Oil Patch Buddies Ch. 01bywillmasonwillmason©
As a 19 year old college kid, I had been living the good life for quite some time but didn't appreciate it. Enrolled at the party school of my dreams, my parents paid for everything, even my fraternity dues. My freshman year was a blur of keg parties, awesome weed, and a stream of cute girls in and out of my bed.
My freshman year grades were terrible, but the consequences didn't seem to register with me. I just hid the academic probation notice from my parents. Then, after the first grading period of sophomore year, the ax fell.
An email from the dean of the liberal arts school summoned me to a meeting. My sporadic class attendance and low test grades had led to my being asked to leave the university. I was stunned to hear that I was required to take at least a year off before I could reapply. Shell-shocked, I drove home and told my parents the bad news.
My dad was grim, but never raised his voice. Instead, he calmly informed me that it while saddened him deeply, he was going to cut me off, completely. He said I needed to learn what it was like to find a job and support myself without a college degree. That experience, he reasoned, would compel me to change my priorities.
Then, if I could pay my own way to school for one semester, he would sit down with me and discuss the balance of the year, taking it one semester at a time.
I couldn't really object. I had made my own bad luck and knew that my parents were being rational, where I had not been.
I found myself suddenly cut off from a lifeline of money I had come to expect but never appreciated -- and feeling like complete idiot. My dad said I wasn't allowed to live at home and needed to find a place to live within a week.
There were no jobs except pizza delivery in my hometown, and what the hell would I do there anyway? In two more months, I would turn 20,with no skills and no degree except my high school diploma.
Searching for jobs on my laptop, I stumbled across an article about an oil boom in some remote places where there were more jobs than applicants. Resigned to trying to crawl out of the hole I had dug, I figured this was my best shot at making enough money to get back to the college life I pined for.
After several hours of more in-depth research, I decided to strike out for where the odds were most in my favor, no matter how godforsaken the place sounded. With under $400 to my name and a dented 2002 pick-up with 132,000 miles on it, I drove the long hours to the northwestern corner of North Dakota, not far from the Canadian border. The sign said "Welcome to Williston, Where the People Make the Difference."
They had better have some great people. I couldn't believe how barren the place looked. The new-looking motels that had sprung up on the main highways all had glowing "No Vacancy" signs in the windows.
A couple of years ago, only 5000 people lived here, but now the population had swelled to 15,000, almost all the newcomers men. The Bakken Shale was the hottest oil patch in America and good paying jobs were why they -- and I -- had come. It was not quite my vision of the American dream, but it would have to do.
Unable to find a room, I slept fitfully in my truck that first freezing night, then started my job search early the next morning. The local chamber of commerce was a one room storefront, but its jobs bulletin board was crammed with listings for help wanted. I knew nothing about rough necking or being a tool pusher, so all I could hope for was an unskilled job.
As I stared at the board, a 50-ish looking man walked in and asked the lady behind the desk how he could find some help. His name was Burleson and he had a portable housing business. Not wanting to miss this opportunity, I walked over and stuck out my hand:
"Trip Martin, nice to meet you sir. I am looking for work." I used my best look-em-in-the-eye manners, learned during fraternity rush.
"Son, I need someone to help me rent my modular housing. Any experience?" He was gruff and to the point.
"Yes sir, I worked for a real estate office back in Illinois, finding apartments for college students. I know how to run credit checks and developed a pretty good sense of who will be a good paying tenant."
This was a total lie. The only "job" I had ever had was selling a little weed to the frat boys in my house. But one of my roommates, Joey, was on financial aid and needed extra money to stay in school. He had taken a job for an apartment rental agency, working afternoons and Saturdays. I knew what was involved and it seemed like a piece of cake. I decided to assume Joey's identity and pray Mr. Burleson didn't ask for references.
"Well, let's go have a cup of coffee and continue this interview."
We walked across the street to a cafe as Mr. Burleson explained his project. He had come up here from Texas in connection with an oilfield supply business he owned, saw the acute housing shortage firsthand and decided to meet the need.
He had 25 modular units constructed, complete with basic kitchens, bathrooms, a hot water heater and AC/heating units. He leased the land from a farmer, with an option to expand if his project succeeded. The first units were on a new slab, all hooked up to plumbing and electricity and ready to be rented out.
Within twenty minutes, I was hired. Mr. Burleson wanted me to run the office, get leases signed, take deposits, and manage the property. I would make $2000 a month to start, but my housing was free. Mr. Burleson was willing to put a lot of trust in me and I was determined not to let him down.
I followed him to the site and unloaded some of my belongings into the stark but adequate one-bedroom studio next to the make-shift office.
The very first week, I leased every single unit, all for cash with the first month and a deposit paid in full up front. I was amazed at the cash these rough-looking workers were throwing around. Mr. Burleson would accept leases as short as a month, for a price. Most tenants booked for 3 month terms or longer.
Mr. Burleson was planning to double the capacity as soon as he could get more units up here. By the end of the second week, the contractor he had hired was already prepping the lot next door for new slabs.
After Mr. Burleson went back to Texas, I was the sole employee on the ground in Williston. Burleson called several times a day, but I was running the show. The responsibility made me feel like I was finally growing up.
While it wasn't hard work in a physical sense, I was "on duty" or at least on call 24/7. My cell phone rang whenever anything went wrong, a plumber needed to be called, a heating unit malfunctioned, or one of the tenants got drunk and damaged something.
My first month, every day was consumed with managing the first 25 units and doing anything Mr. Burleson asked me to do about Phase Two. I had made a few short visits to the town's rustic bars, but quickly retreated to the comfort of my tiny home, where my laptop's Facebook page served as my portal to the world I had left behind.
One thing was for sure: there no almost no women in Williston, just tons of single guys. The ratio was seriously out of whack.
Sitting at a bar called the Back 40 one freezing December night, I nursed my beer alone and occasionally texted with some old friends. After about a half hour, a young guy who looked about my age walked in and took a seat a couple of bar stools down. His hands were calloused and looked far older than his smooth young face. His body was thin but muscular, molded by hard physical labor.
Bored out of my mind, I struck up a conversation, or at least tried to. He was named Troy and was 19 as well, drinking on a fake ID. Troy was so soft-spoken and shy that I could barely hear him over the juke box. I eventually learned he had left high school after his junior year and gone to work in the oil field, following his older brother's path. At 19, he was considered skilled labor and was making $30 an hour, $45 for overtime.
After my persistently friendly questions, Troy opened up enough to tell me how he got here.
"Well, I headed down to the Eagle Ford shale in Texas after my junior year. I never was no good at school. Wanted to learn a trade."
"What got you all the way up here, in all this cold weather?"
"Grew up in Wyoming and don't mind the winters. Heard North Dakota was paying about double what I was making in Texas."
Troy was a man of few words.
We talked an hour or so over a pitcher of beer, and then a second. I did most of the talking of course, keeping one empty bar stool between us. Troy apparently decided I was OK and asked me what brought me to the Baaken.
He shook his head when when he heard my story about how badly I had fucked up, getting kicked out of school. He even laughed a little when I mentioned the serious and depressing lack of pussy in Williston and alluded to some of the fun I had in my short-lived college life.
"There ain't none of that up here," said Troy, stating the obvious.
We both laughed and talked about how a decent whorehouse, or even a not-so-decent one,the could make a killing in this town. When the bar flashed its last call warning, I asked Troy where he would go now.
"Just back to the hotel room I share with 3 other guys," Troy replied,getting up to leave
"Well, if you could stand another beer or two, come over to the place where I live and work. I've got a new twelve pack and plan to have a couple more Buds tonight. I'd prefer not to drink alone."
I hoped Troy wouldn't beg off.
He hesitated, then looked at me and said: "If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it. Not working tomorrow for the first day in a while."
It surprised me how happy his shy acceptance of my invitation made me. I realized that I was not only tired of working all the time, but was desperately lonely too. Troy was the first guy I had met around my age and even though we were from different planets in terms of our lives before Williston, I was eager for any company I could find.
Over the couple of pitchers of beer we had downed at the Back Forty, I had glimpsed a subtle sense of humor in Troy. His way of speaking and reticence intrigued me. Troy was so unlike the guys I had hung out with over the last year and a half. They had been almost as immature as me and most had lived off their parents, like I had until the abrupt end of my sweet deal. I respected Troy's independence and marveled at how he had been on his own since he was barely 17.
Troy followed my truck out to the modulars, less than 5 minutes away. My plain little studio was livened up with the flat screen TV I had snagged from my room at home, my fancy Macbook laptop that my folks had bought me for school (but had only been used for Facebook), and my old Xbox 360. I got us both a fresh beer and plopped down on the couch.
Troy, still standing, didn't seem to know where to sit until I said,
"Sit down, dude. As you can see, this old couch I picked up at a garage sale is the only place to sit but the bed."
Troy sat on the far end of the couch from me, keeping his gimme cap on. He drank about half his new beer in one long slug.
I put on some music and tried to get Troy to open up some more about his life. At first, the conversation was pretty stiff. I was used to my buddies getting shitfaced and letting all guard down, often revealing way more than anyone wanted to hear. I was amazed at how tightly controlled Troy was, even after drinking for several hours.
As we steadily put a big dent in that twelve-pack, Troy's stoic nature slowly gave way to what I sensed was a rare instance of self-revelation.
His folks had split up when he was 14 and his older brother, who he obviously worshiped, had left soon thereafter. It was sad to hear how hollow his life seemed to be the rest of tenth and eleventh grade without his brother at home. He left as soon as his mom said she wouldn't try to stop him.
I learned that he read a lot and even though his words were few, it was apparent to me that Troy was an intelligent guy. He was reticent because that was what his culture taught and rewarded.
As we got more and more wasted, the conversation became more free flowing. We talked music, movies and of course girls. Troy had a girlfriend his junior year, but she was raised Mormon and would never let him get anywhere near fucking her. His older brother had coached him on how to get girls to loosen up, since about eighth grade, but all he had gotten so far was hand jobs.
Since he left small town life in Wyoming, he had lived in the all-male worlds of Karnes City, Texas, a small dusty town in the heart of the Eagle Ford Shale and now Williston. Sex would have to wait for later on, he reasoned.
"That college you went to sounds like it was better'n a whorehouse," Troy remarked, going back to a earlier subject in a way that made clear Troy wanted me to get back to my college stories I had touched on at the bar.
I obliged, telling Troy how I had gone from being a virgin at the end of my junior year of high school to getting a little taste my senior year, then getting bombarded with pussy my freshman year of college. I recalled wistfully that at times I was turning down girls I would have given my right nut to have fucked in high school. Troy remained shy but unmistakably eager for more details.
Troy was a good looking kid. He had a handsome chiseled face, his youth evident from his soft, unlined skin. He wore the oilfield uniform of tight Wrangler jeans, work boots, a plain western shirt and gimme cap.
I couldn't help but notice the bulge that appeared in his jeans as I delved deeper into the details of my college pussy stories. I told him about the time, not more than two months back, that two coked-up girls had crawled into my bed naked together, then proceeded to take turns passing my cock back and forth between them in wet sloppy sucking.
"Sounds like one of them porno plots," Troy commented, as if he didn't know whether to believe me or not.
"Yeah, and as you can imagine, those girls and that night have been the focus of quite a few jerk off fantasies since I got to this hell hole..."
Plenty drunk myself now, I had without thinking started talking about jerking off in front of this shy guy I had just met a few hours ago. It was a topic my college buddies talked about so openly, sometimes graphically, that it didn't occur to me that it would make Troy blush.
"Sorry dude. My friends in college all talked about that shit like it's no big deal. Everybody has done it since they were 12 or 13 and everybody I know still does it, even when they're getting steady pussy, so we just laugh about it. Anyway, I didn't mean to offend."
"None taken." Troy limited is reaction to those two words.
"My roommates and I talked freely about everything, actually" I continued, "and it was healthier than bottling shit up. We found out quick that there were lots of different things going on with people's sex lives. One of my buddies who was taking psychology classes liked to say there's no such thing as "normal."
I let that sink in a bit. Troy got up to take a piss. On his way past the fridge coming back, he asked if minded if he got one more beer.
"Of course not, dude. Get me one too. I gotta tell you, I have been bored and lonely up here, and am really glad to have met you. I miss having friends to drink with and talk about stupid shit. I hope you and I can meet up for beers again."
Tory walked over, popped my beer and handed it to me open. Then he extended his hand as in a handshake as he spoke":
"Thank you. I don't have any friends here. I admire how easy you say things. I don't have a way with words myself."
Holding his grip just a little longer than a typical handshake, I replied:
"Yes, you do, Troy. You just talk in the way you were raised to talk. You say something when it counts, and just did. I came from a situation where there's lots of banter, lots of bullshit. It's refreshing to have a real conversation."
"Well, I never went to college as you know. And my high school was pretty small."
"Yeah, we're from different worlds for sure. In college, everybody's around the same age and you gravitate to those you feel comfortable with. I wasn't always good at saying what I meant, but the fraternity thing made it easier for me to tell someone he was my brother, and how important he was to me. All the pussy in the world's not worth the value of a few truly good friends."
"I wouldn't know about that," Troy mumbled in a self-deprecating way, stumbling back to the couch.
"Well, you know a lot about some more important things in life that I'm trying to catch up on here. I am impressed more than you could imagine by how you have taken charge of your life and developed a skill that pays you so well. We're the same age, but you're the adult here, dude."
Embarrassed at the compliment, Troy looked around my apartment and said: "Looks like you're on the right trail. Your place beats hell out of my quarter of a hotel room."
"I'm working my way out of a hole I dug. Saving all I can. Hey, how about a last beer?"
I knew Troy had really loosened up when he said there was something he had been wondering about and hoped I wouldn't mind him asking. I said "of course not" and he asked if different girls' pussies really felt all that different on your dick, or if it was pretty much all the same.
I explained that every one was different: some tighter than others, some kind of bumpy, some smooth, some really, really wet, and some you needed some lube to help you out or you'd fuck yourself raw ... Troy took it all in, draining his Budweiser and asking a few follow up questions about sex, which led to me describing yet another wild moment in my previous life.
The beer and subject matter led me to take a risk and tell Troy that reliving my college fuck scenes was making me horny as hell. I then put one of my favorite jack-off pornos that was saved on my computer. I had this wire that ran what was on my computer screen to my big TV, which soon lit up.
Before Troy could react, a high-quality HD scene came on the TV. A smoking hot blond chick was sitting in a nice leather chair in some California beach house, the Pacific visible in the distance. She was languidly fingering her beautiful shaved pussy while throwing her head back in pleasure. After a few minutes of this, a tall, model-thin surfer-looking dude walked in, his blond hair pulled back in a pony tail. While continuing to play with her clit, the girl made an "o" with her mouth and licked her lips. The guy calmly shucked off his board shorts, revealing a nice sized cut cock, semi-hard, rising from a wispy blond patch of pubic hair.
Both porn actors looked about our age, their golden skin glowing in what looked like late afternoon sunlight. This was the highest quality porn. The faces were clear, their bodies near perfect and there wasn't a tattoo in sight.
The surfer dude walked over to the blond chick's chair. With his right hand, he turned her head toward his crotch. With his left hand, he lifted his growing tool and put it to her lips. The naked girl engulfed his cock in her mouth and started giving him slow, wet head She continued to finger her pussy at the same pace she was sucking while the surfer dude looked down at his now rigid tool disappearing in and out of her pretty mouth.
Troy's eyes were glued to the screen; the bulge in his tight Wranglers grew to what looked like a painful bursting point. My own cock was straining for release too.
I reached in my pants and re-arranged my dick so it was pointing straight up, the head protruding above the waistband of my boxers. I then slowly stroked the sensitive underside, outside my pants at this point, to the pace of the blowjob that filled the screen.
"I need her to knock on that door right about now," I broke the ice with my words. "If she does, I'll share her with you, bud."