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SS Mannhunt by William Maltese Release Date: 06/2009
Publisher: MLR Press
ISBN: 978-1-60820-060-3 (ebook)
Publisher Link: http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=SSMANHNT
Blurb: FATHER. FIEND? SCIENTIST. BUTCHER? PATRIOT. NAZI? Sebastian S. Mann, prominent member of post-WWII U.S. rocket development, has gone missing with other expedition members supposedly caving in South America. Having done so just days before revelations that he may have been responsible for the deaths of over two-hundred thousand gays, Jews, gypsies, and Romanian freedom fighters. Years later, the male heirs of three missing members of Mann's lost expedition meet up in deep Brazilian jungle to explore evidence finally turned up of their fathers' possibly last campsite. Brad Lexly and Kurt Mann, childhood friends and lovers, rekindle their previous passionate relationship but know its success, beyond the isolating jungle environment, depends upon an acceptable explanation for Sebastian Mann's disappearance. More dangerous people than they, though, seek answers, too, and also provide definite possibilities for this expedition ending up just as missing as the one gone before it.
Excerpt:
The only thing between me and our scheduled departure is one very long night.
Restless, I get up and slip on my robe.
The tent overhead, and the canopy of tree limbs above that, block off most available moonlight. There are degrees of darkness, however, and my eyes adapt to this one. Actually, this absence of light is nothing compared to the ultimate darkness I, like my father before me, have encountered within certain meandering passageways and dome-vaulted galleries deep beneath the ground.
Easily, I maneuver the gauntlet consisting of the backpack I’ll wear in the morning, shadowy camp chairs, and a map-strewn table. I stop before the semicircle of finely woven mesh that, halved by its now closed zipper, keeps me securely inside. A lesser degree of darkness, trapped among tall trees and back-lighting the mesh barrier, silhouettes the myriad insects that cling to the outside of the tent. A hand-size spider, seen from bottom-up and reduced for me to shadow-play proportions, claims an unsuspecting victim. I fear the jungle might devour me as easily.
“You should be asleep,” Kurt whispers, and my fast about-face makes me dizzy.
He stands there, brazen as he pleases, naked as a jay except for his form-fitting Jockey shorts that do nothing to conceal the ridge of obviously hard cockmeat angled upward from his crotch and slightly off to the left. Were his dick thrust straight upward, its head would poke well beyond the containing elastic waistband.
Rather than stare at Kurt’s obvious hard-on, I turn back to the covered doorway.
We’re within mere inches of touching.
“What are you thinking about, out here in the darkness all alone?” he asks and moves in closer.
I’m thinking how husky his voice is when lowered, as now, to a whisper. I’m thinking what my mother would think about what I’m thinking. I’m thinking how all of this might not give any of us the peace of mind we’re after. It’s a subject we miraculously managed to avoid our first night together.
“Second thoughts.” His isn’t a question.
“Not as long as there’s the slimmest chance I come away with a certainty my father is dead. Even if he died in a cave accident. It’s living with the maybe-this maybe-that that’s so frustrating.”
Kurt knows all the frustrations of the maybe-this maybe-that.
“Is that what you think happened?” he asks, and I strain to hear him. “They found their fabled caves, got in, couldn’t get out?”
“Don’t you?” How quickly he joined me in reacting to just that assumed potential when the captain mentioned the deNali caves where college botanists bivouacked.
“Yeah, I’ll settle for that,” he admits. “I’ll even settle for killed and cannibalized by natives, or eaten by wildlife. I’ll settle for any fate except the one that paints my father as a Nazi monster out to cover his tracks. Because I remember him, you know? I wasn’t so young at the time he disappeared that I didn’t know with certainty who and what he was. And I tell you, he was a good, kind, caring human being, man and father. He had his faults, but they weren’t of the magnitude, or of the grotesque nature, insinuated by muckraking journalists who took advantage of a real tragedy to run down the character and reputation of a man unable to defend himself.”
Certainly, I remember Sebastian Mann as seemingly less-than-boogeyman.
“Do you think my father killed them?” His question jolts me out of my reverie. It’s the question I’ve known he’d ask, from the moment I knew I’d see him again, but that doesn’t make my answer any easier. His father’s misdeeds might well include far more than just the forced separation of Kurt and me so shortly after we’d professed undying love, one for the other (no doubt confusing love for newly discovered homosexuality).
I turn to him in the darkness.
He knows what my mother believes, and I, after all, am my mother’s son. Like mother, like son?
“Whether or not your father did or didn’t kill two men or two-hundred thousand has nothing whatsoever to do with whom you are, does it?” It isn’t what he probably wants to hear, but it’s the best I’m prepared to offer him at the moment.
He puts one of his hands on each of my shoulders. I flatten my palms against his naked chest. His flesh is hot to the touch. His ribcage is a gentle bellows as he breathes. The pulse spot on his sensuous throat throbs with a rapidity that matches my own.
“Handsome and diplomatic,” he says and steps closer. “Everything about you bigger and better than I remember.”
He drops his shorts. His cock sticks impressively upward in front of his belly. His right hand runs my left arm and clamps my wrist. Exerting force, although not so much that I can’t counteract if I try harder, he brings my hand to his stiffness.
“Speaking of bigger and better,” I say.
“I’ve missed you,” he says. “In case you didn’t get the gist of that, last night.”
His hand no longer pressures mine in place, but I make no move to remove the tenting of my fingers over his straining erection. Kurt’s arms slide my back, pull my body in so tightly against him that my arms collapse between us, and the hardness our cocks, separated only by the material of my robe, unite.
“Once again, I can tell you missed me, too,” he says.
“We can screw up a lot of lives here, if we’re not careful,” I remind. Actually, I need reminding that my mother, were she to see me now, or would have seen me with Kurt last night, would likely have a heart attack and die on the spot.
“Or, we can continue to seize each and every moment, and worry about tomorrow tomorrow.”
He kisses me hard on my lips, his mouth forcing open mine. His tongue sexily touches my tongue.
I reach down, between us, and fumble the flaps of my robe out of the way. Much better: naked erect prick, belly-to-belly, with naked erect prick. My hand already in the vicinity, my thumb hooks the back of my dick, and my fingers extend partially around and behind Kurt’s throbbing erection. No way able to circumvent our combined phallic bulk, I manage enough of a handhold to shift uncircumcised foreskins (his and mine), until our cocks resemble cowled monks in intimate embrace.
Kurt rises onto his toes and fucks his dick through the snout of his prepuce and through my curled hand. The stomach of his dick slides sensuously along the stomach of mine and does so again, in the opposite direction, as his heels slowly return to the floor.
The two dicks need more than my one hand to do them justice. So, my other hand joins in order to girdle our fleshy stiffness.
“Four hands are better than one,” Kurt says and finger-wraps our dicks immediately adjacent to where I hold on. Together, we provide twin tunnels that contain most of our painfully swollen erections.
I’m pleased by how easily we’ve progressed to this point, considering our just-finished conversation’s injection of reality into the dynamics. So far, so good, as regards our sex in less than ideal situations. We rationalize advantages, disregard disadvantage, enjoy while we can.
Surprisingly well-coordinated, probably from our considerable practice in Septiaola, we perform long and leisure pumps of our standing-tall dicks. Our fingers slide up, then down. Our foreskins hood, then de-hood. Veins along the bellies of our cocks, press and overlap, like meandering waters of the Amazon watershed.
Suspended beneath our united dicks, our balls move within our scrotums. Kurt’s black-fuzzed bag mingles its wiry hair with the blond fuzz of mine. Swing, collide, careen, like pocketed balls of a billiard table. Each gonad, likewise, hoists all the farther toward eventual burl-like stance at one cockbase or the other.
“Damn, I’m so hot, so fast, it’s like I’m a kid again.” I wonder if my blue eyes dilate as completely as Kurt’s purple eyes do.
“You certainly bring me to the point of creaming faster than anyone else I know,” he says.”
One of his hands leaves our dorks for our balls. It’s almost too late, our nuts elevated so tightly to our cockbases, but his hand is just large enough to bring our testicles together for a final ricochet that floods painful pleasure into the pit of my belly.
My hands-on-cocks momentum gets faster, and Kurt’s lone hand follows suit, until his surrender-our-gonads hand comes back into play.
“We could be doing something a tad more advanced than mutual masturbation,” Kurt says, no noticeable slowdown of his up-and-down pumps over our erections.
“But, this feels so damn good.” I’m not about to turn loose of his dick or mine. Not the way I feel. Not the way I’m going to feel in just a few short seconds. “Besides, who says we can’t move on to other things from here?”
“I suppose I might argue…“ He interrupts with a low, long sigh (a growl really). “…that our proposed jungle trek of tomorrow should really see us preserving our energy, but…” He leaves the sentence hanging.
“Speaking of butt, did I ever tell you what a turn-on yours is?”
“You might have... You about ready to cream? Good, because, I sure as hell am! … mentioned it once or twice last … Jesus, this does feel good, your cock and mine hugged together, fucking our hands, fucking our foreskins! … night.”
I don’t take much longer for priming, all of these years later, than I did when we were far less experienced younger men. If I ever thought my sex with others would prepare me for the renewed novelty of sex with Kurt, I’ve been sadly mistaken. It’s almost as if I’m back to experiencing sex with a man for the very first time.
“I’ve this geyser about to spray.” His snaky pink tongue licks his upper lip.
My head falls forward, my forehead to his shoulder. Which gives me a good look-see between us, where our dicks extend upward beyond our navels. Where our balls twitch for massive spermal blasts-off.
“Regional seismographs are jiggling their needles,” he says. “Major sexual earthquake on the way!”
Our meatiness swells to push our fingers and thumbs apart: behemoths about to shed their fetters.
“Feed me spit,” he says, “while I feed the space between us with enough goo to drown a pachyderm.”
I turn my head against his shoulder, position my lips to his eagerly awaiting mouth, and drink his wet-warm saliva (tasting vaguely of peppermint), while I feed him my own.
“Ahhhhh,” he breathes long and low between my open lips.
I echo his sigh.
Our mated phallic crags of meaty maleness erupt veritable gallons of magmatic streamers that would leave any well-traveled volcanologist’s mouth agape in pure awe and wonder.
