“I’d like that,” he said. Then he smiled and I felt my stomach tighten.
I was glad it was busy. Alexander made his first sale, and I admired the elegance of the way he bagged the shirts, the little flourish as he handed it over as though it were a prize of great price and not just a couple Arrow shirts. The late afternoon traffic stayed pretty brisk and it was coming up on dinner when the Nerd told me he would keep Alexander and show him how to close out, since he came in late and I had opened up. “OK,” I said, though I wouldn’t have minded staying.
The Nerd said he would be writing a new work schedule to accommodate Alexander’s arrival and I said goodnight to the Nerd and told Alexander that I looked forward to working with him.
He extended his hand and I noticed for the first time how slender and graceful his fingers were. I did not clasp his palm in the death grip I usually use. His touch was firm and his flesh supple and warm. I walked out into the still-bright sun and found the car.
The vinyl seats were hotter than shit, and I roared home with the windows down, wishing the little car has air conditioning. I took a swim and found a place in the field out in back of the house to go drink a couple semi-cold Pabst Blue Ribbons. I was daydreaming out there as the shadows grew longer and night fell.
I was day-dreaming about Alexander’s fingers. I wondered if it were true, about the proportional relationship between fingers and cock. And if all the Caucasian blood had any effect on how big it was.
Shoot, I thought. I wonder if I am a fucking homo?
When I lay in my bed later, I got rock hard and images of him flashed through my mind as I grunted and rubbed my throbbing dick. When I came, I thought of him shooting all over me. When I licked it up, I imagined it was his.
Shoot, I am a fucking homo, I thought.
Now what the fuck do I do about that?