Why I Like Getting Fucked at the Post Office
Illustrations by Michael Kirwan — Story by Mick Fitzgerald
Originally published in Inches magazine - January, 2001
Virgin Mailbox Gets Stuffed
After the last credits and the applause, the theater lights came up and a thin, butch-looking woman with dusty hair came to the stage with a cordless microphone. She seemed nervous.
"I am glad y'all loved that film, Texas!" she exclaimed. "And now, I am pleased to present to some and introduce to others the writer of this fantastic film! What Cinema magazine calls one of the best gay writers working in film! Christian Franklin!"
A tall, thin Black man with a sharp nose and a pencil-thin mustache underneath, dressed in a stylish leather jacket, stood and received the acclaim of the audience. I fell in love with him almost immediately. He spoke with a thick Brooklyn accent that dripped with the 'hood. Looking at him, I imagined going down on his long hard thing and putting it into my mouth, sucking on it until it shot juicy hot cum all over my face. It got me hard just imagining it and, being nineteen and a college student, I almost took my dick out and whacked off right there in the theater, which was what I thought everybody else wanted to do.
"I want to thank all of you brothas for coming out and seeing my film. It really makes me feel like Spike Lee."
The packed Austin, Texas audience was about as far removed as you can possibly be from Brooklyn. He smiled broadly, and showed wonderful white teeth. I could not have painted a man as attractive and charming as him. Though I had never made love to many Black guys, this was one I wanted to have as much as possible.
He took questions for the audience. After that, some people milled around the stage while most left for a late dinner or home. I eased my way to the middle of the milling. Christian (if I can call him that) was in the midst of answering questions about a film, the story of a gay Black cop fucking around with a bunch of New Jersey skinheads.
I stood at the periphery. I watched the way he moved his hands, almost like he was speaking sign language. I started imagining what it would be like to have his large heavy hands on my medium-sized, Texas tanned meat. I could imagine him jerking me off until I squirted cum juice all over my body and his. I imagined him caressing me, making love to me until I was almost too done. I started to get a hard-on imagining those things and I already was dripping pre-cum out into my shorts.
Then Christian turned his back to me. I was crushed. He was answering some real effeminate guy's question. I had to do something to get Chris's attention.
"I really loved your film, Mr. Franklin," I said.
He turned around and looked at me. He licked his lips. "That's nice," he said. Then he turned back to the effeminate guy. I was crushed, again.
"You shoulda known better than think some rich guy would fall for some white bread like you," my man Miguel said. He was also nineteen. "I coulda told you that, guy."
"Yeah, I know. I know."
The crowd broke up and everyone started to leave the theater. I hung around a little longer, my dedicated Miguel by my side, hoping to catch a word or two with Chris Franklin. Miguel and I stayed around the outside of the theater until we saw Christian Franklin, leather jacket and all, step out of the theater.
He was a god. When he put his hands on his hips, I saw the makings of a sizable hunk of meat in his pants. I imagined going down on him, putting his fat juicy cock in my mouth and just sucking the hell out of it. I imagined all the cum jizzing out so freely that I had to cup my hands to drink it.
With all those thoughts, I knew I was staring. Miguel nudged my shoulder.
"Don't just stand there, sweet gringo. You want him, go for him."
I looked at Miguel. "Miggy, I can't do that."
"Yes, you can," he said. With that, he whistled at Chris. "May I speak to you for a second, sir?" he asked. "My friend here got something to say to you." Intrigued, Ch1is walked over to me. "Lay it on me, baby."
I went speechless. It was like I could think of nothing worth anything to say. Then Miguel nudged my shoulder again. Then, looking back at him, I got the courage back. "Mr. Franklin--"
"Whoa!" Chris said, laughing. "Mister Franklin's my old man. Call me Chris."
"OK," I said. "Chris, I really like your film. It was great. Would you go out dancing with us?"
I closed my eyes, hating to see his reaction. I was hating to hear him laugh. When I opened my eyes just a little, I saw Chris was not laughing. Rather, he was smiling most pleasantly.
"Is there some place to dance in this Podunk town?" he asked.
Why would he say that about Austin? Austin is a big city, compared to where I'm from.
"There's lotsa places to dance," I said. "On a night like tonight, lotsa people go dancing."
Chris smiled more broadly. "I don't mind lots of people dancing with me. But I really prefer to be like Tina Turner."
"Like who Turner?" I asked, showing my age.
"Like Tina," Miguel said.
"You know," Chris said. "'Be my private dancer.' Is there some place where we can dance in private?"
I literally felt my heart go up into my throat! I thought I'd never hear him ask that. I looked at Miguel, but Miggy was backing up. "See ya," he said. It was to be just me and Chris, dancing the night away. I needed to say something fast.
"Sure," I said. "There's always my place."
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen," I said.
"You kids must move awfully fast these days," Chris said. "When I was nineteen, I was too scared to use my own pickup line, let alone somebody else's." He smiled. "Well, private dancer, how will we get there."
"I have a chariot in which you may ride," I said, trying to sound romantic, though the best it made me sound was jerky.
"Ooaw!" he crooned. "A drive and a ride! I'm batting a thousand!"
I led him to my car, a little rustabout that I got when I left town. In no time, I was driving him to my place, a quiet little apartment near the university.
I was trying real hard to keep from becoming real hard, but that was difficult, because Chris's thigh rubbed against my elbow when he moved his leg. The bizarre thing about that, though, was that he didn't move his leg. He kept rubbing it against my elbow. At a stoplight, I looked at him. In the streetlights, his rich black skin was like ebony on a piano. He leaned back as I looked, and started rubbing his crotch.
"What's your name?" he moaned.
"My first fuck's name was Caleb," Chris said. "He was someone I went to school with. A nice White guy, with the roundest ass you'd ever seen on a White guy. Do you got a round ass, Caleb?"
I was getting hard, but my mouth was getting dry. The stoplight changed and I just sat there. "I don't know."
"I think you do. I think you got a nice round White ass to go bouncing on my thick Black dick. Ebony and ivory, making music together." He laughed. I smiled and tried covering my hard-on. "Ever been fucked by Black man?" Before I could answer, he corrected himself. "Ever been fucked?"
He stroked and moaned. "Virgin woods full of cherry trees. Thought so. What you say to fucking here and now?"
"In the middle of the street?"
He sat up and looked around. We were in the middle of the street, but no cars were coming. At that time of night, Austin could get a little dead. "Pull in at the post office. I wanna fuck your ass over, special delivery. "
"But I ain't got stuff."
Chris laughed. "As much as my dick is leaking, you don't need no stuff. I got some."
My hands were shaking and my dick was rock-hard and wet as a swamp when I thought about putting the chariot into gear. It took forever for the stoplight to change, then it took forever for me to struggle and put the chariot into gear and pull into the post office.
Chris unzipped his fly and brought my hand to the opening. Just beyond my grasp was his crotch. I hesitated a little, but then he hugged and directed my hand inside. With my own cock hard as a pillar of cement, and leaking, I felt his slick, warm, thick piece of meat that sprouted from his groin like a third leg. He was uncut, and his foreskin opened and rolled down like a sheath of waxed paper. His tip was huge, sensitive and wet. Down the side of his cock, a vein pumped with the rapid beat of his heart.
My own cock was ready. Chris reached in and grabbed me and held it in his hands. It felt so rough and warm I nearly shot out then and there. With his thumb, Chris rubbed my tip.
"Do this," he said.
I nodded. I started to rub his tip with my thumb. Would "fucking" mean just jacking each other off? I wondered. Would anyone see me out here with him? I wondered about that, too. But the truth was, I really didn't care enough to stop it.
Chris smiled. "Very good, Mister Imitation. Let's see how you do on your own. Do me."
I thought I knew what that meant. "Y-y-you mean, suck your dick?"
"I prefer to say, 'give me head.'" Putting a hand to the back of my head and letting my cock go, Chris eased me to my knees. In the streetlights, his dick looked hung hugeous, as Miggy liked to say. A glistening stream-clear fluid flowed down the side of his shaft. I wondered what that tasted like. Hell, I wondered if he'd break my jaw.
Do you remember giving head the first time? The game is about knowing how not to use your teeth. I was afraid that I would bite off his cock-head and swallow it, but Chris eased me into it, letting me take just a bit at a time. Then he started bobbing my head back and forth, trying to do a beat to his meat, so to speak. Once, he shoved his dick so deep into my throat I thought I was going to throw up, but, thankfully, I didn't.
My hair is long and thick. Stroking it, Chris guided my head over his meat, then he pulled out, clamping down on the dick with his hand.
"Quick," Chris said, "turn around so I can give you a boost."
I stopped and stood up and turned around. I felt Chris unbutton and unzip my shorts and move them just a bit down my ass. Having never been fucked before, I did not know what to do.
"You want me to drop my pants and bend over?" I asked.
"No, man," he said. "I want you to grab the top of the mailboxes and jump up when I say when."
I nodded and took hold of the mailboxes and breathed carefully because Miguel told me being fucked can really hurt. I was ready to be fucked up the ass but what happened next surprised me. In the middle of my breathing and waiting, I felt Chris grab hold of my ankles.
"OK," he said, "spread your legs out."
I did that a little, then he kicked them out even more until I was standing with my legs stretched just a little beyond the width of my shoulders.
"Good," he said from between my calves. "Now, jump."
I jumped up, a little rebounding jump, like I was going for a ball just a little bit above my head. Then, as I was jumping, I felt Chris give me a little boost, almost sending me over the mailboxes in the process. But I didn't go over; I held on for dear life. I could imagine the sight I presented to the people who occasionally drove by. Here I was, a guy whose shorts were down and whose ass was practically exposed dangling in front of some U.S. Postal Service mailboxes.
"Good," Chris said.
"How long I gotta hang like this?"
"Until I cum."
Chris pulled my shorts and underwear off and ooh'ed and ahh'ed. "Beautiful virgin ass," he said. I felt him part my cheeks and put his nose against my ass. I felt him give my puckered hole a kiss. "Cherries! Sweetness!"
"Please take it easy," I begged.
Chris chuckled. "Don't worry, sweet ass. I'll take it real easy."
With that, he whipped out his rock-hard piece of meat and shoved it right into my ass. The sensation was unbelievable! It hurt, yes--boy, did it hurt!--but there was also a tender burning sensation that reminded me of the first time I pinched my piss-hole when I was jacking off a few months before. It was a sensation I could easily fall in love with.
With his cock in, Chris took to pumping. Steadily, he began thrusting his cock deeper and deeper into me. I felt my asshole get wider and wider, stretching until it almost seemed it was about to break. While he was doing that, I was bouncing, literally bouncing, against the mailboxes. He was doing it at such a rhythm I could just about beat them to it.
"Do it, man," I moaned. "Do it!"
I felt Chris pat my ass as he plowed his cock deeper and deeper, and I just kept banging and banging. Then Chris started to do a circular action, around and around, and, as he did it, I was banging and banging. He patted my ass, kept patting it, in fact, until he shot his hot load up my ass and it started oozing down my legs. Only after he was finished did I understand I had shot my own wad into a mailbox slot. Then he patted my ass and disengaged.
"OK, man," he said. "I'm through."
I jumped down. My shirt was up to my tits from having laid against the mailboxes, and there was a red strip across my chest. I could only imagine what my ass must have looked like. My first concern was getting decent; but, when I looked around the mailboxes, all I could see were my shorts.
"Where did my underwear go?" I asked Chris.
Chris, who was exhausted, smiled and thumped a marked "overnight express only" mailbox.
"You don't mean they're in there?" I said in disbelief.
Chris nodded and doubled over.
I could have had a pretty good laugh from that, but we were out in public, and I needed to get decent. I plopped my bare ass on the sidewalk and started to put on my shorts. Before I could put them on, a car came down the drive, heading for the mailboxes. I don't know exactly what the driver could see, or what the driver wanted to see, but he slowed down when he saw us.
"I'm so sorry," the driver (a man) yelled.
Then, without saying another word, he quickly sped away.
It didn't matter much to me about that guy, for all I could think about was the queer pleasurable sensation I felt while getting Chris's dick up the ass. Never can I think about getting a stamp at the post office without recalling that sensation.
Any images, writings or other content on
this website may be copied for personal viewing only.