Rootin' Down The Highway - 5. Savannah • Charleston • Atlanta

“Thanks for letting me have a go, Brett. And for not calling me BOB Dave as the other guys have been. They’re acting as if they were teenagers! How long have they known I’m a bottom? And now they start calling me a BOB?” Hell, it didn’t bother me at all what they called me; I thought it was kinda funny. But the other three had been on a campaign lately. I think they wanted to piss me off, but I was just bored instead.

Outside Daytona Beach, after leaving Parliament House, we’d stopped to buy petrol and switch drivers. I wanted a turn at the wheel, so I volunteered to do it for two hours. Brett would replace me for the last segment, taking us into Savannah. “Not so bad driving on the wrong side of the road.”

“It’s a bloody nuisance, is what it is. They speak English, but it’s like we’re on a different planet. Why can’t they behave properly?”

“Aw, come on mate, Americans are right good people. So what if they’re a bit diff’rent?”

“A bit? They drive wrong. They speak wrong. They smell wrong… Did you see that entire aisle at the chemist’s dedicated to deodorants and bloody body sprays? Haven’t they heard of showers? If they wash themselves all the time, what do they need all those perfumed products for? I tell you, this entire country is delusional. They’ve bought into the marketing from all the manufacturers of those products. They’ve convinced themselves all that crap is really necessary!”

“Mate, grab a Mars bar, you get right down cranky when you’re hungry and tired. Put some food in your stomach, take a nap, have a wank… You need to do something to calm down; you’re being a right down ass.” Brett did finally fall asleep, for a bit, but was soon awake and fiddling away with the radio. He left me alone though, and I was able to enjoy the drive. Buck, Marcus, and Wayne had barely woken up this morning. After throwing on a singlet, shorts, and thongs, we’d all gone for breakfast, before filing into the motor home. The three of them had quickly shed what little they wore, jumped in bed and gone back to sleep―with arms and legs all wrapped around each other.

Let them all sleep. I had my fun Friday night with Donna, so last night after a few pints, I’d decided to make it an early night, and had come back to the motor home to sleep. My mates had stayed up late, drinking and rootin’. They had the Brazilian twins to keep them entertained, and those two boys were insatiable according to the comments this morning. I’d wake them up when we switched drivers again, sometime before we exited from the Interstate 95 road.

“Did ya have fun with the kids last night, Brett?”

“It was okay, Dave. Got a bit crowded with all of us on that one bed, so Buck and I went to the other one, and ended up falling asleep by ourselves.”

“You guys could have come to the motorhome. It would have been quieter with just us three here.”

“We weren’t sure if you were alone and didn’t want to bother you. Wish we had; those boys were loud.”

We planned on spending tonight, and Monday night, in Savannah. People said it was a real pretty place, and we wanted to experience a smaller American city. All the ones we were playing at were much larger. There was some famous American chef who was from the town; she owned some restaurants there with her sons, and we wanted to check them out. Both her sons looked kinda hot. Oh, and the food was supposed to be pretty good too.

●

“I’m never eating fried chicken again, for as long as I live.” The restaurant we’d been told to try was The Lady and Sons, owned by Paula Deen and her two sons. Sundays the menu was off; it was an all-you-can-eat spread of Southern style food.

“How many whole chickens did you end up eating, Dave? I lost count after your fifth trip to the food line.” Fucking Buck and his exaggerations; I know I didn’t eat more than one whole chicken.

“Screw you, mate. So I’m a growing boy and need to feed the body. Anyway, not sure we could find stuff that good back in Oz.” It had to be the best fried chicken ever. And the damn biscuits were incredibly good too. “Somebody tell me again why we’re headed to a cemetery?”

“Dave, my name is Wayne Jacob Cohen, which should tell you I’m Jewish.”

“Really? I never knew that! You don’t wear that funny hat thingy I’ve seen Jewish guys wear or have the hair curls coming down the side in front of you ears.”

“God, how much I love your innocence. Mate, my mom and dad were not real religious, and neither am I. I had a bris and a bar mitzvah more out of tradition than anything else.”

“Is one of those things when the cut your pecker cover off?”

“You got it! A bris is a circumcision; any self-respecting Jew always wants ten percent of the top. But I digress. A bunch of Portuguese Jews settle here in Savannah in the early seventeen hundreds, its synagogue is the one we’re seeing after the cemetery. It’s the third oldest Jewish congregation in the United States. The graves date back to the time of the founding, so they’re a piece of the congregation’s history.”

“Damn! That’s interesting. No wonder we call you Professor Wayne, you know everything!”

●

“Dave, are you sure you don’t want to tour the carrier?” Abbi was standing behind me, as naked as I was, with his arms around my chest. I think being completely smooth made him enjoy running his fingers through my chest hair. Hell, he’d been doing the same thing with Brett, Wayne, and Marcus the previous night.

“Yeah, mate, I’m sure. I’d rather spend the next two hours in bed with you. I had to share you with the other guys last night; now I get you all to myself.” I turned around in his arms, planted my lips on his, and fell backwards onto the bed, dragging him down so he’d end up on top of me.

My bandmates and I had spent two relaxing days in Savannah, just the five of us. We’d walked around the beautiful town, had some great food, and gone to sleep early each night. The Furballs took the big bed in back while Buck and Brett shared the smaller one up front which opened out from the couch. Those two seemed to spend more time together each day. We had no guests during our stay. After all the men we went through in Florida, we needed a rest.

Yesterday morning Brett drove the two hours to Charleston, South Carolina, in a very good mood. Two quiet evenings had wiped away his crankiness. No mention of delusional Americans at all. He kept saying how nice all the people we met were and how he was looking forward to our continued road trip.

We’d parked the traveling home at Battery Park, a waterside green space, at the tip of a peninsula jutting out into the bay. Filled with wartime memorials, the numerous trees formed a canopy of green, providing shade from the sun. After doing the tourist thing with all the monuments, we strolled further into town, ending up at The Citadel―the famous military uni. We took the official tour of the school, learning about the history of the place and the people who attended. All that historical stuff stayed with me for about ten minutes; Wayne was like a pig in slop. The man does love to learn about anything and everything. We wound up meeting Abbi and Diego during our stroll through campus. Both of them kept looking at us, but neither bothered to approach us. After the official tour had ended, and we were just strolling around, they did come back to us and introduced themselves.

“Hey, guys, how are you? We heard you talking; we both loved the accent, and we’re trying to figure out where you’re from. I’m Abbi Lukan, and this is my buddy Diego Jimenez.” Abbi had slipped the black muscle shirt he was wearing over his head, exposing a nicely defined, completely smooth chest. Woof!

“G’day, mate. We’re from Australia. I’m Buck and the boys are known as the Furballs.” Smartass to the end, Buck couldn’t just introduce us in a normal way.

“The what?” Diego asked, his face showing confusion. The guy coulda been one of us; the shorts and shirt he was wearing showed he had as much hair as any of us did.

“You’re such a bloody ass, Buck. Sorry ‘bout that, mates. Our lead singer can be a pain. I’m Dave, that’s Wayne, and next to him is Marcus; the three of us, and the inked doofus, are in a band. We’re on a little tour-slash-vacation. The other guy is Brett, our tour manager.”

Both men were Air Force mechanics at Joint Base Charlotte. I never figured out what the fuck that is. Cool guys; they offered to show us around, so we treated them to lunch. I’m not sure how it started, but we did very little sightseeing and instead ended up back at the motor home, naked and romping about. Diego was a fellow bottom boy; he enjoyed taking all the Aussie cock he was offered. Abbi had fun tapping my ass and then Brett’s.

The drive back to their apartment in the late afternoon offered us the chance to use a real shower, so we piled on in the back of Abbi’s truck and were back in Charleston a couple of hours all clean and ready for a night on the town. Not much of a nightlife on a Tuesday night, but we still had a great time. Midtown Bar & Grill had two inside bars and a patio deck where we sat, drank, and ate burgers and bar-b-q pulled pork sandwiches. I was quickly learning the barbie food was all about what kinda sauce you slathered on it after cooking.

We all woke up together that morning, cramped in the one bed, but nobody complained about the tight confines.

After breakfast, we took a tour boat out to Fort Sumter, located on a tiny island in the middle of the bay. It was there the first shots in the American Civil War were fired. Cool ruins, interesting historical exhibits, and a nice little gift shop. After returning to the mainland, and once again treating the boys to lunch, we split off from the group. They went to tour the USS Yorktown, a World War II era aircraft carrier which is permanently docked at a place called Patriot’s Point and serves as a museum.

I needed my daily dose of American muscle boy, so Abbi and I headed towards the motor home, where we raced to see who could get naked faster. I was turning into such a slut! Anyway, the tour of the ship over, the boys returned. Abbi and Diego left with promises to keep in touch, and we called it an early night. Tomorrow we’d finally hit Atlanta.

●

We’d been booked to play Friday night at Flex Atlanta, a gay sauna near the city’s central business district. Wayne reminded us Bette Midler, and Barry Manilow, had begun their careers playing at a similar place in New York City.

“Were you there for one of their shows, Wayne?” Our drummer was the oldest guy in the band while I was the youngest. We made fun of his advanced age as often as possible.

“Fuck you, Dave! None of us were even born before those two were already famous. But think about it, mate, we could follow in their footsteps.”

“Yeah, maybe one day some kid will be talking about us, the same way.” I was driving the motorhome once again, while we carried on our conversation, after leaving Charleston. The trip would take us about five hours; Brett would take over from me about the halfway point. We’d left South Carolina early and expected to arrive at Flex sometime in the early afternoon.

“Mates, I wasn’t going to mention this until I was sure, but now may be the right time.” Buck was sitting on the sofa behind the driver, his voice had a serious tone to it which we weren’t used to.

“What’s up, babe?” Babe? What the fuck? Brett was calling our lead singer babe? I mean, we all realized they were tight, and getting tighter by the day; but babe?

“I had an email from a guy at DNA when I checked during our stop at Maccas for those Egg McMuffins.” DNA was the gay magazine in OZ, our GQ just for gay men. “He’d found out about us being an entirely gay band touring the United States from a press release issued by the Australian Embassy. They’d like to include us in their next music issue as an up-and-coming band.”

“That’s mint, mate!” Brett had jumped out of his seat and gone behind me to give our fearless leader a big smooch. “I’m so proud of all of you.”

“We need to talk about it. There’d be a photo shoot and interview involved as soon as we return to Oz.” Buck was probably smiling, thinking about DNA’s usual photo spreads of hot men. This could be our big break. And it would mean us getting very serious about the music and the business side of the whole thing.

●

There was nothing much we wanted to see in Atlanta; after our arrival we headed over to the place we were playing at, parked in their lot, and toured the facility. Edgard, a day manager at Flex, told us the sparse crowd would grow some in the evening, and to expect a large number of men for our concert, the following night. As he showed us the gym area, showers, steam room, dry sauna and the different play room, he kept his hand on my ass. He made sure to let me know he’d be off work after dinner. We promised to come back then and enjoy the amenities the club had to offer.

We walked around the city a bit after our tour of the sauna. Our inventory of booze was running low, so we stopped at a bottle shop to replenish our stock, got some take away for dinner, and returned to the motorhome for a nap. We wanted to rest up so we could spend the night playing inside Flex. Our need to be in Washington in time for a reception at the Australian Embassy Sunday night meant an early departure on Saturday. We planned on packing up after the show tomorrow and going to sleep soon after. There would be no slutting around after the concert.

●

When we wandered into the sauna later in the evening; Edgard was about to end his shift, but took care of us before clocking out. He offered us each our own room; Brett and Buck asked for one for the two of them, Wayne and Marcus each took one, and I was told I didn’t need one; I’d be sharing one with the big black man looking after us. My mates smiled knowingly and asked me to be sure and find them later. They wanted to watch Edgard and I go at it.

An hour or so later, after showering, spending some time in the steam room being groped, watching some porn in the common room, and showering again, we all ended up in a room with a padded bench. As I was bent over it, some guy stood in front of me waving his junk in my face, while Edgard took position behind me. I had no idea who the man trying to feed me his salami was, but I was not about to turn down a free meal. I opened my mouth to let him know it was fine to stuff me. Before I could say a word, he was already trying to scratch my neck from the inside. Buck and Brett stood in a corner of the room with their arms around each other. Wayne and Marcus were at my sides trying to relax me, as Edgard rubbed what felt like a steel pipe against my behind.

“Come on, mate,” said Wayne in a mocking voice. “Relax. Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little Haitian dark meat. Stop being such a pussy; you’re acting like a virgin.”

“And why don’t you stop being such a cunt. Of course I’m scared. You’re not the one about to be ripped apart by a thick foot of man flesh!”