by
Trisky
You would think collapsing would automatically be the better option, at least I’d still be breathing. Except the thought of going out in a blaze of glory seems to have circumvented my better judgment and dying suddenly seems like a glorious end.
I wouldn’t even call it a decision or a snap judgment, it was instinct. It was my gut being fueled by nothing more than following a fleeting electrical current that lead me straight to my current predicament. And it’s a mangled, unsightly vision. Not unlike the way my body will be found, contorted in various positions that even a master of the Kama Sutra would be hard pressed to replicate. There will be no orgasm beforehand either.
I’m sort of afraid to move. If I do, I might discover that this is the least of the damage, and... quite possibly regret my decision. Perhaps even throw a few choice curse words out for good measure. If I curse, however, then I’ll be made to answer the inevitable questions that an innocent bystander might have if confronted by a frantic maniac on the verge of frothing at the mouth and talking nonsensically to themselves. Instead I assess the situation, cooly, calmly and rationally, like the mature, thinking adult I am.
I body check him and nearly topple him to the ground. Because that’s just such a better plan.
How did I wind up here?
Two words: Chauncey McAllister.
Never, ever trust someone named Chauncey. If their parents couldn’t take them seriously enough to give them a proper name and instead made them defensive, squatty, overcompensating twats, thanks to years of playground humiliation, then clearly they are not to be trusted. With anything. Ever. That was my first mistake. I’ll admit, it was the accent that got me. There’s something enchanting about a lispy quasi-sort of British accent. I say sort of because it was British by way of Scranton. Of all the places in the world to choose from, who would stick their thumb on a map and decide Scranton is an improvement over England? Chauncey McAllister’s mother, for one. Turns out Chauncey spent summers with his grandparents on the other side of the pond. Another reason not to trust him, he had no roots. Unless you count the particularly dark ones sprouting from his bleached blond head. But I didn’t and I wasn’t, because there was that lisp. People without roots are shifty, ever changing, and far too casual about things in general. So why would you be stupid enough to put your faith in them? You wouldn’t, unless you were me.
I guess I thought it was his talent that was so vastly superior than my own that clouded my better judgment. Anyone who’s vaguely British, vaguely dirty and named Chauncey must be intellectual and refined in ways that my clean cut self from the suburbs couldn’t possibly be. Of course there was all that angst brewing inside of him, years of unspeakable pain caused by the torment of existing in two worlds without a real home and growing up without a proper name. Or some such bullshit. Maybe it was just the bleach seeping through the pores of his scalp that gave him an attitude.
I’d like to meet the guy who wouldn’t get a hard on, when a sometime Brit who speaks with that kind of lisp, in a veddy, veddy proper manner regales them with tales of his youth - in all of his twenty-one year old glory - and caps the story off with an amazed, wide eyed “and then he licked my bum”. No man could resist someone who takes such delight in such a carnal activity and who speaks as if he’s slurping up the remainders of the memory in his mouth. It doesn’t happen.
It’s not that some guy licking my ass is a foreign concept, it’s that I’d never quite heard it phrased that way. “Licked my bum” made it sound like a far more quaint and cozy activity than anything I’d ever experienced. It just had a much more melodic ring to it, than “eat my ass”. In hindsight, I suppose anything but “eat my ass” would sound more melodic when it comes down to the nitty gritty.
Of course, I had to inquire further about this bum licking concept. Did he enjoy it? Did he do it in return? Do it often? Is there a reason Brits say “arse” and not “ass”? He answered in his breezy, flippant accent and then asked me the million dollar question. “Hasn’t your boyfriend ever licked your bum?”
There was really no way to answer that question. It would require far too many explanations about my non-boyfriend boyfriend and the fact that I wasn’t quite sure we’d ever managed to be that cozy during sex. We’d been tender and maybe even a little loving, but I’m not sure about the cozy part. Obviously I’d had Brian’s tongue up my ass so often I may as well have built a wing there for him to rest between rounds, but could I say he’d ever “licked my bum” with a straight face? I couldn’t risk sounding like an ignorant American who thought everything was more spectacular when fashioned with a European flair. So instead I said nothing, as the cheeks of my ass wriggled against the material of my jeans in anticipation.
“You should have him do it some time, force him to, you won’t regret it. You don’t know what you’re missing out on. It’s quite a pleasure.” Suddenly the accent seemed condescending somehow, like he was looking at a little inexperienced kid who didn’t know shit. I’d already been through that once. I don’t care how British or lispy he was, there was no way he was going to tell me what I should have stuck up my ass.
So that was my challenge. I realize now, that it was based on a fairly ridiculous premise. Being offended by someone’s assumptions about what does or doesn’t make it’s way into my ass just doesn’t rank up there on the great list of challenges faced by humanity every day.
Still, it was my own personal wager with myself, and with Brian I guess. That’s really what it was about.
I had the perfect setup. It could not have been more perfect if I had deliberately planned it, which I kind of had but that’s beside the point. The point... is that it was as if the stars had aligned all to give me this opportunity to conquer the demon. I would have a licked bum, if it killed me.
So here I am, on the verge of death and there’s not a tongue in sight.
“What the fuck?” His eyes are kind of wild, darting back and forth. That tends to happen when you knock the wind out of someone.
“Just promise me you won’t scream, because it’s not my fault.” Okay, so it totally is, but I have a tendency to exaggerate dramatically and veer slightly out of the realm of truth when I start hearing my heart beat in my ears out of fear.
He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head and regains his ability to stand upright, pushing me out of the way with barely a tap. I look with one eye open at the horrified stare on his face. Seems that not only will I be getting my bum licked, but I’ll also be getting it burned, sliced, diced and served on a platter when he’s done.
When something is that perfect, there’s always a hitch, because things can’t be too perfect. It throws the universe out of whack.
My plan was a simple one. I was going to make myself indispensable to Brian. He would be so appreciative and so worn down by my kind hearted deeds that he would take pity on me. Listen, I never said the bum licking wouldn’t come without a price. It wasn’t the greatest plan in all of existence but it was one that had proven remarkably effective in the past. As it turned out my decision was awfully prescient because if ever there was a week when Brian needed me, this was the one. The stars were on my side. Not to sound too arrogant, but it was almost like God’s idea of a joke at Brian’s expense for all those times he’d been cruel or cold in the past. Pile it all on top of him and have me be his only salvation. At least, that’s how I saw it.
Brian had a potential new client he was trying to lure over to the dark side. Fair enough, he did it week after week. She was his dream catch, a Fortune 500 company with offices all over the world and Vanguard’s first legitimate stab at competing with the boys in New York. I think he could see the promise of the bright lights of the big city, right there in her eyes. The client, however, was a little pushy. For someone who barely grazed my shoulder at her tallest height in heels she was one aggressive, scary thing. Especially when she was baring her fangs ready to suck Brian dry of every last bit of blood she could muster from him. This might have been funny if she were remotely attractive, but she wasn’t and that was offensive on almost every level as far as Brian was concerned. He’d gotten it so turned around in his head, that it was no longer bothersome that she was hitting on him, but rather that she actually presumed she had the right or was worthy enough of the privilege. So when I got a call at some ungodly hour in the middle of the night asking me to come over so that he could prove his worthiness to someone, of course I went. Maybe he only said “I’m bored and horny,” but I’m sure that’s why he called.
When he called me the next day in the middle of my slaved over dinner consisting of a tuna melt and some soggy celery stalks and asked me to rescue him from hell, I ran. That’s where I met the barracuda, in the middle of his office. She gave off a certain reptilian vibe. A few too many hours in the tanning salon, a few too many bottles of red hair dye and too few inches on her skirt and it was all I could do to not cower in fear in the corner. I had to keep the ruse up though. I was the bereft nephew/neighbor/passerby on the street, we never did work the particulars out, come to inform Brian that his sickly grandmother was breathing her dying breath at the hospital and I just had to beg him in person to put aside their differences and go see her one last time. Even animals that eat live mice for dinner have hearts. With her blessing and the over exaggerated sympathy that was her cleavage spilling out of her shirt as she bent over to rub his hand in comfort, I broke him free. Of course he was grateful. I guess I should thank her because my dick was pretty damn grateful for quite some time that night, as well.
On the third day, it was a dry cleaning and brake pedal crisis extravaganza. Somehow he’d managed to get the jacket of his new black Hugo Boss suit cleaned, but not the pants, which he desperately needed. Don’t ask me. I don’t know why his other two black suits wouldn’t suffice, but for whatever reason, they wouldn’t. Since he was supposed to be in a state of mourning thanks to the dearly departed sickly grandmother, he couldn’t very well wear a blue suit to dinner with the she-devil. I was put in charge of commandeering the dry cleaner and harassing them into having the pants cleaned and pressed by a 5:00 deadline, after he’d nearly reduced someone to tears over the phone. My form of harassment consisted of turning on the charm and flirting with a stocky woman in her 50's of some unknown but obviously Eastern European descent. I couldn’t imagine her ever crying over anything in her life. I decided it was Eastern European because she had a mole that had hair coming out of it on her neck and looked like she’d always been hungry. Maybe she was Romanian. More likely, she was French and married to the French guy who did the tailoring and owned the business. No other man would put her at the front of the store unless he was blinded by love. I pictured her standing over a vat of dry cleaning solution and boiling cats in her spare time.
Whatever she did, she must have taken a shine to me because she told me I reminded her of her grandson. I got the pants with three minutes to spare. I’d offered to pay for the process myself since it would have been a waste of time to run to Brian’s office and get the money from him. I’m fairly sure I’ll still be paying that credit card bill off when I’m 56. All for the cause, right? Indispensable, that was me.
The brake crisis happened later that night, on his way home from an exhausting three hour dinner with Ms. Leatherface. Seems every time he stepped on his brake pedal the car made a tinny sound that ran right up his spine. The rest of the world probably couldn’t hear a thing, but this was Brian and he was attuned to every little squeak and squeal of his brand new baby. The first time I saw the Corvette, I wondered how he fit his legs in that tiny little thing and then I saw him open the door and get out and I swear my dick got hard on the spot. He was like some nymph water goddess rising from the sea, only there was no water and he was more a god than a goddess, but it was something like that.
He made a stop on his way home, to my apartment, which was curious enough on its own. It was his overly sweet attitude that really threw me off. I don’t know when he’d managed to memorize my class schedule, but somehow he knew my classes ended by 3:00 on Fridays. Seems he would be tied up in meetings all day tomorrow trying to finalize this deal and he had no way to pick the car up from the service guy who closed early on Fridays, if he dropped it off in the morning. He was pretty certain it wasn’t anything serious, so it wouldn’t need to stay for more than a few hours. Obviously, he couldn’t be without the car all weekend. Obvious to no one but himself. So this was the test of his faith in me, transporting the Corvette from the mechanic to his parking lot. Again, maybe he didn’t say it in so many words but “I’ll run you over with it if you fuck this up” said all that needed to be said.
Hell, I was still stuck on the fact that he knew my class schedule.
Some people think Brian is sexiest when he’s strutting around Babylon, or when he’s in full on professional mode, but the longer I know him the more I think it’s when he’s stressed out. It’s not that weakness is sexy, it’s that it becomes really clear there’s a vulnerable part of him that’s just trying to keep all his balls up in the air. Bad analogy. What I mean is that the more he lets himself need me, the more I love the fact that he does at all.
We sealed the deal with a kiss because Daphne had fallen asleep on the couch again. He gave me one last look full of abject fear on his face as he walked out.
This morning I woke up and I knew that today would be the day I’d get my reward. He’d be happy by the day’s end, another successful client pitch to add to his growing roster. His car would be restored to its former glory and he’d have his adoring non boyfriend boyfriend to thank for getting him through his hell week.
Until Chauncey McAllister struck again.
All it was supposed to be was a ride to a bookstore on the way to Brian’s office. I should have followed that particular instinct and said no, but what could be the harm. I had to go in that direction anyway. Besides, I liked Chauncey, despite his bad hair and my jealousy over his accent. He was a pretty cool guy. I couldn’t very well tell him that it wouldn’t be possible. It would be more than possible. I would barely have to stop the car to let him out and continue on my way. Maybe part of me wanted to show him up, show him what my very American non boyfriend boyfriend was capable of, even if he didn’t have an accent, he had the car and he had roots and a legitimate first name.
I liked Chauncey, I was even attracted to Chauncey but I didn’t want to fuck Chauncey or be fucked by him if that makes any sense. I’d apparently failed to make that entirely clear by hanging on his every word ever since we’d met in class.
It was just a simple drive and drop. Unfortunately, Chauncey had other ideas.
He started talking about his ex-boyfriend, from North London and his Mini-Cooper. While cute and all, in my mind it just didn’t compare to the Corvette we were driving in. Then he started talking about that bum licking thing they used to do, again, and he selflessly offered to introduce me to the ways of the world if my boyfriend was unwilling to do so. “I could show you things you’d never dreamed of.” His voice was like little knives being sharpened against one another, or maybe a really bad violin player. You can imagine my surprise when he introduced his hand to my dick and well... what the fuck was I supposed to do? Who was he to assume anything about me? Who was he to pretend like he wasn’t sitting right there in my own non boyfriend boyfriend’s car?
I was so startled I slammed on the brakes. On the brakes that never had a squeal to start with because Brian was imagining things. I heard the tires peel and then a minor crashing sound and felt a bumping sensation when I hit the tail end of a parked SUV.
Needless to say Chauncey took his traveling hands and fake British accent, announced that he was just “taking a piss” out of me and got out and walked the rest of the way. The SUV was fine, I was fine, but the front of the Corvette was so not fine. The bumper bent in such a way that if I poked it, it might fall off entirely. Then there was the scratch that ran halfway across the front end and the busted headlight.
It was a damn sight uglier than any bitchy bottle redhead. Maybe not as ugly as my face would wind up when he got done using it to work out the dent in the bumper, but ugly.
Little did Chauncey know he’d managed to take a piss and several necessary nervous systems.
All my hard work down the drain. It was a nice life while it lasted. I’d loved and sort of been loved in return, pursued my dreams, lived the way I wanted to and not the way anyone else wanted for me. At the end of it all, it hadn’t been such a bad deal. It’s a shame that he wouldn’t at least remember me fondly, but that I’d curl his blood at the mere memory while he became someone’s prison bitch after being found guilty of manslaughter. Hopefully they’d find my body in one piece, so I’d always have my looks, even when I became just a skeleton, at least the structure would still be there.
I watch him pace back and forth in front of the hood a few times, inspecting the damage. He moves his hands from his hips, crosses his arms in deep consideration, drops his hands back to his hips, slips them in his pockets and turns to me.
“Was anyone hurt?”
Oh. Well that was... not what I was expecting.
“No, I hit a parked car when I slammed on the brakes by accident.”
“You will be paying to have this fixed, you know that right?” He loosens his tie and removes his suit jacket.
“Of course.” I guess now wouldn’t be the time to ask for the money back that I spent on the dry cleaning, would it? “Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“You hit a parked car. I heard you the first time. This is just the perfect end to the perfect day.” His long legs carry him haltingly to the driver’s side of the car and he searches his pockets fruitlessly for his keys, forgetting for a moment that they’re in my possession. He looks around, not at anything in particular but eventually finds me in his haze. I fish the keys from my pocket and toss them at him, careful to toss it away from the car and more towards his body, in case I cause even more damage.
I stand awkwardly, unsure of what to do with myself as he climbs in the car. I stopped making plans when I figured I’d be dead before the sun set. I’m not about to assume he wants me anywhere near him at the moment. He starts the car and when he makes no indication for me to join him I walk away. My feet trail pathetically on the ground and I listen as the sound of the car’s engine becomes a distant, faint note in my mind.
It’s just weird is what it is. I wouldn’t say he was mad, but he wasn’t happy with me either. It wasn’t exactly what I expected but somehow I’m disappointed. I should be thrilled that I can still walk and that my eardrums are still intact. But I’m not. Instead I’m upset and not at myself, which I should be, for being so careless. I’m upset with him, though I have no right to be. If he wants to sulk and leave me in a cloud of motor fueled dust after the mess I made, then he has every right. I know he’ll get over it, he’s gotten over worse from me. It doesn’t change the fact that deep down inside the selfish parts I feel like Chauncey McAllister is right, I am missing out on something and it has nothing to do with anyone licking my bum. I’m just not sure I know what it is.
****************
As far as I could tell I had two options at this point. Wait and let it all pass over, because we accomplish so much when we just ignore the problem, don’t we? Or I could go for broke and be better than I normally am. It’s only right that I be the one to apologize. He was just reacting. I keep telling myself that, even as I’m creeping around in the dark, feeling like a pathetic stalker and I stub my toe on one of the kitchen stools.
I’d like to say I know he’s here because I’m so in tune with him that my instincts just know where to lead me. But I don’t really trust my instincts, they seem to fail me more often than not. The truth is, I know he’s here because I called from down the block and hung up when he picked the phone up. Such a high school thing to do, I know. I freaked and couldn’t figure out a legitimate reason to be calling him from a payphone down the block, instead of just stopping by. I’d rather just take charge and not be a pussy, groveling on the phone. Maybe I mean to kill him when I give him a heart attack after I appear out of the shadows.
“I was wondering when you’d show up.”
Or maybe I’ll be the one who almost drops dead, for the third time today. It’s an odd sensation when your heart jumps in your chest, it doesn’t feel real. It feels like it’ll never beat normally again. With a few deep breaths, it falls right back into rhythm. That’s the thing about a heart, considering all that we put it through, it’s actually a pretty sturdy muscle. It doesn’t fall apart that easily, even at it’s weakest, unlike certain bumpers on certain cars that cost way more than they’re worth. Somehow it finds a way to keep ticking and correct itself.
“I wanted to apologize about the car.” I don’t know what possesses me but I feel my way around in the dark and find an empty spot next to him on the bed. I half sit and half lay with my jacket and shoes on. I can barely even make him out as anything more than a lump laying on the bed next to me. “I know you trusted me with it and I fucked it up.”
“Yeah, you did.” He sounds tired. I wish I could see his face right this very minute. I think I’d probably fall for him all over again.
“I was pretty careless. I was just sort of caught off guard by something that took me a little by surprise.” Things have a tendency to do that around me and I don’t realize until it’s too late that it was never something I really wanted to start with.
“And you slammed the brakes because of it?” His voice is muffled, faraway, even though he’s right here.
“I slammed the brakes on it.”
“Doesn’t matter, it can be fixed. I dropped it off.”
That’s it? Just like that, it’s all over? No more discussion? “Just give me the bill whenever you get it.” Because I’ll just snap my fingers and take care of it? I should really learn to shutup while I’m ahead.
“You won’t be driving it again.” Except that I am, I always am.
“I figured. Brian? Why are you laying in the dark on a Friday night? Couldn’t someone come pick you up?”
“I didn’t get the account,” he states, plainly, like he’s asking what the weather is like outside.
I close my eyes and slink down a little further into the bed, embarrassed at my own self-centered behavior. I should know better by now, know that not everything revolves around me. “I’m sorry. I know it meant a lot to you.”
“Everything.”
It’s just a slight pang of annoyance. Knowing that not everything revolves around you is one thing, accepting that is slightly different.
“I could tell you there’ll be other accounts or that she wasn’t worth all the bending over backwards and accommodating you did for her but I won’t.” How could I? After all the ways he’s bent himself for me. “I know that right now it just fucking sucks to feel like you failed. You didn’t though, you know. You gave it your best shot. She was probably just upset that you wouldn’t sleep with her. It has nothing to do with your talent.”
“Actually she respected that, and I believe her. I was just a fun diversion. She said the problem was that we didn’t have the capacity to handle a campaign that big.”
“Was she right?”
“Probably. We could have found a way, but she didn’t have time to waste going through our growing pains with us.”
“Her loss. There’s something to be said for having patience.” I pull the zipper partway down on my jacket and pull it over my head. I don’t want to risk pulling it off at the sleeves, because I know it would be just my luck to sock him in the eye in the pitch black, given how the rest of the day has gone so far.
“Well I waited patiently for you. It only took you 7 hours to come grovel for forgiveness,” he slaps my knee so halfheartedly I wonder if he’s on some kind of downer, from the smell of the pungent air, I’m thinking it was something a little more organic.
“I don’t grovel. I just happen to be a more fully evolved human being who can see the error of their ways and isn’t ashamed to admit it.” I slide down fully now so that I’m laying next to the lump, and kick my shoes off.
He laughs a really slight laugh that mellows into a wheezing sound. He breathes funny sometimes, especially when he’s really tired. I’m not sure when I noticed that. “I guess it’s up to you to get me out of this ‘burgh now.”
I feel an arm escape the lump and lean on top of my head, of all places. “By doing what? Carrying you on my back?”
“You’re young, you have more opportunities to make money and become so successful they’ll be beating down your door with offers. I’ll need a sugar daddy at some point, or I may as well just end it all now because it’s all downhill from here.”
Brian Kinney as a kept man, mine no less. The thought is absurd enough, that I very nearly pass out from the lack of oxygen to my brain after my hysterical fit.
“What ever happened to self pity making your dick soft?” I gasp out.
“Have you felt it lately? Like I said, it’s all downhill from here.”
“What do you think you’re missing out there that you can’t get here?” I contort my body so that it sort of fits next to the lump, things settle where they’re supposed to, naturally.
“Change.”
Not all about me, not all about me, not all about me. I remind myself again and again.
“Hate to point this out, but take a look around. It’s all around you, has been for a while.” I poke what I think might be his chest and just hope it’s not a particularly sensitive area.
I’m all around him. I realize I’m not the one whose really missing out on anything. He is. That bothers me, not for me, but for him.
He doesn’t say anything. He just breathes and squirms around a little, to get away from me, I’m assuming. He stops mid-squirm and changes course, navigating his body so that I can feel it’s full form against me, and not just a lump. One long, lean pillar, totally collapsed around me, on top of me, all over me. He pins my arms above my head. “I’ll kick your ass if you tell anyone that I spent Friday night laying in bed by myself,” he teases.
“I can change that.” I grin.
“Really? How do you plan on doing that?” I can make out the features on his face, if not the expression, even in the dark. I don’t need to see it, to know he’s grinning.
Here’s my moment, my chance. As I see it I have two options at this point, I can have my bum licking for once and for all or I can go for broke, I can give him the glory of a little death. That’s what the French call it, isn’t it?
I scowl fiendishly.
“Ever had your bum licked?”
The End
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Screengrab courtesy of Elliot
