Perfect Day

By Natty Soltesz

Jerry followed Spat down the sun-baked streets of the college town Jerry had just arrived in that morning.  They were looking for something to eat.  Spat had mentioned that he often found uneaten food in the trash can outside of Arby’s, and he was taking Jerry there.  They were friends now, and they were in this together.

They had met for the first time earlier that afternoon, on one of those crazy narrow college streets packed with row houses and trash.

“Trade you a shot of whiskey for one of those beers,” a voice had called to Jerry from a porch he was passing.  He looked up and Spat was smiling at him, his head shaved and his face dirty, his mouth spread into a vacant, drunk grin.  Jerry smiled back, then walked up the porch and offered one of his Pabst bottles to Spat, who in turn offered him a plastic bottle of whiskey.

They drank each other’s respective alcohol like it was a ritual, and when they introduced themselves to each other Jerry realized he had found a friend, at least for the day, and hopefully for a while.

The porch they were all sitting on belonged to some college kids who weren’t punks at all, but everyone was sharing the whiskey and it was a beautiful afternoon in late spring.

They got kicked off the porch at some point, because one of the girl’s parents were coming over to take her out to dinner. Jerry and Spat ended up in an empty lot up the street, where a blond kid with pale blue eyes was smashing an old refrigerator.  Jerry got in on it, ripping some metal grating off the back until it started to hiss, and they wondered whether the freon was going to poison them, so they threw it in a Dumpster.

They’d smoked some pot in the blond kid’s apartment.  It turned out the reason the blond kid’s eyes were so pale was because he was almost blind.  He sat in the middle of the room and spoke but he never turned around, just stared off in one direction until it started to wig Jerry out.  There was something eerie about it, and Jerry thought about his grandfather, who was senile and sat in a chair all day, staring out the window at nothing at all.  He shook the thought from his head.  The kid was normal enough, anyway.  Maybe it was just the pot that was making him feel weird.

The whiskey was gone and they were somehow back on the street again, just the two of them, Jerry and Spat.  They were hungry, ravenously so, but neither of them had any money, and that was when Spat told him about the Arby’s trash can.

Jerry looked at Spat’s ass as he followed him.  It was a nice ass, plump and thick underneath Spat’s army pants.  He realized he really didn’t know anything about this guy, just that he had a girlfriend somewhere, but that didn’t really mean anything.  Jerry had messed around with plenty of guys who had girlfriends.  Getting off was getting off, and when nobody else was around, who was to know or judge what was what or who did whom?  How did that song go?  If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.

They had reached the trash can and Spat was digging through it, the sun low in the sky and casting the glowing street into an alcoholic haze.  Then, jackpot.  Spat revealed a bag that held two half-eated roast beef sandwiches and a mess of curly friends.

“Still warm,” he said, biting into one.  Jerry was pleased to realize they both ate meat.  So many punks were vegans these days, but it had always been Jerry’s philosophy that beggers can’t be choosers.  Besides, there was something about the fact that Spat was a meat eater that made him even hotter.  He had a devil-may-care attitude that Jerry was really starting to hold on to.

A fat lady passed them, towing a kid on her arm.  She gave Spat a dirty look.

“Fuck you then!” Spat yelled at her, laughing and downing a fingerfull of curly fries.


Jerry was still wasted, but Spat was on a mission to get them some more alcohol so they wouldn’t lose their momentum on into the evening.  He knew about a party that was going on in one of the punk houses on Chesterfield Street.

“My girlfriend might be there, but I haven’t seen her around all day,” Spat said.

In the meantime, they walked to an abandoned warehouse just off the boulevard.  The place looked like it had once been a car showroom, or a large auto-repair shop.  The front windows were smashed in and they entered just like that, Spat’s boots crunching into the broken glass as Jerry followed him inside the cool darkness.

“I’ll see if there’s anybody upstairs.  They might have some beer,” Spat said.  They wandered up to the upper floors.  Each one was connected by a ramp, some leading out onto a roof, until they were in a vast, cement floored room that was covered with stuff—trash, clothes, even books.

“Shit, nobody’s here,” Spat said, sounding as sad as Jerry had heard him all day.  Spat plopped down on the floor and stretched out his body.  Jerry sat beside him, listening to the vast silence of the place.  It was crazy, he thought.  Just yesterday he’d been in Baltimore, and now here he was in a completely different city, already with a friend, being in places and doing things he’d never imagined himself doing.  He liked thinking about things like that.  How had he gotten, here, in this abandoned building inPittsburgh, sitting next to this guy?  It all seemed so impossible, surreal, when you thought about it.

“This sucks,” Spat said eventually, going into how he needed to drink and nobody was around.  Jerry was sharing his first desperate moment with Spat, but inside he was beaming, because for the first time since he’d been on the bus, he remembered what was in his boot.

“I’ve got a joint, dude,” he said, holding it out victoriously.  “I totally forgot!”  Spat was ecstatic, and Jerry was the man of the hour.

They found an old lighter on the floor that had about one light left in it, which was enough to get the joint burning and the sweet, dank smoke careening off into space, creating shafts of light from the quickly fading evening sun.  Just before it was all over, Jerry decided to steer the conversation to where he wanted it, which eventually prompted Spat to ask if Jerry had a girlfriend.

“No,” Jerry said.  “I usually go out with dudes.”  This caught Spat’s attention.  He turned to Jerry and looked at him like he’d never seen him before.  Jerry was used to the reaction, and he laughed in Spat’s face.  Spat’s jaw dropped, but he started laughing too, reveling in the sheer insanity of the moment.

“That’s cool, man, that’s cool,” Spat kept saying, still looking at Jerry with a sense of wonder.

“Have you ever messed around with dudes before?” Jerry asked him, fully enjoying his control over the situation.  Spat hesitated, a smile creeping under his mouth, but he didn’t say anything.  Jerry knew what that meant.  Yeah, he’d probably messed around with dudes, but it really wasn’t anything you talked about.  Still, that was all Jerry needed to make a pass.

Jerry stood up, unconsciously making some distance between them.

“I like messing around,” Jerry said to Spat’s upturned face.  “If you feel like it.”  Spat stood up, and Jerry saw the hard-on that was tenting out the front of his pants.

“Yeah dude,” Spat said, moving closer to Jerry, smiling his big, toothy grin.  “I guess I’d be up for somethin like that.”  They leaned in towards each other and kissed.  It was something of a relief for Jerry.  It always was.  You were around a guy and you never knew if he was into other guys or not, and you always ran the risk of getting rejected or getting beat up.  But Jerry was used to taking that risk, and more over he saw the necessity of not pissing around with something that wasn’t going to go anywhere.  Better to get it over with, and if you ruined a budding friendship in the process, well, a friendship wasn’t really what you had in mind, anyway.

But Spat liked having sex with boys and that was a total relief, and that sense of relief was released as they made out more and more intensely, shoving their tongues into each other’s mouths violently, pressing their bodies into each other.

Jerry felt Spat’s buzzed hair, running his hand down to where the nape of his neck met his broad shoulders.  He continued downward, along the small of his back, and finally cupping Spat’s plump ass in his hand.  That was nice.

At some point they fell on the floor, and Jerry ground his skinny body into Spat’s muscular frame, all the while their lips were locked and the musty warehouse was like a church in the fading sunlight of the late summer evening.

Spat took Jerry’s dick out first, which was surprising, Jerry thought.  He was used to doing all the work with bisexual boys. But Spat was experienced, and he blew Jerry very well and had him on the brink of cumming in no time.  What was key was that Spat wasn’t doing it for any other reason but to turn himself on.  Jerry suspected this when he reached down to feel Spat’s crotch and found a wet spot that had soaked right through his army pants.

He took out Spat’s dick, it was fat and dirty, but dirty like a garage, not dirty like a cess pool.  Spat was totally unselfconscious as Jerry worked on his tool, moaning and carrying on like he was in a porno movie, except nothing was forced. Voicing his desire turned him on to even greater heights, so he just let loose, moaning and grinding and forgetting about the rest of the world.

Jerry was pleased to go down on Spat’s fine ass, which had a tight, hairy hole that was relaxed and inviting.  Jerry loved to tongue ass, which seemed good for Spat—he went off even louder, grabbing the back of Jerry’s head and pressing it into his ass, and now he started saying all kinds of dirty things, willing Jerry to eat his hole, to stick his tongue in as far as it could go.

When Jerry found he had two fingers up Spat’s butt and Spat was still on fire, he realized he had a problem.  There was nothing more he wanted then to slide his pole up into Spat’s fat ass, but he didn’t have a rubber.  Or any lube, for that matter.

Spat was on the same page, however, and here’s where he surprised Jerry.

“Go over there, in the corner,” he said, pointing off into a far corner of the wearhouse, where some clothes were piled. “Reggie’s stash.  Under his clothes.”  Jerry walked over to it, his cock leading the way.  Sure enough, under a pile of clothes was a little nest of rubbers.  No lube, though.  Spit was going to have to suffice.

Luckily, it didn’t take much spit—Spat was so ready to get fucked (like a lot of bi guys are—it’s the one thing they don’t readily get from their girlfriends), his ass so receptive, that Jerry only had to slop a little around his dick before he got the whole thing planted inside.  Spat voiced his appreciation, giving every indication that he’d been waiting to get fucked for a while, or perhaps he wanted it this badly all the time.

Jerry obliged, giving it to him in the way only a person who hasn’t had a chance to jerk off for two days (because they’ve been on the bus) will.  He fucked slow and deep, and fast and hard.  Spat would jerk his own dick every once in a while, but he seemed to be so on the brink that he could hardly touch it, so ready was he to come, but so unwilling to end it so soon.

They held out for as long as they could stand, Jerry finally unloading into the condom and Spat pulling himself off seconds afterward, shooting rapid-fire blasts of cum that rocketed heavy drops over his head, and thereafter on his head, face, and chest. Spat rubbed it into his skin as he came down, pinching it into his nipples and even rubbing it into his head.  Jerry liked that a lot.  Just like a punk guy.  So many of the guys he met in other places were grossed out by their cum, they wanted to take a shower right afterward.

Instead, Jerry layed down on Spat’s hot, sticky body and they nearly fell asleep like that.  There was a moment where Jerry really did phase out, and the comfort of being that close to another person made him feel like he was home again.  He thought of his mother, and for some reason he woke up crying.

Spat noticed, but he didn’t say anything mean.  He just pulled him close and held him.  But Jerry felt the dream fading off, and feeling with it, so he wiped his eyes and stood up, ready to get dressed.

It was completely dark in the warehouse now, the shadows taking on shapes of things more dark and sinister.  He couldn’t remember how to get out, so Spat took him by the hand and lead him back onto the street.

The night was warm and the breeze was like a caress.  Everything was better at night, and this night was no different.  Spat and Jerry walked to the party where Spat’s girlfriend would most likely be, but Jerry didn’t really care, at least not yet.  Everything was different.  He was in a new city, and he’d most likely meet new friends, tonight and every other day until he went somewhere else.  For now, the world had a glow, they still had a buzz, and the air was rich with promise and endless possibilities for anyone who’s alive.