Ohio Fireworks Law Prevents Big Bangs

We're coming up on July 4th or, as I like to call it, "National Blow Off Your Thumb and Visit the Emergency Room Day." My editor wants me to visit a few fireworks vendors in a three county area and see how Ohio law affects their livelihood. I've also been instructed to state from the start that I am with the media and am in no way connected to any law enforcement operation. Can you spell F-U-N?

My first three stops are easy-peasy ... cooperative owners and managers with some good quotes. Stop number four on my itinerary looks dubious. It's a bunker-style building painted a sickly yellow. Out front, attached to anything that isn't moving, are ribbons and banners and streamers and balloons and spinners in red, white, and ... you guessed it ... blue. The windows have bars over them and what greenery exists is badly overgrown. But the parking lot is packed; I park illegally and enter the shop with press credentials at the ready.

Inside, the place is a free-for-all. People ... mostly families and couples ... are everywhere loading up on sparklers, roman candles, "sizzlers," bottle rockets, "screamers," "black cats," and things that look like surplus military ordnance. I wait until I see a clerk ... a young woman about my age ... who isn't totally overwhelmed and ask to see a manager. Her face tightens up, thinking I'm wanting to complain about something. I quickly show her my newspaper ID and tell her I only need 10 minutes of the manager's time.

I wander aimlessly for maybe five minutes when I see a striking, rugged-looking dude coming toward me. He's on the short side and slightly stocky, but it's muscle mass ... he's built to pummel, not dance. He's wearing a dark green sleeveless T that shows of his collection of tattoos and obviously often-worked guns. In his ears are two large rhinestones, I mean supposed diamonds ... after all, he sells fireworks for a living. His hair is light brown and cropped short and his eyes ... playful while slightly mean ... are chocolate brown laced with liquid gold. On his face he's sporting two or three days worth of stubble and some old acne scars ... I figure he's probably in his early 30's ... but his overall look is as hot and flammable as the stuff he's selling.

"You looking for me?" this rural demigod says with no preamble. His resting position is relaxed but hints of someone whose dealt with trouble before. The jeans containing his surprisingly slender legs are ripped, faded, and molded around an impressive cock bulge. My tongue feels thick and pasty as I lift my ID from its lanyard and fumble for words of introduction.

"If you're the owner and/or manager, I sure am." I try to sound professional and manly and non-confrontational all at the same time.

"Name's Dusty." Dusty makes no attempt to define his role or take my proffered hand. His right foot taps in an irritated fashion.

"Well, thanks for seeing me, Dusty. The local paper wants to do a story on fireworks and how businesses like yours have been affected by legal limitations on selling. Got any problems you'd care to share?" Before he could react too much, I had my digital recorder out and running. Dusty looks at it like it's a foul-smelling turd.

"Everyone's got problems, but I don't see how making 'em public helps anyone."

Tough cookie, I think to myself. How do I get this guy interested in me? I mean the story? "Well," I reply, "Lola over at Brinker's Novelties had a mouthful of things to say. So far, she's given me my best quotes. Nice lady."

Dusty's brows raise just a notch, and his eyes focus quickly to see if I caught the tell. "Lola, huh?" Then he rubs his chin and his face transforms into a scowl. "Bitch" is all he mutters.

I stand there trying to look like I really don't care whether we talk or not. He looks for my tell ... my bluff. Finally, his body relaxes just a tad and he motions for me to follow him. I barely hear him comment about the noise because, well, it's noisy ... I'm thinking he's moving us to a quieter part of the store, which will help with the interview immensely. We walk, me trailing slightly behind, about 60 feet down the length of half the store, dodging customers and piles of explosions waiting to happen and pass through a weathered wooden door. It's a dingy office space, crates piled haphazardly among pieces of shelving and packing materials ... weak sunlight filters in through windows in need of a good cleaning. I expect this stocky stud to enthrone himself at his substantial oak desk ... the dominant piece of furniture in the room ... but instead Dusty goes behind a small antique glass display cabinet tucked in a far corner and leans his beefy ass back against a modern storage rack. I position myself in front ... I guess I'm playing the customer today.

"So your business," I start, "has it changed much over the last few years?"

Dusty chews his cheek for a moment and I hope this isn't a lost cause. But he focuses and begins. "A bit. We still rely on the bulk of interstate tourists for cash flow, so as long as they sign the waivers about leaving the state with the 'works in hand, we have no problems with the law. Never had a citation. And we've never got into the big-end items for displays and festivals, so that paperwork doesn't ever happen."

I'm nodding along, hoping my body language shows I'm interested and keeps him talking. "My biggest problem," he continues, "is them fuckin' super stores selling sparklers and little bitty stuff. We stock a shitload of that junk ... those pissant things bring the kiddies and parents running, and after looking around they end up buying all kinds of stuff out of curiosity. Or a damn sense of danger. I've had to double my advertising to keep a steady customer base. Of course, I can always count year-round on the young idiots who buy the big stuff to impress the panties off their sweethearts!"

This is good,I'm thinking, once I clean it up a bit. "You do seem to have a lot of inventory" I compliment as I stoop a bit to peer into the case. It has one or two of probably everything he sells arranged perfectly, puddled red velvet fabric and small acrylic holders showing off the unique shapes and colorful packaging perfectly. "I remember smoke bombs ... and those snakes made out of ash ... and you have some huge rockets out in the main store."

Suddenly, the air in the room seems more still. Something unseen shifts. "You like big rockets, son?" There's no malice in Dusty's voice. Only a quiet, genuine questioning. His facial expresion is neutral ... unreadable

I figure I can tease with the best of them, so I say "I've been known to shoot off a big rocket or two." I meet this ruggedly handsome man's eyes; the color has shifted into molten. He comes up even to the counter. "Let me show you a one-of-a-kind item, then ... but I don't think your paper's gonna wanna cover this." And with no pause whatsoever, Dusty pops the buttons on the fly of his jeans and hauls out a hog of a cock.

Gotta be 10, maybe 10 and a half inches, my brain says inside my head. My eyes bulge and my dick leaks into my boxers. I just stare as Dusty uses one veiny hand to peel the foreskin off the almost purple knob of his dick, and the other to extract his hairy plum-sized balls through his zipper. Once out and constricted by the opening in his jeans, Dusty's meat spear quickly plumps up and hangs heavy at I'm sure 10 inches. I swallow to allieve my dry mouth. I also adjust the rock-hard pecker in my own slacks.

"I call her Clara," says the man casually rubbing his fleshy wang, " 'cause when I fuck a bitch ... or a dude," he adds with a sexy wink, "you can her 'em holler 'clara' over there." He chuckles and looks to see that he has my attention ... of course, he does ... then looks down again at his mammoth meat. Dusty grabs the base of his wide pole aggressively with his right hand ... he has large knuckles, I notice. And once he's flattened his left, he smacks his dick hard against it ... repeatedly. Thwack ... THWACK ... THWACK!!

I don't wait for an invitation. My more modest model of penis is out and proud in no time through my own unzipped khakis. His eyes widen just a fraction when my pale prod is fully revealed, but he returns to the business as hand swiftly.

We're now trading glances and raspy intakes of air as we massage our prongs and shift our weight from foot to foot. I'm uncut as well, but with no way near the excess skin as Dusty, and when I'm as hard as I am now I don't have much room to play. I've got my cock coated with a good amount of spit and am enjoying a leisurely stroke, but this isn't enough for the surly business owner before me. Using his foreskin like a shammy, he pumps up the pace, buffing his rod rigorously. He's really rough on himself, cupping his fingers to support his length and then drawing his hood forcibly downward in a kind of slicing motion ... his cockhead strains at the end of each slice. He softly murmurs on the downswing, too ... like a tennis player on a boisterous serve. He whispers "motherfucker" occasionally like cooing to a lover. He's so hot, I think, I wonder why the room hasn't caught fire?!

My face and arms are beaded with perspiration and my breath is noticeably ragged as I jack with a little more pressure, incredibly turned on by this man's masturbatory techniques. Just as I work my throat to produce more spit, Dusty starts grunting. My eyes snap up just in time to see him tumble forward to rest his bull nuts on the top edge of the display case. Two more jacks start a slow cascade of cum running down his colossal cock; more dribbles as his stroking lessens. The pool of Dusty's cum that collects on the case is impressive, but for some reason I'm a little disappointed. I was expecting some shooting ... some distance ... I guess I was expecting fireworks!

But I was nothing even close to sad when Dusty surprised me with his "afterglow" rituals. Before his pecker diminished much, he seductively rubbed his goo all over his cock ... I mean working it into the folds and crevices and even into the fabric of his jeans. He was also creating a massive smear all over the glass case, dragging his dick from side to side like a dog wagging its tail. Then, with an upturn of his now-drowsy brown-gold eyes, he lazily crouched down and began lapping up the mess ... slow, sanguine licks employing his plump pink tongue.

I barely noticed the friction my hand and dick were creating from the sparks of Dusty's performance ... I was like a Boy Scout trying to start a fire with no matches. I nutted at the precise moment his tongue met a particularly clumpy pile of goo, streaming and spraying like an unsealed fire hydrant. My pants were streaked and drops of cum sat silently on my tasseled loafers and the rough planks of the office floor. The sound of my heart raced in my ears as I used my uncoated hand to steady myself against the display. Dusty, tongue still swishing but with his eyes glued to my crotch, smiled at the reaction he'd produced.

He think he's got my number, I conclude, thinks he's impressed the little reporter on assignment. Not wasting another second of analyzing this macho merchandiser, I raised my right hand and, as loudly and lustfully as possible, began cleaning myself and moaning as I swallowed more and more of my own still-warm seed.

"Fuck me." A man of few words, indeed.

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