Roadside Assistance

Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong

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Driving over to Rugby for a meeting with a prospective customer, my car started spluttering on the A4304, and refused to respond when I tried to accelerate. Half a mile on, the engine was threatening to cut out altogether, so I pulled into the next lay-by, which was thankfully not too distant.

One might assume, as an engineer by trade, that I'd know my way around the innards of a car. In fact, I know embarrassingly little about what goes on beneath a car bonnet and have never had even the slightest inclination to find out. I can fix a vacuum cleaner, no problem, and could probably even get the better of a broken washing machine if given enough time. But present me with a car that won't respond when you turn the key in the starter-thing, and I'm practically clueless.

I know how to phone the AA, though, and that usually gets me out of most pickles I find myself in.

After a forty minute wait, which I mainly spent on the phone to the Rugby office trying to get through to somebody competent enough to delay my meeting, a recovery van pulled up behind me and a young lad got out. I say 'young lad' but he must have been about thirty. He was tall and quite skinny and the fringe of his hair, which he'd gelled up, was bleached to a blondish-auburn colour. It was his hairstyle, and his jovial manner, which made him seem young, but the lines around his eyes betrayed that he'd been working outdoors for a good few years.

"Mr Furlong?" he asked, walking up to me. He had a cocky swagger to him which I instantly warmed to.

"That's right," I said and offered my hand for him to shake. I like to establish an air of formality on such occasions. Maybe I'm a bit old fashioned.

As he was checking my membership card, I glanced at his name badge. "Duncan Flood", it read. "Roadside Assistant."

He asked me what the problem was.

"It was making spluttering noises for the last few miles," I explained. "And the accelerator pedal had no effect."

"When you say 'spluttering', what do you mean?"

What was wrong with the word 'spluttering'? It seemed a perfectly adequate description.

"Well, it was faltering," I tried, struggling to think of a way to explain what the car had been doing without using the word 'spluttering'. "It was as if it was coughing... like maybe the fuel wasn't getting to the engine or something..."

The thing was spluttering. That was the only word for it.

He looked dubious; like I really had no idea what the hell I was talking about.

"Let's have a look under the bonnet," he suggested in a voice which was just on the polite side of patronising. "How do you open it?"

"I think there's a catch in the glove compartment," I replied.

Or was that where it had been in my old car? If I couldn't even get right something as basic as opening the bonnet, the guy was going to think I was a total numpty.

He opened the passenger door and leaned in to take a look in the glove compartment.

"Actually it might be underneath – in the footwell," I offered, trying to remember what exactly I'd had to do last time I'd opened the bonnet to fill up the screenwash. It was somewhere over that side of the car, I was sure.

He seemed quite occupied with looking in the glove compartment and I left him to it. Standing out front, watching other people driving past, I wondered if perhaps he was trying to find one of those tools that are specific to each car, like the alloy wheel-nut spanner which I have lying around somewhere.

After a minute or so, a catch deep inside the car clicked and the bonnet popped up slightly.

Duncan came around to join me at the front of the car and lifted the bonnet, clipping it into place. He nosed around under it, busying himself with checking that everything was plugged in where it should be and that there was nothing loose.

I took the opportunity to check out his backside as he leaned over the bonnet with his high-visibility jacket riding up. He was wearing a blue pair of heavy-duty trousers which didn't give a lot way, but I suspected he'd have quite a nice, firm bum hidden away inside them which, in view of how thin he was, wouldn't be too meaty but would have its own particular attractions lurking between his cheeks.

While I was idly checking him out, he surprised me by saying, without lifting his head from the car engine: "Some of that stuff in your glove compartment was a bit... er... bizarre, Mr Furlong."

"Bizarre?" I repeated. "In what way?"

What was in there? A packet of mints, maybe? A small road map?

He kept pulling at wires and tightening connections as if we weren't having this conversation.

"Those pictures. Drawings of men licking each other's bums."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "Drawings?"

"Yeah. And some articles. I didn't even know blokes did that kind of stuff to each other."

I didn't know what to say. I had completely forgotten that I'd left the wodge of information I'd received from Cameron in there.

He stood up and smiled at me. "Is it a gay thing?"

"Actually, no," I stammered. How on earth was I going to explain this? "I meant to throw all that away..."

"Seems an odd thing to have in your glove compartment," he chuckled.

"Someone gave it to me," I said hurriedly. I felt like a child pointing a finger and saying, "He did it, not me!"

"People give me a lot of stuff," Duncan grinned. "But I've never been given anything like that!"

I was struggling to think of why I would have information like that in my glove compartment. "I... er..."

"Look," he cut in, his expression becoming more serious. "I'm going to need to run a few tests. Get a bit of kit out of my van. You might want to sit in your car. It's a bit cold out here."

"I'm fine here," I managed to say.

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

He fetched what looked like an old CB radio from his truck and started wiring it up to my engine. I stood alongside feeling like I was a pervert and a rather gormless one at that.

After taking a few readings, he asked, "So are you into that kind of stuff then?"

"What kind of stuff?" I replied. I knew exactly what he meant but I wanted to buy a bit of time to think up an answer.

"Licking other blokes' bums," he said flatly.

I considered my response. It wasn't likely that he was going to turn nasty with me. I knew his name and could make a complaint with his company. But at the same time I didn't really want to share my sexual fantasies with a stranger.

I decided to play it fairly neutrally.

"It was something I found out about on the internet a while back," I said.

He kept running his checks and, if you were watching us from a distance, you wouldn't even know that the two of us were talking.

"Have you ever done it?" he asked.

He seemed very curious about this. Perhaps his interest was more than just academic.

"I've... er... dabbled," I admitted.

He looked over at me and grinned. "Are you gay, then?"

"Actually, no. Not at all. It's just... well... something I was curious about..."

He nodded. "Curious about doing it or having it done to you?"

"Doing it," I replied, unsure as to whether I was giving him too much information. "It seemed a very intimate thing to do to someone."

He chuckled and got back to his machine. "Cor... d'ya think?!"

Then he asked, still pressing buttons and taking readings, "So have you actually tried it. I mean, for real?"

"You seem quite interested in this," I observed.

He looked over at me again. His eyes were the colour of milky coffee.

"I just didn't know people did this kind of stuff. I mean, I like to look at stuff on the internet just like any other guy. But I'd never even heard of this."

I smiled. "Neither had I until just a couple of months ago."

He nodded. "So, you didn't answer my question. Have you actually done it?"

I was going to ask him what made him think he could expect answers to his questions, but his curiosity seemed sincere and I wondered if this might be something he'd want to investigate further on his own, just like I had over the last few weeks. I had in my mind that I might have in front of me my first fledgling recruit and I wanted to fuel his curiosity rather than quell it.

So I nodded back. "A couple of times, yes."

He grinned. "But wasn't it... like... really grim?"

I chuckled. "Not at all. It was very... er... stimulating."

"And you're definitely not gay?"

"I was married for nearly ten years. I'm pretty sure I'm not."

Duncan stared at me, clearly fascinated. I wasn't sure why my sexuality was so significant to him; perhaps he'd felt a tingling of his own when he'd looked at the drawings in my glove compartment and was relieved that this might be something that straight guys find appealing.

He got back to his machine and, having pressed a few more buttons to no avail, unplugged it from my engine.

"I can't work out what the problem with your engine is," he said. "The motherboard has probably burnt out. It'll have to be taken in."

"Taken in? Where?"

"There's a repair centre over at Lutterworth. They'll be able to run some proper tests and they'll probably have a replacement motherboard in stock. It's a pretty common make and model."

I nodded. "Would you be able to follow me there? It might start splut... er... coughing again..."

He shook his head. "You can't drive it. It's not safe. I'll phone them – they'll send someone out to collect it."

"I'm supposed to be at a meeting in Rugby."

"I can give you a lift to that," he offered. "And someone from the repair centre will bring the car over to you when they've sorted it out."

I was impressed. "That sounds great."

"All part of the service," he smirked, throwing me what could have been quite a suggestive wink.

While Duncan was back in his van radioing through for a truck to come and take my car away, I took my briefcase out from the backseat and stashed the papers that Cameron had given me into it. I'd have to throw them away as soon as I could; preferably shred them.

Eventually he emerged from his van and told me that somebody would be with us within the hour.

I felt awkward that he was having to wait with me. The radio in his van kept crackling with new calls and it sounded like his skills, such as they were, were greatly in demand.

"I'm sure the recovery van can drop me off in Rugby," I offered. "Feel free to get going if you need to."

"Don't worry about it," he said, pulling out a packet of cigarettes and sitting down on what was left of a bench near an overstuffed bin. "It's my job to take you where you're going if I can't fix your car, even if it means I get to sit around doing nothing for half an hour or so." He smirked, lighting one up, and I realised he might appreciate having a paid break from fixing broken down cars.

He offered me one from his pack – when was the last time someone had done that? – and I politely refused.

"I don't suppose you have a hip flask, though?" I grinned, sitting down next to him, and he shook his head and chuckled.

After we'd watched a couple of cars drive by, he returned to the subject I had been expecting him to.

"So this thing you do..." he started and then took a long drag on his cigarette.

"Rimming?" I asked, turning towards him.

He kept facing the road and exhaled the smoke. Then he turned to me, smiling, and said, "Is that what it's called? Rimming?"

I nodded and he chuckled. "Good name! I like it!"

After a few moments and another drag from his cigarette, he asked, "So what's the appeal, then?"

I considered his question. I wasn't really sure myself. I'd read all the theories, heard all the explanations, but I still couldn't figure out why it excited me so much.

After another car had driven by, I replied, no doubt a touch anticlimactically given how long it had taken me to think about it. "I don't really know. I just like having my face down there. I like the smell of it, the taste of it."

He turned back to face me, his expression puzzled.

"But it's a bloke's hairy arse! Isn't it... like... ugh!?"

He pulled a face like he'd just eaten something unpleasant.

"You'd think so, but no. It's surprisingly... er... arousing."

He turned back to face the road and took another long drag from his cigarette.

"Are you interested in trying it, to see what it's like?" I asked.

He smiled, and blew smoke out from between his lips and through his nose.

"It'd be kind of fun to feel someone do it to me, but if you're asking would I like to lick another guy's brown eye, the answer's a definite 'no'."

"But you'd like to feel someone do it to you?"

He turned back to face me. "Yeah, it'd be kind of interesting. I don't know if it would make me feel horny, but I wouldn't mind trying it."

"With a woman, obviously?"

He laughed. "You're lucky if you can get them to give you a blow job, mate. I wouldn't even dream of asking one to lick my ring-piece!"

"So not necessarily a woman?"

He smirked at me, flicking his ash onto the tarmac. "That's right. Not necessarily a woman."

I turned back to face the road. I felt that if I pursued this any further I would be propositioning him. I'd made my position transparently clear: it was up to him to make the next move.

We sat in silence for a while and I think he was waiting for me to say something; to make him some kind of offer. When it became evident that I wasn't – that I'd gone as far as I dare – he stubbed out his cigarette and turned back to face me.

"So when you do it to a bloke, I guess he has to be... you know... fresh from the shower?"

"I think that would defeat the whole point," I smiled. "He needs to be clean, yeah, but you want to know what he tastes like, not the shower gel he's just washed himself with."

Duncan nodded.

"So if a guy had been, say, sitting for a few hours in his van, driving around, that wouldn't be a problem?"

I nodded. "It's nice to have a bit of sweat down there... gives it a bit of flavour. So if he'd been, say, working on cars during that time, getting in and out of his van, that would make him pretty ideal."

He laughed and looked down at the edge of the kerb.

Then he looked back up at me – his eyes had a hardness to them but their colour was quite exquisite – and asked, "Do you mind where you do it? Would doing it, say, in the bushes next to some layby be a problem for you?"

I smiled at him. "Not at all. It would give it a certain... rustic charm."

He smiled back but I got the feeling he didn't know what 'rustic' meant. 'Spluttering', after all, had proven difficult.

He stood up and looked down at me and abruptly his smile seemed to freeze on his face. Within that split second I could see he was pulling back, suddenly unsure of how to proceed.

It was one thing to make jokes with a guy about him rimming you; to flirt with him and tease him with half-hearted come-ons. It was quite another to pull down your underwear and let him actually do it to you; it could present all sorts of uncomfortable questions, especially if you found you enjoyed it.

Given Duncan's change of heart, I chose not to say anything: I thought it best to hold back and let the invitation come from him. I didn't want him to accuse me of forcing myself on him or of misinterpreting a bit of playful banter. If he wanted a taste of what he knew I was offering, he had to ask for it.

He said, bluntly, "I'm going for a piss."

I nodded and he just stood there, staring at me and seemingly wondering what to do.

"In the bushes," he added.

I nodded again.

He continued to waver, half-wanting to walk away from me and half-wanting to make his intentions clearer.

In the end, he settled for: "Do you need to go too?"

I smiled and said, "Yeah. Couldn't hurt."

I got up and followed him into the tangle of undergrowth next to the layby. A car drove past as we clambered our way through the dead remains of that summer's brambles and nettles and I wondered what, if the occupants had seen us, they thought we were up to.

We pushed our way into a small clearing behind a broad rhododendron bush with thick evergreen foliage. We would still be visible from the road to someone who was specifically looking, but to casual drivers we would be largely obscured.

Duncan walked up to a tree and undid his belt. He glanced over at me, unzipping himself, and then hitched his blue work trousers down enough for me to see his red underwear underneath and the tops of the pale, freckled cheeks of his bum. His underwear had a white pattern on it but was much too folded for me to make out what the shapes were. The waistband read: 'Hello Ladies'. They looked like the leftover of some bawdy night out with his mates; a stag night, maybe.

I wasn't sure what to do: should I walk over to him, or should I go over to another of the trees and make out that I was also preparing to urinate?

I decided to hold fire and just stand there, waiting to see what he did. I clung onto my resolution that he had to be one the invite me: that was the only way this was going to work.

He continued to face the tree but keep peering over at me, watching for my next move.

I held my distance, unwilling to be the first to show my hand.

After a few moments, he asked either "Don't you want a go?" or "Don't you want to go?" I wasn't sure which.

Still uncertain as to his motives, I thought I'd better play it safe. I asked him, "What do you want me to do?"

He looked back over at me and then pulled down the back of his trousers and underwear a bit more, revealing the lower and more interesting half of his arse-crack.

"If you want it," he called over, "come and get it."

He'd been mustering up the courage to do this: standing there like he was about to piss was his way of giving himself a way of backing out. I realised that this was probably his first homosexual experience, barring, perhaps, the sort of laddish drunken gropes between him and his mates which would be more to amuse than to arouse.

That made me the sort of guy who enticed other men into having their first homosexual experiences. It was a label I wasn't terribly comfortable with.

I walked over to him and stood behind him. His bum was quite skinny but very inviting. The cleft, or what I could see of it, looked practically hairless.

"Are you sure you want this?" I asked.

He nodded. "If you're up for it."

Like the guy I'd hooked up with in the toilet and the waiter at the restaurant, Duncan was no doubt aware that this could be one of the few chances in his life that he'd get to experience someone doing this to him. It wasn't every day, I was sure, that people would offer him sex – even as tacitly as I had – when he was fixing up their cars and to have someone offer to do to him what I was – well, it was, if you pardon the pun, not to be sniffed at.

I knelt down behind him and pulled his trousers down a little bit lower. His underwear came with them, but the waistband clung to his buttocks, straightening the material out so that I could see that the white patterned shapes were actually old-fashioned moustaches with their tips curled upwards. I grabbed the waistband and pulled it down as well, obscuring the moustaches among the folds again.

"Never had a bloke pull my pants down," he laughed tensely.

I could already smell his arse – a familiar, piquant whiff from his crack – and it was making my mouth water.

He turned around a little and I saw his cock poking out from the front of his trousers, looking shrivelled and slightly despondent flopping over his open fly in the cold air. Its wrinkled shaft was much browner than the rest of his skin and his foreskin puckered open just short of the dry tip of its pink head.

"If anyone comes," he said, "stand up like we're having a piss."

"We'll hear them pull up," I suggested, already aware that the recovery truck would be on its way and that we might need to cut things short.