***Jack’s Offshore***
The blue and white Bell Jet Ranger helicopter was closing on the oil rig, eighty miles into the green choppy sea off Port Fourcon, Louisiana. Jack told himself he wasn’t going back offshore again. Ever. Yet, here he finds himself, accepting another hitch – not on the platform he’s flying to, but on the one-hundred-forty foot supply boat tied up to it. Twenty-eight days on – fourteen off.
Although his experience on resupply vessels would likely secure him a better-than-good shot at a lucrative position on a platform, Jack knew it was too much of a career for him. Too much responsibility. These rig companies would constantly ask him go to this school – to acquire new skills, and go to that school – for a new certification. Thoughts of it found his motivation on the floor. Plus, they’d want him to do things, many things, which if done incorrectly, could result in loss of life or limb. The boat was plenty dangerous, but he was an independent contractor there. Deckhands were the lowest paid workers in the industry, and that was just alright with Jack. He was by no means stupid – he just wanted to do stupid work.
Along with Jack and the pilot, were two rig-operators and a roustabout. None spoke during the entire thirty-five minute flight.
As the chopper banked for the approach, the roustabout vomited into a bag handed out by the pilot before take-off.
Can’t even handle the helicopter ride. Sorry bastard – Jack thought to himself.
Jack knew from past experience, this young guy was going to have a hard time on the rig. Rig guys and boat guys are not the same when it comes to motion sickness. Most boat guys can go through almost any sea and still keep their lunch. Not so with rig guys. They suffer. Even though oil platforms look stationary from a distance, they sway terribly in heavy seas.
As the skids beneath the helo where touching down, Jack was already longing to be back in the gay bars of the French Quarter. Everything from the big dance clubs to the hole-in-the-wall spots. He thrived in that environment. Jack wasn’t attracted to the men in this flying box – not even a little bit – but he loved being wanted by the men in those bars. He’d been heavily desired by beautiful women his whole life – slept with plenty of them – but none could equal the ravenous intensity of unfamiliar gay men in heat. Jack found that a section of the gay men in the Quarter weren’t looking for love behind the eyes. To these men, Jack was a hologram-come-to-life, which presented no option to give love and introduced no requirement to be loved.
Jack comes in from offshore with a fat twenty-eight day paycheck waiting, catches a Greyhound bus to New Orleans, and pays for two weeks in a cheap hotel. Sometimes, he gets so excited, he puts his off-shore bag in a coin-pay locker in the bus station and heads to the bars in the same dirty work clothes and knee-high rubber steel-toed boots he stepped off the boat in. There had been times when he never went back for the bag and had to be completely re-outfitted again, sans the boots. He wanted to be yearned for, and fast.
As he approaches any gay bar, his routine is to take off his shirt, tie it around his waist and step inside. Jack has a swimmer’s build mid-section with arms much larger than had ever been seen on any swimmer. Just past six foot tall, his overall appearance is striking. Thirty-six years old and solidly developed. Strong chin and wispy blonde hair, like that of a young Iowa corn farmer. Father-time will never move his amazing hairline.
Shirtless, he enters an establishment, steps to the bar and orders a beer. This will be the last drink he’ll purchase all night. Generally, “Queer as Folk” or some other LOGO programming is on the big screen behind the bar. “Better off alone,” Cher’s “Believe,” or Beyonce’s “Baby Boy” is bumping from the house speakers. It won’t be long before some older gentleman comes up to talk. Sometimes, they’ll reach around and grab his crotch first – and then talk. The attractiveness of these men was of no consequence. It wasn’t about looks. Any man will do. They just have to lust after him.
He favors the older men because they carried with them a certain desperation. All the better, as it added to their desire that they might capture him. A sensual rush of expediency emanated from them – almost a panic which just wasn’t present in the younger guys. For each, he was the Big Fish. Perhaps, a last chance at excellence in a lover. Plus, most of the older gentlemen are at a point in their lives where they’re financially well-off. Many reside in Uptown New Orleans, occupying large Victorians – or they own a place in the French Quarter. Some live Uptown and hold a second place in the Quarter, just for guys like Jack. Either way, they have play-money. The bulk of these men where wealthy beyond everyday concerns. Jack cared little about their money, but it did make things easier. No worries about splitting the check in a bar or restaurant. No concern about paying for anything at all. On occasion, a random opulent tourist would whisk Jack away to a suite in one of the pricier hotels. No matter if it was a local bottom or a tourist, jack just wanted to get their legs on his shoulders and drive.
He often looks into their eyes during intercourse, wondering what kind of lives these men have led. Are they good men? Do they have family close by or where they solo like him? Would he be the dream they expected? He never loses his erection during these ponderings.
In the gay community, Jack is what’s considered a power-top. He just might be considered a prostitute also. Jack prefers to top. He’s bottomed before, but it didn’t do much for him, other than make him aware of the constant throbbing sensation in his colon in the hours that followed. He’s given some blowjobs too, every one of them to orgasm – but his head doesn’t naturally desire to go down there. Legs-on-shoulders is Jack’s favorite position, but some aren’t able to do that, be they obese, perhaps from the excesses of beignets and gumbo – or just too damned old. These men have to sit on top or take it from behind. For those who can’t do well with, or aren’t interested in intercourse, giving Jack a blowjob works nicely. No matter the position or circumstance, Jack will be the Alpha.
The chopper came to a rest on the helo-pad on the far right quadrant of the oil platform. The pad is designed for just this kind of personnel exchange. As the helicopter door swung open, Jack realized he’d been hard for most of the flight, but was now returning to flaccid. A quick glance underneath of his dark safety glasses revealed a small spot of precum. The viscous fluid had pushed its way through his underwear and gray coveralls. Although soft now, he knew he’d continue to leak for another ten minutes. Maybe no one would notice.
“You fellas enjoy!” the pilot yelled from a mouth framed with aviator glasses and an ear-muffed headset.
Jack and the others grabbed their large offshore bags, donned their hardhats, and stepped down onto the rig. Near a large, rusty yellow crane, three men were waiting for the chopper-cabin to clear so they could embark.
Jack stooped low and scooted clear of the whirling blades, traversing down a single set of metal steps. He set the over-sized duffel bag down on the abrasive non-skid surface and waited for further instruction.
Sunshine beamed with what felt like added strength. The Gulf breeze was amazing. Peering up past the cold steel, to the soft blue sky, Jack imagined most people would consider what he was experiencing – dreamy. A delight.
Just then, a door behind him opened. Jack turned. A large, burly, middle-aged man wearing green coveralls and a white hardhat stepped into Jack’s dream.
“Hello Jack!” Mike Rogers said with a grin.
“Mike” Jack replied firmly
They shook hands. Jack wasn’t much on small-talk.
“How’s Mary and the kid’s?” he asked.
“Mary’s alright, but that damned son of mine is going to drive us mad. Three stints in rehab, and here we go again. This whole thing is breaking Mary’s heart. Dog died last week and work’s slowing out here. I see the plot of a country song building!” he laughed, his voice rising up and out of the gloom.
How long you out here for this time?” Mike asked
“Twenty-eight.” Jack responded. That’s what they tell me anyway. I got fucked last time out. My relief never showed up to the office in Houma, and I had to do his twenty-eight too. Fifty-six days is just too much.” Too much time away from the scene – Jack thought to himself.
“Well, when I was a young single guy like you Jack, I loved working double-hitches – but I know this way life ain’t your thing. Hasn’t really ever been.”
Jack nodded, and reached for his bag. A circular personnel basket hanging from the crane’s hook was swinging toward Jack. It would soon settle down in front of him. As it did, he set his bag inside and stepped both feet on the outside base while grabbing the roped netting. The rig’s crane operator, seeing jack was secure, lifted the basket up and out over the ocean. The empty cargo deck of the boat – which amounted to more than half the vessel – waited one-hundred feet below. Jack peered across the Gulf of Mexico, seeing two more platforms in the distance.
Why do people do this as a career? he wondered. Twenty, thirty, sometimes forty years?
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/jn2i6n/writing_a_novelthis_is_a_small_excerptplease_tell