Vance's Flames

Though he’d always been the one to start the fires, it occurred to Vance on his first day of community service that being surrounded by all those strapping firemen dedicated to putting out fires wasn’t all that dreadful. When they ordered him to wash and scrub the fire trucks that first day he reported to the firehouse (he was an arsonist: the men treated him like dirt in the beginning), his dick grew hard each time he wiped and shined all that red steel. And when the fire alarm sounded, even though he wasn’t actually allowed to ride on the trucks with the other firefighters, his ball sack jerked and his breathing grew heavy with anticipation. But more than that, after the fire trucks were out on the road and he was all alone in the firehouse, he realized the heavy suits and large black boots the men wore made him want to strip naked in the locker room and masturbate.

He never complained about any job they made him do. He cleaned pigeon shit off the windowsills with a smile; he washed and scrubbed the locker room toilets with a hand sponge while he whistled “Oh Happy Day.” By the end of his first week of community service, most of the men were beginning to like him.

And there was one guy in particular that Vance liked. His name was Bucky. He was a tall, brawny man in his mid-thirties with a brown buzz cut and a slight paunch. His legs were strong and solid, and you could swing from his broad shoulders. Though Vance went to a gym and had a lean, muscular body with beer can abs and nice round pecs, he’d always preferred older men with naturally rugged bodies. The real men, not perfect men. The blue-collar guys who drank beer and spat on the sidewalk made him hot; the ones who stood with their hands in their pockets and their legs spread wide talking with their buddies about last night’s Red Sox game made his chest heave.

When Bucky spoke, his voice became deep and raw. He referred to the other guys as “buddy,” but pronounced it quickly so it sounded like he was saying “bwady…hey bwady…what’s up, bwady.” The first time he spoke to Vance and called him “buddy,” asking him to put the weekly trash down at the end of the driveway, Vance’s initial urge was to fall on his knees and bury his face between the big guy’s hairy legs.

The community service gig was the best thing that had ever happened to Vance. He suddenly lost interest in lighting matches and began to focus on starting a fire between Bucky’s well-built, hairy legs. When Bucky was in the firehouse recreation room hanging out with the other guys, Vance innocuously began to dust the radiators and sweep the floors so he could eavesdrop on all of Bucky’s conversations. He learned that besides being a volunteer fireman, Bucky worked full time in construction, and he had an ex-wife and two small children. The ex-wife, according to the few offhanded remarks Vance overheard Bucky make to the other guys, only cleaned the house about once a year, cooked frozen fish sticks in the microwave three nights a week, and rarely wore anything other than gray sweatpants and a black sweatshirt. It didn’t sound as if Bucky missed married life. And Vance was smart enough by then to read between the lines, the poor donkey wasn’t getting much sex from anyone and the highlight of his day was probably a quick jerk-off session in the shower.