Fifth--and Final--Installment
SNOWED IN
Part Five: Digging Out
After showers and fresh pajamas all around (charmingly huge on Benji and Wendell), we made bacon sandwiches we washed down with a bottle of pinot noir. Both boys were wiped out and I sent them to bed. I called my folks—who’d left a string of panicked messages wondering where I was—to end their worries. (Apparently several main arteries in our city were clogged with abandoned vehicles and my parents spotted my car in every shot on the cable coverage.)
My email overflowed with friends hoping I was okay. I started answering them one-by-one, but quickly got bored. I typed, “I’m fine,” in my Facebook status, and left it at that. While the storm plunged the city into an ever-deepening nightmare, I had my own digging out to do. I had to make some decisions, but none could be made alone. And, truthfully, I wasn’t sure it was wise to make them right away. The best decision might be not to decide.
Was I tripping? I put myself in Wendell and Benji’s shoes. I could hear Wendell’s insistence my trepidations were no big deal and Benji’s confidence everything would work out. They’d agree, “What happens, happens.” Of course, they’d be correct. Fate had worked its mojo to toss us together. These hours in one another’s company—away from responsibilities and interruptions—was a gift we’d probably never have again. Why waste it on issues and complications we wouldn’t understand until (or if) they presented themselves?
I set aside my concerns, poured the pinot’s dregs into a dirty glass, and watched the snowfall. Not knowing whose glass I held somehow appealed to me in a peculiarly satisfying, abstract way. It symbolized life at the moment—a sort of blind lottery of unexpected options, none more foreseeable than any other, all of them good.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” I asked. The blizzard’s conclusion would ring down the curtain on the entire episode. Wendell, Benji, and I would go our ways, fast friends, never pursuing the possibilities before us. Youth would advise them to write it off as “one of those things.” I’d be blessed with wistful recollections of 36 hours of intoxicating dreams. For a worst-case scenario, it wasn’t bad.
The DVR clock read 2:24. As predicted, the storm was at its peak. Cycles of insufferable wind assaulted the building. The apartment swayed and creaked like the bowels of a tempest-tossed ship. Then all would fall still, save for a faint whistling that reminded me of living near railroad tracks and falling asleep to distant calls of night trains. The city’s silence was at once serene and eerie. Despite our engineering and progress, Nature’s supremacy couldn’t—would never—be toppled. When She raged, we were no different than the natives who held these lands before we stole them. We had no choice but flee Her wrath in shelters constructed for that very purpose. Wigwams, cabins, three-flats, mansions, bungalows, or skyscrapers, it didn’t matter. We were still undeniably tiny, fragile creatures.
The howls humbled me, while the intermittent silences brought me solace. Their purity, evidenced by the whitewashed windows, were reminders nothing about us is ever as big as it seems. Everything comes and goes. Situations travel from good to bad to better, if only for the relief we find in surviving the worst.
After knocking back the last of the wine, I said, “It’s okay to feel small.” I took my glass to the kitchen and rinsed it with the rest of the dishes. While loading the dishwasher, I heard noises from the bedroom. One of the guys was talking in his sleep. I listened closely. Benji.
I went to check on him and saw the two of them cuddled together with the bedclothes kicked off. Wendell had unbuttoned his pajama top and thrown his left calf over Benji’s legs. Benji lay curled in a fetal position with Wendell’s bare belly for a pillow. They were adorable—kitten brothers. Benji’s eyes flickered beneath their lids. He was dreaming. Wendell’s were as smooth as stones.
Moving stealthily, I gathered clothes they’d left lying around and folded them. I placed them in individual piles on the writing table. I thought better of that and stacked them together. Then I thought better of that and mixed them up. I liked that.
I tiptoed into the bathroom to tidy up. As I bent down for a damp towel, I bumped the shower door. Wheeling around to steady its rattle, I sent a bottle of lotion crashing to the floor. “Sonofabitch!” I hissed and stood frozen to see if my clumsiness awoke them. Nothing. Good. Then, quietly, Benji called, “Mitch?”
He sat upright in the bed. The hair on one side of his head was plastered to his temple. He removed his top.
“So sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“I’m hot,” he said. I dashed around for a towel. Benji touched Wendell’s chest. “He’s like a furnace.”
As I daubed his face, neck, and chest, I remarked, “He runs hot, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t usually sleep in clothes.”
“Take them off.”
His eyes fell on Wendell. “What if he wakes up and I’m naked? I don’t want to freak him out.”
Though I sincerely doubted Wendell—or anyone—would be remotely upset opening his eyes to Benji’s nude body beside him, I kept that to myself and suggested, “We’ll pull off his pajamas, too. That makes everything equal.”
“He won’t mind?”
I lifted one side of his open top. “He’s fighting to get out of them as it is.”
“If he’ll be cool with it,” Benji said.
I scooted toward Benji’s feet and took his bottoms by their hems. “Raise your legs.” Once they were off, I said, “Now help me with him.” Wendell fussed like an unconscious child who resisted being undressed. Through it all, he never woke up. Next I fluffed Benji’s pillow and asked, “All better now?” He nodded.
While I sorted through the cast-off linens for the top-sheet, Benji inspected his bedmate. “He’s got a nice cock,” he said.
“So do you,” I replied. “You’re both handsomely endowed.”
“But his is pretty.”
How had I missed paying closer attention to Benji’s penis? Had I even seen it relaxed? He was hard when we met at the party; in our rush to leave, I never thought to check. Given all that took place since morning, I had no cause for shyness. I gave his member a good, long look.
“What’s that on the side?”
A mahogany constellation no bigger than a dime decorated his tawny shaft halfway between the base and foreskin’s snood.
“A birthmark,” he replied with a hint of disgust. “My mom has one just like it.”
“Oh really?”
“On the back of her neck. God!”
“That’s odd,” I said. “In all these years, I never noticed it.”
“You have to look real close because she’s darker than me. Of all the kids to inherit it, it had to be the lightest of the bunch, and on my dick of all places.”
“I think it’s smart.”
“It’s hideous.”
“Don’t say that,” I chided. “It’s precious. It makes you unique—and memorable.”
“I don’t need a bunch of freckles to make my cock unique or me memorable. How I use it should be plenty to be remembered for,” he replied. It was readily clear Benji had suffered this conversation a few too many times. “And why are you speaking to me like I’m a child?” he asked.
“Am I? It wasn’t intentional.”
“No? Do you tell other men their dicks are precious?”
I let go the linens and crawled across the bed to stretch out beside him. Wendell muttered some gibberish and rolled over.
“You’d be surprised,” I said. “’Precious’ is a favorite of mine. I use it often and I use it properly—not to mean sweet and innocent, but in the sense of being extremely rare and valuable.” I held his flaccid organ in the palm of my hand. “And this is priceless to me. It’s hard to believe I’m holding it.”
Benji played the tough card with a facetious grin. “Yeah, all right. No need to go all mushy and romantic. I still think it’s hideous.”
“It is not! It’s beautiful!”
“What’s so beautiful about it?” he asked.
“You’re toying with me, right—pumping me for compliments.”
“No, I’m not,” he said sincerely.
With my chin on his hip so I was eye-level with his privates, I combed through the black silk of his bush. “Let’s start with this. It’s magnificent. It gives the whole package exotic allure. It brings it all together so what you’ve got looks like a rare flower. Which is what it is and you are.”
“Oh boy.” Benji rolled his eyes as though he regretted opening the door for my admiration.
I kidded back. “I’ll stop if you like.”
He grinned meekly. “No, please, go on. I want to see where this is going.”
My index and middle fingers followed the dark trail that skirted the stem of his cock before exploding in a riot of rampant, yet surprisingly soft, tendrils on his sac. “See how it sort of forms a mossy nest?” I asked. “Then your cock extends out of the moss like a stamen.”
“A what?”
“Stamen. The stalk in the middle of a flower. Didn’t you study botany in college?”
“It met at 8 in the morning and I was usually too hung over to get out of bed. So my penis is like a—“
“A stamen, the part with pollen on its tip.”
Benji studied it. “It doesn’t look like that to me. It’s more like a pair of old dingy socks with a stain on the side. Maybe if it was hard,” he said with a sidelong glance.
I let go an overdone sigh. “If it puts an end to your whining,” I said.
Had all the nonsense about flowers gone to my head? Or did Benji’s stamen truly taste of honey? Perhaps having longed to taste it so long caused my mind to play games. Who can say? But there was a distinct sweetness in his flesh. I’d picked up suspicions of it in the brief kisses that fluttered between us since we got home. Yet the flavor was undeniably there on his rising cock.
“You taste like honey,” I told him.
“A couple other guys told me that,” he replied.
So I wasn’t crazy. All the same, it stung a little to hear I wasn’t the first to tell him.
As his member stiffened, a wide ridge surfaced on its underside and the taut foreskin formed an aperture to peek at the pale brown meat beneath it.
“Now for the real candy!” I exclaimed as I pulled back the skin. The head bloomed, perfectly proportioned, at the top of the shaft, without a flaw on its creamy surface. It was all I could do not to bite into it, as if it were a confection-filled truffle. My taste buds burst with water, while my lips and tongue needed no direction to relish its succulence.
“Oh, yeah,” Benji whispered from the back of his throat. His right foot found my member, pinching its girth through my pajamas. I opened the fly and shuddered at his foot’s cool brush. He whispered again, “Oh, yeah.”
While my tongue slavered over Benji’s crown, my throat begged to feel the roundness press its depths. I drew the cock into my mouth until it pushed against the back wall, and then I gradually took in more until I had it entirely. Benji welded his hands together to force me as far down as I could go. As he held me there, waves of heat coursing through the ridge startled my tongue. Humidity trapped between my head and his crotch collected in the soft cushion of his pubic hair, making it increasingly difficult to snatch quick breaths. When my endurance failed, I pulled his hands away and let him fall from my lips.
“It’s unbelievable,” I croaked through greedy gulps of air. “I never believed this day would come,” I confessed.
“Me either,” he said while pulling me back onto him. “Me either.”
I wanted this to be the greatest experience of his life—a reward for the delay and a promise of the future. He responded to each new maneuver with gaining satisfaction. My head bobbed on his organ. It dove between his legs to enfold his loosely hung, hairy balls in my mouth. I raced up and down his pole, descending its notable length to cap off my final ascent. Once his fullness returned to my throat, I sucked him ferociously. He expelled a huge sigh, followed by a series of staccato gasps.
Then he came, pinning my face to him with both fists tethered in my hair. The milky fountain flowed into my mouth, and I hurried to drink down every drop. Slowly, the tension that overtook his body at climax dissipated. I held him in my mouth for quite a while, wishing I could keep him there always.
The telephone rang.
“Don’t answer,” Benji said.
I nodded at Wendell—who slept through the entire thing. Benji nodded in agreement.
“Sleep,” I whispered as I spread the sheet over them and reached for the phone.
*****
“It’s over at last.” Gene sounded like the last tank had rolled out of the square. “You escaped without saying goodbye.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t have it in me to swim through the sea of flesh one more time. Congrats on the turnout, by the way. It’s your largest yet.”
“It helps having a blizzard to hold everyone hostage. What else were they going to do? Watch the snow pile up? Clean closets? Speaking of which, that was quite a performance you gave with what’s his name, the Moroccan doctor.”
“Simon,” I said, “and he’s Algerian. You saw that, huh?”
“Most of it. He’s a hurricane on heels, that one. I’d keep that current if I were you. Scuttlebutt has it he was a maddening tease until he found you.”
I got a little queasy thinking Gene might have got off watching us. We’d been sisters too long to start swapping bodily fluids. I decided not to ask.
“I didn’t realize how much tension had built up between us.”
Gene tittered. “Listen to you, Mr. Blasé. You’ve been working his nerves for years. I would have given up long ago. But you kept reeling him, summer after summer, pretending to be interested in those two brats of his.”
“Don’t say that, Gene. They’re good kids.”
“I didn’t mean anything bad,” he said. “You know me. If it’s not fuckable, it’s a nuisance. Have you ever solved the deal with his wife?”
“Not really. He always talks about her. So she must exist, though I’ve never been able to verify it. Could be I’ve seen her without knowing it,” I said.
“Oh my God!” Gene thundered. “It never occurred to me before now! You don’t think he’s a sleeper cell, do you? What if the whole married thing is a ruse and he’s an Al Qaeda operative?”
Moments like this made me wish I could slap him so hard he’d miss three birthdays.
“Right,” I enunciated. “And he rents the kids from the local terrorist outlet. You sound like Glenn Beck.”
“I didn’t say the man was Hitler. All I’m saying is it’s not so far-fetched. They’re pretty sneaky, those people.”
“He’s Algerian, not Arabic. He’s not even Muslim. I see him almost every Sunday at early Mass.”
“You never told me that.” He mulled it over. “By himself?”
“Usually.”
“Sweetie, there’s your chance! Now that you’ve crossed the line, invite him up after church—for sausages and cream!”
“Gene!”
As if I never considered it. I’m embarrassed to admit how many times I rushed home from church and popped a load fantasizing I brought Simon with me. But, in his persuasively randy fashion, Gene had a point. Now that I knew the idea wasn’t ridiculous, the temptation would be unbearable.
“It took you long enough to reel him in. Now you can keep him on the line.”
“You’re giving me a headache,” I said. “And you’re mixing metaphors. Reeling him in is fishing. Keeping him on the line is the telephone.”
“All right, Mr. Editor. What do you want to talk about?”
“You called me.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’ve got something really wild to tell you.”
“Answer this first,” I said. “How’s the place? Is it a mess or did they help clean up?”
“Mitch, it’s a disaster. A couple of guys offered. But, honestly, I was so sick of the whole lot I turned them down. The entire place reeks of come—you know, that sour, bleachy smell. And everywhere I walk I step on torn condom wrappers. It’s like a bathhouse with all the lights on.”
“If you want, I’ll come up and help get things back in order.”
“Thanks for offering,” Gene said. “I’m going to live with it tonight and maybe do a little in the morning. Delores will be here Friday. She can deal with the rest. It’ll give her a chance to do that holy-roller act of hers.”
Delores had been Gene’s cleaning woman for twenty years and refused to concede her quest to save his soul.
“She'll take one look and call for an exorcist,” I said.
Gene cackled. “Darling, she is an exorcist! The last time I had the place repainted, she brought a bottle of holy water and washed down the doors. I said, ‘Delores, what in the hell are you doing?’ ‘Mr. Gene,’ she said, ‘We gonna keep these demons that keep getting ahold of you out this house!’”
I could see the whole scene. “I loves me some Delores,” I sputtered through gales of laughter.
“Wait!” Gene said. “You almost made me forget. You’ll never—not in a million years—guess who walked through the door not ten minutes after you left.”
“Tell me.”
“Evan Lambert.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Yes, you do. Evan Lambert?”
“Describe him,” I said.
“Jesus, Mitchell, every queen in this building knows Evan Lambert. On 22? Dripping with sex?”
“Late 20s, built like a brick house, always has that deviously horny expression on his face—like he’s starring in a porno loop in his head?”
“That’s him,” Gene said.
“I call him ‘Tank,’ ‘cause he looks like he could knock down a wall with one shove. So his name is Evan Lambert. That’s good to know. Evan Lambert.”
I thought it unnecessary to tell Gene Evan Lambert, a.k.a. Tank, was third on my invite list.
“Baby, I’ve prayed—I’m not lying; I’ve actually got on my knees and asked the Good Lord—for a crack at that. I almost passed out when he walked in.”
“And did you?”
“Of course not,” Gene smirked.
“Not faint, silly,” I said. “Did you do him?”
“Sort of. We didn’t fuck, but we managed to do plenty other stuff. Which, now that I think about it, amazes me, because there wasn’t much gas left once I got through with Beau.”
“I forgot about him. How did that end up?”
“He nearly killed me,” Gene said. “He got his mouth wrapped around my dick and I thought I'd never get it back. It was torture, absolute torture, to sit there, staring at his gorgeous ass. I kept holding back so I could look a while longer. I had no idea how to get at it. So I waited and waited for the magic moment, you know, when the trick pulls off and gives you that please-fuck-me stare. Beau just gobbled away, eyes closed the whole time. I don’t recall him ever looking up.”
“Was he any good?”
“Born to suck, no doubt about that. But after a half-hour or so, the best cocksucker grows tiresome—especially if he’s got an ass made for fucking.”
I asked how Gene brought the blowjob to a close.
“What do you think?” he replied. “I came in his mouth. And you know what that tiger did? He spat a good-sized dose of spunk on his fingers, threw his legs in the air, and started fucking himself. I was on that butt of his like white on rice. I didn’t come up for at least 15 minutes. And then I fucked him every which way till Sunday and sent him back to his fiancée.”
“Wobbling, I’m sure,” I said, “and worried about how to explain that.”
“He’d supposedly gone down to the gym for an extended workout. She’ll buy it. Now let me tell you about Evan Lambert. I hope you’re sitting near a Kleenex or paper towel or rag—“
“Yeah, yeah. Get on with it.”
As it happened, I’d just sat down. After I answered the phone, I turned off the lights and left the door ajar in case Benji or Wendell needed anything. The rest of the time I roamed around the apartment, pausing here and there to watch the snow, straighten a picture, and whatnot. I hunkered down for Gene’s story. If it were typical of his tales I wouldn’t need anything to wipe up with nearby.
He began. “So, as you probably suspect, he set off a ripple when he got here. I don’t know what it is. But he’s a rock star. We were like goofy teenagers—goddamned Justin Bieber fans. And, you know, he’s saying hello—he knew a lot of people—but everyone’s so awestruck, nobody’s putting a move on him.
“Now, you’re picturing the scene, but you have picture what Evan Lambert looks like undressed to appreciate it. First, take what you imagine and inflate it by 10—no, 20—percent. At least. He’s very muscular, but not gym-rat muscular. Most of him is bones, thick and powerful. Everything—wrists, ankles, knees—it’s all great big gorgeous Superman bones covered with Greek-god muscles.
“Then there’s the big, big bone. I’ll get to that in a minute. I need to add a few more things first. He has perfect body hair. I swear, it’s like God spent half of eternity planting every hair on his body. Not one follicle is out of place. It covers his abdomen and fans out across his pecs and no matter where you look it’s never so thick that you can’t see the skin underneath. The same goes with his legs and ass.
“And Mitch, I know you get testy when I bring this up, because I tease you so hard, but that foot thing of yours? I get it now. Evan Lambert has the sexiest feet I’ve ever laid eyes on. I can’t explain why they’re so sexy. But if you’d been here, baby doll, you’d have hit the floor and gone nuts worshiping this man’s feet.”
I began to think maybe I should find a rag. I was hard as stone and hadn’t touched my cock. “That’s something coming from you,” I remarked.
“I’m not going to do them justice. They were so fucking hot I considered breaking my no-picture rule and grabbing my iPhone to sneak a shot for you. I was so pissed you weren’t here. How can I describe them? For starters, they were big. Not huge—not like big boats or anything—just big, you know, strong big, heavy big. But what made them so sexy to me was how they sat on the floor. He wasn’t flat-footed—not at all; later, when I got a closer look he had real nice arches—but when he was standing, his feet seemed to plant themselves completely flat on the floor. Shit. I’m not making sense.”
I told him, “You’re making perfect sense.”
“They were so solid. Yet at the same time, they were totally at rest, relaxed,” Gene marveled. “They were like living marble—so cool and magnificently shaped—and for the longest time, I couldn’t help gawking at them. And you’re right, that’s saying a lot for me, particularly since his dick and backside were works of art all by themselves. Which do you want to hear about first?”
“Well, being the ass-man you are, start there,” I said.
“The tightest, roundest ever,” Gene declared. “The symmetry was flawless no matter how you looked at it. You wanted to lay your head on it like it was the most beautiful twin pillow set ever made. Then the muscles came together to cause the sides to indent into hollows you wanted to put your hands in. Now I am sounding nuts. It was magical, Mitch, simply magical.”
“And his dick? Was it magical, too?” I asked.
“You know, his dick brought out my animal impulses.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It was thick and heavy and long, even when soft, with a fat, meaty head that drew the rest of it to one side. It hung as close to his leg as it could go, practically obscuring his balls. They were shaved and weighty, too. You could see their shapes at the bottom. But back to his cock. Pulpy, maybe, is what you’d call it. You got hungry just looking at it. You wished you could tear into it, but you sensed it would put up a fight and pound your throat to bits for even trying.”
“But you tried nonetheless,” I said.
“Naturally,” Gene replied proudly. “The guy stood halfway down the hall like a mannequin, doing his best to talk to a couple of other guys. Their eyes ran all over his body and they didn’t listen to half of what he said. Neither of them had the nerve to touch him. Meanwhile, the hall looked like Christmas on Main Street. A parade of window shoppers filed by, gaping at him. Finally, I pushed through the crowd, took his hand, and said, ‘Come with me.’”
“Where to?”
“Straight to the sofa in front of the TV. I booted everyone off and told him to lay down. I said, ‘Every man here is dying to play with you. But not one has enough balls to say so. Since it's my place and my party and you’re my guest, I’m going to break the ice and you can go your merry way.’”
“And he said…”
“He was so cute. He broke out in this boyish smile and told me, ‘I was beginning to think I did something wrong.’ I said he ought to be accustomed to people staring and admitted I had for years. He said, ‘Yeah, but it’s different when they’re undressing you with their eyes. I figured they were disappointed to see me for real.’”
“That is sweet. So what did you do?”
“Nothing heavy-duty,” Gene replied. “Basically, I licked him head to toe.”
“That’s interesting,” I said.
“Each and every toe, my friend,” he said. “And, for your information and future reference, he loved it. When I finished with his feet, his dick was bolt upright. I sucked it for a few minutes—no easy task, because it was huge—and told him, ‘Now go fuck everybody's brains out.’”
Gene held the line for my response. “Well, that’s a fizzler,” I complained.
“I’m not done,” Gene said. “He thanked me and wandered off and I got busy with a fresh batch of mimosas and thought no more of it. Maybe an hour passed—I can’t really say, as I lost track of time. I hadn’t gone upstairs in a while and thought I’d better check. I walked into the bedroom and who’s there?”
“Evan Lambert.”
“Evan Lambert. Smack in the middle of my bed, legs straight up in the air, one guy rimming him, another gagging on his dick, and two more feeding him theirs.”
“No kidding,” I said. “He’s a two-timer. Fancy that.”
By now, my pajamas were bunched around my ankles and I absent-mindedly jerked off, picturing myself in Gene’s place.
“The man’s got an appetite as big as he is beautiful,” Gene said. “I turn to leave, but he calls me back in. He pushes the other guys off and I dive in. We’re licking and grunting and grinding when I feel this burst of flame, like an acetylene torch, blaze up my ass. I look back and there’s Hernando—you know, the garage guy—between my cheeks. Evan slams my face to his crotch, bucking up and down, fucking my throat raw with his jawbreaker. Meanwhile, Hernando fastens my legs to his shoulders and stands up. And I’m a big man. But it doesn’t faze him. His tongue is dancing rings around my hole.”
“Wow,” I said, so caught up in the story I wasn’t sure I said it aloud. “I hear Hernando’s a genius. Insatiable, too.”
“It's the gods' truth,” Gene replied. “And I intend to take advantage of that every chance I get.”
“It was that good.”
“Fucking incredible,” he exclaimed. “Partly because it was different.”
“How?”
“You can tell he’s a pro at eating pussy, because that’s how he ate my ass. He’d hit a hot spot and tap it so fast he drove me insane. Out of my freaking mind. He never let up.”
“Then what happened?”
“I’m hanging in mid-air, anchored on one end by Evan’s rod and Hernando’s mouth on the other. This goes on for while, until Evan lets out an ear-shattering yell. A tidal wave of the finest come I ever tasted blows through my mouth. That’s all she wrote for me. I’m spraying in all directions, soaking the bed with one burst after another. I feel this primal growl rising out of Hernando’s belly. It rides through through me and into Evan and Hernando fires off a series of shots that land on my neck and chin and fills the air with the scent of man, raw man.”
I hardly could contain myself. “I gotta go,” I said.
“Let me finish,” Gene said. “There’s one last twist.”
“Really,” I insisted. “Gotta go.” I tossed the phone aside. Two, maybe three, strokes later, my pajama top was strewn with pearly puddles.
*****
I snuck into the dim bedroom, silently fumbling around for fresh pajamas. I must have jumped six inches when Wendell asked what I was doing.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I spilled, that’s all.”
“Who was on the phone?”
“Gene.”
Wendell yawned. “So it’s over up there?”
“Yep. And, Gene being Gene, he couldn’t wait to fill me on what I—we—missed.”
“Anything exciting?”
“Not especially,” I lied. “Some guy named Evan turned up and got Gene’s head spinning.”
“Evan Lambert?” Wendell asked, unable to conceal his disappointment he’d missed him.
“Am I the only fool in this building who didn’t know his name?” I mused sarcastically.
“Evan’s great. He comes off cold, but he’s really a sweetheart.”
“That’s what Gene says.”
I expected Wendell to embellish. Instead, he said, “I’m kinda hungry. What time is it?”
“A little after five. We should figure out what we’re doing for dinner, huh?”
“Probably.”
My attempt to dress in the dark didn't go well. Initially, I put the bottoms on backwards. Next, I tripped while correcting that and nearly reeled over.
“Need a little help there?” Wendell teased.
“I’m good.”
“Maybe you can help me, then,” he said.
“What do you need?”
“Can you tell me where my clothes went?” I heard the sheet rustle. The bedside lamp came on, momentarily blinding me. My eyes adjusted and I saw Wendell paralyzed with bewilderment. “Why is he naked, too? Did something happen?”
“Okay,” I said, faking a guilty demeanor. “I’ll ‘fess up. We slipped you a roofie, and after you blacked out we did all sorts of sick sex things to you. We’ll show the video later. Benji posted it on a few sites. I imagine it’s all over the Web by now.”
Wendell exploded with laughter.
“You think I’m joking?” I asked. “The part with the Jell-O and clothespins is so hot. Nerds from here to Timbuktu are gumming up their keyboards this very minute.”
“Turn around,” he said. My reflection in the mirror cracked me up. I wore a top printed with punting crews, while bobsledders zoomed over the bottoms. With mocking glee Wendell concocted a scene:
--So Mitch, what are you going as this Halloween?
--I’m dressing as the Olympics.
--Really? Summer Games or Winter Games?
--The whole Olympiad, darling. You know how I hate anybody to feel left out!
“Hey, now!” I protested. “No need to get evil.”
“Evil?”
“Like I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re making fun of me because I was so rough on you about leaving Pete at the party.”
Wendell’s face wizened. “You know what your problem is, Mitchell? You think too much. I bet you make a lot people nervous with that.”
“You don’t seem very nervous,” I observed.
“Not about you,” he said. “I am a little confused about waking up naked in bed with Benji, though.”
“It’s nothing.” I handed him his pajamas. “Get dressed. I’ll explain while you help me put dinner together.”
“You’re not going to change into one set or the other?”
I breezed by Wendell and pulled the lamp’s chain. “Certainly not!” I said.
*****
At Wendell’s suggestion, dinner went from a simple steak-and-vegetable entrée to a full-blown Super Bowl smorgasbord. He raided the refrigerator, cupboards, and bins for anything that passed for junk food—peanut butter, cheese, saltines, cold cuts, sausages, jelly, pita bread, and so on. After spotting a stepladder between the fridge and pantry wall, he rummaged through the top shelves and shouted, “Aha!” holding up a carton of animal crackers and ancient jar of Nutella.
“I’d stay away from them,” I cautioned. “Who knows how long they’ve been up there.”
“We’re living on the edge tonight, my friend,” he exclaimed. “Riding out the storm!” He arranged his hodgepodge on the dining room table, meticulously clustering it around two candlesticks whose tapers were warped from months on a sunny ledge. He called me from the kitchen. “Pretty fancy, ain’t it?”
I circled arms around his waist and gave him a kiss. “You’re a class act. You know that?”
“What can I say? I’ve been this way all my life.”
“Okay, kitchen magician,” I said. “Let’s see how you do with this. I have three beers, half a bottle of flat Diet Coke, two bottles of wine—one white, one red—and plenty of booze, but no mixers. Oh, and I’ve got coffee and a few teabags.”
“Not a problem,” he replied, sounding like a game-show announcer. “I’ll make iced tea.”
“Actually, it is a problem; it’s chamomile.”
“So when we’ve gone through what we’ve got, we’ll break out the fancy glasses and drink water. There. Problem solved.”
“Okay then!” I said.
“Hang on,” he said. “There’s a better solution. I’ll be right back.”
He vanished into the bedroom and reappeared five minutes later with a bleary-eyed Benji. Both wore regular clothes.
“This man holds the keys to all of our problems,” he crowed. “Show him, Benji.”
Benji limply jingled the convenience store keys in the air.
I yelled, “Hooray!”
“Off we go,” he said, prodding Benji toward the door.
“You guys are crazy.” Benji dragged his feet and grumbled, “I’m not even awake.”
Rushing after them into the hall, I called, “What about money?” Benji turned around and rolled his eyes. I would need to break him of that.
*****
I turned on the Weather Channel to hear what the hell was happening outside. We sat near the end of a deep blue belt that ran diagonally from the Midwest to the Eastern seaboard. The desk reporters, usually so perky, appeared frayed around the edges. One of them, a bland, studly Class President type, stood in front of an electronic tote board that tallied the snowfall in major cities. We ranked fifth, with 38 inches so far and drifts topping out at five-and-a-half feet. Most of the coverage shifted from the blizzard to cleanup, and I groaned just thinking about how that would go.
When I switched to the local newscast, I couldn’t have been less shocked to find the political fall-out already underway. Someone was on the telephone—a “citizen spokeswoman” from the predominately blue-collar southwest side—ranting about Streets and Sanitation’s unresponsiveness in her area.
“It’s always the same story,” she harped. “The well-off areas get immediate attention and we’re stuck, flapping in the breeze.”
“Metaphor alert!” I charged. “Can’t be stuck and flap at the same time!”
“It’ll be two, maybe three days before they show up. But when elections roll around and they’ll be here bright and early. And what’s so bad about it, Mary Ann,” she confided to the the anchor, like they were girlfriends (perhaps they were), “our area has more children per capita than anywhere else in the city. We also lead in single-parent families. What are they supposed to do about milk and food until Streets and San shovels them out?”
“Christ, lady!” I said, scanning the channel guide for something else. “It’s not even over. Cut the city some slack!”
While Mary Ann listened patiently from the upper right window of my screen, I scrolled the premium channels: vampire movie, vampire movie, cheerleader picture, vampire movie, zombie movie, idiotic romantic comedy, comic-book SFX epic, an improbable thriller, three more idiotic romantic comedies, an animated film about a flea circus, and a vampire and zombie picture. The grating racket of snowplows clearing our street distracted me.
I apologized to the infuriated caller, shut off the TV, and took out plates, napkins, and utensils for Wendell’s banquet.
A supermarket cart wheeled into the front hall, with Wendell pushing and Benji sprawled inside it atop three cases of beer, a box filled with soft drink and mixer bottles, and bags of snacks and sweets.
“What the hell?” I bellowed.
Wendell hoisted Benji to his feet and they unpacked the cart. Wendell said, “He wouldn’t help me carry it up and I didn’t want to make two trips.”
“Where did it come from?”
“We keep it in the backroom for restocking shelves,” Benji explained.
By the time they unloaded everything, not one free inch remained on the kitchen counter. “What are we supposed to do with this stuff?” I asked.
“We got it,” Wendell said. “Find something good on TV.”
“I already tried. Nothing but crap,” I replied. “Goddamn cable runs me over a hundred bucks a month and there’s never anything good.”
“Could be worse,” Benji commented. “Could be satellite and we’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle.”
“I didn’t think about that. Wouldn’t that blow, being stuck in the house with nothing to watch?” Wendell said. He headed toward the table with a bowl of tortilla chips in one hand and three plastic containers of dip in the other. He kissed my cheek, saying, “There’s gotta be something halfway decent on.”
I shot Benji a look. He met it with a tight, though not unfriendly, smile. “Can I get you something to drink?” he offered.
“Did you guys pick up any wine?”
“Not that kind of party,” Wendell said. I wasn’t too keen on this take-charge side of him. “Have a beer.”
“Beer makes me piss like a racehorse.” I told Benji, “There’s some Scotch in the cabinet under the microwave. I’ll sip that for now.”
“Rocks?”
“Neat’s fine.”
A Scotch would do me good. Wendell’s agitation was wearing on me.
I thumbed through the programming. Just before I started bemoaning mass-media bankruptcy and turned into a bore, Discovery Channel came to the rescue with “Dirty Jobs”. What was über-hunk Mike Rowe up to this time? We’d be in luck if he was crawling through a sewer or up to his neck in goose shit, because they’re be an on-camera strip-down, maybe even a shower. Yes! The old boy’s scrubbing out septic tanks!
Benji gave me my drink and looked at the television. Rowe hesitantly lowered himself into a vat of vile sludge. “Yuck!” he exclaimed. “I don’t want to watch that!”
Wendell rushed over. “Yeah. That’s gross!”
“Guys, it’s Mike Rowe—the sexiest man on TV. He’ll get naked sooner or later.”
“We can look up the good parts on youtube,” Wendell said, attempting to placate me. “But nobody wants to look at that while they eat. Isn’t there something else?”
Without hiding any sharpness in my tone, I said, “Here,” and tossed him the remote. “Pick whatever you like. I’m going to wash up for dinner.”
I started for the guest bathroom.
“Mitch!” Wendell scolded. “Don’t be like that! Don’t get mad!”
“I’m not mad,” I lied over my shoulder. “I’m tired.” Both wore puzzled expressions. “You guys slept all day and I fooled around. I should have napped. I apologize.”
Wendell told Benji, “I heard him having phone sex with somebody.”
“What a rude thing to say!” I replied. “Gene kept me on the phone forever.”
“If you say so.”
I threw up my hands and walked away, changing course for my bathroom, where the Xanax bottle awaited.
“Dinner will be ready when you get back,” Wendell announced.
Behind the closed door, I splashed my face with cool water, threw back a pill, and peered into the mirror for clues. What prompted Wendell’s bizarre onset of bitchy aggression? Or was it me? Was I the bitch? The chemistry out there had changed. Unless I came up with an antidote, the whole thing could blow up. The last thing I wanted was asking Wendell to leave. That might turn out worse than letting tonight fall apart. We could talk that over. But if I showed him the door, he and Katie would never speak to me again. They’d pass me in the hall like I was the Invisible Man. I couldn’t imagine a more awful outcome.
“Get ahold of yourself,” I told the man in the mirror. And, like that, things started making sense. “Of course! He’s pissing all the corners, showing Benji who’s in charge,” I said to myself. “Think about it. Benji wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Wendell. He set this up. He’s running the show, not you.”
My reflection shook its head. “You’re heading down a bad road,” it warned. “Wendell’s a great guy. He’s not a schemer. And he’s right. You think too much. He’s having fun and you’re making yourself miserable. Yes, if it weren’t for him, Benji wouldn’t be here. But he didn’t do it because Benji’s a threat. He did it for you. Jesus, sometimes you can be a real asshole. You know? A real asshole!”
I had to chill out. I popped a second Xanax and decided to leave my bullshit in the bathroom and relax.
*****
The boys had pushed back the coffee table and sat cross-legged with heaping plates of junk food before them. A third plate, similarly stocked, took the middle spot. On the television, a not-bad-looking man spoke into the camera from his desk. The photos and paraphernalia suggested he was a coach of some kind. “So what did you find?” I asked.
“It’s a documentary about—“
“Don’t tell him!” Wendell chided. He looked up at me with a disarmingly prankish smile. “Come sit down. You’re gonna crack up when you find out what this is.”
Benji said, “We fixed a plate for you.”
Thanking them, I squeezed into place, my right knee resting on Benji’s left, my left knee on Wendell’s right. He pointed to two glasses of wine. “Red and white, because we weren’t sure what you’d want.”
As I inspected the plated fare—slices of Gouda and Jarlsberg, saltines, several thin-cut rounds of salami, chips and salsa, a wedge of green apple topped with peanut butter—and a side dish of what appeared to be a white cheese popcorn and Cracker Jack medley, I said, “Both will work.”
I finished off the Scotch I left behind and tried to figure out the joke in the making. The program cut to a tight profile of chisel-faced younger man wearing a navy blue swimmer’s cap.
“I’ve seen this guy. He’s—“ I pinched them both on their thighs. “You turkeys! So you found an Olympics documentary and had to rub my nose in my mismatched pajamas!”
“Pretty funny, huh?” Benji said. “The minute Wendell saw it, he said, ‘We gotta do it!’”
“It’s hysterical,” I said affectionately.
Wendell retrieved the remote and activated the channel guide.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“We don’t have to stay with it. We just wanted you to see,” he said.
“Let’s stick with it. I love swimmers’ bodies. Where was this shot?”
“Beijing,” Benji said.
I asked, “Any Michael Phelps yet? He gives me a boner every time I see him.”
“Me too,” Benji said.
Wendell giggled. “But we know why Mitchell likes him, don’t we, Mitch?”
I exaggerated my annoyance. “Are you gonna spill everything you know about me? Maybe Benji should find out a few things on his own.”
“What are you talking about?”
Wendell started to explain, but I held up my hand. I told Benji. “I’ve got a bit of a foot fetish.”
“A bit of a fetish?” Wendell said incredulously. “Check it out. What’s Michael Phelps’ shoe size, Mitchell?”
“So you got me. He’s a 14. But it’s not all about his feet. He’s also got an amazing swimmer’s build.” A naughty impulse zipped into my head and I couldn’t resist. “Benji, you’ve got a real nice swimmer’s build, too.”
“Maybe if I was cut,” he replied. “Like Wendell.”
“Oh, snap! That’s telling him, Benji!” Wendell pounded his chest and flexed his biceps. “Uh-huh!” He pointed at himself with both index fingers. “Swimmer’s build—thank you very much!”
After I gulped down a healthy swig of red, I put the goblet on the table with aplomb. I lowered my voice a few decibels and said, “No, my dear, there are many marvelous things about you, but a swimmer’s build isn’t one of them.”
“Why? Because I’m short?”
“Bingo. And because you’re dense—your physique is dense. And you’re scrappy. You’re born to wrestle, not swim. Which makes you as sexy as any swimmer.”
Before he could gripe, Benji jumped in. “I could see that, Wendell. Take the compliment. Wrestlers are fucking hot.”
“Here’s what I want to know,” I said. “Why am I the only monkey in pajamas? Why didn’t you guys change after you got back from the store?”
“Do we have to, Mitchell?” Wendell whined. “They’re too big for us.”
Benji backed him up. “I get all twisted up in them.”
“I just feel silly being the only one in PJ’s.”
“How about this?” Wendell suggested. “We’ll strip down to our underwear and then you’ll be the one who’s overdressed.”
“I like the sound of that,” I said. “I won’t feel so goofy, then.”
Wendell sprang to his feet and kissed my forehead. “Your happiness is all we care about!”
Benji followed suit (kiss included). They giddily peeled down like two kids about to go skinny-dipping. Benji wore a snug pair of army green boxer briefs, Wendell a pair of classic whites that hugged his round rump.
“Better now?” Benji asked as they sat down.
“Much,” I replied. “If someone walked in, though, we’d make quite the picture—Daddy and his boys.”
“Nothin’ wrong with it, is there, Benji?” Wendell sassed.
In an unusual display of boldness (which I gradually discovered wasn’t at all uncharacteristic), Benji shoved a hand into my pajamas and fondled my nuts. “We’re just taking care of the real boys,” he said. He leaned over and gently bit my ear lobe.
Wendell pawed playfully at my chest, his fingers wheeling with the hair in the pajama’s V-neck top. “We love Daddy’s boys almost as much as we love Daddy.”
“Hey, hey!” I said, removing their hands. “We’re supposed to be eating dinner and watching TV. Haven’t you two had enough for one day? You should be sexed out by now. Watch the movie.”
Their mock sullenness amused me.
“Later, okay? Daddy’s feeling a little tired right now. It’ll be more fun later.” I underscored my promise with a huge yawn. The Xanax was kicking in, and the alcohol wasn’t helping. I asked Wendell to get me a glass of water.
“Don’t you pass out on us,” he said.
“I won’t,” I replied, praying I wouldn’t. “I should slow down on the drinking, that’s all.”
The film had moved on from the swimmer—I never learned who he was—to a story about the gymnast daughter of two Olympic champions. Benji said, “I’m not interested in this. Where’s the remote?”
Wendell gave me my water, fussing as he sat down. “Don’t I get a vote?”
“Sure,” Benji answered. “But it’s two to one.”
“She sort of looks like Katie.”
“Now that you mention it, she does,” I said.
“But I’m cool. We can find something I else. If girls aren’t your thing, they’re not your thing,” he conceded.
Benji asked him, “Do you miss her?”
“Hells yeah I miss her. When you get to know her, you’ll see why.”
It was the second or third time I sensed Wendell’s concerted effort to set the dynamic between Benji and him, him and me. He was drawing a triangle, establishing connections, securing a bond with Benji to safeguard his relationship with me. On one hand, I admired what he wanted to do. On the other, it troubled me, because I didn’t want Benji to feel forced into befriending Wendell to pursue what might develop between us.
The complications at the moment were ironing themselves out splendidly. I felt a tinge of competition between them, but nothing near rivalry or jealousy. That was good. It took nothing for granted. We were men. We knew the deal. Benji and Wendell were both aware of why the other was here. Concern about how we would balance this out as time went on was the elephant in the room. And Wendell’s unvarnished attempts to corral it in advance only reminded us it was there. I understood why he was anxious about being left out, and I loved him all the more for that. But too many assumptions got wound into his strategy. At this stage, he expected too much from all of us.
An invigorating argument broke out over what we’d watch next. I exerted executive privilege and vetoed any and all reality shows, stating my grounds. “First, they’re all jury-rigged to the degree that five minutes in you know what’s going to happen. Second, I wouldn’t let any of those people set foot in my house. Not one.”
“Not even The Situation?” Benji asked. “You wouldn’t say no to The Situation.”
“The Who?”
“The dude on ‘Jersey Shore.’ Have you ever seen him?”
“The buff kid who believes he’s God’s gift to women? I’ve seen clips with him. Mostly, I’ve seen him satirized on ‘SNL’ and other shows.”
“You should watch the show,” Wendell advised. “Then you’d change your tune. If The Situation knocked on your door, you’d have him out of his clothes in five seconds or less.”
“I sincerely doubt it.”
Benji wanted to know what I’d do.
“If The Situation showed up out of the blue?”
“Yeah. What would you do?”
A new game was taking shape: fantasy fucks. This could be fun.
I ratcheted up the suspense, pretending to ponder it out. “Hm. What would I do? I’m not sure.”
“Aw, Mitch, you can do better than that,” Wendell insisted. “Yeah, he’s a dick. But we’re not asking you to fall in love with him. We’re wondering what you’d do. ’Cause you would do something. The Situation’s one sexy motherfucker. You’d do him. Trust me.”
“All right! All right! Let me think,” I said, pasting a dramatic pause mid-air. “Okay. Here’s what I’d do. When Ronnie, or whoever at the desk, called and said he was in the lobby, I’d say to hold him there till I came down.”
“You really wouldn’t let him up,” Benji said.
“Positively not. What would I want with that in my apartment? The very idea—“
“Yeah, yeah,” Wendell said. “So what happens when you get downstairs?”
“I take him into the hall to the garage, the one behind the desk. Then I tell him to hang there for a minute. I go back to the desk to borrow Ronnie’s bathroom key.”
“What bathroom key?” Wendell asked.
“There’s a toilet on the hall between the front desk and garage,” Benji explained.
“I never knew that!”
“You need to get to know this building, young man,” I said.
“Forget that,” Wendell replied. “Keep going. You take him into the bathroom—“
“Shove him—not take, shove. I shove The Situation into the crapper and force him to the floor. I whip it out and stick it right in his face.”
“Yow!” Wendell puffed out his cheeks and exhaled with a flourish.
“Yeah, Wendell,” I said with a smart-aleck grin. “Sort of like you did to me last night.”
Benji’s eyes glittered to see me turn the tables. “What? What?” He nearly sang it.
“Oh!” Wendell declared with delight. “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh? Now you’re gonna talk out of school about me. I’m watching you, Mitchell Murphy!”
“I’m just sayin’.”
Benji’s laughter bordered on delirium. “Did you actually do that, Wendell? You stuck your dick in Mitchell’s face?”
“He nearly poked my eye out with it,” I said.
“What else could I do? The man won’t take a hint. I was like talking all sexy and breathing in his ear and shit and thinking he’ll do something, but no, he keeps carrying on the conversation like we’re in church or something. So I took it out.”
“That’s not how it went and you know it,” I countered. I told Benji, “He felt me up first.”
“Because you popped hard staring at my feet.”
“What were you two doing?” Benji inquired.
Wendell started to take him through it step-by-step and stopped. “I’ll tell you later. I want to hear how this Situation scene ends. It was making me stiff. So what’s next after you shove your dick in his face?”
“What do think? I tell the silly bitch to open wide. I jam my cock down his throat, grab his ears like trophy handles, and fuck his face until rains pours from his eyes.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Benji doubted.
“I’m with you, Benji,” Wendell said. “The Situation’s crazy. That mo-fo would chew your dick off like a pit bull. He’s not gonna let you do that and not scar you for life.”
“Except my boot’s aimed straight for his balls and I tell him, ‘You do anything stupid and I’m gonna kick you so hard I’ll render The Situation useless for life.’” (I was proud of my little pun.)
“That would fuck with his head,” Wendell noted.
I continued. “Naturally, since he doesn’t know how to suck, it’s not much fun for me. So I pull him off his knees—“
“Stop for a second. Benji, what do you think about that? You think he’s ever blown a guy? Because sometimes I get a flash of gayness from him.”
“I know what you mean. But I can’t see him sucking dick. Maybe let another dude do it to him. But the other way around?”
I sighed impatiently. “Can I proceed? And may I also remind you this is my fantasy and I don’t really give a shit about what the real Situation will or won’t do?”
They nodded.
“We’re eyeball-to-eyeball and I see how terrified he is. And, though I’m not usually like this, it turns me on. I order him to get naked and he’s a nervous wreck rushing out of his clothes. He never takes his sights off me. I let him stand there for a few seconds. He’s shaking like a coward.”
“Ain’t he fine, though?” Wendell said. “His muscles have muscles.”
“And right now, he’s so freaked out every one of them is so tense they’re ready to snap in two. ‘Turn around and grab the sink,’ I say.”
Benji said, “I saw this coming.”
“Mitch, you brute!” Wendell exclaimed. “Say it ain’t so! Say you ain’t about to fuck The Situation without any grease!”
“I use a handful of liquid soap.”
Wendell kneaded his crotch. “That pink stuff from the dispenser—the shit that smells like peppermint?”
“That’s gonna burn like hell,” Benji clucked as he followed Wendell’s lead.
While they casually played with themselves, I went on.
“You bet it does. And I put all the fire I’ve got behind it, too. I cover his mouth to keep him quiet and destroy that hard ass. It’s fucking insane. But after a while, he starts getting into it. ‘Don’t stop!’ he yells into my hand. I pull it away and say, ‘What?’ And he says, ‘Don’t stop!” and I make him say it over and over. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I spunk all over his back.”
“Holy shit!” Wendell hissed and answered that with a huge breath. “Mitch, I swear, I almost nutted right here. Fuck!”
I turned to Benji. “See how excitable he is?”
“I was gettin’ close, too,” Benji said. “How does it end?”
Wendell laid my hand on his briefs to feel his erection. I went one better and slid underneath to hold it. I did the same with Benji. They returned the favor by reaching for mine. Feeling both of them on me at once instantly hardened my dick. We sat silently.
“I like this,” I whispered. “It’s very nice.”
They mumbled in agreement.
About a minute or so later, Wendell asked softly. “How does it end?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered. “How do you think it ends?”
He gave it some thought and said, “The Situation doesn’t move. And the longer you look at him the more you start to like him. Now that you’ve tamed him, he’s not so bad. You feel between his legs for his dick and balls and you’re like, ‘Whoa! This moron’s a fucking stallion! We’re not done yet.’ You bring up here and he fucks the living shit out of you all over this apartment. How’s that?”
“Excellent. What about you, Benji? Tell me how it ends.”
“Kinda like Wendell’s,” he told us. “Except once you’re up here, you go back to being yourself. You kiss him and that scares the fuck out of him. So you have to go back to the badass routine. It’s not what you want—what you’d prefer—but if you’re gonna get Situation dick, that’s how it’s gotta be. You can’t have it all, I guess. It turns out The Situation is a great fuck, one of the best you ever had. Like Wendell said, he fucks you all over the place. Then, after he leaves, all you keep thinking about is having more. Every time, it’s the same. You get what you want, but not how you want it. You’re a Situation junkie. You’re stuck in a situation—no pun intended—that’s great and not so great. And it sucks, you know what I mean?”
Wendell pried his hand from my organ and all but pushed mine off of him. “Who needs a beer?” he asked, tension rising in his voice.
Did Benji have any idea what he just said? It didn’t appear so. “Be still, Wendell,” he said. “We haven’t heard the Mitch’s ending to the story.”
“I’m over The Situation. I need a beer.”
“But it’s Mitch’s story. Let him finish it.”
Wendell cooled down slightly. “Okay, Mitchell. What happens?”
I had a perfect ending. But in light of Benji’s ending, if I didn’t frame it well, I had no doubt we’d be through for the night.
“You guys were headed in the same direction as me, but we’re going to wind up in different places. Because I do—I get a good look at The Situation’s body and how he’s hung and my first impulse is to bring him up here and ride his cock until the sun’s up. But there’s a problem, you see, because, body or no body, dick or no dick, he’s still The Situation. He’s nothing like either of you. He’s cocky and fake and dumb as a rock pile, and—unlike both of you—he’s nobody I want in my house, in my bed, and least of all, in me. He might be the greatest fuck that ever lived. But I’d still have to deal with the rest of his shit and that would kill it for me. Remember, I’m ticked off he had the balls to show up to begin with. Even though I doubt he can learn, he should be taught some manners.”
“You never said you were pissed at him showing up without an invitation,” Wendell said.
“Was it necessary? You both know you wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you here. And the only reason you’re here is because of who you are, because I like you—well, love you.”
Wendell seemed relieved. “I don’t see you ever loving The Situation.”
“He doesn’t need to. The Situation loves himself,” Benji said. “And thank you for saying such nice things about us. We love you, too.”
“He’s right, Mitchell. We do love you. We might even be in love with you, in our own way, of course.”
Now it was Benji who tensed up. “So how do you teach The Situation manners?”
“I don’t know that I do,” I said. “He gets some kind of lesson out of it, but I can’t say exactly what it is. He’s hunched over the sink. I grab his dick and it’s huge, a massive sausage and so hard it could cut diamonds.”
“He got hard from you fucking him?” Wendell smiled. “That’s way hot. And way funny, too. The Situation’s a stone-cold punk!”
“I didn’t say he is in real life—only in my fantasy,” I reminded them. “This whole thing is weird to me, since I know absolutely nothing about this guy.”
I glanced at the TV for the first time since we started down The Situation tangent. The screensaver’s shrunken image waltzed randomly across a black field.
“Now I’ve got this donkey dick in my hand, you know. And it’s attached to this spectacular body. But I loathe the asshole the dick and body belong to.” Despite both of their erections having subsided, I gave Benji and Wendell’s cocks a squeeze. “What I’m holding in the story could never compare to what I’m hold here. Anyway, I let The Situation go. He swings around and gives me this look that says, ‘What’s next?’ I tell him to dress. He pulls a few paper towels from the dispenser and hands them to me. I wipe off my dick and give them back.”
“That’s nasty!” Wendell shrieked.
“He has this confused look on his face. He drops the towels in the wastebasket. He takes a few more and holds them out. ‘What am I supposed to do with that?’ I ask. ‘Wipe my back off,’ he requests. All I do is stare at him. I don’t budge. He tries to do it himself and I knock the towels out of his hand. I yell, ‘I told you to get dressed! I mean for you wear my baby broth all the way back to Jersey.’”
“Wow!” Benji exclaimed under his breath. “Does he do it?”
“Hell yeah he does,” I answered. “He puts his clothes on and starts to leave. I slam the door closed before he gets out and tell him, ‘I know you think you’re something. But if you ever come back here again, I’ll really show you you’re not half—not a quarter—of all that.’ I open the door and he slinks off, never to be seen again. And sure, I feel bad for a minute. But then I realize I did this kid the biggest favor of his life by breaking him down like I did. Maybe he’ll learn some respect and grow into a man—a man like the two sitting beside me.”
Neither of them uttered a word. They never anticipated feeling sorry for The Situation. Finally, I said, “Are you ready for the kicker?”
“There’s a kicker?” Benji asked.
“Every good story has a kicker,” I replied. “So The Situation’s gone. I take the nasty towels out of the wastebasket and flush them. There’s no need for anybody to find that. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see something move in the sink.” I paused.
“What?” Wendell demanded. “Does he have crabs or something?”
“Now that’s seriously nasty,” I teased. “No. No crabs. There’s a fucking lake of come, like a half-dozen guys jerked off in the sink, oozing toward the drain.”
“He came that much? While you fucked his ass?” Benji descended into fits of laughter.
“I’m speechless—mesmerized by the size of the kid’s load.”
Wendell clapped his hands and roared. “What did I tell you? The Situation’s a monster!”
“The End,” I announced. “And you two have completely exhausted me.”
“I’m tired, too,” Benji said. “The blizzard’s screwed up my clock. I’m ready to crash any second.”
I shut off the TV, while Wendell wandered to the window. “It’s slowing down,” he told us. He yawned and hugged himself on his way back to the sofa.
“You kids go to bed.”
“What about the mess?” Wendell asked.
“Don’t worry about it. It will be quicker if I clean up. I know where everything goes. Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a new day.”
“Are you sure?” Benji said.
“I’m sure. Kiss me goodnight and go to bed.”
“But you’re coming, too, aren’t you?” he asked. “You’re not going to sleep out here by yourself.”
“Is there room for the three of us?”
“If it’s tight or uncomfortable, who cares?” Wendell answered. “We’ll be together.”
Benji and I got to our feet. I took him in my arms and we locked lips. Wendell’s arms surrounded our waists. We welcomed his kiss to ours, the three of us huddled together, mouths mingled, our tongues dancing a lovely tarantella in thin air.
(With sincere thanks to all who took time to slog through this. I hope it was worth your time.)
