By D.C. Stoner Illustration by Zero (Ed Hartley) Christmastime, I was driving cross-country, Miami to Los Angeles. The second night caught me halfway across Texas, and I knew I was going to have to stop for the night. And get gas. Next exit claimed to have gas, but my tank went dry first. Station wasn't hard to find: dark, though, just the office lights on. I walked over anyway; most stations out in the country will sell anytime they can. And the alternative looked to be spending the night in a cold car. No sign of life in the office, but the garage door was open. I started towards it, but before I could reach it, I heard the sounds that make any practiced voyeur freeze. In this case, a steady, rhythmic slap-slap-squish from several sources was what was giving me an instant hardon. There was more than one man in there, and they were beating off. Now this isn't the best time to approach someone you want to buy gas off of; so I hung back, melted into the shadows at the front of the building, listened and fantasized. The sounds were real clear on the crisp night air, erotic as a hot winter fire, raw sex between men who seemed to know what they wanted. Pretty soon I couldn't stand it anymore, so I unbuttoned, took out my own hardon and began stroking it as silently as I could. The guys inside weren't paying much attention to noise — in fact, they were getting real vocal themselves: "Yeah!" "Beat it!" "Motherfucker." "Look it that fucker, Joe!" And I assumed they were going ape shit over some pussy in a magazine. I began to identify four voices: one who didn't say much, but just groaned all the time in a way that made me think he hadn't gotten his rocks off in too long; one who sounded younger than the rest, maybe still in high school, not really sure of his grown-up voice yet; one sounded Mexican, and couldn't say anything that didn't have a "fuck" or "shit" attached; and the fourth was a guy with a voice that came from somewhere down around his balls — a bass so deep it made my dick shiver every time he spoke. His was the slowest, a rich drawl that could barely make it out of his mouth without dripping: "I reckon you ain't never seen nothin' quite like that one, man." The young man would

respond: "Can I — I mean, do you..." Mex: "Shit, dude, you wanna grab a hold o' my fucker, go right ahead — fuck, that's what it's made for, man." I thought I'd cream right on the spot; I hastily took my hand off my cock, tried to calm down. An intense groan told me I wasn't the only one. "Shit! You know how to use your fuckin' hand, dude! Yeah, man, stroke the fucker!" "Whyn't ya c'mon over here 'n try your hand on this dick here — ya look like you could get a charge outta that." "Yeah, you hot little fucker — go on, fuckin' jerk it. Shit, man, you got that hungry look in yer eyes, looks like you wanna fuckin' eat his rod, fuck, go on, go down on it. Heavy-duty groans and quiet oh yeahs from the quiet one — "Do it, man, I wanna feel your tonsils on it." I just had to get a look at this, and I figured that by this point no one was liable to notice anyway, so I began inching my way towards the garage door. Frantic slurping noises were coming from the young man — sounded as though he was really going to town on a cock almost bigger than his throat could handle. It also sounded like it wasn't his first time, like his mouth Knew just what to do when it wrapped itself around a cock — I could tell from the whimpering, moaning noises of intense satisfaction coming out in a bass voice. I eased my head into the doorway and could see the grouping: big bear of a man, leaning back against the far wall, coveralls down around his work boots, cap obscuring his face, dark hair covering every visible skin surface — young man down on his knees in front of him, slurping away, while he banged his own cock frantically in his tight-wrapped fist — the groaner half-sprawled a few feet away in a corner, a pile of well-used fuck magazines strewn about him — eyes glazed, he stroked himself and whispered encouragement to the others — and number four, hot little Tex-Mex number, standing the other side of Joe the Bear, staring down at the action with an expression that would've ignited ice. "Okay, guy, fuckin' get over here and give me some o' that shit." The dude was eager, scrambled to get to the next dick — turned so I could see him in profile: perfect face, older than his voice made him sound, and god! could he suck cock. The man's dick was dark, the kind that arches down when hard so the skin hangs off it looking like a waterfall in freeze frame— right now a waterfall turned to steel — if it expanded any more it'd burst. It looked like it was going to break out of the kid's throat as he tried to swallow it all: the sagging balls hanging right up against his chin, long and loose hanging, naturally hairless — it's that sort of detail that can really get me off. I hadn't even been touching my cock, sticking out in front of me perpendicular — I Started to lightly rub my ball sac, tight-pulled against the base of my cock, and even that sensation was almost too intense, as I imagined my own cock buried in the young man's throat. That's when I realized that Joe the Bear's eyes weren't on the other couple anymore, but on me. He hadn't stopped stroking himself, and he had a sexy half-smile on his shadowed face. The other three were still oblivious of my presence, so I stayed where I was, half inside the doorway.

It didn't last long. The animal noises were working up to a fever pitch; hands were moving faster. The cock-sucker came first, his body spasming and hand flying as his load came gushing out over the cement floor and the scuffed work boots of the Latin. That was just what he needed, and his monologue grew even more obscene, sort of a litany — "My fuckin' load, man! Yeah, you got my fuckin' load! Oh, shit, man, yeah!" Mr. Silent couldn't restrain himself, scrambled over to the trio, pants hobbling his ankles, dick rampant — almost pulled the dude off the guy's dick to geta better look at it shooting. "Holy shit, man, you done it — you sucked him dry..." and spilled his own load to mix with the wad on the floor. With a prolonged groan, he collapsed. Joe hadn't taken his eyes off me for the entire episode, and my attention had been shifting back and forth — now I looked straight into his eyes and started seriously fisting my pole, which threatened to shoot off any second without me. Joe didn't change his pace, but the half-smile was replaced by a slack jaw look of glassy-eyed inward concentration as his lips formed a silent Oh-Yeah-Man and we both shot, cum arching out towards each other in a hot rain that continued in suspended animation until I couldn't stand anymore and slumped to my knees, drained. I didn't see much for a few seconds; then I noticed that they all seemed to be staring at me — all except Joe, who was just leaning back against the wall — those fan belts, I thought, must be cutting into his back — smiling his crooked relaxed smile. I smiled back, lifted my hand to the other three in a tired Hello, dusted myself off and stepped back outside to wait for them. The crispness of the early evening was being pushed away by a faint snow. "Some night, huh." Joe the Bear was standing beside me, laying his hand across my shoulders. I shivered. "Yeah — some show!" "Need gas?" "Um, yeah...my car's just up the road." Silence. . "D'ya really have to be on your way tonight?" I jumped, looked at him — his eyes were as soft and gentle as the fur on his powerful arms, and just sorrowful enough to make my frozen heart melt in anticipation. "No, not at all." "Will you spend the night?" The deep dark voice of Papa Bear. "Bed's small fer two, but'll be all the warmer on a cold night." "I'd love to." "Gas is on me. So's the bed. It being Christmas and all. Merry Christmas." His lips folded into mine in a kiss that tasted of grease and the true holiday spirit.

"Merry Christmas," I moaned. *