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If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not scroll down. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means enjoy my salty tale.

A Native Breakfast

Copyright 2015 by Zeke Krahlin

I drove the University of Missouri's archeology flatbed through Nebraska and on to South Dakota. (This was back in June of 1971, the year I came of age.) Night fell as I hurtled north on the asphalt byway to Rosebud Reservation and beyond. Lightning flashed every five seconds or so, in various portions of the sky. Highlighting three (and sometimes four or even five) tornadoes that seemed closer one moment and further the next. My Ford Ranger rattled like the sere bones of a mammoth skeleton as I panicked, sought the next truck stop where I could find shelter underground...and hopefully, a steaming pot of black brew. I drove alone (rhymes with "provolone" for some unholy reason).

Suddenly, my windshield lit up like a nuclear blast: the afterimage of a looming twister overhead burnt itself onto my retina for at least a hundred yards. Yet I remained unscathed as I barreled towards an outpost of lights up yonder, passing an overturned International semi with crates of produce busted open and spilled about. And several dead hogs sprawled across the weedy berm in pools of crimson, one still kickin'.

The wind was wild like a feral mustang as I slammed the door of my oversized jalopy and gazed upon the boarded plate glass front of "Aunt Emma's Homestead Barbecue & Saloon." A makeshift sign securely taped above the sealed entry announced in thick, magic-marker letters:

Tornaydo shellter
in back. Welkum!

My eardrums popped from the sudden change in pressure as I pounded on the slanted wooden doors that led to the cellar, grabbing one handle for dear life. Tumbleweeds whacked my exposed side and disappeared into the screaming void as I awaited entry. At one point, a pebble struck my cheekbone and drew blood.

"C'mon, c'mon inside young 'un, afore the divil strikes!" hollered a plump waitress with crimped, pale-blue hair saturated with bobby pins, and a greasy apron that's seen many a hot grill. Her shoulder firmly abutted the creaking left-side door as I squeezed through and into a spacious and well furnished bunker.

"Bang!" slammed the hinged oak panel, and suddenly I was in a different world: a quiet world lit with flickering kerosene lamps and filled with the aroma of fresh Folger's, grilled cheese and barbecued tasties. Yet the air was clean, not stale, thanks to a vent that could be open or closed at will. A radio played in the background, cowboy music interspersed with a liberal dose of static.

Not many folks were there (no surprise), mostly men (again, no surprise), as this place was, of course, a watering hole and rest stop for the bread winners of these Great Plains. I'd say about 18 customers in all, engaged in friendly gab of the sort that took their minds off our present crisis. In such events, talking about the weather was certainly not the way to strike up friendly associations. Plus the fact I am gay does not usually open doors for me in these here parts.

So I kept that aspect of my life secret; yet by the same token, scanned the storm shelter for the most available, and hottest, dude present. Then seated myself at his table, gratified that he sat alone, and possessed a most handsome countenance along with an epic crotch bulging with the promise of many spermalicious adventures. (Think "Tom of Finland" here.)

"My name's Mabel," spoke the waitress as she handed me the menu. "Everything in the sandwich section is available, though we also have two different barbecued meats on the grill: baby back ribs and buffalo wings."

"Why thank you, Ma'am," I gratefully answered while seating myself in close proximity to this golden buck (delightfully skinny and sweetly cut; obviously Native American). I turned to him and coyly asked:

"What would you recommend? I've never been here before."

So this was the moment: the moment I'd discover whether or not he found my face BJ worthy. Tonight turned out to be My Fortunate Roll of the Dice, for he lit up and replied:

"Ho! I highly recommend the ribs and their incredible coleslaw compote!" Then he lowered his face and jet eyebrows in humble request: "May I have the honor of buying you dinner?"

"Fuk yeah man, if you're sure you can foot the bill!"

[ Kolkhoznik Reader: I was not unaccustomed to older men of semen-spurting visage inviting me to partake in this or that intimacy, ever since I turned 13 and received my first finger boinking by the Good Humor Ice Cream Man who drove through my North Massapequa neighborhood every summer day in 1963. His immaculate white uniform and hefty coin belt made me wanna cum buckets. And so I did: right straight between those zealous lips that tasted many a toasted almond or coconut ice cream bar. ]

He grinned wider, his ruddy face glowing with testosterone fervor...yet not so obvious to those with hetero inclinations. (After all, that's what "gaydar" is all about.)

"Put it on my tab, Mabel, along with whatever he wants to drink!" His enthusiasm was embarrassingly evident to this horny steed. Yet not to Mabel or anyone else within vocal range.

While awaiting these vittles, I engaged him in small talk: "So, you're from these here parts. Are you Lakota by any chance?" Most of the natives in this region are, so it was a lucky strike for me when he replied:

"Good call, my feisty colt!" Whereby he placed a rough hand on my crotch, and squeezed in foreplay delight. My bazooka quickly grew plump with passion as he inquired further: "And where do you hail from?"

"Oh, I'm an archeology undergrad from the University of Missouri," I proudly answered, "here to dig up a 17th century Sioux village near Wakpala."

"Wakpala, eh?" he grew most attentive while opening the top two buttons of my denim jeans: nowhere near enough to catch the attention of anyone close by, considering the shadowy ambience. But certainly enough to make me groan with desire. "You've still got a ways to go!"

"Uh, yeah!" I asserted while drawing my thighs closer in reserved ecstasy. "Gonna be a three-week dig in hopes of uncovering many valuable artifacts." My boner was ready to pop.

His middle finger then caressed the crown of my joystick like a seductive little snake: "Maybe you should stay with me tonight."

"Oh yeah, baby, that would be so sweet!" I thought in a delirium of erotic fantasy, realizing in full by now, that I have met The Sperm Gusher of my Craziest Desire, wrapped in a face and body of exquisite proportion. No way was I gonna pass up this Once-In-All-Lifetimes Answer to My Penultimate Desire. Never mind that he was too good to be true; 'cause this is how it's supposed to happen anywayz.

It was all I could do to keep from tearing off his shirt and licking that svelte, copper-hued torso...sliding my rock-hard tube against his, balls pressing. But I held back, knowing this was not the place and time for such revelry. Besides, I'd find heaven between his legs soon enough.

"Um, yeah, okay, yeah." Somehow he managed to slip his hand entirely through my fly, johnson in his grasp all the way to the base and fingers slick with mayo. I shot my wad with a powerful pulse, followed by several more throbs of passion.

"Oh, fuk, yeah!" I accepted his offer in a deep whisper while maintaining a bland composure above-table, fiddling with the utensils. "Sounds righteous to me."

My Sexy New Comrade wiped his gooey fingers and palm on his Ben Davis slacks, and resumed his pose with both hands on the dinner mat. He nudged: "Here comes supper!"

Mabel returned with a plate of ribs, homemade coleslaw warm with dark cherries and apricot, and a chill bottle of Michelobe. (I would not yet turn 21 for six more days, but I figured what-the-hey.)

By my third brewskie I was ready to fall into his embrace, no matter what anyone else thought. He knew this, and realized he'd better pack it up and take me home before a battle over me broke out in full regalia of male-on-male envy.

"Looks like World War Three visited us!" remarked my compadre while puffing on a homemade cheroot and veering onto a bumpy side road strewn with magazines, toys, TV sets, board games, furniture, toasters, scrapbooks, broken toilets, aluminum siding from trailer homes, split barrels and sofa cushions. All shown in the headlights of my Ranger like pop-up monsters in a carnival haunted-house ride.

No doubt there were corpses to complete this apocalyptic fiasco, though I was too exhausted from my travel--and drunk on top of that--to raise my head from the comfort of his most welcome basket of plump balls and gonzo phallus that sometimes thrust against my cheek in rigid tease. A copious, sticky moisture drenched his crotch: I think the myriad potholes over the course of two miles made him cream against the weight of my head.

"I'll have to lap those parts clean soon as his pants drop." I hazily thought in half slumber.

By the time we arrived at his cabin in the gorge, I was mushy pemmican in his arms, adoring those glorious biceps with my tongue. (His cool armpits were nothing to mock, either.) This abode rested way deep in a sheltered overhang where no twister could ravage. Somehow his slacks were almost half off by then, with my lips stroking his crown and a third-way down the shaft. I wanted to go a lot further right then and there, but My Native Guardian stepped out into the blustery wind and pulled me up by the shoulders until I could lean against his side. He escorted me into a rustic den surrounded by Sioux blankets hanging on the wall and many other indigenous decorations, furniture and traditional totemic paintings.

It was elegant and clean, smelling of sweet grass and chamomile (and, I think, vanilla-bean coffee), lit only by two oil lamps and a Streamjet wood stove with a steaming kettle atop. I grew a bit sober then, and remarked while he held me firm with one arm about my shoulders:

"Thish ish awsheome! [hic]" I almost slipped to the dirt-packed floor, but for his attentive reach.

"Pleashe tell me your name," I begged while facing up into those eyes that sparked like obsidian. He gave no reply, but grinned so warmly I felt awash in early springtime sun. I persisted, with a lingering hand upon his sternum:

"My name is Sheke, [hic], short for Eshekiel. Sho c'mon, tell me yoursh, I bet it'sh very prophetic."

Just before he answered, he eased me onto the waterbed and peeled off my clothes before feeding his silly-natured Siberian husky and putting the two cats out for the night.

"If I didn't know [hic] any better," I called from the wobbling blankets gifted by his extended family, "you shpiked my coleshlaw with Mary [hic] Jane!"

"Only because I knew that would please you," he acknowledged while blowing out the two lanterns and crawling in bed naked, beside This Eager Cub. His raging wanger preceded the rest of him, rubbing against my belly and all the way up to my chest. The starlit night shone softly through the kitchen window once the tornado clouds broke. I never tire, gazing upon The Horse Head Nebula.

And he whispered something while drawing my ear close to his mouth: "You are Little Pony. We remember you for the good deed you did for our people, the Lakota, many moons past. You are not the youngster you were then, though you think you are. Time has played a trick on you."

His full name was Julian Gray Thundercloud, and he was three-quarter Lakota and one-quarter Portuguese: a most lovely hawk of a man whose firm embrace and kok-sucking talent made me ejaculate five more times before the two suns rose. He had a tight, muscular ass that I rode like a fatted calf more than once that night. Boy did I cum! More than once, more than my Protestant Long Island Fantasies could ever imagine. His comely smile, sleek jet-black hair and platinum eyes inflamed my soul to his every lustful maneuver.

Julian's thighs, sweet-nippled chest and powerful neck and shoulders gave me such rapture that I felt immersed in a new which all gay people are vindicated and revered.

By 7 AM he awoke me for a native breakfast of rapeseed-oil-fried bread (whole grain), sweet corn salad, plantain/blackberry cobbler and dandelion tea sweetened from the beehive out front. It was all delicious; so much so thanks to his darling attention and kind regard for my future well being. (I have to say at this point, that his 14-inch Rod of Aaron was not the least of his amazing delights that so pleased me throughout our 1-night tryst.)

[ Do not think for a moment, Lycaenid Reader, that I did not beg him every which way to Sunday and back again, that I slobber all over that beautiful wanger one more time, before departing. He eventually complied, but not before I struggled with heroic force to unbuckle that rodeo belt and jerk down those cotton twill trousers. It was a fight to the finish, and I, the conqueror. His jism flooded my throat like water to a desiccated sponge. ]

I departed two hours later, with the full knowledge that our spirits will reunite in a not-so-distant future, when we shall celebrate Our Togetherness again...only this time without any hetero stench whatsoever. My only concern at this point was:

How do I prepare my bung hole for such a warrior invasion that is the very heart of St. John's Revelation? For I do not have a motivational counselor, nor can I afford one at this time. And I thank The Great Spirit for that, because most of you who occupy this satellite are a bunch of evil sycophants. May Yog-Sothoth find you.

I, for one, will soon arrive at Rosebud.

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