Chapter Sixty-Two
Two things happened in South Carolina. First, I won a Sprint qualifier. People said good stuff about my driving, but the truth was a better driver in a new car spun out on a turn leaving my path open. Still, the prize money was very nice.
Second, I had too much to drink celebrating. That's something I rarely do; a little buzzed is pretty much my limit. B. J. and I used to get buzzed on vodka pretty regularly, but that just meant we'd stay home and fuck. We never did it out anywhere, or at least I never did. Maybe Will's flask was a bad influence on me. Anyway, those harmless looking mojitos did the trick on a hot night. I totally remember Slick and Latham getting me home and things kind of go blank after that. I woke up alone (that was good), in my own bed (that was good), and naked (that was usual) with the odd feeling that I had been fucked (that was not good). I hadn't been fucked in a good little while, basically not since B. J. had left; so it wasn't as if I was confused or anything, and I knew what getting fucked felt like. The problem was I had no recollection of it happening at all, and, looking around the room, I couldn't find a shred of evidence that anything had taken place. I just felt used 'back there', with no explanation for the feeling, except it made my dick a little hard thinking about it.
At the track Slick gave me a big grin and asked “How's the head?” in a jokey way, not in a ha-ha-I-fucked-you way. He didn't even wait for my answer; he was busy and just basically saying hey.
Latham was more solicitous. “How you doing? Want some aspirin? OJ? Anything?” I said no I was ok. Truth was I felt a little rocky, but time would fix that. I approached the subject of last night carefully.
“Thanks for putting me to bed.”
“Sure, no problem,” he answered.
“Really? I wasn't a problem?”
“No. You were a pussy cat. Went right to sleep.”
“Uh … did you or Slick hang around?”
“Nope. We didn't hang around. Besides, Slick's married now … getting to be a real home body.” I thought Latham put a strange emphasis on 'hang around', but he was right about Slick, who seemed to be taking his marriage more seriously than anyone expected.
The whole environment was different. I was seeing more of Latham in South Carolina than I had in Virginia where he actually lived with me. He was never home much in Virginia, but at the track he was constantly around. Which was fine with me, of course. I was getting to know him better. He talked about his school work a lot looking to me for advice sometimes. He didn't need any help with math or science, but he had trouble with literature and he decided that reading Tolstoy had made me an expert in that area. In fact I could help with vocabulary - reading is always good for that; but with interpretation, not so much.
“Racer, what do you think Emily Dickinson is talking about when she says, “They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.” How the fuck would I know? We would talk about these things and I was flattered that he would ask me; but I don't know how much help I was. I was more help when he wondered if sintered metal surfaces would aid the cooling of brakes. That was easy, really just a question of whether it was worth doing it.
The only distraction was seeing him change into his coveralls. Again, so different from Virginia, where I really didn't see that much of him, never mind naked. In Virginia he was up before me and went to sleep after me; and in between times he was fully clothed. Here at the track, though, the lockers were placed centrally and the changing area was pretty much visible in an omni-directional way if you wanted to look. Most of the pit guys wore coveralls and just added them on top of whatever they were wearing. Latham was one of the guys who took his jeans off. “It's hot,” was his explanation. He was also the best looking of the guys who took their jeans off. His collection of clingy blue underwear now included some grays, also clingy, also sexy. I generally looked away, but you know how it is. A sweet butt is a powerful attraction and sometimes Latham's underwear would get pulled down a little in the changing process, you know, just an inch or two … I would always look away, but most times just a peek would give me a hard on. Even Slick noticed.
At the end of one day we were talking technique when Latham pealed off the coveralls. “Mmm-m,” Slick sighed. “If I weren't married … Why aren't you hittin' that, Racer?”
“Cause he lives with me and he's a high school student and he's straight.”
“I thought he was twenty,” Slick said, puzzled. “What's he doing in high school?”
“It wasn't very interesting when he was sixteen, I guess.”
“And he LIVES with you?”
“Yes, so he qualifies to attend the school. It's a pretty good one, better than he has at home.”
“And you're not tempted to …???”
“No,” was my flat out answer. Slick just smiled and walked away with a comment that he'd see me in Tennessee in two weeks. Alright, I was tempted, a little, now and then; but I wasn't sharing this with Slick. I did, however, explain some of this to George Brightwater when I got home and dropped off my check.
“Wow! South Carolina was VERY profitable!” George said, ignoring the part of my story that hinted at my interest in Latham.
“Yeah, but it won't repeat. It's a one-time deal. I didn't really win; the other guy lost.” George shrugged and looked up as a door opened.
“Will!” We both said together.
“Hey, y'all. You two know each other?” He sounded totally sober and looked it, too.
“Racer's a customer,” George said.
“No shit! I guess you really can afford Mike's furniture!” Will smiled in a friendly way, not nearly as astonished as his words sounded. “I sold Racer some furniture,” he explained to George. “Uh, George … there's a piece of property for sale over on State Road 706. Seven point nine acres. Can I afford it?”
“I don't know. How much does it cost?”
“That's what I was hopin' you could find out, Bubble Butt.”
“Sure, I'm good for that.” George answered. He wasn't happy about the Bubble Butt comment.
“We all called him that at the frat house. He never used to mind,” Will said to me.
“Times change,” George said, perfectly aware that Will and I were looking at his bubble butt.
“Will,” I tried changing the subject. “There's a mark on the desktop of that piece you sold me. How can I get it out?”
“You be home later? I'll stop by and take a look,” Will said as he left.
“Asshole,” George muttered when it was just the two of us again. With a vivid memory of Will's asshole in my mind, I asked George what his problem was. “He and some of the guys knew I was gay and never let me forget it.” I could see George recalling some old memories. “They weren't bullies or anything; they just never could leave it alone, you know? I pretended it didn't matter, but it did. They were all rich kids. Privileged assholes ...”
“And you weren't rich?”
“My family was ok, but we're not old-name Virginia. Know what I mean?”
“I'm old-name Virginia. We just don't have any money,” I joked, hoping to cheer him up. The old-name part was true, however. The Tyrees had lived here forever, scrabbling hard the whole time, my part of the family.
“You're getting some. Win a couple more races, Racer, and you'll be in high cotton and you deserve it.” Impulsively he kissed me. It was a friendly kiss, nothing steamy.
With nothing else to do, I decided to buff up the truck. It wouldn't take a lot of work, which was good because it was a hot day; the truck was only a little dusty from Tommy Lynn's unpaved drive. You have to be careful, though; you can mar the finish by grinding even fine dust into it. I was about half way done when Will showed up.
“Want to show me the problem with the desk?” he asked. I could smell that he had been drinking, but he seemed ok. We went inside and I showed him the stain. “What the fuck caused that? It wasn't there when I delivered it.”
“Uh, it's a cum stain. Yours? Mine? I'm not sure. Yours, I think, 'cause you blew all over the place.”
He was a little embarrassed by my explanation, but not much. He went to work while I went outside to finish the truck. When I came back in he was on his knees, polishing the front of the bookshelf part of the furniture. He was sweating profusely and in his underwear. “Don't you have air conditioning here?” he asked.
“We do but Mrs. Lucketts hasn't turned it on yet.”
“We're half way through June, for shit sake! Is she waiting for consecutive hundred degree days?” He mopped his forehead. “I soaked my shirt.”
“Yeah, I'm sweaty, too.”
“I can see. Those shorts are glued to you.” He paused and looked at me. More accurately, he looked at my shorts. And then he touched me. More accurately, my dick. I could have stopped him, but what the fuck?
“You want something cold to drink?” I asked him.
“No thanks.” One hand was squeezing and the other was tugging at my shorts. As wet as they were, they were hard to get off. “A little help, please?” I helped. He took a swig from his flask and then took my cock in his mouth tentatively. “Gotta stay in practice,” he said, mostly to himself I think. After he succeeded in getting me hard he paused and looked up at me. “Not bad for a straight guy, huh?”
The look on his face was pathetic. Why is he doing this? I decided not to play games. “I'm gonna want to fuck you,” I answered.
“I know.” He slid his underwear down to his knees telling me he was ok with that. His dick swung out in a half-hard way. “Gotta keep in practice. You should probably use a condom.”
“I didn't the last time.”
“I know; but this time you should use one.” His pants were lying on the floor; he reaching into a pocket and pulled out a foil wrapper. “Here you go.” He got to his feet and then lay forward onto the desktop. “Do it.”
