Motorhead

Our long planned car project didn't exactly start auspiciously.

The ancient Volkswagen bus sure didn't look like much when we first saw it, in the backyard of a ranch some ways to the east of Albuquerque, New Mexico, two thousand miles from home. Behind the guy's out-building, with scrubby weeds growing up around the front end, the heap's better days were far in the past.

It was a two-tone 1966 model, 6 volts, ("666" I said to myself) white on top, faded red below, with eleven windows, and no engine. Best news was the arid climate in this part of the country meant zero rust, except for a little under the battery, which was something we could deal with later. But if the important parts of the bus checked out, the asking price would work, and my buddy Roger and I would have ourselves a nice little project. I'd found the VW through an online ad and had exchanged emails with the seller, answering my multi-faceted queries.

As Roger stood there, hands on hips, looking at the beaten up bus, I knew he was wondering just how nuts I was to contemplate this "restoration." His working-man's clothes were always rumpled, but I enjoyed his rugged good looks, those short strong legs and rounded northern European bones that were part of his heritage. Our last car project had come out fine, and one of the special extra benefits of our current adventure was just the plain exuberance of life on the road.

We'd made the two-day drive down, long ones at that, from Massachusetts in my F-150, the truckbed filled with a jack, a VW engine I'd plucked from my favorite junkyard in Pittsfield, and a pile of tools and spare parts. With the slow, possibly decrepit but hopefully serviceable project bus, I'd figured on at least a three-day drive on the way back.

We'd each taken a week off work, hoping that would be enough time to complete the task with a little time to spare. We'd driven from green leafy New England, across the mountains, through hundreds of miles of cornfields in the heartlands of the US, until things had gotten serious brown, dry and dusty past Oklahoma.

I'd forgotten just how much of America there is out here away from the East Coast and cities. Roger and I had had a grand time on the way, chatting and listening to music, the Grateful Dead always the best road music ever. And of course, the sex had been free, easy and phenomenal, a worthy secondary benefit of the trip.

No wives around to dodge, no need to sneak a quick suck on an illicit afternoon tryst. We even got to sleep in the same bed in motels and make lovely penis music together at night, and then have some hard morning wood right at hand the next morning.

On the first day out, late afternoon, I think we were well past the New York border, farther west than Roger had ever been, of course we had been taking sex for miles, and what we would do with each other when we called it a day and found a motel later in the evening.

Roger's prick had gotten so aroused with our talk that he'd pulled it free from his jeans, and at 70 mph I looked over at its handsome engorged head, waving there free in the cab. I salivated.

"Better put your gun away there pal, before I get distracted and run us off the road."

We passed a big rig, and I wondered if the trucker had gotten an eyeful.

"Not sure you got a concealed permit there, Rog."

His gap toothed grin was wide as the Ohio river. "It's not concealed Clay, we're in an open-carry state. Aren't we?"

We both laughed but I convinced him to save himself for later.

The rancher's son had bought the VW, technically a kombi, as a teenager, and like a lot of these sorts of "project" endeavors, the fellow gave up midway through the work, or perhaps found he had better things to do now that he'd gone off to college. Maybe his enthusiasm had dropped off the charts after he'd pulled the engine and started a rebuild. Roger and I were here to pick up the carcass and wrestle it back to Massachusetts, hoping to expend as little money and effort as possible in the process.

Roger examined the front of the thing, a good dent on the right side, with some trepidation.

"You sure about this, Clay?"

"We'll find out." I was most worried about the front end as I could pretty much guarantee the kingpins were worn, and if they were too far gone to safely drive it, that meant we'd have to rent a trailer and tow it with the truck, which I really didn't want to do.

The seller, or more accurately the father of the owner, was genial and patient, and amused at our diagnosis procedures as we crawled around underneath the car and reviewed its condition.

The front end checked out barely, with worn king pins, which I had expected, and loose link pins and sway-arm bushings, but I was able to tighten up stuff enough that I figured we would make it home, although highway cross-winds would be an exciting proposition.

We dumped the old fuel and filled the tank with the five gallons of fresh gas we'd brought along, got the spare engine installed, which I had prepped back home, and fired the thing up.

A couple miles of a test drive satisfied me that things would be okay, so we paid the guy, gathered what extra spare parts there were and stuffed them in the back of the truck. We were on the road by late morning, me in front, Roger behind in the truck. I'd made an appointment with the local Big-O tire folks, so we'd start the trip with fresh rubber installed. I'd figured I'd thought of everything, and of course was wrong. Usually on these sorts of adventures, what ends up going wrong is the one thing you didn't prepare for.

It was the third stop for gas, barely out of Texas, when the VW didn't start after fueling up. The starter engaged, then bogged down and didn't turn the engine over fast enough to catch. Roger gave me an ominous look.

"It's a brand new battery," I muttered.

I had been peeved to have bought a new one, figuring, correctly, that what we'd find with the car would be junk. The peevishness came since my plan all along had been to covert the thing to 12 volts anyway, and so buying a new 6-volt battery was money down the drain. Yet when compared to the cost of towing, it seemed like a good bit of insurance at the time.

Roger push started me with the front bumper of the truck, and when running I whipped out my voltmeter to check the system out. Barely six volts, it wasn't charging enough. The belt was tight so it would either be the generator or the voltage regulator.

Seeing the disgusted look on my face, Roger asked me what our options were.

"Finding either a replacement 6-volt generator or voltage regulator? Around here? Or anywhere on our route for that matter, for a car this old? Long odds."

I thought quickly.

"Battery's new, the starter was fine this morning, we're just low on juice. We could buy a trickle charger and charge the battery each night in our motel. It should run on battery voltage alone all day. Long as we don't have lights on, or hit rain and have to use the wipers, the draw from just running the car will be low."

For safety reasons I had been driving with the lights on, which certainly had contributed to the drain on the battery. But no longer. I wouldn't even be using the radio, not even sure if it worked.

It occurred to me that I had neglected to even check the wipers to see whether they were functional or not, and I kicked myself.

Roger looked at me like I was nuts, but since I was driving the heap, and had the so called "expertise" he wasn't going to argue.

The gas station guy gave us directions to an auto parts store and to my relief I was able to get a trickle charger that would do both 6 and 12 volts. I had one at home, but it still would be worth the forty bucks if we didn't have to go the "tow-it-home" route.

We drove until it started to get dark, luckily fairly far into the evening at this time of year, and I let Roger do the registration thing at the first motel we found in Weatherford, Oklahoma, keeping the engine running in case we would have to drive off to find a second option. But the place was fine and we parked in such a fashion so that Roger could give me a push in the morning and save that "first thing" cold morning battery drain on the starter.

I disconnected the battery and pulled it into the room, hitched up the trickle charger near an open window, and we called it a day on the mechanical front. Almost five hundred miles closer to home anyway, although the rest of the trip now had the prospect of being moderately nervous.

We'd both taken showers, since the day had meant crawling under vehicles, lifting greasy engines and boxes of spare parts around. Felt good to get the crud off.

I'd gone first and was lying buck-naked on the bed when Roger emerged from the bathroom, wiping his wet hairy chest with a towel. That tangle of crotch hair below his belly looked absolutely alluring, as well as those marvelous balls hanging low underneath my upcoming secret garden of delight. Which I planned to ravish ASAP.

Our preliminaries were rapid that night, which of course was ridiculous, since we had no limits on time. We could have taken forever but threw away that opportunity.

I'd laid him out flat on his back on the bed, and gave his testicles, clean from the shower, the long wet lick-over they deserved. His prick was pointing straight up his body, eyes closed, the little moans he made with his mouth, and the tremors that rippled thorough his hips and the rest of his body letting me know the nerve endings were getting what they wanted.

I sucked him briefly, which felt wonderful, but he was way too hard and the risk of short-cutting his pleasure (what am I saying? my pleasure) was too great to continue.

So I slid myself up his body so that I straddled his chest, and pushed my own cock, excited simply from arousing my bud, into his mouth, across his face, rubbed my balls along his chest, "marked" him good.

Neither of us keeps a fixed attitude on roles, sometimes I'm the big guy on top, sometimes him, but I sure like the look and feel of straddling someone's chest, male or female. Barb always said it made her "feel like a woman." I'm not sure that Roger felt any more like a "man" but he clearly didn't mind me on top, with my erection pointing straight into his face.

I always liked to look down, see my prick on its way to pleasure-heaven, being paid attention to by someone else. On top, pushing, feeling real male and powerful and in charge.

But we swapped, and I had Roger on top now, doing the same thing to me that I had just done to him. Loved his cock sliding over my face, then dropping his balls into my mouth for a good suckling, providing that exquisite smell and tactile sense I so enjoyed.

But he was hot to trot, and arousal had grown so advanced that I had him hump my face, my head propped up on the pillows, while he held on to the bed's headboard and pushed his crotch into me. I got several good spurts out of him, loving the feel of his ass-cheeks while he heaved, and then I nursed at his serpent as long as he could handle it, before pulling out.

I liked the looks of his depleted prick, he goes soft fast, and it was all wet and spent, all due to me, a lovely sight.

He took his time with me, playing with my balls while he worked my cock, but I didn't last long, was too excited. I pushed six good spurts of sperm into his mouth while he lay next to me, hands working my ballsac while my ass clenched and my hips rocked. We slept good that night and were up at dawn to hit the road.

The rest of the trip, through all those flat Midwestern fields and then into the low hills of western New York went reasonably well. I had to use the wipers for maybe twenty minutes during a shower in New York, but otherwise our battery, with its fresh charge every night, held out. Our pricks were exhausted by the time we pulled home however. Consecutive daily sperm discharges, sometimes more than once a day. We're both pretty healthy, but we're not in our twenties anymore. We turned into my driveway late on a Friday afternoon, before dark.

Barb looked at the van dubiously when we pulled in. Her dark hair, with a couple streaks of silver, was back in a pony tail, blue work shirt and jeans, her hands on her healthy, rounded hips.

"You sure about this, Clay?" Her eyes went from front to back of the beater. "I'm glad you were able to pilot it back in one piece, but seems to me like you got more work to do on this one than the last."

She squinted at the interior, which was pretty rough, and gave me a questioning look.

"You say you're going to make a decent vehicle out of this?"

She examined the faded paint and the dent on the front.

"I always feel a little better when a car has dents in the back," she finally opined. "Means someone else ran into it, that can happen. But in the front? I'll wager the previous owner wasn't that careful a driver."

"Good point. I won't really worry until we get the front set up and aligned, that'll tell whether we got serous problems or not. Mark my word, you'll be surprised how nice we'll be able to get this thing looking."

She cocked an eyebrow at me, basically indicating to me, for the hundredth time, "Yeah, sure Clay, whatever you say." She was indulgent to me on these sorts of things, and I was grateful for this.

"Maybe, but you sure won't ever see me driving it."

Fair enough.

"It will take some doing, but we'll spend half the money we did on the Porsche. Less time too, I reckon."

She shrugged. "I suppose I should just be happy you two guys have things to do together that bring enjoyment and keep you both occupied."

She turned and walked back to the house.

Roger smiled broadly.

If she only knew.

****

Roger and I handled the front end first. Luckily, since he worked at a machine shop, it was easy enough to use his shop's press to get the old bushings out of the king pin knuckles and other front-end parts, put new ones in and then ream everything to the appropriate clearances and grease it all up back in the van.

After an alignment, and with our new tires, I was thrilled at how well it rode. The first time Roger drove it, who wasn't used to old VWs at all, the experience didn't exactly bowl him over.

"You're saying this handles better than it did before?" His eyebrows went up. "You musta had a hellava time for all those miles on the way home. This thing rides like a brick on wheels."

But the first stage was done, and we tackled the rest of the beast, bit by bit.

I had a great time with the motor, which kept me occupied for a good two months of weekends and evenings. An oversize 90.5 mm set of pistons and cylinders from Mahle, a mildly stroked crank, 74 instead of the stock 69mm, all of which would give us a nice hot, almost two-liter motor. A tuned exhaust system.

Using Roger's expertise and his shop's tools, we saved money on all the machining except the specialty stuff—lightening the flywheel and wedgemating it to the crank, some of the case work, clearancing for a stroker crank, all that sort of stuff. It would have new heads bored out with dual valve springs, the whole business. Roger was amused at my uncharacteristic attention to detail: measuring deck height to get compression ratios right, checking all manner of clearances with calipers and feeler gauges.

It was harder to find a set of Weber 42DCNFs than when I last did a modified VW rebuild, but when matched with an Engle 110 cam, the engine would be a runner.

After the van came back from the body shop, all straightened and painted, Roger had constructed a nice custom wooden floor for the mid-section of the van. We'd removed the middle seats, it was never going to be a people carrier so we had a big expanse of clear floor to work with. I'd even gotten Barb to sew some curtains for the windows.

She looked amused with this request, and cocked an eyebrow.

"Curtains for the windows, Clay? You anxious for some privacy or something? Thinking of turning this into a camper RV sort of thing?"

I was able to convince her it was just shade I wanted, all those windows would just heat up the interior something fierce in the summer sun when parked unless there was a way to limit the light pouring in. Luckily, she saw the logic of my reasoning and did a nice job for the three side windows on each side of the van, plus the rear window. Even took some pleasure in picking out the patterned red fabric that went nice with the paint job we'd gotten done.

It was in the garage one day, I forgot what Roger and I were working on, but we took a break and were sitting on the van's mid-floor, side doors open, when an idea struck me.

"You know what, bud? We could put a full length mirror over there." I pointed at the side facing across from the two loading doors

Roger gave me a leer.

"And?"

"Well, if we were doing a little horizontal action on the floor of the van, we could see each other going to town."

Roger shook his head. "You want a rolling boudoir? You want some red velvet cushions to go along?"

I was the one into visuals, not him. He usually kept his eyes shut when I was sucking him, and when he was doing me, he'd only look at my cock, never make eye contact.

But the idea intrigued me, and I bought an old long mirror, one of those cheap ones, at a tag sale and fashioned a little holder for it along side the interior wall, then made a cover for it out of fiberboard and fabric to keep it both protected from getting scratched or damaged, and hide its reflective purposes from anyone seeing it while not in use. I was tickled at the oddness and sheer naughtiness of my letch.

We got to test out the "love bed" two weekends after I had finished the engine and done our first exhilarating test drive. Tight new front end, the motor pulled strong. Roger was impressed.

We'd driven out the old rough McDouglas road, what once had been a logging road up in the hills behind Stockbridge that now nobody ever used. We had a favorite clearing we went to for our trysts sometimes, which on a sunny day was splendid for some outdoor fondling, which felt so deliciously illicit.

But the clouds had arrived soon after we'd pulled clothes off, obscuring the sun, bringing out the mosquitoes, and then it started to rain.

We grabbed our clothes and blanket and ran back to the bus, stiff cocks waving about, closed the doors and windows, and drew the curtains.

It was nice and cozy inside the van, and I pulled out our thin roll-up mattress. This would be our first sex in the van itself. I had Roger's unit hard in no time, which is when I pulled the cover off the mirror.

He looked great stoked out on the van floor, his penis image doubled in the mirror. I loved seeing his cock go into my mouth from two perspectives: up close in front of me, then just with a sideways glance, I could see my lips travel up and down that glorious penis of his in the mirror, with my own cock bobbing around while I worked him. It almost over-excited me into a premature climax, so I had to leave off, take a break between licking sessions to let things cool down.

I had us sit down facing the mirror, legs spread and we did a little mutual masturbation business, only seeing our lower halves visible in the mirror, so it was sort of disembodied, like we were watching another pair of guys go at it.

Well we had a good half hour or so of fun before getting serious.

I played with him for quite a while, putting him in various positions in front of the mirror, marveling at not two stiff cocks, but four. I had him lie down while I was on all fours on top of him, where I could see him licking my prick, and sometimes my balls when I ground them into his face, while I stroked his penis, sucked it, licked it from root to tip, nuzzled his balls. (Well, I couldn't see that part, but it didn't matter.) I got to overload another one of my senses as my nose took in his sweaty ballsy scent, my own cock twitching at the double stimulation of his smell plus Roger's own efforts on my increasingly insistent penis.