Iowa Farm Boy, Part I

I gave you fair warning earlier. I'm long winded. This is just the start of many more chapters to come. But I like this story! Combines so many of my fetishes and interests!

And publishing it here is sort of my anger/revenge for BuzzedHard, an almost defunct site, now publishing it after I'd asked them to remove it due to them seemingly going belly up.

In any case. Enjoy!



Iowa Farm Boy Part I

It was in 1974, a small farm-town in Iowa, where I realized my fetish for barbers and every last thing in the barbershop. The smell of antiseptics, talcum powder on my neck, “Butch Wax” on my cow’s lick, the black nylon barber cape, the high-necked zip-up nylon uniform of the barber, and that fucking chrome, porcelain, and leather-seated barber chair.

It was a time in Iowa when farm boys where known as steers or queers and I definitely wasn’t fooling anybody. Never “nelly” or “faggy” I was still clearly labeled as a queer long before most of us knew what it meant. Too much time in band, drama club, and on the honor roll to fool anyone I guess. But I was soon to graduate with a scholarship in hand, and I’d be long gone from this stupid hole in the wall.

Much as the hippy movement had taken over the east and west coasts, and even wormed its way into places like bumfuck Iowa, my parents were pretty strict about haircuts. Every other Wednesday I walked a mile to town with 4 bucks in my pocket to get my buzzcut. I pretended to resent the fuck out of it, but my Dad made damn sure I toed the line. I think if I had said I WANTED a buzzcut he’d have made me grow it long, that’s how much we argued. Deep down I couldn’t wait to get back to the barbershop. I was beginning to want weekly cuts, bi-weekly cuts, daily cuts.....Hell, cut it every hour!



The shop was small, one chair only, with the barber chair throne parked right in front of a full-wall mirror. A big plate glass window to the street made you on display while getting your haircut, just one simple form of humiliation I endured twice monthly. Guys from school, with long hair of course, would walk by and point and laugh, and I could always feel myself turning red, sitting in that chair, with that black nylong cape tight around my neck. And while my face was turning red, my cock was getting hard, and as only a teenager can do, precum soaked my underwear.

The public humiliation was part of it, but the barber was even more important. While our tiny town had two barbers I at least got to pick which one I went to. Having no clue what was driving me I had chosen Steve’s Barbershop. Steve scared the fuck out of me. Well over six feet with beefy arms, legs, torso, and neck, Steve was definitely a “steer” in my eyes. He always wore these tight jeans under which you could see a beer-can sized dick straining against the denim, tall leather boots shined to high polish, and a black nylon barber’s smock zipped up as far as his bull neck would allow. His voice boomed, usually with laughter when the place was filled with farmers shooting the shit. When it was just me in the shop, which it often was, his voice was more of a growl--low, resonant, and at times almost hypnotically kind.

In the spring, summer, and fall Steve would finish the day’s work, zip off the uniform revealing a tight “wife-beater”, throw on his leather motorcycle jacket and hop on his motorcycle to head out to his farm house. Frequently I would linger near the backdoor, where he parked the bike, just to get a glimpse of those thighs gripping that bike, imagining that beer-can dick being vibrated by that huge motor. Most haircut days I’d head home, my dick pounding in my pants, get behind the corn crib and whack off. Amazing how far I could shoot. Ah, youth.

One of my real turn-on moments was when that black nylon cape would go around my neck. Steve would put the tissue paper tight around my neck and pull the cape even tighter. It seemed to work just like a cock ring around a dick and balls. The blood would flow to my head as friends walked by outside, but the tightness of the tissue paper and cape seemed to hold the blood, pounding, in my head. I know Steve had to have noticed, but he always seemed kind enough not to say anything.

One day my hormones, gonads, and dick took over and I made the mistake that changed my life.

It was early spring of ‘74, just 3 months until graduation, just 6 months ‘til I left this hell-hole for ever. Like any 18 year old I whacked off a lot. Riding on the school bus? Instant hard-on. Little Joe on Bonanza? Instant hard-on. Maverick? Instant hard-on. And don’t even get me started on Wild Wild West! But my constant fantasy involved Steve at the barbershop.

March 1st, 1974 was the pivot point of my life. 3 months until graduation, probably as valedictorian of my tiny high school graduating class. 3 additional months of free labor for my father on the farm and then long gone to college. Who knew it would be lust that would change that plan so completely?

On that day, a Friday afternoon, I went at 4:30 for my semi-monthly haircut. As the last customer of the day, Steve took his time and carefully trimmed my two week growth. I was especially horny having not whacked off for almost a day and half. As Steve finished the cut he pushed the button on the hot lather machine and applied it directly to my blood-engorged neck. Out came the strait razor and he carefully, meticulously scraped the few remaining stubs around my neck. Jesus, I thought I would come in that chair. Finishing the neck he remarked that I probably needed a real shave on my face as well. I mumbled something about not having the extra cash to pay for it but he told me, “On the house. You’re a good customer. Maybe when you see how nice it is you’ll bring the extra two bucks next time.”



Without letting me respond he hit the hydraulic lever lifting me higher in the chair then pulled the lever to lower the back of the chair until I was almost laid out flat. I nearly fainted. My cock was straining so hard against my jeans I felt sure he had to see it even under that black nylon cape. My hands moved toward my crotch on instinct–to protect? or to stimulate?

A hot towel was pulled from a little cabinet on the counter and wrapped around my face. Steve said he’d be right back and I heard, from under that savory smelling towel, a door to the back room open and close. A little later I could hear what sounded like the opening of a beer can and the smell of a rich cigar tobacco.

More hot lather was dispensed and applied to my face and that strait razor clicked open. With a firm hand on my forehand and a firm thigh resting against mine Steve slowly stroked the razor down the left cheek. I could feel I was holding my breath. Steve just said, “Relax....” and really I tried.

I can barely remember the sensation of that first complete strait razor shave of my face, other than it was fantastic. Up until then I’d been using a shitty electric razor that did little more than pull the hairs from my face and leave embarrassing red spots. The cool razor against my face slowly scraping the skin was absolutely intoxicating. All too soon the face shave was over, the chair erect, the cape off, and Steve standing there with his hand out for my four dollars. I mumbled a quick thanks, pulled a jacket on and headed out the door.

As I was leaving the shop I could see Steve pulling down the blinds for the door and window. Was he grinning as I looked back? It sure seemed so to me.

I walked slowly to the end of the block, my cock throbbing mercilessly in my tight jeans, and decided then and there I needed to fulfill my #1 fantasy. I sat on the corner bench listening for the start of a motorcycle engine. Less than 5 minutes later I was not disappointed. Around the corner came Steve in his tight jeans and leather jacket. No helmet, but with goggles he roared past me and headed on the main road out of town.

Quickly I went around the corner and headed down the alley. I could easily make out the back door to Steve’s shop and I headed immediately for it. My heart was pounding, my cock pulsing, but I had a purpose and went after it with a vengeance. Coming to the door I could see that while locked, it would take little effort to jimmy that silly little thing. Glancing around I found a piece of strap metal discarded in the alley and quickly pushed open the little lock, turned the knob and was inside the barbershop’s back room.

The back room of the barbershop was dingy, small, and dark. A toilet in one corner, a few supplies on a shelf, a hot water heater and a washer and dryer on the other wall. The door to the front area was closed, and hanging on a hook of the door was Steve’s uniform smock. I pulled open the door very slowly and peeked into the shop. The blinds over the door and picture window were pulled all the way down.

Quickly, my heart pounding so very loudly, I stripped naked and pulled the smock off the hook. Holding it to my face I could smell Steve’s sweat, the remnants of his cigar smoke, and all of the barbershop smells mixed in an intoxicating aroma. I pulled the smock on and pulled the zipper all the way to the very top. A little large for me, I didn’t care. The nylon rubbed against my nipples and my dick throbbed in sync with my ever louder heartbeat. I laughed a little. reminded of Poe’s Telltale Heart.

Slowly I opened the door to the front area and made my way quietly to that throne of a barber chair. I eased my naked butt onto the cool leather and reached to the side of the chair where the cape was hanging. Slowly I caressed my dick with it. The precum was streaking the cape in long ropes of slime. Reaching over I pulled the lever on the chair so that I could recline and began to masturbate. This was my fantasy fulfilled. It took only a few more firm tugs on my dick and I exploded a huge load into the fabric.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing!”

I sat bolt upright. Standing in the back door was Steve. He lunged at me and the chair forcing it upright. I almost fell on the floor. Holding my clothes that I’d left at the back door he threw them at me.

“Get dressed, you little faggot!”

I pulled off the smock and set the cum-filled cape on the floor. My dick was still at full mast but I somehow pulled on my underwear and jeans. As I was pulling on my t-shirt I heard Steve on the phone.

“Duane, I need you to come to town and pick up your son. There’s been a little problem at the shop.”

I wanted to plead for him to not call my parents but that call had already gone through.

“Please–don’t tell them what I did. They’ll kill me.” I was beet red with embarrassment.

“You shut up and sit on that sofa. And not one word while your father is here. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

Steve picked up the cape and smock and went to the backroom. I could hear the washing machine fill and start to run. I also heard the sound of breaking glass A few minutes later he returned to the shop area with my Dad directly behind him.

“So I came back to the shop to get my week’s worth of profits, found the door broken, and found your son in here with his hand in the cash register.”

My dad was beyond fuming. He was absolutely white hot with anger. His eyes glancing only once in my direction.

Steve continued, “Now, I know your son is headed for college and I don’t want to ruin his life, but I am gonna need payment for that broken window and some sort of understanding that this will never happen again. If we can’t reach this agreement then I’ll need to go to the police on this.”

My father pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed fifty bucks to Steve. “Trust me. It won’t happen again.” He looked at me, “Tell the man you’re sorry and get the fuck outside.”

“I’m very sorry, sir.” I stammered. I didn’t know which part of this whole episode was more shocking–Steve’s lie or my father using a swear word. My father was a pretty stern bible thumper and my guess was that buggery and thievery were about equal in his book of sins, so it didn’t much matter that Steve had told the lie.

As I stepped outside the back door of the shop into the alley I walked to the red Chevy pickup my Dad had hastily parked there. My dad was already inside and shouted at me as I reached for the door handle, “You can fucking walk home and think about what you did and how you’re going to live with that sin.” He spun out pulling away from me. And I made the mile walk home my head spinning with how I was going to live through this.

I finally reached home and as I walked up to the front porch I saw a suitcase sitting there. A note was taped to the top.

“Do not come in. You are no longer welcome here. Pray for your sins. And when you have found salvation contact the minister in town. We will hopefully be able to forgive you with time.”

I looked inside the bag. Two pair of jeans, two pair of socks, two pair of underwear, two t-shirts, and my bank book. I’d been saving for college the best I could and had just over $1200 in there. At least I wouldn’t starve in the near future. I made the slow walk back into town, the duffel bag on my back. While walking I tried to think of whose house I could go to, at least for one night. I didn’t really have the kind of friend that would happily open the door to me.

I wandered around town for a couple of hours and finally found a little alcove in the alley a few doors down from Steve’s shop where I could lay down and spend the night. I pulled on all the clothes I had to try to keep warm and rolled up the duffel bag to use as a pillow. I decided my best plan of action was to go to the minister in the morning and confess my sins. Hopefully he’d intercede with my folks and I’d be able to get back home and get done with school as quickly as possible.