Grit excerpt by William Maltese and Jardonn Smith

Grit permeates each crevice of the Great Depression and the men living through it. This sex-saturated tale from William Maltese and Jardonn Smith is of have's and have-not's -- who run trains across the Dust Bowl ... who hitch trains to escape poverty and despair. On this December night in 1932, Jardonn's locomotive engineer, Wilton Zukel, is off duty and on the prowl.

GRIT
MLR Press (November, 2010)
ISBN 978-1-60820-121-1 (print)
ISBN 978-1-60820-122-8 (ebook)

Excerpt:

"Why, hello there, Wilton Zukel. All alone tonight, are you?" Roger Daniels, no longer the ticket-taker at the Lanyon Oriental Theater, caught Wilton walking the street on his way to see a movie.

"Yep, Forrest is on a job out in the hinterlands somewhere. What about you, uh, young man?"

"It's Roger."

"Right. Not working tonight, Roger?"

"Oh, sure. I'm working, all right, but not at Lanyon's."

Wilton quickly understood the situation. First clue, Roger Daniels, who'd appeared handsome on the night of their first meeting in his spiffy, Oriental Theater uniform, his cream-blonde locks flowing soft and shiny from the band of his Oriental Theater cap, on this night looked as dirty as the street. His hair unkempt and stringy, his fingers and nails grimy, the flesh of his face oily, his jacket and pants well-worn and light-weight, not proper garb for the near-to-freezing December night. Second clue, Roger's eyes, which in the Theater had beamed so brightly when locking onto Wilton's, now stared suggestively at Wilton's crotch, focused solely on the schlong pressing the inner thigh of Wilton's wool trousers. "Is this your workplace now, Roger? Twelfth Street?"

"Afraid so. Lanyon cut back my hours again, so I quit."

"When?"

"Monday after I met you."

"Kind of dangerous out here, ain't it?" Wilton knew very well the activities along Twelfth Street, where burlesque and strip-tease houses flourished alongside the legitimate movie houses, and where he himself frequently paid for sex simply by walking the street after seeing a movie in one of the legitimate movie houses. Hustlers of both genders were readily available at all hours here, and Wilton, having no misconceptions about his chances of stumbling upon some sort of meaningful companionship inside the legitimate movie houses, considered forking over cash to any street merchant who looked relatively healthy his best solution for satisfaction. As an added bonus, Wilton got entertainment out of the deal when he presented to them his over-sized pecker. Just to see their expression when they realized they'd quoted him an amount far too little, was to him worth every penny.

Seeing Roger's rapid deterioration, however, put him in no mood for laughing. "I mean, geez, Roger, don't you know some of these old-timers will cut you up if you try working their territory?"

"Ah, they know me. I've been at this since I was old enough to suck a dick. Family tradition."

Wilton didn't feel like standing on the street in the cold listening to Roger explain everything he'd packed into those three statements, and figured he knew a sure-fire method for temporarily whisking the young man away from it all. "Are you hungry, Roger?"

At a diner near the Union Station train depot and far-removed from flesh-peddlers, Wilton heard the sordid tale of Roger Daniels while Roger sat cross-table from him devouring a plate of steak and eggs. He listened without interrupting as Roger told of his mother, the strip-tease dancer, and of how she decided to go prostitute full time, using her eleven-year-old son as an extra attraction. Figured plenty of men to be turned on by the prospect of a little boy sucking on their dick, or better yet, getting their dick squeezed by a little boy's tight butt-hole. It all worked out fine until Roger matured into manhood and the allure of boy prostitute vanished, thus lowering his value to her.

Cast out to fend for himself, Roger was working the Twelfth Street corridor when Stanley Lanyon, for whatever reason, thought Roger's slender build and lovely locks would be a good match for the Oriental Theater uniform. He gave the hustler his chance, but the worsening economic depression after the crash of 1929 brought a steady decline in number of employees Lanyon could afford to keep.

"He cut me down to Saturday nights," Roger spit particles of egg, too famished for trying to talk between bites. "Guess I could have kept the job while working the streets, but hell, on Saturday nights I can make more from the sidewalk, so I just kissed the theater job good-bye."

"What do you get for a..." Wilton tapped his lips with his finger.

"For you? A steak and eggs supper."

Upon seeing it, Wilton had no intention of touching the filthy mattress of Roger's cot in the rented room of squalor he called home. "Come on, Roger. I'll take you to the Muehlebach."

"Wow! I will certainly let you."

After Roger had bathed in fancy digs of the finest hotel in Kansas City, Wilton hardily laughed as his pecker filled with blood and Roger's eye sockets widened with every inch, but unlike most, Roger never shied away from Wilton's behemoth. Instead, he coaxed Wilton to strip himself naked and sprawl upon the bed. For this client, Roger would give the royal treatment, a tongue bath, a barrage of wet kisses beginning on the tops of Wilton's hairy feet and ending with a slavish slurping upon Wilton's tiny tits.

And then, he courageously opened his jaw to capacity and encompassed the massive head of Wilton's penis. With his lips progressing a mere inch onto Wilton's shaft, Roger's mouth was crammed completely full. He could take no more, and so he sucked from there.

For Wilton, a sensation new and exciting -- not the orgasm itself, but the foreplay. No hustler had ever before taken the time to worship Wilton's fur-covered, beastly physique. No lips had ever taken any part of his penis beyond licking on his corona and piss slit, not until he'd grabbed their ears and forced them to take all of it. With Roger, he couldn't bring himself to do it. That would come later when Roger was comfortably settled into Wilton's house and no longer felt motivated to try on his own.

That night in the Muehlebach Hotel, Wilton melted as Roger serviced him in a manner loving, or at least the nearest to loving Wilton had ever experienced, and he could not bear the thought of dropping Roger back into the street and the dangerous lifestyle he'd chosen. Wilton would take him home. Clean him up. Make him his house-boy. Save himself from having to cruise those same streets looking for faceless sex bought and paid for.

William Maltese http://www.williammaltese.com
Jardonn Smith http://www.jardonnserotictales.com

To purchase, click here