Joe the Welder - 6. How "Joe the Welder' Got His Name

Joe made his way into the house, good arm over my shoulder, weak but obviously glad to be home. Got him inside, sat him in a recliner in his den, got him some water.

“Wish you'd come back to my place, Joe. Don't know you're ready for stairs yet, boy. Sure you don't wanna just move in with me for a couple of weeks till you get stronger?”

“Fuck no. I wanna sleep in my own bed. Besides, I only hafta get up and down the stairs twice a day. I'll stay down here the rest of the time, and if I need a nap, I'll sleep in the recliner or on the sofa.” Same discussion we'd had in the car. Hardheaded bastard. It'd served him well in his speedy recovery though.

Mardi Gras was only 3 weeks away, and Joe'd really wanted to go—never been. I'd promised, but that was before the hospital stay, so I had some planning to do. Even more importantly, his birthday was the week after. Really wanted that to be a good one. Wasn't a milestone birthday, like 40 or 50, but a milestone that he was still here.

We settled into a predictable routine. Stopping by his place to check on him at lunch, swinging by after work, staying for an hour or two, making sure he had everything he needed, then back to my place, occasionally watching a movie together on his sofa. Wanted to give him time to himself, let him establish his independence. First weekend back, we slept together, no sex. Joe was still exhausted at the end of the day, and the ordeal of showering, cleaning his wounds and re-bandaging him wore his ass out.

Mrs. Sheldon stopped by one night, and brought dinner. Great country cooking of fried ham slices, fresh green beans, whole kernel corn, and oatmeal raisin cookies for desert. Joe's eyes bugged out and his stomach growled as she and I set the table. Swear to God, Joe doesn't eat and chew—thought he'd swallow the dinner plate he was eating so fast. And damn near had an orgasmic look on his face the whole time. Mrs. Shelton chatted, but didn't eat during dinner, and left after she was certain Joe'd gotten “enough to eat.” Trust me, he did. And he thanked her profusely. Talked about that meal for days.

A week and a half after getting home, back to the doc's offices. All of 'em were amazed at his recovery. He was moving better, still a little winded from the broken ribs, but the staples in his leg came out, and stitches were used to close the remaining small gaps. Still another 3 weeks or so with the cast, though.

Joe felt good enough he'd walked over to Sandy and Andy's house that evening. Knocking on the door, when Sandy answered, Joe handed the comic books back to her, looked her in the eye and in a loud voice said, “Can Andy come out to play?” Andy upstairs heard it, flew down the stair, and damn near tackled Joe with a hug. Joe thanked him for the books, and told him he'd stop by over the weekend to shoot some Nerf hoops with him. And he did.

That Friday, picked up pizza and rented a movie. Joe was in a grouchy mood. “I was gonna fix dinner,” he whined. Anything I said all evening long got a surly response, whether it was questions about if he'd talked with coworkers to how he was navigating the stairs, to things he might need from the grocery. “Ready to watch the movie?”

“Nah, this is good,” he responded. Shitty sci-fi movie on, not even campy enough to be funny.

Snatched the remote out of his hand, shut off the TV. “What the fuck is up with you? You're in a mood tonight!”

You'd have thought I kicked his cat. Sad, little-boy-lost look came out. “I'm sorry. Just feeling like I'm a burden on ya, you've giving up your life for the last month for me, don't wanna be a burden. I'm mad at Brandon, frustrated with dealing with this”--he held up his left hand in it's cast, “and I'm grouchy. And horny—even though I'm right-handed, I jack off with my left, and can't do it. Can't get off with my right.”

Horniness? Yeah, he's recovering nicely.

“First, Joe, you're in no way, shape, or form a burden to me. Get over that. I love you and I'm just doing my part to make sure you get back to your old self.” There. First time since he's been back that the L-word has been used. “And the hornies I can help ya out with.” I grinned.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I leaned over to him, kissed him hard—and he fought back with the most damn aggressive kiss I'd ever gotten from him. Tongues battling it out, swapping spit, didn't realize I was just as horny as he was. Fuck, I love making out! While we were kissing, I moved a hand over to his right nipple, started teasing it with my fingers thru his wifebeater. First fingertips, then firmer. Light pinches. Mini-twists. Joe groaned into the kiss, and his right leg was vibrating like a happy puppy's.

Licked slowly from his right ear along his jaw line, blowing as I went. Joe went rigid, but managed to keep his hand moving along my back, down my thigh as I hovered over him. Constant moans and gasps--forgotten what a noisy fucker he was. I've missed hearing that.

Working past the neck collar he still wore, and the band-aid covering his cheek cut stitched closed, gave his his left ear/jaw line the same treatment, coming back in for another heated kiss.

Pulled the wife-beater over his head. Back in for another kiss, playing with both nipples. Between the making out and the tit play, Joe is twisting on the sofa.

I stopped, and looked at his chest, The hair had started growing back on the shaved left half. His left shoulder, chest, and belly were that yellow-purple color of healing deep bruises.

Suddenly realizing that despite his healing, this isn't the time for the rougher energetic play we both loved. Vowed that I'd take my time, make him sweat and beg, genuinely make love not just fuck.

“Ugly, huh?”

“Shut up. You're the hottest son-of-a-bitch I've seen. Now lie back and relax, boy—I got this.”

Moved in to lick, suck, and lightly bite on his right nipple. He's loving it, left hand running through my hair, the cast on his left arm thrown across my back, with fingers moving in lazy circles. I continued the licking/sucking/biting, and moved from his right nipple up to his arm pit. Pushed his arm gently over his head, and licked and sucked his right armpit. Still smelled of the Irish Spring soap he'd used from his shower a couple of hours ago, with his natural body smell to boot. Fucking hot taste, too....spicy salty—he'd forgotten the deodorant, so the taste I got was pure Joe. He squirmed and groaned as my tongue licked up and down his pit, matting the hairs. When I sucked and nibbled the muscles around his pit, he panted quickly, then let out a long breath of air. Shit yeah, he's into this.

Moved over and gave his left side the same treatment. First his nipple then over to pit. This time, moved only a little farther down his side, licking his ribs, sucking occasionally. Couldn't do as much with his left side because of the bruises, but compensated by going back to his right side. Reached down to cup his junk. Cock was up at the waistband of his gym shorts. Played with the head a little while I continued to suck and nibble his right side, the precum making it easy to swirl my fingertip over the head and play with the slot.

As soon as my fingertip touched his cock, “Oh-fuck-goddamn-I'm-gonna-shoot!” Quickly moved my hand away. You aren't getting off that fast, fucker.

Continued down his side, pulled the elastic of the gym shorts away, licking toward his right hip, then running my tongue back to the center of his belly. Loved the feel of the fur on his belly rubbing against my face, lips, and tongue. Lapped at his navel, and he giggled. “I'm ticklish there.” Of course, had to do it again a few times. And the whole time using a free hand to tease his nipples.

Grabbed his ass, and lifted up slightly. He got the hint, lifted his butt himself, and I pulled the gym shorts off. Started nuzzling his right thigh at the knee, lapping it with my tongue, matting the hairs. Making spirals in the fur as I moved to his groin.

His dick was pulsing, pulled up tight over his belly. The foreskin pulled all the way back, a lake of precum pooled in his stomach fur. His balls had grown back a little fuzz, since they hadn't been shaved, but nothing to interfere with my work on 'em.

As I got closer to his groin, with every swipe of my tongue his cock pulsed. He reached to jack it, but I knocked his hand away. “Come on, please let me cum, Rex. I gotta...I need it...come one, please....”

Moved on up, swallowed his right balls, spun it in my mouth with my tongue, used my lips to tug on it., even tried to suck it down my throat with some vacuum pressure in addition to my tongue pushing it back. He squirmed, gurgled, gasped. Did the same thing with his other ball.

Grabbed his now slick sack, gave his balls a good tug. He groaned, and dripped enough precum, I thought he'd had a mini orgasm. Glad I was wrong. Added a little more pressure, and kept his nuts pinned in the bottom of his sack.Licked up and down the length of his almost vibrating cock, just like an ice cream cone. Swirled my tongue around the base of his dick, and just worked my way up the sides, got to the head, and barely touched my tongue to his piss slit. A long low rumble from over me, lasted a good 30 seconds. Yeah, he's fucking close.

“Lemme cum, lemme cum, please.....I gotta...fucking killing me here...lemme shoot....Sir”

Grinning to myself, I circled around his head, in small to large circles, from his piss slit out. Got to the rim of his head, locked my lips around it, and sucked hard. Ladies and gentlemen, we have liftoff.

He arched his back trying to feed his cock down my throat, but kept swirling my tongue and sucking his head while he came....no deep throat action yet. A volley of shots filled my mouth with cum the texture of pudding, tangy, sweet, hot. I swallowed a full mouthful 2 or 3 times then content myself to sucking the rest that oozed out—another good couple of mouthfuls. I expected a big load. He hadn't cum in a couple of weeks, and his prick stayed hard.

Looked up at him and smiled. “Delicious. Feel better?”

“Fuuuck yeah! Think I blacked out for a sec I shot so hard.”

“Good. There's more cum there. Making another run.”

Went back to work, this time, jacking his cock while eating his hole, getting it good and slick, putting in a finger or two, massaging his prostate as I swallowed his cock to the root. Sure enough, got another load out after only 10 minutes or so. Yeah, the boy was backed up with cum.

“I didn't do anything for you.”

“No scoring system at work here, boy. You needed that, and I'm glad to take care of you. Glad you're back.” We curled up on the sofa, his ass to my crotch, exchanging soft kisses, and slept there all night together.

Made a point to try to get him off at least every couple of days if not daily. Easy to get into my routine of regularly stopping by. He stayed in a far better mood.

The next week, on Wednesday, went to Frank's bar. Joe was welcomed back with applause from the crowd, and warm hugs and kisses—kisses even from a few of the straight guys there. You'd have thought he was a homecoming king or something. He beamed all evening, even thought he couldn't yet drink because of the antibiotics he’s still on.

The last nighttime Mardi Gras parade in our small town was coming up on Friday. Told Joe he was going as promised. And we did. I made a bunch of preps, though.

Instead of standing as the parade passed by, I got a foldable camp chair from a buddy who did lots of camping. Called his doc, got a metal leg brace so Joe could confidently walk to where we were joining friends without a walker or cane, and got approval from his doc for Joe to enjoy a couple or 3 beers. Joe'd been missing his Miller beer, so this would be a nice surprise.

Parked, I threw the folding chair in its tubular carrier over a shoulder, and walked to join our friends. Some straight, some gay, some from Frank's bar, some from the single gay bar in town that we'd gone to every week or so before Brandon's insanity. All of 'em welcomed Joe—I kept it a secret that we'd be there—and all were in festive spirits. A few of 'em had a good buzz going before the parade started and the ice chest was comfortably full with beer still.

Got the chair set up in a great position so Joe could see the parade comfortably. He sat, damn near jumped with joy when I shoved the cold beer in his hand. “Mardi Gras, Joe. Time to celebrate. Yeah, it's ok—checked with the doc.” He fuckin' chugged the first one. Told him to slow it down...I still had to limit him to only a couple more. He smiled big, and said thanks.

The parade rolled at 7:30 pm, and had the usual opening procession of a couple of bands, and other groups gathered by the lead crewe. Their floats were mixed in among other marchers. Didn't know it, but Frank's bar had a float, and he'd gathered up a group of regulars to ride it.

Next thing I know, Frank is jumping up and down like a little kid, screaming, “Joe's here! Joe's here!” Frank had obviously had a few drinks, but his emotion was genuine.

Joe waved his cast at 'em. Mardi Gras throws from the crew started, first a string of beads or a plastic cup or a doubloon. It developed into a steady shower of “gimmies”. Each of the regulars had to toss something to Joe, and he'd acknowledge 'em with a wave. You'd have thought they were throwing diamonds or gold based on the attention Joe gave to catching 'em—and the look of happiness on his face. He was eating the attention up!

The attention didn't end when Frank's float went by. One of Frank's regular's knew someone on the 2nd float, someone else knew someone on the 3rd float, etc., and they all called each other on their cell phones. Every float crewe gave special attention to Joe, and he racked up throws. Word spread quickly that “Joe the Welder”--the guy who'd been in the paper and made it back from near death-- was here. Guess he's stuck with that title now.

The best came at the end of the parade, when the name crew sponsoring the parade and their float came by. Frank's wife, Elaine, was the crew president, and, effectively, the “queen” of the parade, not just by honorary title. Elaine saw Joe, waived, had the parade float stop, got off, and delivered a big teddy bear to Joe. She leaned over, kissed Joe on the cheek, and (I found out much later) said, “Glad you're here. You deserve to be happy. You take care of yourself and Rex.”

If Mardi Gras royalty were measured by throws received, Joe would have been king. He had enough beads around his neck that you could barely see the neck brace, and a couple of plastic grocery bags of the other goodies, plus a big-ass bear. And I can't describe the pride and emotions playing across Joe's face.

“Joe, the whole town welcomed you back. Can't do much better than this!”

“Yeah, I can. Never said thanks to the one who got me here. We got it good, Rex.” And with that, Joe kissed me, tongue buried in my throat, his body cinched up tight

to mine, with half the town cheering.

How the fuck can I top this for his birthday next week?