Shooting Matt Ch. 10

I take a shower, as cold as I can stand it. My hardon fades but the ache in my balls doesn't go away completely. The Salvation Army is on time. They should go into the cable installation business. They inspect the furniture in the car port, then load it up. I head back inside and eat my cereal standing by the sink. I grab a pad of paper, a pencil, and a tape. I measure the rooms.

The dude who watched Matt suck me off shows me the flooring options. I was able to match a piece I had in the storage shed. I try to be sympathetic but in the end I had to be a bit of dick to convince him I wasn't there for anything other than flooring.

I keep my mind rigidly focused. Measure. Lay. Cut. Lay. I don't stop for lunch. By mid-afternoon I'm done, at least as far as laying the floor is concerned. I make a sandwich and grab a beer. I'm dripping sweat. That's going to be a problem when I stain the floor. I go outside and pull the old lounge chair around in front of the Ford. I've a strong enough memory of the way the nylon straps on the chair feel on the backs of my legs that I've brought a towel. I drape it over the back of the chair and seat. I decide the truck gives me enough protection. I step out of the raggedy shorts I've been working in and toss them on the hood. I put my hands on the hood and assume the hands-on-the-car position. I let my head hang between my outstretched arms. There's not much breeze but what there is feels like heaven.

By the time the sweat has stopped dripping from my nose, my beer bottle sits in a shallow pool of condensation. I drain half of it in one long gulp. I sit down on the chair and stretch my legs out. I let my head fall back over the top of the chair. The chair is in the shade. I lean, nearly tipping the chair over in the process, and grope for my sandwich. It's gone in three bites. I finish the beer, toss the bottle in the recycle bin and go inside. My shorts stay on the hood of the truck. It's only a dozen steps to the kitchen door; I'm not worried about being spotted bare-assed.

I hold my head under the kitchen sink and use a dish towel to dry my hair, not wanting to bother with a shower. I pull on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. I decide Lowe's is off limits, at least for the time being. I hate Home Depot or to be more accurate the founder of Home Depot. He's a right-wing asshole fuck. But, as grandma was fond of pointing out, beggars can't be choosers. I rent a floor sander and buy the stain. I don't want to have to come back again tomorrow.

Back home, I move my mattress to the kitchen. As I drop it I eye the old linoleum floor and shake my head, not this week, the kitchen floor will have to wait. I move Liam's furniture to the carport. I tape plastic over the kitchen and bathroom doors to keep the dust out. It's nearly supper time before I'm ready to start on the floors. I consider waiting until the morning, I'm ahead of schedule, but can't imagine what I'll do with the rest of the evening. I strip, except for dust mask and goggles. I'll be covered in dust, why wear clothes?

I put a pad on the sander and get started. The to and fro movement is relaxing. The work isn't hard; the sander does the work. All I do is squeeze the handle and direct it's path. I start in the living room. The drapes are open. I get half a boner imagining people walking down the sidewalk, looking up and seeing a naked man, me, running a sander. I finish the living room and check the pad. It'll do for the hallway.

The bedrooms take the longest. I need to sand off the old stain. They aren't big rooms but by the time I've finished it's dark outside. I grab a hand sander and finish off the corners the large sander couldn't reach. My stomach has been growling for hours. I ignore it.

In the shower, beige water swirls around my feet. My body looks curiously streaked as the water washes the dust off my skin. The beige turns darker when I duck my head under the water. I intend to sit outside to dry off but I don't want to get the raw wood wet. I towel off and head into the kitchen. I flip the carport light on. It's instantly swarmed by bugs and mosquitoes. Forget sitting outside.

I eat a bowl of cereal, standing by the sink. I've kept my mind off Leon all day but standing there, washing my bowl and spoon, he overwhelms me. I click the light over the sink off and fall onto the mattress wedge between the table, sink and stove.

I've never done that before," Leon whispered against my chest.

"Really? No way!" I teased him.

"I meant nothing like that. Not even, mast..., you know. It's a sin."

"No way, bud. You've never jerked off before?" He shook his head against my chest. "Well, technically speaking, I suppose you still haven't. I jerked you off and I sucked your dick." I squeezed his shoulders with one arm. "So, you're clear, sin-wise that is."

"It's not funny," he whispered.

"No, true dat. It's not funny." I reached up and brushed my fingers through his blonde hair. It felt totally natural. "Who do you think the hobo was?"

"Just some old guy." He sounded uncertain. "Maybe he works at the grain elevator."

"Maybe. Did you hear him walking up to you? The roadbed is covered in gravel isn't it? Pretty noisy."

"I might have fallen asleep."

"Yeah, but did you hear him walk away?"

"No."

"And your back and neck stopped hurting? Weird."

"That could have just been because I got up and moved around, stretched a little, you know."

"Sure, but you felt better before you got up. Right?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"And there's nothing on your back, bud. Not a single scratch."

Leon sits up. He looked pissed, which surprised me.

"Are you saying I was lying? That I made all that shit up?"

It was the first time I'd heard Leon say a 'dirty' word. I'd only seen his quiet side. I caught a glimpse of the anger that lies beneath the surface. I shook my head.

"No, Leon. I'm not saying you made it up. I believe every word. Jesus, you're Mr. Religious. Why are you being so dense?"

"What are you babbling about?"

"Did you imagine a guardian angel would show up heralded by a blast of trumpets, a spotlight and glowing wings? That he'd look like Michael Landon? Don't be a stup."

He stared at me. The anger faded from his face. "You don't really believe that?"

I shrugged. "I told you. I'm an atheist. But if I believed in all that stuff," I shrugged again. "A lot of coincidences. Stranger shows up, relieves your pain, happens to have coffee just like you drink it and your favorite sandwich? And the trains. That's the big one for me. Those damn trains run constantly. I'm convinced they time the fuckers to give you enough time to fall back asleep before the next one rolls through. I wasn't trying to sleep, so maybe I just didn't notice, but I don't remember hearing a single train Saturday night."

He rested his cheek back on my chest without saying a word.

My fingers returned to his hair. I was in a bad way here. I was worried about Leon. I didn't want him to think I'm not. But I was horny as fuck. My cock didn't even take a breather while I was talking about angels. I was desperate to jerk off, either right there or in the shower. The shower might have been better; that would be less likely to upset Leon. On the other hand, maybe I was being a total pussy. I just sucked his dick. Why would he get pissed if I jerk off? I wasn't asking him to suck my cock. It would have been nice but that would have been pushing my luck.

Speaking of 'other hand', Leon was lying on my right side. I'm a right-handed jerker. Fuck it. Today was a day for breaking out of ruts.

I reached for my cock with my left hand. I rubbed it over the wet head. I didn't start jerking immediately. I rubbed my fingertips over the shaft, pushed the shaft so that my cock stood straight up from my belly, tugged at my balls. I couldn't see Leon's face, for all I know he had his eyes closed. I pushed my cock up straight again, then pulled my hand away and let it slap against my belly. I did this several times before wiping up the puddle of precum on my belly and rubbing it around the head of my cock.

Leon let his hand rest on my leg.

I set aside the idea of grabbing my cock. I rubbed one fingertip up and down the shaft. I started at the 'V' of my crown and continued downward, pushing my fingertip into my ball sack. I pinched the head of my cock, smearing precum over the head. It drove me crazy but I circled the crown with one fingertip. Leon's hand remained on my thigh. I wanted more but I could live with just his touch for now.

His hand moved and I held my breath. He put his hand on my belly, between my belly and my cock. He didn't touch my cock. His fingers swept through the soft, and scant, hair on my belly. His head remained on my chest. He moved his hand upward. The back of his hand brushed the head of my cock, whether deliberate or not, it caused my cock to stiffen. A large drop of dew appeared at my slit. His fingers brushed the slightly thicker thicket of hair in the center of my chest.

I pressed my leg against his, signaling my enjoyment of his touch, or so I hope.

Leon's cheek rested atop my right nipple. I waited, wondering if he'd play with my left nipple. A day or two before, it would never have occurred to me that it would be fun to have my nipple played with. College was proving to be a wondrous place of learning.

I was wondering if it was time to turn my attention back to my cock when his hand began to move once again. He trailed his fingernails down my belly. The muscles fluttered at his touch. The hand paused as it neared my cock. The fingers, all except the index finger, curled into a fist. The index finger, shaking slightly, touched the drop of dew clinging to the head of my cock. I nearly came. My breath hitched and caught. My abs tightened. My cock stood taller, pulling away from the finger. Thank God the finger followed.

I nearly came again when his hand wrapped around my cock. His touch was light, almost non-existent, as if he feared he might hurt me. I wanted to tell him to just pound my cock but I restrained myself. His touch was light because he was nervous and afraid. I contented myself with rubbing his back with one hand. His grip tightened.

"That feels so intense, bud," I whispered, as his hand began to move.

His grip was so light that his hand slid easily down my shaft. He moved it back up, still barely touching me. I started to tell him to jerk me off like he does himself, then I remembered. He said he'd never jerked off before.

"You can squeeze harder, Leon. It's okay. You won't hurt me."

He pulled his hand away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know how to do this. I'm sorry."

I entangled my fingers in his hair and pulled his head back. I didn't pull his hair; I'm not saying that. I simply urged his head back, so I could see his face. He looked miserable.

"There's nothing to be sorry about. Understand?" He nodded. "Is it this whole deal that's bothering you? I can go in the bathroom. Or are you worried you'll hurt me, or you'll look silly or something?"

"I want to touch you," he groaned. "I know it's wrong but I still want to."

"Fine," I told him and scooted toward the edge of the bed. "Move up here, sit by me." He did as I asked. I could see his dick was getting hard again. I moved my right arm from between our bodies. "Watch. It's not that complicated." I grabbed my cock with my right hand. "You do the same." He hesitated. "Bud, it's okay. Try it."

There was something sweet and erotic about watching his trembling hand reach for his dick. "Excellent. Now squeeze it. Like this." I squeezed my cock, hard, the head swelled, growing a dark red and more precum leaked from my slit. "See, this is way harder than I need to squeeze to jerk off and it doesn't hurt."

I relaxed and watched his hand. I saw his fingers tighten, saw the head of his dick swell.

"Nice, man. Fucking hot," I told him. "You can stroke your cock, just like this." I started to jerk my hand up and down the shaft. "That's all you need to do. Now you know why they call it 'jerking off'." I stroked my cock a few more times. "You try it."

His cock was only half hard. As he stroked, it swung back and forth above his fist.

"Oh yeah, that's right," I whispered. "You can get yourself off just doing that, but," I paused and rubbed my hand over the top of my cock, "it's the head of your dick that's the most sensitive. Sliding your hand over the ridge around the head of your dick is super intense."

I demonstrated as I spoke. I jerked my fist over the crown of my cock, shorter, quicker strokes.

"You can use both hands." First my right, then my left fist glided over my cock, the one replacing the other, as fast as I can move them. "You can turn your hand over." I went back to using my right hand but with the thumb down, the back of my hand toward my head. "Or you can make a tunnel out of your hands and fuck them."

I wrapped both hands around my cock, pulled my feet up for leverage, one leg resting atop Leon's, and begin to fuck my fists. I intended to cum. I needed to cum. I was no longer watching Leon. The touch of his hand on my cock was unexpected. I let my hips rest back onto the mattress. His finger tip touched my slit. He rubbed his thumb and finger together. I let my hands fall away.

He rolled toward me. I raised my arm, giving him room, letting it rest behind him. His hand closed around my cock. As he started jerking me off, I couldn't help but groan a little bit. He rubbed his hand over the top of my cock a few times, then resumed stroking.

I rested my head on his shoulder. "Fuck, man, that's fucking awesome," I moaned.

His body shifted. I swallowed a moment of panic, wondering if I said something wrong, frightened him in some way. I fell back on to the bed as his lips, hesitantly, touched my cock. My fingers tightened on his shoulder. I hissed, "yes," between clenched teeth.

His mouth followed his hand as it slid down my cock. He didn't try to take my entire cock in his mouth. He stopped when his lips passed the ridge of my crown. At first his mouth didn't move. He held the head of my cock in his mouth as his hand pumped the shaft. Then, in a moment that would be etched in my memory had it ever actually occurred, he started to move his mouth up and down on the head of my cock.

"Man, that's going to make me cum. Stop, bud or move."

He did neither, nor did he move as I began to shudder and squirm and pant and fill his mouth.

My orgasm was as ferocious as the desire my quiet roommate had stirred. He couldn't swallow it all. I felt it run down my cock. My balls, beginning to relax, crawled back toward my belly at the wet touch of his spit and my cum. He stroked me, soft and slow. Other guys know how sensitive a dick is after it cums.

He laid his head on my belly. His hand held my cock. He watched it soften, leaking over his fingers, as my breathing returned to something approaching normal.

"Fuck, that was unbelievable," I panted. I rubbed the back of his neck. "Come up here. Okay?"

I rolled onto my side as he pushed himself up in the bed. His face was serious, quiet.

"You okay, Leon?"

He smiled and nodded.

I kissed him. He kissed me. I think we fell asleep kissing, if such a thing is possible.

I bolt upright. I'm confused at first, not sure where I am. It takes a moment to understand why I'm sleeping in my kitchen. I look down. My chest and belly are covered in cum. When I touch a finger to one of the thick streams running down my chest it's still warm. I can't recall the last time I came this much. I pull one end of the fitted sheet loose and wipe at my body. I'm in a hurry but not so much so that I forget I've spent hours sanding the floors. I'm not sure how well stain works when applied over dried cum. I dry myself off and hurry to the bathroom. I need to shower. I need to check something.

****

At first all I can do is look around. I nearly forget why I'm here. I feel like it's my first time, so completely have I forgotten how much I used to love places like this. At one time in my life, nowhere felt as much like home as the library, not this one of course, but one very much like it.

The library was my daycare. If mom had a late shift, I went to the library to wait for her. Magazines. Books. Amazing. How have I forgotten how much I love being surrounded by books? I went to college to learn to write them. I'm not sure I've been to one since graduation. Surely I took Liam to story hour? No? I was an English major. I try to think. What was the last book I read? I can't think of one. I read the comics in the paper but not much else.

"Ms. Rodebush," I whisper to myself. She was the librarian, or the only one I remember anyway. She couldn't help but recognize me. I spent several hours there at least twice a week. The branch nearest our house wasn't very big. At first I read what you might expect a ten-year-old boy to read - Old Yeller, Johnny Tremain, Across Five Aprils, My Side of the Mountain and books about war, Civil War, World War II. One day she asked me if I like books about war. I said yes or sorta or shrugged, I don't really remember. She handed me a book. Maybe everyone has a moment they can point to, or maybe many moments they can point to, that changed everything. I doubt I'm unique in that regard. That book was the first such moment in my life.

I looked at the cover. I wasn't impressed, at least about its potential as a war story. True, the drawn lady had naked boobs. Even at that age I found myself looking at the topless man's muscles. It looked more like a Greek myth than a war story. I looked at Ms. Rodebush with questioning eyes.

"I wouldn't recommend this to most kids your age but I think you can handle it. And," she continued with a smile. "I think you'll like it, if you give it a try."

I almost didn't. It wasn't that it was hard to read. The sentences were well mannered. Only four commas lurked in the first paragraph. They, and their more uppity cousin, the semi-colon, were to remain rare. Having been recommended by an adult, I had expected sentences that wound their way down the page like mountain switch-backs. Sentences that must be read at least twice in order to be sure what, exactly, was being said. It was not that the sentences were all that difficult. To be honest, at first, I thought they were pretty dull. There were soldiers and artillery and talk of battles in the mountains but the narrator didn't seem to be in the thick of things. When he did get into action - what the hell - he wasn't even a soldier. He drove an ambulance.

I stuck with it. Mostly because an adult had suggested it might be too much for me. I'd show her. Then the hospital, the firing squad, implied sex. When I got to the end I nearly dropped the book. I went back a few pages and re-read it. This couldn't be right. They fucking died! I wonder now if that's the first time I used the word 'fuck'.

"After I while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain."

THE END

Seriously, what the fuck did Hemingway think he was doing? I couldn't sleep. It was Saturday. I didn't have school. Mom would blow a gasket but I'd tell her I didn't feel good and talk her into letting me skip Mass. I flipped back to the first page: