Gabriel was ready to come now, and pressed his back against the rough stucco of the house, his fingers laced around his balls, his other hand stroking, stroking, stroking his cock. Thinking about Joey, about his supple, leanly muscled body that glowed, like the roses from the other farm a few miles down. Joey was tanned, but pink underneath, as if the sun had slapped him a little too hard. His hair was blond, too blond from too much sun, and short and spiky. He looking like he should have been surfing down in Malibu, not hauling flowers for Mr. Adamos, not sucking his boss’s cock for a few dollars tossed in the dirt.

Gabriel did what he used to do in Tijuana to turn his patrons on—he stopped himself from coming. Let his dick go for a minute while he still caressed his balls, slid a finger back toward his asshole. He saw Joey between his legs, like all those men in Tijuana, all those gringos who slid pesos and pesetas into his pockets, under his balls, into his hands, whatever either turned them on or made them feel better. He saw Joey on his knees, this time in the orchard, saw Joey run his hands over his jeans, rub his hands hard against the outline of his cock, then do the same thing to himself. He watched as Joey took the pull of his zipper in his teeth and teasingly, achingly slowly, jerked it down. He felt his long, hard cock push against the opening of his jeans, push to meet Joey’s mouth as he pressed first against the bulge in the fabric, then nip just a little at it with his teeth through his underwear, then pull it out, still teasing, still way too slow, so slow it hurt, with his long, tapered fingers, tapered just like the stems of the carnations.

Joey’s mouth was like one of the flowers that peppered the fields surrounding the countryside where they both worked—it opened pink and soft in front of him, the lips like petals as they caressed his pulsing cock. Gabriel saw, then felt Joey take the entire length of his cock into his mouth, the tender warm wetness of his mouth enveloping first the head, then the whole shaft. Then he took it out, his tongue languidly licking over the head, his teeth teasing an imprint along the foreskin, that tongue running down to his balls, each being sucked into Joey’s hot, wet mouth, then held in the long fingers, one finger slipping back and just barely entering his asshole, just barely making him gasp.

The images of Joey were palpably real, real as the sweat streaming down Gabriel’s chest, real as the dawn starting to pinken the horizon just beyond the house. Gabriel ached to have the man’s hands on his body, his cock, his balls. Yearned for the sweetly petaled mouth to press hard against his, smelling sharp and flinty, like carnations and raw earth. Gabriel closed his eyes tight enough to keep it dark in the rosy half-light, his cock now about to spill into his hand as he wanted it to spill into Joey’s mouth, into the ass that he knew will be just as hot, just as pink, just as welcoming, pulling in his pulsing cock, letting him thrust and thrust until he couldn’t stop, he had to come, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—wait any longer. He could feel Joey under him, his legs up across Gabriel’s broad shoulders, he could see himself reaching with one hand for Joey’s cock and stroking it as he pumped hard into Joey’s ass, feeling the hot, milky burst on his hand as he came into Joey’s pink ass, felt Joey’s soft lips pressing into his, that tongue a pink petal between his lips. No money changed hands as they pulled on their clothes and headed back to work after this siestina of sex.

Gabriel’s hand was wet from coming, his balls ached from waiting so long to let go, his legs shook just a little. Sweat ran from his face and neck and chest, his bare legs were damp, and the jersey shorts clung to his thighs. He pushed himself forward and walked over to rinse his hands under the spigot in the yard, splashing the tepid water on his face and neck and chest. He lowered his head under the spigot and wet his hair. His head felt too hot in the stifling dawn. No time now to go back inside for another half hour of rest before he headed out to the orchards with Diego and Luis for another oppressively endless day.

Gabriel stood on the sharp grass in the tiny yard and looked out over the sunrise toward the orchards and the carnation farm and all the fields he could not see but which he knew stretched from one horizon to the other beyond where he now stood. In another hour he would be there, in the shadeless grove, working the trees with his brothers, first the almonds, then the lemons. Less than a mile away Joey would be stripping a lane of fresh, soon-to-bloom carnations and loading them onto the truck for transport.

Gabriel remembered the night they shot pool and drank Coronas together, biting into hot slices of lime before drinking the cold beers down. It was before he had seen Joey sucking Mr. Adamos’s cock, before he heard the little rush of Spanish or saw the quick flash of bills. Joey had watched him, Gabriel had felt it, but he hadn’t known what it meant, hadn’t wanted to try to press him against the back of the bar, or up against the men’s room stall, and risk being beaten later by who knows how many other workers, maybe even his own brothers. Now he tried to remember if Joey had checked his cock or given him the kind of look the guys in Tijuana had given him again and again, the look he knew meant more cash to give his mother, more cash to horde away in the sock burrowed in the center of his mattress. He could see those pesos now, could see the men counting them out onto one or another part of his body. Remembered the one guy, Gabriel had liked him, wanted to see him again, but had said nothing, stuck to his routine, gotten himself and the gringo off with a little more intensity than usual—they had kissed, kissed hard, and it had made Gabriel’s prick throb and ache and he had grabbed the man and pushed him back against the wall of the men’s room in the club and pulled out his dick. They had rubbed their cocks together and it had felt so good, the hardness and softness all at once. It was then Gabriel knew he’d had enough, had enough of anything to learn another word or phrase or idiom, had enough of gritting his teeth for a grimy peso when he didn’t even want to come anymore, maybe ever, he was so tired of doing it for something other than his own pleasure. He remembered how that particular gringo had run his hands over Gabriel’s whole body, had touched him after, tucking pesos here and there—under his arms, under his balls, in the webs of his fingers. Each note he would kiss first. The last one he had rolled tight and smooth, as if he were going to light it and smoke it. Then he slid down, opened the cheeks of Gabriel’s ass, and slipped the money inside. He had stood and run his hand along the line of Gabriel’s jaw, had taken Gabriel’s chin in his hand and had kissed him one last time and then exited, just like it was some movie he had seen. Gabriel had left then, too. He hadn’t gone back to the club again. A few weeks later the three brothers had left for California.

Gabriel thought about Joey, wondered where he had learned to suck dick and why—since he already lived here, already knew English, was blond and sleek—he took money for it.

Dawn was brightening into sun-drenched day as Gabriel walked back to the house, his head throbbing dully from lack of sleep and misspent desire. If he walked to the carnation farm now, if he got in the truck with Joey as he headed out with his haul of fresh flowers, could they leave Fresno, leave Mr. Adamos and Diego and Luis and all the chicas and bills tossed into the dirt and head north, beyond the delivery point for the carnations, beyond the Central Valley, up into the hills where it got cool at night and where they might lie in each other’s arms and open their mouths and asses for each other with no money changing hands?