[VOICE: Rural young man, ridiculously dumb and utterly naive]

My paw says he’s about sick of me and the trouble I get up to. “Robert LaSalle,” he says to me, “if’n you were a woman, I’d have had to cart you off to the adoption agency a hundred times, the way you carry on. If’n I’d knowed you was gonna be such an unrepentant slut, I’d have damned up your sweet momma’s hoo-hah, so help me Jaysus.” But that’s my paw—he thinks the worst of the men in our town, thinks they all got designs on me to use me like them queer fellows you see on TV. I try to tell him that everything he’s heard and seen of me is jus’ accidents and coincidences, and that if’n it looks like the men in town have got som’tin sexual for me, that’s a slander on them, for they’s all as straight as an arrow. Things jus’ happen sometimes, when you’re tryin’ to be neighborly. But Paw don’t listen to me none when I tell him how ever’thing is just a big misunderstanding.

My maw died when I was 10 years, so maybe that’s why paw’s so grumpy all the time. Now that I’m growed and out earnin’ my keep somewhat, he worries people will think less of the LaSalles if’n it looks like I ain’t walkin’ the normal path. But I say it’s good to be friendly with folks and help ‘em outta hard spots even if it looks queer from the sidewalk, so to speak. Ever’time Paw hits the roof ‘cause some do-gooder told him how he saw me a-doin’ som’tin a bit off with a fella, well, I gotta talk Paw down off the roof and show him just how he got it all wrong. I dunno why what happens to me looks so unusual to folks, but that’s just my holy cross to bear, as my granny used to say.

I’m in the doghouse with Paw this week, for sure, ‘cause he heard I was doing som’tin with Walter Johnson, the man on our street who hires me out to cut his lawn on Saturdays. It was jus’ one of them neighborly things, but o’course Paw don’t see it that way. See, I was over at his ‘cause it was a Saturday morning. Mr. Johnson likes to come out on the porch and sip his whiskey while I’m cuttin’ the grass—he says it’s to make sure I don’t miss nothing, but I put a lot of special care into his lawn and he ain’t never complained. If it’s hot, he’ll offer to hold my shirt for me so’s I don’t sweat on it. You see, he’s just neighborly minded that way. So I try to be neighborly back, ya know, makin’ sure I do a good job on the lawn and askin’ about his work in the city—innocent as anything. So you can see Paw being suspicious jus’ shows more about Paw’s way of thinking than about poor Mr. Johnson.

So’s I’m cuttin’ the lawn and Mr. Johnson’s watching me, and as I push the mower past the porch I see Mr. Johnson’s rubbin’ at his crotch with a real focused look on his face. Well, I put two and two together and figure Mr. Johnson got bit by a skeeter or a spider right on his dick, the way he’s rubbin’ it nice and slow and careful. I feel real sorry for him, ‘cause I’ve been bit there before myself, so I kill the motor and say to him, “Hey, Mr. Johnson! You get yourself bit on your donger? I had a skeeter bite me there once and it stung like fuckin’ hell for weeks. You got any cream or anything to put on it? Hate to see you sufferin’ and all.”

Mr. Johnson gets this look that tells me I guessed it right, and he says, “Sure did, Bobby—not just one bite but two! Itches like the fuckin’ devil. I can’t seem to make the itch go away.” He rubs his pecker through his gym shorts and gives me a look that says he’s suffering.

“Well, hell,” I say, “that’s too bad, Mr. Johnson. I guess that skeeter sure liked your dick.”

“He sure did,” says Mr. Johnson. “He bit me on the head and right at the root. Woke me up in the middle of the night.”

“I bet you smashed him flat,” I say. “It’s too bad I didn’t bring my first aid kit—maybe there’d be somethin’ that could help.”

“Well, now you mention it, I read an article by a doctor yesterday that said that the best medicine for a skeeter bite is saliva,” says Mr. Johnson. “If you get the area all wet with slobber, the itch goes right away. At least, to hear this doctor tell it.”

“Well, that’s mighty handy,” I say. “You could just spit on it.”

Mr. Johnson laughs. “Shee-it, Bobby, I ain’t got enough spit to grease up my dick that way. Ain’t you ever seen my Big Willie? I’d run out of spit halfway through.” He stands up and chucks off his gym shorts, and I about shit my pants right there. Mr. Johnson’s got the biggest motherfuckin’ slab of meat I ever seen, in porn or anywhere. It’s almost down to his knees and super long and black.

“Can you see where he bit me?” says Mr. Johnson. “Just right here, on the head.” His pisser’s head is fucking huge! I get up close and though I can’t see any bumps where the skeeter bit him, it does look swollen some.

“God, that skeeter got you good,” I say. “It must itch a hella lot.”

“Fuckin’ does,” says Mr. Johnson. “I wish I could work up enough spit to get it good and soppin’.” He thinks a second about this and then gives me this look. “Say, Bobby, I have an idea. Maybe you could use your own spit, get it nice and wet. I’d sure be grateful.”

“You want me to spit on it?” I say. “I dunno I have any more spit than you do, Mr. Johnson. I’d be like trying to eat a corn cob all in one bite.”

“Just the head, then,” says Mr. Johnson, and since my face is already down there near his donger he lifts it up and brushes my lips with the end of it. He must really be itchin’, I think, ‘cause that dick-head is hot as a poker.

Well, like I say, my maw taught me it’s important to be neighborly. It don’t cost me nuthin’ to give Mr. Johnson some relief from his itchin’, see? So I shrug and put the fat head of his cock into my mouth, trying to drool on it as much as I can.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” says Mr. Johnson, so I know I’m helping him from the very start. “That’s real good, Bobby. Keep suckin’ on that fat head. I’ve been needing this for a long-ass time.”

I keep on suckin careful as I can, cause I don’t want to scratch him with a tooth or nothing and start his itchin’ again.

Well, you see it’s an innocent situation, right? But ya can’t rub a donger for too long without there bein’ a reaction. It’s not too long with me stretchin’ my lips around Mr. Johnson’s fat black cock before it’s going all hard and stiff in my mouth. I go to pull off and apologize, but Mr. Johnson’s so glad he got some relief from his itch that he grabs me by my ears and won’t let me pull off. Poor man must’ve really been sufferin’! He starts movin’ his dick-head against my tongue, really enjoying bein’ free of that itch.

“Fuck that’s good, Bobby,” he says, “I owe you real big for this. Remember, though, how I said that skeeter stung me on the head—and the root? Think you can slick up the root too? With me all hard like this, it shouldn’t be too difficult, huh?”

I pull of his dick and say, “I wanna help, Mr. Johnson, but I ain’t sure I can reach.”

“Ah, that’s easy,” says Mr. Johnson. “Just put your mouth around the head again and let me guide you down. Just slide on down that fat meatstick, boy. [PANTING] God fuckin’ dammit Bobby, you are a right fine neighbor for helping me out this way.”

[OPTIONAL: As Bobby tells the story, you can create the sound of the blow job and Mr. Johnson’s orgasm in the background.]

Of course, Mr. Johnson calling me a fine neighbor makes me swell up with pride, and I do my damnest to get my mouth down to the root of Mr. Johnson’s huge salami. His cock is so huge it goes all the way to the back of my mouth and down my throat. I’m not sure if I can keep breathing, but at last my lips touch his thick black pubes, and I let myself drool all over his enormous fuckstick, till the I could feel my own spit runnin’ down my chin.

“Oh, yeah,” says Mr. Johnson. “You’ve got the right spot, there, Bobby. Feels so good. Shit, I can see my dick all the way down my throat, that’s fuckin’ hot. You ready to help me scratch this itch?” I can barely move my head, since he’s got me pinned with his fuckrod, but I manage to nod. “That’s good, boy, just hold your head still and I’ll help your spit get where it needs to go.” He held my head and began shoving his black dick in and out of my mouth. I think I’m gonna pass right the fuck out, but I try to keep still and slobber a lot so his itchy cock can get nice and wet.

Mr. Johnson begins really goin’ to town, shovin’ his dick in and out. Sayin’ things like,“Fuckin tight throat there, Bobby,” and “This is the best fuckin’ skeeter cream I ever tried,” and shit like that. He pushes his dick all the way down my throat so my nose is smashed up against his abs and that seems to hit the spot, ‘cause he starts pantin’ and swearing and saying how fuckin’ good it all feels. And then all of a sudden’ he pulls right out of me and his enormous donger starts spraying all over my face with hot Mr. Johnson cum. It gets all over me, even my shoulders, that’s how much the man’s got boilin’ in his balls.

“Shee-it, Mr. Johnson!” I say. “I’m real sorry for that. I hoped I could give you some relief without drivin’ you to try to make babies with my mouth. That must’ve felt real strange, being up in a dude’s mouth when you’re supposed to be in a lady’s cunt. I hope you don’ mind too much I made ya come like that.”

Mr. Johnson’s breathin’ hard but he smiles and says he don’t mind, which shows you he knowed it was just an accident, me suckin’ him till he came when all I was trying to do was give him some help with his skeeter bites. He told me that I’d behaved right neighborly, and that I should leave his cum on my face as a show of how selfless I’d been.

“Your dad will be sure proud of you, when he sees my cum on your face,” says Mr. Johnson, putting his arm around me. “He’ll see how big a help you’ve been to me, getting my dick all nice and wet ‘cause it was itchy. You show your dad your cummy face and he’ll be real glad knowing you’re doing right by your name.”