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And, as it happened, it was only about a week later that the boy in the bright red old Mustang did make another appearance in Spike’s life.

Though it was in just about the last way he’d have expected.

Like most old folks - well, they’re in their 40s anyway - Spike’s mom and dad thought that their son just wasted all his spare time.

Spike may have been the best skateboarder in the world to us members of the Crew. But to his folks he was just a timewaster.

“Hey there, Orren Michael”, his dad would say.

(To his folks Spike was always “Orren” - except when they were mad at him. Then it was the full “Orren Michael”, no less.)

“Ain’t it about time you helped out your mom and me and got yourself some part-time work instead of foolin’ around all the time like some stupid kid, huh?

“I heard that new folks up the hill need some help clearin’ the big field behind their house. I called them this mornin’ and said you’d be over later.

“The guy’s name’s Mr Cochrane and he’s expectin’ you about two o’clock. Very grateful he was, too. Maybe he’ll give you some regular work.”

To say that Spike was pissed with his dad was an understatement.

Of course, he already knew the field behind the Cochrane house pretty well. At one time it was just about his favourite place for taking guys he picked up at the old truck stop.

In fact, he’d only given it up after a night he spent pulling ears of corn out of his ass.

So if he was gonna be helping cut the grass and clear it, he wondered how many of his tricks’ used condoms he’d find there.

At 2 o’clock that afternoon Spike got the biggest surprise of his life.

Well, maybe not quite the biggest.

The biggest was probably when he met his piano teacher Mr Zabaletta dressed in a long dark wig and full drag at the Dirty Dick, a gay bar in the state capital.

Once you’d seen the customers, Spike told us later, you knew at once how the place got its name.

But, as he also told us, playing Chopsticks with Mr Zabaletta soon took on an entirely new meaning for him after that.

Anyway, back to where we were.

Spike usually skateboarded everywhere but you’ll remember that this was uphill, so he’d cycled to the Cochranes.

And, as he parked the bike at the side of the old weather-beaten clapboard house, he was stunned to find a bright fire red 1968 California Special Mustang there too.

Spike would have liked to get back on his bike and pedal off. Remember, he’s the Crew member who takes most care of his appearance - pink spiky hair and all - and, expecting to do a dirty afternoon’s work clearing a field, he certainly wasn’t looking his best. Particularly not if there was going to be a hot boy on the afternoon’s menu.

But, on the other hand, how’d he explain not doing the work to his dad?

Reluctantly, Spike pushed the doorbell.

Just as he knew it would be, it was the “paramedic” from the week before who answered it.

Funnily enough, though, he didn’t seem to recognise Spike at all.

“I guess you’re Orren Michael”, he said.

Spike wilted a good six inches.

“My dad wants you to clear some old wood from the field. You better come with me.”

And with just that - and no more - Mustang Boy led Spike to the field behind the house, gave him an axe and told him to start chopping up some branches that had been lopped earlier.

And then he left him there.

Three hours later, Spike was asleep.

In that time he’d chopped up all the branches as ordered and had piled them neatly at the side of the field. He’d even used the axe to lop a few more branches from nearby trees. And then he decided that he’d done quite enough for one afternoon.

After all, no one had mentioned whether or not he’d be paid for any of this.

For all he knew, apart from a handful of blisters he’d probably end up with just a glass of lemonade, a piece of cake and a pat on the head (another reason for not fixing up his elaborate spiky haircut this afternoon) before being sent home.

A slight sound caused him to open his eyes a fraction.

Kneeling right in front of him, just a few feet away, was Mustang Boy.

But it was Mustang Boy with a difference. He’d stripped off his shirt and, as Spike could clearly see, the muscles on his arms and chest showed his was well on the way to becoming Mustang Man.

But Spike found it sexier to go on thinking of him - in the absence of his real name - as a “boy”. So, for the time being at any rate, he decided he’d go on thinking of Junior Cochrane as Mustang Boy.

It was clear that Mustang Boy was equally pleased to see Spike. There was certainly a bulge in his jeans that hadn’t been there before when he’d opened the front door.

And Spike had been with enough guys by now to recognise Mustang Boy’s shallow breathing and the look in his eyes as signs of some hot times to come.

As Spike continued to watch while pretending to be asleep, Mustang Boy rubbed the palm of his hands all over the front of his jeans. As he did so, keeping his eyes fixed on Spike all the time, he gave a quiet moan.

Then, taking the zipper delicately between his thumb and forefinger, he pulled it down, fumbled inside for a moment and pulled out a good seven inches of solid boy meat.

Mustang Boy’s dick was surprisingly pale - almost as though it hadn’t seen a great deal of sun, thought Spike, who was a connoisseur of such things. But it had a fat, deep red head which looked as if it was fit to burst.

Ordinarily, that’s when Spike would have made his move. But he remembered what had happened that night the week before on the old road south of town. Mustang Boy had been frightened off then and Spike sure didn’t want to miss out on such a juicy looking dinner a second time.

In any case, Mustang Boy had played hard to get just this afternoon. It was obvious now that he must have recognised Spike but he’d still done nothing about it at all. So Spike was going to pay him back by ignoring him - well, for just a few more minutes at any rate.

As Mustang Boy began rubbing his dick backwards and forwards, he moved forward on his knees towards Spike. It looked like he wanted to cum all over him.

No spider could have waited more patiently for its dinner than Spike. And as Mustang Boy’s dick hovered over his face he just sat up slightly and clamped his mouth over it.

Mustang Boy was simply too far gone to run away this time and, with his eyes tightly closed and pretending that nothing had happened, he just went on beating his meat.

If it had been possible for Spike to smile at that particular moment, he would have done.

For, as spurts of hot goo slid down the back of his throat, he knew he’d successfully recruited yet another member of the Crew.

Copyright: HMBoys.com / Rob Maynard 2001 - 2007

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