath for Christ's sake," Mark responded.

"Catch it later, man. Just give me the bread and let me fly."

Mark handed over the handful of cash and in seconds Dusty was screeching around the corner on his way to purchase a little snow from his favorite coke connection.

"Let me fuck ya for the snow," Dusty said to the hot blond dealer that sat across from him at the table.

"I'd rather have the money," the number responded.

"Money? Hell, man — what about love?"

"I'd rather have the money. I'm good looking and I can get fucked for free." Dusty laughed and forked over the seventy five he'd just earned.

"I had to screw somebody to get this bread."

"So? I had to eat out a fat Mexican woman to get this cocaine."

"Can't get an ounce of sympathy from you, can I?"

"Now, now, Dusty. You can get an ounce of whatever you want from me, if you're willing to pay for it."

"You're an asshole, Bud," he said to the handsome dude.

"Yeah? Some folks tell me that's the best part of the anatomy."

Dusty rolled up a dollar bill, placed it over his right nostril and sucked down two lines of the finely ground powder. He reversed the tube and repeated the process with his left nostril. He laid back and felt the familiar wave of chilling numbness sweeping up into his nose and across the paths of his sinuses. His heartbeat quickened slightly and soothing waves of warmth encircled his nipples and embraced the long shaft of his cock. Cocaine — he thought it was the best thing since money. The chic, temporary escape from boredom that painted waves of blue around doorways and shifted his idling libido into first gear.

"Not bad shit," he said to Bud.

"Bud only gets the best, Dusty."

"I didn't say it was the best, I said it wasn't bad."

"Bullshit. If you didn't like it you'd be raising the roof screaming rip-off by now."

"There ain't a trace of humanity in your fuckin' ass is there, man?"

"Not a trace," Bud responded, grinning. "Not a trace."

Bud waited patiently. He knew that the coke would get Dusty's gonads working and soon he'd have the rod at no extra charge. He was right. Within five minutes, a huge voracious mound arose within the young hustler's jeans. Bud did nothing. He waited for Dusty to be overcome with passion. Finally the mechanic's long, stiff arm slowly made its way to the firm golden ass of the young coke dealer.

"Hey," Bud protested, "I'm not buying nothin' like that from you."

"Consider it a gift," Dusty said as he edged over towards the young blond Adonis and placed a hot, wet kiss on the boy's soft ashen lips. Bud pushed his tongue into Dusty's mouth and the two slid quietly onto the floor. Bud unzipped Dusty's jeans and pulled forth the young stud's cock. He wrapped his lips around the eleven inch pillar and gave Dusty the best head he'd ever had. Long, slow, methodic strokes. He made the hustler groan the way Dusty made his johns groan.

Soon they were naked on the warm wooden floor. Dusty got on top of the young coke dealer and slowly shoved his meat deeply into the boy's tight, perfectly formed asshole. Bud's fingers tightened up and he clawed at the floor as the long, stiff shank was plunged all the way into his butt.

Cocaine waves spread throughout their bodies. Sensual rhythms of drug-induced warmth set their passions on fire.

For nearly two hours, they kissed and sucked, rammed and shoved, moaned and groaned. They came together in a long, almost painful surge of erotic madness. They emitted seemingly endless rivers of hot white sperm that shot in all directions and covered their faces and hands. Then, they collapsed on the floor in a coked-out daze, exhausted but too stoned to sleep.

Soon, night fell.

"Gotta go," Dusty said. "Gotta get my ass outta here."

"You can stay," Bud replied.

"Thanks, man, but I have to go."

Dusty was unnerved by the long, sensual lovemaking session. He didn't like allowing himself to get near to someone emotionally. Tenderness was not on his agenda. Bud had been a friend of his for a while and they'd been to bed a few times. The continual ascension to close-ness was causing Dusty some concern. He was a loner and he liked worrying about himself first and the rest of the world second. Still he knew that in some way, Bud had been able to touch a part of him that no man ever had. It was perhaps his first and only true encounter with anything that even remotely resembled love.

As Dusty walked out onto the silent, naked streets of suburban Southern California, a car zoomed out of nowhere with the speed of light. Before he could even contemplate stepping back on the curb, he was hit. Bud ran out of the house in a panic when he heard the squealing tires and loud thump. He arrived in time to see the anonymous black car peeling off into the distant darkness. The accident was obviously deliberate. It could have been the work of Dusty's employer, tired of the young punk's incessant sarcasm and simultaneously afraid to fire him. The car could have been hired by an angry trick anxious to one-up Dusty on his own callousness.

Bud rushed to the curb, picked Dusty up and carried him into the house. He was dead. It seemed so sudden, so abrupt, so senseless. Death often is. Dusty had tried too hard, stepped on too many toes. Everyone's got to climb the ladder but when you ascend too fast, it can be dangerous. In fact, it can be deadly.