Not a Blow Job

Well, as some of you may know, Torquere Press has a Social Live Journal, where authors sign up for a particular day in order to pimp a new release or their backlogue or whatever.

I recently spent a day there when “The One That Got Away” was about to be released. In the course of that day, I issued to calls for prompt-words to be used in off-the-cuff stories. The first prompt-call resulted in the following short (very short, only 2000 or so words) story. Unedited, and my apologies for that. LOL

It’s called “Not A Blowjob”. Enjoy.

***

Christ, he’s a whiney bitch, all puffed up in his finery and stuck out here in the ass-end of nowhere. Well, maybe it’s not the ass-end. Not literally. Still, we’ve got to be at least twenty miles from even a damned inconveniently located convenience store. Hah. If it was fucking convenient it’d be around the bend.

It’s not, of course, which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, though Ricky’s still carrying on. “It’s too hot,” he says, and Christ. If I were the kind of guy who’d hit someone without copious amounts of alcohol in me and unwelcome hands in places only Ricky and my proctologist are allowed that close to, he’d be stretched out on the fucking ground.

He’d also have one hand cupped to his cheek and be staring at me with big old tears welling up in his pretty green eyes, making me feel like the biggest sack of shit ever, though, so maybe it’s just as well. For a big guy, Ricky can come off like a delicate fucking flower, when he wants to. Like now.

“Jake,” and God, fucking save me from twenty-two year old spoiled brats; especially when they’re six foot two and two-hundred-twenty pounds of pure muscle. Christ. “Jake, it’s too hot for autumn! Why is it so hot?”

Like I know. Like I have some invisible mental connection to Mother-fucking-Nature and she tells me everything. Just because my actual Mother does that, doesn’t mean I have some kind of fucking insight. Hell, at least Mom uses the phone.

“Maybe because we’re in a fucking desert, Ricky. Ever think of that?” And okay. Maybe he’s right because I don’t usually get quite so growly. It could be the heat. It could also be that we’d be in my nice, cool air-conditioned car right now if Ricky hadn’t talked me into letting his ex replace the radiator when it went dicey a week or so ago.

I’m not saying the bastard sabotaged it or anything, but there’s no fucking way he doesn’t want Ricky back, no matter how many times Ricky insists they’re just really good friends these days. As much as Ricky pisses me off on a near daily basis, I’d fight tooth and nail to hold on to his fine-as-fuck ass. He’s actually pretty good company when he isn’t wilting under a desert sun at high noon.

Okay, let me set one thing straight. Ricky whines when he’s uncomfortable. And I exaggerate. A little. Maybe. It’s sort of my thing. There’s not technically enough sand for this to be a desert, and okay, trees. Stunted, almost dead trees, but I guess they count. And speaking of dead things…

“Oh, gross! What the hell is that?” Ricky’s pointing at what looks like a gray and brown and rusty-brick pancake but thank God he’s not looking closely enough to see the wriggling white. Strong body, weak stomach; that’s my guy in a nutshell.

I shrug and grab his arm and it doesn’t surprise me anymore that I can only close my fingers halfway around it. Two years and I guess I’m finally getting used to it. I sort of miss the surprise, though. Just a little. “Looks like somebody tossed a burrito out of their car to get squashed,” I tell him because if he’s asking, he didn’t see the feet. Last thing I need is to find myself holding a funeral for unidentified road kill. Again. Christ.

So we keep walking. And walking. I want to run onto the cracked old road and dance a fucking jig when I finally hear a car coming. Christ, it’s been… I look at my watch. Fifteen minutes? That’s it? Lord.

I make a mental note never to take Ricky anywhere that’s more than a mile away from main thoroughfares. He just isn’t cut out for it. No big surprise, what with his father owning the biggest chain of used car dealerships in the state. Ricky was the pampered prince from day one. Even when his folks figured out he was gay, it didn’t change that. Only child and all that, so it wasn’t like they had much of a choice. I’m about a hundred and eighty-six percent sure Mister Leighton thought the fruit of his looms would take up with someone a little higher on the food chain than a lowly salesman, but there it is.

Just hired out of college, BA in Medieval History clutched tight in my hand… it was sell cars or learn how to say “you want fries with that?” and sound like I cared. Like crispy potatoes would solve all the world’s ills.

It was a tough call, but the lack of a paper hat made the decision for me. And selling used cars might not be glamorous, but at least I don’t smell like burned textured-vegetable-protein-added patties and old fryer oil. So, yep. Just out of college, still a little too thin from saving money by missing meals, and Ricky’s Dad hired me. He told me later it was because I looked hungry, and I guess I did, what with all six feet of me standing there in my slightly-too-big suit and mildly scuffed dress shoes, giving him my best boyish grin.

I did well there, though. Still do. And not because I’m fucking the heir apparent, either. It’s because people like me, God knows why. Maybe it has something to do with wavy brown hair and hazel eyes and a tan I carefully keep up just not fitting the classic image of my profession. Don’t know; don’t care. I make enough to keep a roof over our heads and the bills paid, and most of the time I’m even happy. Just not when Ricky’s reminding me that he’s got a free ride from Daddy.

All of that runs through my mind during the ten seconds it takes the car to come around the bend and slow down. I see a guy inside and he’s looking—staring—at Ricky, and I guess I don’t blame him. Ricky’s definitely something to look at. Fuck if his hair isn’t even blonder in the sun.

So the guy stops, rolls down his window, and if Ricky says anything to fuck up a possible ride, I really will hit him. Then spend the next month or two making it up to him, I’m sure. Christ, he’s still making me pay for accidentally bleaching Butch’s sweater. It’s not like the dog cares, but Ricky? Oh, you’d think I’d bleached the dog himself, from the way he goes on about it. Butch doesn’t even like the damned thing, near as I can tell, but he’s a well mannered little animal. Cute as a button, though I’d never say so out loud. The froofy little beast was a gift from Ricky’s grandmother when Ricky turned sixteen and I dare anyone to tell him that Butch is anything but… well. Butch. Won’t ever catch me walking the thing in public, even if he is a sweetheart. The dog. Well, Ricky is, too, but him I’ll be seen with.

Lucky for Ricky’s face—and my fist because he’s got a jaw like a rock, or so I’ve been told—he’s so relieved to see signs of life, much less signs of life that have stopped to acknowledge our existence, Ricky just smiles and leans close to the open window. His shirt is unbuttoned now, showing off golden skin, toned muscle and little copper-colored nipples that draw up into tight little peaks. The driver must have air conditioning pouring out of that window. Or else Ricky’s thinking about blowing me. Either way, it’s a damned fine sight. Fine enough that I move closer, one hand on Ricky’s shoulder. It’s a signal that Ricky’s mine, especially when my buff honey turns and gives me a heated grin. Hell, Ricky would let me fuck him over the hood of the stranger’s car if I wanted to. I’ve always liked that about him, from the very beginning.

Third day working for Ricky’s father and Ricky just walked up to me, looked me over… and when I looked back at him with just as much interest, he’d let me know, in no uncertain terms, that there was a van behind the main building that wasn’t likely to be used during my lunch break. The rest is history.

“… as far as Buena Vista,” the guy in the car is saying, and Ricky’s grinning even more, but that’s fine. We’ll miss the damned stupid parade in Puerto Diablo, but them’s the breaks. I can live without seeing the Halloween floats for a change. And we still might make it. Mister Leighton has a dealership there; we can probably arrange for a loaner car until mine’s towed and fixed. For free, and by the same former fuck who screwed it up in the first place.

So we get into the guy’s car and he starts to drive and we find out that he’s from Long Beach, on his way to pick up his kid from his ex. He’s thirty-three and blah-blah-blah. Ricky looks like he’s hanging on every word, but I know my guy. He’s really trying to get as close to the air conditioning vents as he possibly can. Ricky likes the great outdoors, but only when he’s planned on it. Hell, his version of camping is the next thing to a four star hotel, he takes so much random crap designed for his—our—comfort along.

We finally make it to Buena Vista and say goodbye to our new buddy and it only takes a few hours to arrange the car shit. Ricky’s thrilled to be on the road again, which makes the drive to Puerto Diablo more joy than pain, right up until we’re maybe halfway there.

He has his hand on my thigh, fingers stroking up and down, and he’s got that look in his eyes. That look that says he’s thinking about having my cock in his mouth, my balls in his hand. Ricky’s a lot of things, and to be honest? Born cock-sucker is way up there on the list. Mouth like a fucking Hoover. Hell, he could probably suck-start a Buick, if he tried.

I’m not a Buick and fuck knows he’s got my engine going. And still, he’s just rubbing my leg, the fucking tease.

“Well?” Yeah, I sound demanding. So what? Anyone would with Ricky beside them, touching and looking and just being… Ricky. “Stop fucking around and blow me, man.” I even pull off the road and slip the car into park under a big tree with overhanging branches, just in case Ricky’s feeling shy. Okay, because I don’t feel like getting arrested or wrecking the car, but whatever.

Ricky meets my expectant stare with  a grin that annoys me even before he opens his mouth. “No,” he says. Just no. What the fuck?

“Ricky…” I growl it but he just smirks at me and takes his hand away.

“Perhaps if you asked me nicely you’d get a different answer,” he tells me, clearly digging himself a hole he won’t be getting out of any time soon. “Maybe later. After the parade. If I’m in the mood. Doctor Parsons says I need to take a stand sometimes.” And that fucking bastard. Sure, the Doc’s been helping Ricky with a few issues, but now he’s fucking with my sex life and that’s just not right.

Another mental note, this time to talk to Ricky’s Dad about finding my honey a new shrink, and I sigh. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” He nods. Fuck. “Fine. I’ll settle for later. During the parade. You’ll be able to watch through the bars on the balcony.” Because we always get the same room at the Puerto Diablo Inn. It’s become tradition for us. I drag him close and kiss him hard, tongue pushing deep into his mouth. Hah. Let him deal with that! Then I shift into drive and guide the car—carefully—over grass-speckled dirt that feels much more uneven than it did when I pulled off the pavement. I must have been distracted. Yeah. Distracted.

He thinks about it, or at least it looks like he’s thinking. Finally, once we’re back on the road and maybe a mile from the tree I’d had such high hopes for, he nods. “Compromise is good. Doctor Parsons says…”

I sort of tune him out then, though I file what he’s saying away for later because yeah. Compromise is good, but it’s nowhere near as good as a blowjob.

~End.

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