Hardly Working

HARDLY WORKING
By Mario Mangiacazzo
(Honcho.Oct.1983)

It started every goddam morning at eight thirty — the shattering din of the
pneumatic drill as it chewed up chunks of sidewalk outside my bedroom window. It
drove me out of bed, pursued me around my apartment while I hastily made some
instant coffee and then showered, and finally chased me out of my building and
onto the street. The clatter was of course, even worse outside. In front of my
building four construction workers, two of whom were operating those fucking
drills, were gouging a huge hole that extended from the sidewalk out to the
middle of the street. Heaps of dirt and broken pavement surrounded the hole; red
and white plastic cones marked off the construction area.


I hurried past the site, scowling and gritting my teeth against the sonic
assault. This had been going on for a week. 1 had no idea why the men were
excavating the sidewalk and part of the street, nor did I particularly care. All
I knew was that every morning I could expect to be awakened by that inhuman,
violent racket. In my more paranoid moments, I wondered whether it was all
deliberately done to drive me bonkers. The work would most likely end as
unexpectedly as it had begun, but who knew when that would be?

I crossed the street, looking back at the construction site while entertaining
vicious fantasies of the workers buried in the hole up to their necks. These
thoughts skipped right out of my head when I noticed that one of the workers
wielding the drills was stripped to the waist. His broad back, which tapered
down to a slim waist, was streaked with sweat and grime, and it vibrated as if
he were doing some frenzied, shake-your-booty disco stomp. Not bad, I thought,
not bad at all. I walked slower and craned my neck back so that I could study
him some more. He obligingly — and I'm sure unintentionally — turned to the
side, giving me a clear view of his naked torso. Oh shit, I muttered to myself.
How come I never noticed this guy before? I had been so pissed off about the
noise that I had failed to see this hunk working right outside my door, every
day.

He wasn't tall, probably no more than five eight or nine. His torso was a
gleaming, hairless expanse of well defined muscle. A thick but not ungainly
neck, big shoulders, and juicy, tanned pecs topped with small brown nipples. A
thin line of black hair bisected his belly and disappeared inside his dusty
jeans, which hung down past his navel. As he gripped the crossbar of the drill,
his entire torso tensed and rippled. His silver hardhat shaded most of his face,
but I could make out a strong, cleft chin, an evenly trimmed black moustache and
a broad-bridged, slightly bulbous nose. I figured him to be either Italian or
Hispanic. By now I'd given up any pretence of walking to the subway. Instead I
just stood on the sidewalk, staring at him from across the street. Maybe he
could feel my eyeballs burning little laser holes into his flesh, because he
suddenly turned and looked in my direction. Our eyes made contact.

He stared hard, his full lipped mouth stretching into a suggestive, knowing
smile. Flus-tered, I turned away and started walking. My face felt flushed and
my briefcase handle stuck to my sweaty hand. My hard dick was poking straight
down against the inside of my thigh. The head and part of the shaft had slipped
through the leg of my boxer shorts, and the rubbing of my stiffened exposed meat
against the rough fabric of my chinos was driving me crazy. I painfully turned
the corner of Third Avenue and Sixty Eighth Street, hoping no one would notice
my distress.

I glanced down at my crotch and to my chagrin I saw a wet, spreading stain about
the size of a quarter.

I clutched my briefcase in front of me, trying to keep the evidence of my
dripping dick out of public view. People were streaming in and out of the subway
entrance; I joined the quick stepping flow and hurried down the steps into the
station. Before I got on the train I'd have to relieve myself, so I headed
toward the men's room hoping to find an empty stall where I could sit and beat
off — or better yet, join with the J.O. crowd at the urinals. Either way I had
to pop my rocks pronto or else suffer the entire twenty minute ride downtown
with an irrepressible, leaking rod in my pants. Damn that goddam hardhat, I
silently cursed. But when I reached the men's room, there was a red, white and
blue transit authority sign over the entrance announcing that all restrooms were
temporarily closed while the station was undergoing complete renovation. The
door was padlocked and chained. Add this to the already long list of indignities
of New York life — no jack off facilities for the horny commuter.

The subway ride was torment, just as I'd feared. All the seats on the train were
taken and the car was packed with harried, sweating straphangers. To make
matters worse, there were a number of very appealing men on the train, and
because of the overcrowding I was pressed up close against one of them, a tall,
dark haired athlete in sweatpants. I tried to contort my pelvis so that my
distended crotch wouldn't be pressing into his ample ass, but he misinterpreted
my exertions. He turned slightly, gave me a strange look, and then pushed his
way through the crowd towards the rear of the car. Fuck him, I thought.

Once I arrived at work, I headed straight for the john. I slipped inside an
unoccupied stall, undid my belt and pulled down my pants and shorts. My poor
aggrieved dick sprang up and slapped against my belly. It was swollen and it had
turned an inflamed crimson. The knobby head was wet with pre-cum. I plopped my
bare ass on the toilet seat and with the image of the construction worker fixed
in my mind's eye, I furiously pumped my reddened meat until the wide cock slit
spat out gobs of creamy cum. Now totally spent, I slumped forward on the toilet,
my head hanging between my shoulders. The cooling cum oozed down my wilting dick
and onto my fingers.

Even though I had gotten my rocks off, I spent the remainder of the morning in a
distracted, sex hungry state. I kept thinking about that hard hat laboring in
front of my apartment building — the way his muscles rippled while he worked the
power drill, the tracing of hair on his tight belly, the tantalizing smile he
had given me. I realized that although I dreaded the nerve wracking noise that
erupted outside my window every morning, that sound would now signify more to me
than men at work. Its obnoxious cacophony would herald the presence of that dark
rugged stud who with a smile had insinuated himself into my fantasies.

Luckily it was the Friday before the long Memorial Day weekend, so the boss let
us out after lunch. I could have hung out downtown, maybe gone cruising in a bar
or on the streets, but instead I caught the subway home. I guess I don't need to
explain my reasons or what I expected to find once I arrived in my neighborhood.
My heart beat with an emphatic rhythm while I headed down Sixty Eighth Street.
And then I saw him, sitting with his three co-workers on a bench in the acre of
poured concrete and scrubby bushes that passed for a park. The men were eating
their lunches and my guy, who was still bare-chested, was chowing down on a
long, overstuffed hero sandwich. Pieces of chopped lettuce and other bits of his
hero kept falling into his lap; he just let the debris lay there while he
determinedly chomped away. He had taken off his hardhat and put it down next to
him on the bench; his hair was a wet tangle of dusty dark brown curls.

I paused for a second and then headed into the park. I sat on a bench directly
across from the one where my fantasy hunk and his buddies sat. I opened up my
New York Times and pretended to read, but all the while I was peering over the
top of the paper and watching the stud. He sat slightly hunched over, both arms
bent as he devoured his hero. I marvelled at those large veined biceps; I envied
the drops of sweat that trickled down his breastbone to his hard little belly.
His friends were also preoccupied with their lunches, but one guy, short and
husky and wearing a stained white t-shirt, jabbered away while he ate.

"So I sez ta huh, I sez, 'Angie, why doncha let me wear the fuckin' tickler when
we do it tanight? It'll be great, it'll drive ya wild.' So ya know what she sez
to me? She sez, 'Jerry, I don't wancha to wear that thing. It makes me laugh.'
So I sez ta huh, 'What? It makes ya laugh? Shit, it's `sposed ta make ya feel
good, but not make ya laugh, fer Chrissakes!' And she sez to me, 'Jerry, I can't
help it, but I swear ta God, when ya put that thing on it makes ya cock look
like one a the Muppets!' Can ya beat that! One a the fuckin' Muppets!"

The other guys snickered, except for my man, who kept tearing away at his
sandwich. The raconteur continued his story. "One a the fuckin' Muppets!" he
repeated. "Here I am with this wild French tickler — ya know, the kind with the
ribs and the little knob at the head, all set ta t'row a dynamite fuck inta the
ol' lady, an' she starts laughin'!"

"So whadja do, Jer?" one of the other guys put in, none too enthusiastically.
"Go jerk off?"

"Fuck no!" Jerry snorted. "I put the fuckin' thing on anyway, climbed on board
and put it ta huh. An' while I'm pumpin' huh, I sez, 'Okay, Miss Piggy, I'm
gonna pork ya French-style! Fuckay-voo, baby! An' ya know what? After we came
t'ree times — t'ree times, I'm tellin' ya —she wasn't laughin' no more, that's
for damn sure!"

Jerry burst into high pitched sniggers while his pals guffawed. My man, having
paid no attention to the recitation, nibbled at the remnants of his hero. Jerry
noticed his lack of interest.

"Hey, whatsamatta, John? Doncha think that's a good story?"

John. The guy's name was John.

John looked up at Jerry. "Oh yeah, great fuckin' story, Jer. Great story."

Needled by John's sarcasm, Jerry said, "Hey Johnny boy, what's witchoo? Every
time I talk about gettin' laid ya get turned off. Whaddya, a priest, or
somethin'?" Jerry snickered. "Or maybe," he began, addressing the other guys,
"maybe he's queer." He turned to John. "That it, Johnny boy? That why you clam
up when we start talkin' about pussy? You one a them gay guys, Johnny, mmm?"

I was dumbfounded. My heart continued to throb and my hands trembled while I
clutched my newspaper. I watched John slowly sit up, calmly regard Jerry and
then, softly but with a distinct edge to his voice, say, "Ya know, Jer, you're a
real fuckin' asshole. Who gives a shit who ya fucked, where ya did it an' how
many times ya came. It's boring, Jer. BORE-ing. I'm fuckin' bored ta death with
you an' your bullshit stories."

Jerry reddened, leaped to his feet and flung the tall plastic cup of Coke that
he'd been sipping from into John's face. John sprang to his feet, both fists
clenched. The two other guys immediately got up and imposed themselves between
John and Jerry. The two men glared at each other, clenching their fists and
puffing their chests. Then the two guys led Jerry away, taking him for a walk
around the block until he cooled off. John sat down on the bench, Coca-Cola
running down his face and onto his bare torso. He looked up, saw me looking at
him, and gave me a reprise of the smile he had shot me earlier that day.

"Jeezus," he sighed, indicating his wet self. "What a fuckin' mess!" I nodded
sympathetically, a lump congealing in my throat.

"Looks like I'm gonna hafta work all aftanoon with this sticky shit all over
me," he said.

"Well," I stammered, "if you'd like to clean up a little, I live right across
the street, in that building you're working in front of."

He grinned and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Yeah, I know," he
said softly. "Sure man, I'd appreciate it." He grabbed his hardhat and came over
to where I was sitting.

"No problem," I said. No problem at all, except for the hard on I was beginning
to sprout. We crossed the street and entered the dark vestibule of my building.
As I fumbled with my keys, Mrs. Soltes, the sour-faced old Hungarian busybody
from 4-A, opened the door on her way out. I nodded a silent greeting, and as we
stepped in past her, I could feel her eyeballing us, me in my business suit and
carrying my briefcase, leading a half-naked and wet construction worker up the
stairs to my apartment.

I struggled with the apartment keys, literally shivering with excitement. John
wrapped one of his big hands around my forearm and squeezed. I managed to get
the door open and as we entered, I nearly tripped over my big, fat, white
pussycat, who snuggled her body against my feet while mewing excitedly. John
reached down and patted her head. "Nice kitty," he said. The gentle,
affectionate gesture surprised me, for some reason, and endeared him to me. I
led John to the bathroom, showing him the shower and taking a couple of bath
towels off the shelf.

John set his hardhat down on the toilet seat and gave me a what-happens-next
smile. I turned on the shower and fiddled with the taps until the water was
comfortably warm. John stuck his hand under the showerhead and nodded agreeably.
"Just the way I like it," he said. He propped his left foot up on the toilet
seat, unlaced his work boot, removed it and a funky smelling sweat sock and then
did the same with the other foot. He neatly tucked the socks into the boots and
then shoved the boots under the sink. His feet were somewhat small, with high
arches and little fringes of brown hair on the toes. With his back to me, he
unbuckled his belt, unsnapped his jeans and pulled them off. He turned and
handed them to me; I hung the pants on the doorknob. John now wore only his pale
blue low-slung briefs.

My gaze dropped to his crotch. His cock was hard and standing upright, the head
and several inches of thick, veiny shaft having worked their way out of the
briefs. John was uncut, and as his cock throbbed, the quarter inch of foreskin
clinging to the ridge of the head was completely retracted. The bare dickhead
glistened with juice as it pulsed. I reached down and squeezed it. John winced
and laid his curly head on my shoulder.

"Let's get those shorts off," I whispered in his ear. John took his head off my
shoulder, moved back a few inches and grabbed the fabric of his briefs at his
hips. Down they came, completely freeing his big juicy hard on. John picked the
briefs up from the floor and handed them to me. I crumpled his underwear under
my nose, took a good, long whiff and then laid the briefs on top of his jeans. I
went to grab his rigid pole and gasped when my hand touched something cold and
metallic. He was wearing a cock ring, a silver one that fitted snugly around the
base of his thick meat above his big, pendulous balls sack.

"Surprised, huh?" John said, grinning. "Friend of mine — this straight guy —
turned me on to these things. He said they were great for fuckin', so I picked
up one in the Village. I really dig the way it feels!"

"Looks real hot on you," I murmured. John smiled broadly.

"Hey," he blurted. "Let's get you outta those clothes." He began undoing my tie,
which he slipped off and hung on the towel rack. Then my jacket came off.

He undid the buttons of my shirt, reached inside and began to stroke my chest,
ruffing up the hair with his fingers. He rolled my nipples between his fingers,
getting them hard and pointy. He slipped my shirt off and hung it from a peg on
the door. He leaned back and inspected my torso. "Nice, real nice," he said. "Ya
got a real nice build, uh, uh . . ."

"Rick," I laughed. "Name's Rick."

"I'm John."

"I know, I know!" I laughed again. "C'mon, stud, strip me down!"

John opened my belt, unsnapped my pants and pulled them down my thighs. "Ya got
good legs, Ricky," he observed. He slipped the pants off my feet and hung them
with my shirt. Then he roughly yanked off my shorts and grabbed my own hard on,
squeezing it so tightly that I winced and cried out. He covered my mouth with
his, driving his fat tongue practically down to my tonsils. After a minute or
two of aggressive, jaw-stretching tongue kisses, he led me into the shower. As
we stood under the water, he worked me over with his mouth, chewing on my lip,
nibbling at my neck and then working his way down to my nipples. He ate them up
for a while until I nearly screamed; my dick ached and was drooling streams of
pre-cum juice.

Then he did something that surprised the hell out of me, although after seeing
that cock ring I didn't think anything could be a surprise. He nuzzled my hairy
crotch a bit, sniffing around my balls and flicking his tongue over my tight
sack. Then he gobbled up my hard on and sucked my cock like a pro, working his
talented tongue over the surface of the shaft and then coiling it around my meat
like a boa constrictor. I buried my fingers in his hair and gently fucked his
mouth while he ate my erect cock. Just as I felt myself on the verge of coming,
he let my dick slip out of his mouth. He stood up, kissed me and then turned his
back to me. He grabbed his ass cheeks and spread them wide, giving me a splendid
view of his clean, pink puckered asshole. Looking over his shoulder at me, he
pleaded, "Fuck me, Ricky. C'mon man, stick it in me. I wanna see what it feels
like."

"You got it baby," I gasped. I stepped outside the shower stall and grabbed the
plastic bottle of mild skin cream off the sink countertop. I coated my hard on
with the slippery white goo and joined John in the shower. He stood with his
legs spread, the palms of his hands pressed against the wet tile of the shower
wall. He stuck his high, rounded and hairless butt out at me. I cupped his
cheeks in my hands, spread them and pressed up against him. His hot asshole was
wet and yielding and I pushed my way in with one steady thrust. He moaned loudly
and his knees buckled slightly. I wrapped my arms around his midsection and
began to fuck.

I pulled John away from the wall so that we were both standing in the middle of
the shower stall, and as I rammed my cock in and out of his deliciously tight,
clinging asshole, I worked on his thick, hard dick with my fist. "Oh shit, that
feels so fuckin' wild!" he gasped.

I suddenly got very verbal. "Oh man," I sighed, "what an ass! Jesus, John,
you're a great fuck! When I saw you outside this morning, you got me so hot, and
I was walking around all goddamn day with a hard on, thinking about . . ."

"Oh shit, I'm gonna cum!" he cried. I shut my mouth and concentrated on fucking
my way to a spectacular climax up inside his slickened asshole. I continued
jerking him off while I rode him, and in a quick couple of minutes we were both
hollering with release. I kept pumping into him until the last drop of my jism
had emptied into his ass; while he shot off in my hand, his thick, warm
fuck-sauce soaking my fingers. We clung together until my dick went limp and
slipped out of his gooshy asshole. Then he turned to face me. We hugged and
kissed while the warm water beat down on us.

We towelled off together and then padded around naked in the living room. John
wanted a cigarette, but I don't smoke. He considered going down to the corner
newsstand to buy a pack, but he changed his mind. He said he was enjoying being
naked with me too much to get dressed just yet. I sat on the couch and towelled
my hair while he gazed out the window, tugging on his meat and cradling his big
balls in the palm of his hand. Suddenly he began to laugh.

"What's up?" I asked.

"C'mere," he replied. I got up and stood next to him by the window. "Look," he
said, pointing toward the park. "Those fuckin' assholes," he chuckled. "They're
wonderin' what the fuck happened to me!" I looked out the window in the
direction he was pointing. I saw his three co-workers — including the obnoxious
Jerry — bumbling around near the entrance to the park. They seemed confused and
indecisive about what to do.

"Should you be getting back to work?" I asked John.

"Fuck 'em," he said. "You an' me got some more work to take care of." I felt his
finger slip between my cheeks and poke against my asshole. A sudden burst of
giddiness seized me.

"Drill me, stud," I crooned. "Drill my ass like you do that hole in the ground,
and you can wake me up any morning."

A baffled look darkened his face for a moment, but it vanished when I grabbed
his hand and led him to the bedroom.