Buddy, My Buddy


All sex is consensual between parties over the age of eighteen.


Long before I was certain of what my life was all about, I spent most of my free time cultivating friendships with men and chasing pussy. My chasing in the pursuit of full fledged fucking wasn’t always successful, but I wasn’t striking out either. There was something about the world of soft tits that definitely excited my hard cock. That was around the time I began to meet up with Buddy.

I haven’t thought about Buddy in years. I just sort of put the whole thing out of my mind, something I do with events that don’t end well. When friendships go haywire, even a few days afterwards, I have often forgotten the names of these so called friends. I haven’t had lots of bad things happen with friends, some of my friendships go way back, but odd things do happen. I guess that’s why I had erased Buddy from my mind.

I hadn’t thought of Buddy in years, as I’ve said, but I was reading one of Larry McMurtry’s books and that brought him to mind. If you never read his Texas stories you’ve still probably seen McMurtry’s screenplay for “Hud,” a big Paul Newman hit that was culled from one of his early novels. It was McMurtry’s descriptions of Texas, its towns and particularly the detailed portraits of its inhabitants that brought Buddy back out of my subconscious.

Out on the Texas panhandle where the wind blows cold and dust storms compete with icy rain, back during a period of unemployment, a half starved family of four made its way to the environs of a big city in the East. Not deep into the octopus but on the outskirts, the father found a job in that part of town we called ‘Oil City.’ A collection of oil storage tanks and piles of castoff empty oil drums surrounded with a high rusting wire fence in the bleak industrial section on the outskirts of our small suburban town.

Somehow this rustic installation existed to satisfy the big city next door’s demand with fuel for its cars and its appetite for heating oil. There were also two lone gas pumps, almost an afterthought, for its own trucks and the town folks who were willing to drive out to this dirty road stop where everything had a coat of grime and mineral blackness.

Buddy was nineteen, tall, square jawed, with light brown hair that sort of fell perfectly in place without being combed. He was the perfect Texan, all he was missing was a stalk of straw in his mouth. He wore his hair short and would run his fingers through it when he spoke, as if stirring his brain to help him speak and magically every blade of hair would realign as if a barber had carefully combed it. He was slender but big boned, you could see he had a bit more to grow into his Dad’s size. He was thinner and lankier but like a pup with too much skin, you knew he was going to fill out.

He stood a few inches taller than I, was muscular and had the air of a boy out of the country. A scant look in the upper quadrant of his sky blue eyes revealed a tiny empty spot that had never filled in. I had learned the rudiments of his pilgrimage but there was much about him that I didn’t know.

I don’t like to ask people questions, I’d rather that they tell me what they want to say, what they want to reveal. Eventually most stuff spills out of their mouths like catsup from a squeeze jar. It takes a while to get the measure of a man and casual conversations here and there won’t do it. It takes time. Sometimes you think you know a person and then it turns out you really don’t.

I’ve fund that to be more true with women than men. Women seem to be born with an innate ability to lie and manipulate. Like the virginal college girl I’d met who told me I had to get her home at 10:30 on a Saturday night. What she didn’t tell me was she’d scheduled a second date. I warmed her up and some other guy got to fuck her.

I had met Buddy when we were in High School so I’d known him about two and a half years. I now into my first year of college and home for the summer. It had become a warm sunny summer with rain puddles and I’d already had to chase the mosquitoes hiding in the corners of the bedroom with a rolled up newspaper if I wanted to sleep without their buzzing in my ear.

I’d spent time with Buddy and considered him a friend. I imagine I was the first to befriend him when he’d moved here. A tall skinny Texas kid obviously out of place standing there in the school gym. The slickly varnished wooden floor surrounding made him look like the lone tree in the forest. He looked out of place in his ill fitting t-shirt and ragged sneakers, his shorts the wrong color for our school.

As the designated leader of the gym exercises, when Holstein, our ex-marine coach with a paunch was too tired to do his job, I ran the class though the usual assortment of jumping jacks, squat thrusts and twenty push ups that most of the class failed to complete. Buddy was having no problem although he looked bit dazed.

After the exercises were finished and the kids were shooting hoops, casino şirketleri I introduced myself to Buddy and after that, you might say I took him under my wing. I tried to answer whatever questions he might ask, not that he asked very much. Sometimes he would pause and his eyes would look up as if his mind was traveling to a distant place, and then he’d look down and reset. `

I’d tried to fill him in on our little town, where to go, how the school functioned, who was who and even which shops were good for lunch, also who to watch out for. There were a few dangerous guys in the school best left to their drug induces slumbers at the back of the room, guys you would not want to wake up.

We didn’t share any other classes so we’d clown around during gym, shadow boxing, sparring with each other. Sometimes we’d meet up at lunch time and get a sandwich at the old deli down the block where a bunch of us kids would line up at lunch time for roast beef sandwiches or turkey and red fruit punch soda.

I’d driven him across town one time, after I’d seen him hanging around outside the Marine recruiting office on Main Street. I dropped him off nearby but up until then I didn’t realize he actually lived in Oil City. I didn’t know that anybody lived there.

That summer at home I’d learned he lived there quite by accident. I’d come across town to fill up my white Thunderbird convertible with the less expensive gas they sold at Oil City. I saw him standing not far from the pumps. He waved and we rekindled our friendship. Of course the car was my Dad’s, a white Thunderbird convertible with reclining seats that could fold back and turn into a bed if you were lucky enough to be on a date with the right girl.

After high school, I had gone off to college, but Buddy was undecided as to what he wanted to do. He had some odd notion of being a patriot and was attracted to the military where he thought he might get some useful training. College or trade school did not really interest him.

When I needed gas, I’d drive over to Oil City, pump the gas tank full, pay and park over on the side and walk behind to the rustic house where Buddy lived. I’d drop in and he usually was there. Buddy introduced me one afternoon to his dad. John Connolly was a tall man, greying and looked more like Buddy’s grandad than his father. His mom was rarely visible in the small dark dwelling that the oil company provided.

Buddy’s Dad’s job required, being on-call 24 hours tending to whatever problems might crop up and prepared for those off hour oil deliveries. John always had a dark smear of grease or oil on his hands or face the few times I saw him.

After meeting his dad and seeing his mom through the window in the shadows of the dark kitchen busy cooking or washing dishes, Buddy and I walked over to grab a few beers. There was an old fashioned Italian bar/restaurant nearby that catered to the industrial areas workers and the long haul truckers who delivered oil or took it away.

There was a juke box full of country western songs that the truckers liked. We’d sit at the curved wooden bar and order a glass of draft beer while the music was blaring some lyric about “I met you somewhere before” and I recall how Buddy stopped right in the middle of downing his beer when that song went on,

“Now that’s real music, not that sick shit they have on the radio.”

I just nodded. I was into heavy rock but I didn’t care for most of the stuff on the radio either.

“Yeah, country music is a collection of little stories set to music, reflections of country life, our modern folk music.”

“Yeah, you got it,” said Buddy.

There was something about the differences between us that attracted me. I’ve always been attracted to opposites. I came from a middle class family, we lived in an old house my Dad had rebuilt; we had a recent car, a few dogs. My parents were hard workers and hard spenders. We probably appeared to be more affluent than the Connolly family but not by too much.

We lived month by month without any sizable saving bank balance and every now and then my dad would borrow a thousand from his sister’s husband to tide us over a rough spot. But my Mom would have considered us a notch above, maybe that’s what a little extra schooling provided, a dash of snobbery. I didn’t subscribe to those values.

Now with that confession you might ask what I was doing driving a T-bird. Well, it was like this. Trying to persuade my parents to cut costs I steered they toward buying a cheap foreign car, a VW in fact. They left with that intention but the salesman talked them into a two year old Thunderbird instead. Mom said it was a bargain. That was when I realized there had been no chance of them downsizing.

The summer was passing so fast and no one seemed to have time for planning. It was catch as catch can. When I needed gas I’d drop by and mostly I’d find Buddy. From the grease on Buddies overalls I imagined he was lending more than a helping hand around the place. Still casino firmaları we always seemed to have time to grab a beer and listen to the jukebox.

When we finished our beers we wandered down the dark hallway to exit the bar, dark clouds had appeared from nowhere.

“Looks like a storm is coming.”

“Yeah, ‘fraid so.”

“You feel ok to drive?” said Buddy.

He probably noticed my gait was a little off kilter.

“Yea I’m ok, I think that pickled egg nearly done me in.”

“Oh if that’s all, you’ll survive with a few eggy farts.”

We both laughed. I opened the car door and put the key in the ignition. A burst of music from the radio I’d never turned off rang.

“Clowns to the left of us, Jokers to the right, here I am in the middle again.”


I flicked off the radio, and pushed the black button under the dash that raised the convertible top.

Buddy stood back just watching, holding a cigarette between his two fingers and taking a drag as the folded top unfolded and closed over me.

“Ok Buddy, see you soon.”

I reached out the window to shake his big hand and drove back onto the broken cement road.

I wasn’t one to look down my nose at others like my Mom. My rag tag assortment of friends had always been torn from families who had been well acquainted with the struggle. Kids that were black, brown and white. Immigrants out of Europe, often of Italian extraction or a family like Buddy’s that might have arrived out of a John Steinbeck novel.

We didn’t’ touch each other back in those days but Buddy alway had his arm around my shoulder which was a comforting thing, as if being bigger than me in stature he might have passed as a big brother when in fact we were close in age.

Buddy didn’t talk much about women in general like most guys do, but he often talked about this girlfriend of his. He never mentioned her name but he described her as his Texas angel. He was fixated that they were going to get married and they were waiting till then to have sex. That seemed a bit preposterous to me. He was saving it for marriage? Must have been part of his Baptist upbringing I figured.

I said, “Buddy, we have a lot of living to do before that domestic scene should settles on us.”

Buddy frowned. Maybe that was one area we didn’t have in common.

“I ready and waiting for the day,” he said.

I let he matter drop. But that was Buddy, his world was set in clear delineation.

“I ain’t gonna marry no whore,” he mumbled, “my wife has got to be a virgin or she ain’t gonna be my wife. I don’t want no other guy’s hand offs.”

“I agree with that.”

I saw no reason to argue with him, we all hope for the unattainable when in reality few of us are the first in line. But most of the Baptist girls I’d dated, including a recent cheerleader at my college who I’d meet at her church on a Friday night didn’t share those virginal marriage sentiments. Maybe because her parents insisted that she attend church on Friday nights.

I’d arrive early before the service was over and I’d park in the dirt parking lot at the back of the church, able to hear the loud pronouncements of the preacher’s hell fire sermon. His shouts radiated into the night from his high powered loudspeaker. Finally the congregation would file out and find their vehicles. When the lot was empty except for me and my girlfriend we’d start kissing and petting like two chimpanzees in the back of my roommates old Volkswagen. We hadn’t yet done ‘the dirty’ but we’d done just about all the rest.

With most men it was natural to talk about sex, but I sensed that Buddy was a little skittish on that subject so sometimes we talked about politics but not often, the presidential election was two years off. He being from Texas and my family being from the South, I guess we had some similar interests; football,we both loved the local pro team; as for cars, we were into Mustangs and the unattainable Corvettes; of course crazy for beer and booze.

We were young and filled with anticipation for the future, but for those moments it was about touching base, grabbing a beer, watching the weekly game or maybe a boxing match on the bar tv, and then a few weeks or more might pass before we’d come back together. Time passed quickly. July was gone and August now half way through.

During a hiatus of two weeks when I was too busy to drive over to Oil City, I’d met a girl while riding home from my Dad’s office on a bus. Dad was staying late at his small office where he did renderings for real estate developers. I left the car with him and hopped on the bus that passed in front.

The bus was mostly empty and would take a meandering path through the outskirts of our little town skirting several other small communities before returning to our city limits where I’d got off. Then, after the bus driver grabbed a 20 minute coffee break at the Cozy Corner Luncheonette, the cycle would repeat itself.

To say I was attracted to the young güvenilir casino lady on the bus would be an understatement. She had the unwrinkled blush of youth, high cheekbones, slender and a sort of Audrey Hepburn clone, except that she carried two proud breasts under her blouse and with a little imagination you could make out one of her nipples. Her dark maroon skirt was tight and had one of the popular styles of the day with a single large button holding it together about six inches above the hem. As she moved or crossed her legs, twisting toward the aisle the dress would flair open revealing two shapely legs.

She was seated about 4 rows from the back on the right and when I sauntered onto the bus I chose the seats adjacent to her row but on the left. I smiled at her but didn’t get much of a reaction. Without my car I was without any status. I was just a young man, probably looked penniless and now minus the coins I’d dropped into the glass box where the fare was deposited. I was still determined to make the most of it with what remained, I turned on my youthful charm.

I broke the silence as the bus vibrated and churned its way over the broken streets and eased its way from the congested city to the more open suburban area onto the smoother roads,

“Ya ride these buses often?” I ventured.

“Yes, I live in…” and she named the town next door.

I noted, “Yeah, back when I was in High School we wrestled there. They had a pretty good team.”

I figure the athletic reference might be worth mentioning.

After a few more words to bedrock our conversation I began to feel more secure. She certainly wasn’t unapproachable.

Now that we were acquainted, I moved over and sat next to her.

“What’s your name?” She responded.

I paid little or no attention to her name, that wasn’t what I was after.

“That’s nice, mine is Lou for Louis.”

“Hi Lou,” she responded and her honey brown straight hair moved hypnotically as the bus rocked. Her neck was long and graceful, her hair length cut to the bottom of her chin. She wore bangs over her forehead like Betty Page.

Once the ice was broken she flooded me with small talk, about her growing up, her looking for a job. It turned out that she was about my age, just turned nineteen. Was going to college at night with the hopes to become a school teacher. I listened, kept smiling and nodding my head.

She moved closer to me. Her breast grazing my chest. I looked around. The bus was now empty except for the two of us and the driver way off in the front of the bus.

Of course I told her that I had a convertible and could come by and pick her up. That we could go for a drive or a movie or whatever. I then asked her if she would like to go out on the weekend. She didn’t answer, but she snuggled closer, her hand fell on my knee. Maybe she had noticed my erection, a tent pole in my blue jeans. Her fingers did a rat a tat tat on my knee. My arm wound its way around her shoulder and felt the warmth of her left breast, so hot it seemed to be on fire.

Yes, she had noticed, her fingers skimmed the outline of my excitement.

“Oh we’re coming to my stop,” she said.

It was still an easy mile from mine but my thoughts were not on logistics.

“Give me your number. I’ll call you.”

She fished out a pen from her purse and wrote it down on a piece of paper I’d had in my wallet.

“On second thought, I should get off with you so I know where you live.”

She found my hand and held on to it. The bus groaned to a stop, jerking forward like a dancer bending her knee, then seemingly reversed its motion and threw us a step backwards as it shuddered to a stop.

We ran to the exit door, stepped down and waited for the door to open. We stepped down onto the sidewalk and we were off, walking towards her home.

Her home was not far away.

We came to a stop in from of a large Victorian home and I was surprised she came from such a stately mansion.

“This is your family’s home?”

“Oh no, I live behind it, in a rented apartment over the garage. My parents have moved down to Florida now that my Dad’s retired.”

We walked up the driveway. On the side of the large garage we climbed up a creaky wooden staircase that led to her abode.

When she unlocked the old wooden door, I was surprised at the size of the place. It was over what I imagined was at least a three car garage, it was quite spacious and modernly furnished. She was quick to tell me she shared the place with a roommate who wasn’t yet returned from work.

There was a kitchen in one corner and a sink. A small door at the other end led to a bathroom and shower. There wasn’t a lot of furniture which made the place seem larger but there were two single beds with a table between them. She put down her purse and jacket and led me over to what must have been her bed where we both sat down.

“So what were you doing downtown?”

She replied,

“I applied for a job at the department store over on Kingston Avenue. You know, Stacie’s Department Store. Oh where’s my manners, Ya wan a beer?”


She brought out two cold ones from the fridge.

“Hey, take a slug.”

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