Blood, Guns and Whores

All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog

Written and Illustrated by W.Ross Ayers

An SFWC Co-Publishing Studio Production © 2011 by LND, inc. All rights reserved

“Blood, Guns and Whores – An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel made of micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco.

W. Ross Ayers

13. Are You Okay? Dr. Ruth, the hostess of ‘Sexually Speaking’, was on FM 89X, the Canadian radio station out of Windsor, from 11pm to midnight every Sunday night. During the summer I never missed a show. During the school year, I stayed up as long as I could with the volume way down on my clock radio, so my parents couldn’t hear that I was still up. This is how I learned about sex, kinda. It was all very PG-13, leaving me with a lot of guess work. “Orgasm eez reeched by pheesical steemulation ov zee penis ov zee mahn and zee cleetoris ov zee vomin. In zee mahn zer eez ejaculashon und in zee vomin zee cleemax. Bot zar veree pleasurable und eevn betta ven zay are een loove vit eech uder.” She also said things like “zperm”, “peenatrashun”, “eerekshun”, “masteerbashun”, and “Oral zexx ees veree goot und natural for zee mahn und zee vomin. Thees beeing a veery gut vay to avoeed concepshun.” What the heck does that all mean? I had no idea, but it sure as hell made me curious. At the end of sixth grade, Joy still had not noticed me, with my feathered hair and all. I had even written secret admirer letters on my mom’s old typewriter and stuffed them into the vents of Joy’s locker before lunch.

One day as I was pushing the folded lines of my obsession into the vent, Karen walked around the corner of the row of lockers. “OH MY GOD! It’s you! You’re the one writing the letters!” “’’s not me...I...I just put them here...” “Well, who is it then?” “I...l...I swore not to tell.” “It’s Steve isn’t it?” Drats! Joy likes Steve! “No.” I said quickly. “Who is it then?” “I...I can’t...I can’t tell you. I swore not to.” Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. “Whatever.” She walked away. She knew I was lying. “Ven zee zperm reeches zee egg concepshun happens.” How does it get there? Each week while listening to Dr. Ruth, I would get excited and play with my cock. After fifteen minutes or so, a clear liquid would appear at the tip. It was like water, but thicker and slippery. Is this ejaculation? Is this sperm? I took a glass slide from my microscope kit and ran it across the tip of my penis, putting a thin glass plate over the clear slippery liquid. I placed the prepared slide under the microscope,

zooming in more and more, hoping to see swimming ‘zperm’; looking for little bulbous heads with tails wiggling around. I didn’t see anything but bubbly, blurred light. Hmm? Maybe my microscope isn’t strong enough. It had been two weeks since I had been busted by Karen. I was taking a ‘secret admirer’ break for a while to rethink my strategies. It was an early spring Sunday afternoon. I know it was Sunday because my dad was home, inside sitting in his worn tan La-Z-Boy, smoking Camel non-filters and watching tennis, golf, baseball or whatever sport was on TV. I was outside. I had had a boner all afternoon, rubbing and tingling inside my cut-offs. My head was kinda foggy and my breath shallow. My stomach and chest would shiver from time to time, sending chills through my arms and legs. I needed something. What exactly, I had no idea. But it had something very much to do with my cock. I walked into our small, rundown white barn behind our house. I stepped up the lopsided creaky stairs to the second floor, ducking my head at the top so I wouldn’t smack my head on the angled ceiling. The floor of the long room was made of wide, dusty dry, gray boards running lengthwise. The walls leaned in, making the arch of the roof. Large bare rafters ran crossways like ribs inside of a whale. I unzipped my Levi’s and grabbed my ‘eerekshun.’ The heat and pressure of my hand gripped me. My body throbbed. I felt dizzy. I sat down on an overturned five-gallon white plastic bucket. I squeezed and rubbed myself. The slippery clear liquid beaded at the tip of my hard-on. I took a drop of it and rubbed it between my thumb and index finger. I put it to my nose and smelled it. It had no scent. I touched my index finger to the tip of my tongue. It had a very light metallic taste.

What is this stuff? The dirt on my hands mixed with the clear liquid, making small black blotches. I squeezed my hand around my penis. The muscles in my legs tensed up, heat rushed from my crotch into my chest. More of the clear slippery liquid beaded and ran down the side of my cock onto my hand. I slid the palm of my hand over the tip. Shivers ran like electricity straight to my head. My vision narrowed, my heart raced and my brain slowed. I rubbed more. It felt like I was scratching an itch that was in the middle of my chest and directly connected to my tip of my cock. My chest curled around my body, left the world and brought me with it. I rubbed faster and harder. My eyes closed. I bit my lip. My breathing went fast in huffs. More of the clear liquid ran out of the tip. Holy shit! This is awesome. A tension built higher and higher, a smooth escaping tension. My mind wrapped around my head, taking me further away from the dusty dry, gray room. I rubbed harder and faster. My eyes squinting. My jaw locked closed. My breathing now in tiny small coughs. My balls tingled and vibrated. Now unable to stop. There was nothing else. Then suddenly a shocking, almost painful convulsion gripped me. My knees raised up, pulling my feet off of the floor. My chin went to my chest, curling my body. Lightening flashed in my head, lasting for days and less than a split econd. I couldn’t, didn’t, didn’t want to breathe, didn’t need to. I thought I was going to break. And then I did.

My eyes opened wide, air gushed out of my mouth and lungs, making a far-off grunting noise. At the same time my knees jerked higher. Then I saw it. A milky white substance shot out of my cock, spraying into the air. Again and again, spewing out and slapping onto the dusty floor in globs and running down the back of my hand. Instantly, I was released from the convulsing grip. All tension was gone. Waves of calmness covered my body and mind. I sank into the overturned five-gallon white plastic bucket of a seat. Slowly coming back from nowhere. Thought crept into my mind as it unwrapped relaxed, coming back to the dusty dry, gray room. “Man...” I said breathlessly to myself, noticing the sweat on my forehead and the tingly heat in my cheeks. That’s gotta be sperm. I did it three more times. Dark splotches from the white goo mixed with the dust of the dry, gray room, covered my hand and cock as I rubbed on and on. After I felt empty, calm, blank. The itch was gone. I wanted to lie down in my bed. In the house as I walked past Dad sitting in his worn tan La-z-Boy, he looked up from the TV, exhaled smoke, squinted his eyes and said, “Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just tired.” I walked up the thirteen stairs to my room, lay down on my bed and slept the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening. I made sure to get up and eat in plenty of time to listen to Dr. Ruth at 11pm on 89X. Now, I finally knew what the heck she was talking about. Well, kinda. That ‘cleetoris’ thing still had me totally baffled.

“Blood, Guns and Whores – An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel made of micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco.

W. Ross Ayers

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