BOYS DON'T QUEEF--Part Three by ZUIDERZEE My dick wasn't trying to kill me, nothing like that. But under the circumstances, I think it would listen patiently as my kidneys outlined an assassination plot with my bladder as an interested party. For those of you who haven't had the occasion to wear restrictive clothing for long periods of time, there is an abonimable correlation between tight pants and the overactivity of the urogential system. It's similar to when you're forced to stand perfectly still or hold important things in both hands and not let go for any reason that you find out exactly where you itch the worst. Naked, or in a bathrobe, I could forestall a fierce piss for over an hour after felt the spikes of pain jab my crotch. With my semi-erect cock going down the right pantleg of my motorcycle pants and me still wearing thin gloves, my ability to hold my water was cut down by two thirds. In plainer language, suited up the way I was, I had to piss three times as bad. I've already said I did my best with woodworker's tools to stretch out the waist and crotch of the cycle pants, but like all elastic things that are relatively new, they had a sort of memory and went back to most of their original snugness. Next time, I'd try a mannekin and some wooden wedges and failing that, the jaws of life. My urge to ejaculate doesn't follow the same rules, but hear you me, when my waistband is undone and my fly is down and my dick is crowning from my underwear with a dribble of precum and my balls are swollen and rising, it takes an act of congress for me to stuff the whole shooting match back in. The cartoonesque coloring of the Men's room door was childlike, friendly--about the last thing I expected in "Yobbo Country"--only the fact it was made from vertical wooden planks set in firmly in the outhouse classification. I am not sworn to secrecy about what happened, but in the course of an hour, my system was relieved, the tomboy had seen my dick, the old man had taken me into his confidence and I had taken his gun. Taken? The fancy-suited hillbilly dandy practically forced the heavy automatic into my hands. The tomboy's he-guise and unfamiliarity had me uncommonly fooled. In the suburbs or the city, I could generally tell a mannish female from a boy. In unisex overalls and bulky long- sleeve undershirt, the tomboy was alarmingly barefoot in the restroom and boasted a physique that is best called "chunky". Her eyes (HIS, I thought at the time) were blue and downcast for much of the time. Pale blond lashes and brows and the fine, but dirty tow-colored short hair juxtaposed with her (HIS) work- clothes and brawn, conjured in my mind images of a knockabout Danish beer-delivery boy in training, sans the boots; Dirty, strong and fair-complected, I could almost see a pair of oaken beer kegs riding on those built-up shoulders. A crumpled sailor's cap would have just completed the image of one of Copenhagen's wharf-denizens. I had lost an hour, but that wasn't terribly important. With my helmet under my left arm, the gallon gas can held on that same side, I held my gloves in my right hand like a scourge. The roadmap was rolled up in my jacket pocket and the gun was tucked into the small of my back as I'd seen it done on good old TV for years in a variety of cops & robbers programs. The first order of business was to gas up my motorcycle, swing down the road to Big B's and top off the tank. From there? It seemed to me on the walk uphill that the smoke rising over the trees was no longer the thick, billowing dark gray, but white. So, either the danger was over or they'd just elected the first hillbilly pope. Jimmy Joe Bob I or something. Riding safely in the waistband of my cycling pants, the gun was concealed, illegal, dangerous and an additional 50 points on my Macho-Meter. I knew how to shoot. Grand-pa Buzz secretly took me out into the boonies for target shooting with small caliber rifles, strictly for target practice. I had once auditioned for the part of a "troubled youth with gun" on the defunct "J. T. Horlick" prime-time cop drama. The expert on the set showed me the ropes on how to convincingly handle an automatic pistol. Mom didn't like the idea one bit, but the money would help. Ultimately, I lost the part to a more ethnic kid, but I never forgot the training. So, some impressionable black kid (in the context of the story) got to shoot Horlick's junior partner in a terse scene and then drop the gun and look appropriatley guilty and small for the rest of the show. My trouble was, I couldn't project the kind of innocence that would have sold the scene. Hell, three days before the audition, I'd just been introduced to dry-humping, clothed orgasms and the wearing of cock-rings! Those Hollywood people... A small delivery truck lurked in the shadows right where I had left the motorcycle. The driver, a backwoods beanpole who I guessed was about 16 years old was pissing all over my wheels. He hadn't heard me come up. Beanpole was giggling, oblivious to me. "I'd sure Preesh-ate-it if next time you parked this rice-burner in Toe-Key-Yo where't blongs! Hot damn, but there's a purty sight...!" I put on my gloves, donned the helmet and held the gas can in my left hand. Then I kicked his bony butt, startling him into reality. He let out another spurt of piss and turned around to see me. I threw the rag into his face, trying to think of some suitable redneck expression to show I meant business. "Take up that rag...and commence to wipin' son...and don't you miss nothing, Beanpole." "Why you Jap-lovin' shit-ass, I--" I produced the gun, set down the little plastic gas container and watched his eyes bulge in crapped-my-pants scaredness. The peckerwood stuffed his skinny, wet-ended willy into his union-suit with record speed and commenced to wipin'. The gaunt-faced kid who looked as though he'd grown up on a strict diet of corn-based foods got the bike halfway dry before another motorcycle roared down the road followed closely by a battered, vintage American four door convertible packed with yelling locals. It skidded to a halt on the road. The chrome-lined road-monster had been white at one time and its post-war engine sounded like a elephant plagued with intestinal gas. How it had kept up with the other motorcycle was a mystery. Vapor billowed from under the hood and a rockabilly tuned blared from the radio. "Take off fellers, shit-ass here's got hisself a gun!!!" I grabbed Beanpole by his shirt, opened the cycle's gas tank, handed him the plastic container and told him to "fill 'er up!" That done, I trained the automatic on him and began a brutal kickstart until the formerly drained bike revved to life. Capping the tank, I lowered the helmet's visor. BLAM! A lemon-sized scar appeared on the tree next to me as a bullet fired from someone in the convertible narrowly missed my head. I pocketed the gun. The chase was on. I couldn't pistol-whip Beanpole, but I could kick him toward the convertible and that saved me from another round from the peckerwood posse. Going around the delivery van, I headed up the road, calculating the four- door would lose a minute or so in turning to follow. Damn! No going to Big B's now. I still don't know how that overloaded, under-serviced convertible kept on me as close as it did, but I never quite got it out of my side-view mirror. Another round dinged my helmet. I had to get off the road. Taking the first gap in the trees to the right, I swerved through the tangled woods, leaving a telltale dust cloud in my wake. The trees gave way into a clearing of low bushes. A dirt trail perfect for motorcycles caught my eye and I bullied the bike down, intent on getting to the cluster of huge old trees down the hill. What the FUCK! Someone had put steps into the path. Sections of thick wood that might have been split from old railroad ties made my wheels hop up and down jackhammer style. No way to turn off, no way to halt my momentum, I rode the violent steps for a hundred feet and then pitched from the seat into the leafy undergrowth where I fell hard and was knocked out cold. Vague images of dark and light which might have been dreams tormented me. When I knew for certain I was awake, I rose into a world of visor-shaded twlight. I had my helmet on, my suit on and a raging hard-on. "No bones is broke. I made sure, but you've got some swelling going on in your loins. Can you hear me?" An unfamiliar voice landed on my helmet-muffled ears. I drew it off and looked up at the tomboy who was crouched over me. Only now did I see her as a girl. It was the same one from the Men's room at Big B's. She now wore what looked like ochre army boots. Size 10. The shoulder straps of her overalls were undone and dangled. The long sleeve undershirt was off and she now wore a men's striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off her considerable arms. Bra-less, her huge white tits surged forward in an assualt of cleavage I could have seen with my eyes closed. Buttoned from the tummy downward, the shirt was stained with sweat. "I drug you a long ways from where I found you...I reckon I never would'na knowed you was there in the bushes, less'n that mote-E-sickle o' your'n didn't throw off a glint in the sun." "Lucky me." "Them angel folk was a-lookin' out for ya'll today." "You were at Big B's...?" "I got a chore there washin' winders...when I wash them winders in the diner, that's the sign they's ready for supper." Indeed, she smelled like soap as well as sweat. That gave me an idea. "That's right nice of ya ma'am--" "Oh, I ain't no mam no-how!" The tomboy turned a charming shade of pink. "Taint a proper lady neethers...I's jes a local gal. Don't have much't larnin'." Her hard-nippled whoppers joggled in the slack hammock of her shirt. "I guess this calls for a proper inter-duction," I said, falling into her mode of speech, or trying to. In the end, I came across as more Longhorn than Hillbilly, but rural all the same. Dialect coaches had taught me to lose my Great Lakes honk as well as how to adopt accents. "They call me Creed Kray." "How dee-do Mr. McCrae!" She pumped my arm in a powerful handshake, bringing those braless beasts into motion again. And too, she botched my name like so many others. I didn't bother to correct. I doubted she knew how to read or write. "My name's Tempest Ludmilla Youngblood." Tempest Youngblood. She was a little too breezy for a name like that. At least it wasn't Earthquake McGoon. Maybe in a few years. "How dee-do Miss Tempest--" She turned pink in the cheeks again and gave my sore shoulder a swat. "Awww...don't nobody call me Tempest less'n they's gettin' stern with me. Folks call me Lud. Well, Mr. McCrae, guess'n the farst thing we duz now is get you cleaned up from your tumble." So saying, she bent all the way over me and gave me a kiss on the lips. "Dang but ya'll have such't a purty face...almos' like a gal." "Looks can sure fool a body, cain't they?" "It's hell-fired wicked to practice Dee-see-vin on folks. Well, ain't you gonna get yourself up?" "I'm well on my way...Lud? I guess I need a little help." My erection grated in my clothes, the swelling cock-head pressing forcefully at the fabric near my right hip.