Beauty And The Bookworm (3 page)

“What’s his name?” The arch of Twyla’s painted-on eyebrow told me she was getting suspicious.

“Uh… Pierce?”

“You’re lying.”

As I said, I’m a terrible liar, but, for future reference, I asked anyway. “How could you tell?”

“First, only liars give that many details. Pink no-no? Come on. Plus the name Pierce – you definitely pulled that from one of your romance novels.”

Now I was truly offended. “I don’t read romance novels,” I hissed, “I read gay fiction.”

Twyla gave an eye roll that would have made a Russian gymnast proud. “Whatever. So you stayed in all weekend?
Again?
”

“No. I really did go out to the park. I really did see a guy with a hunter-green jockstrap and a pink no-no, but that’s all.”

“Some random dude showed you his butthole?”

“Not exactly.” I explained the whole humiliating experience including my tongue erection and near suicide. I could tell from Twyla’s face that she believed every sad word.

We sat chewing our food in silence. I was wishing for a book and Twyla was obviously calculating. She calculates a lot. She looked like a super-villain hatching a plan for world domination. All she needed to complete the picture was a pussy to stroke (yes, I did that on purpose.) I grew increasingly uncomfortable as I watched the wheels and cogs of her brain spinning and clicking behind her eyes. When she finally spoke, her words were about as surprising as a televangelist getting caught with a teenaged rent boy. “We’re going out.”

I was all innocence. “Going out?”

“Cut it out. We’re going out tonight. Meet me at Rumors – seven o’clock.” She stood up, chucked the remains of her lunch in the trash and exited the lounge, pausing in the doorway to say, “Don’t even think about not coming. I’m going to call your grandmother and tell her to dress you and make sure you show up.”

Gran did attempt to dress me that night. She always had lots of fashion tips when I was getting ready to go out, all involving leather. Have you ever seen a librarian in leather? Didn’t think so.

“I’m not saying you have to wear the chaps, Mason, but at least wear the jacket.”

I looked at Gran, trying to signal to her with my eyes that I was perfectly capable of tampering with the brakes on her bike. “I’m not wearing a leather jacket. It’s too hot.”

“But you will wear that damned cardigan that makes you look like a total bottom.”

“Maybe I am a total bottom.”

That got her. Gran, being the bull that she is, refuses to accept the fact that I might ever bottom for anybody. She makes fun of me constantly, but if she really believed I
ever
bent over for a good round of having my rump pumped, she would drop dead of a coronary immediately. She laughed like what I’d said was too ridiculous to contemplate. “My grandson a bottom? That’ll be the day.”

“Whatever, Gran. I’m going to wear the cardigan. Just be glad I’m going with the sky-blue one. I’m sure I have a pink one around here somewhere.”

She crushed her beer can in her fist and then covered her mouth to belch. What a lady. “You used to have a pink cardigan.”

“What?”

“I cut that shit up for grease-rags.”

I couldn’t believe it, well, yes I could, but it pissed me off anyway. “Hey, that’s not cool at all, Gran. I don’t destroy your personal property.”

“Don’t whine like a bitch, Mason. I probably saved you from a hate crime.”

I shook my head. “Oh, well thank you very much for saving me, but you’d better watch your back and count through your ten thousand studded leather wristbands, because I think a few of them might be coming up missing.”

“Touch my leathers and we’ll see how well one of those wristbands fits around your skinny neck.”

The doorbell rang and I made my exit shaking my head as I heard Gran saying, “Have a nice time, dear.” Is it possible to be forced into schizophrenia? I think it is, folks.

Chapter 3

Glen
Briefly Reenters My Life And My Butt

So, I know you think I’m going to say I hate bars, but I really don’t, bars are fine. They’re fine for standing awkwardly in the corner while watching pretty boys meet other pretty boys. They’re fine for getting down on yourself when you realize you’re going home alone. They’re especially fine for saying, “Fuck it,” and getting hopelessly, shamelessly drunk because you just don’t care anymore. Yeah, bars are fine.

Rumors is the one bar in Portland that actually is fine. It’s not cliquish. It’s not too loud. It’s got an English pub vibe that I like (at least I think so, I’ve never actually been to an English pub, or England, for that matter.) You can hear yourself talk in Rumors and I’m pretty sure bathroom blowjobs are a rare occurrence. You know, a high-class joint. Not that I really have anything against bathroom blowjobs, but if I don’t get one, you don’t either.

I walked into the bar about 15 minutes late. I looked everywhere for Twyla and quickly realized the bitch was not even there. I remembered an article about silicone leakage I wanted her to read and walked up to the bar and ordered a stiff one – drink I mean. I downed it in one gulp and ordered another. The shirtless bartender
(why?) bounced his pecs and slid drink number two at me. I could already feel a glow starting in my middle so I decided to sip through my second glass of lowered inhibitions and, as it would turn out, expectations.

I made my way to my favorite shadowy corner to wait for Twyla. I had a perfect view of the front door so I couldn’t miss her when she finally decided to make her
appearance. She came in after about fifteen minutes. She’d obviously had a long talk with Gran because she was wearing a leather miniskirt-bustier combo that made me think of early Madonna. She looked hot and I wondered why she’d bothered (Girls, why do you dress extra-slutty for gay bars? You’re not going to change anyone’s mind. We’ve all decided on door number two.)

I waved to Twyla and we met at a booth and took a seat. I decided to start the evening with hostility. “Thanks for making me stand over there trying to blend into the paneling for an hour.”

“An hour? Really? Sorry, but I had to put baby powder
everywhere
to get into this getup. Do you like it?”

“Yeah. You look sexy.”

She cooed. “Oh, thanks, Mason. You look… cute. Is that a new cardigan?”

“No.”

“Well… it’s cute. But I was kind of hoping Gran would get you into something a little sexier.”

“Cardigans can be very sexy
.”

“Really? Go into the bathroom, stare into the mirror, then come back out here and tell me if you’d fuck yourself.”

I pulled off the cardigan, leaving myself in a tight T-shirt. “Better?”

“Much better. I love your little muscles, they’re so cute.”

I put the cardigan back on.

“Okay,” I said, “we’re here. What’s next?

“Come on, stud. I don’t need to tell you what to do. Just pick a guy and work your magic.”

“If you want me to try and pick someone up why did you come? Aren’t you going to feel left out if I take off with some random guy?”

“I’m only here to facilitate. Gay guys love to see men with a sexy girl on their arm.”

“They do?”

Twyla gave me a look that said
Where have you been?
“Of course. I’m just a prop. Now get started.”

I got started by finishing my drink and then two more for good measure. I was officially drunk and starting to think Twyla had the right idea. I desperately needed to get laid and I knew deep down in my pickled soul that I could have any guy in the bar I wanted. I was one sexy, cardigan-clad
HoMoFo. I was just barely capable of forming a coherent sentence and totally incapable of walking in a straight line, but I was ready for romance. Unfortunately, the romance was going to have to come to me because I was no longer in any shape to go to it.

I was half listening to Twyla talk about her latest boyfriend, Mario, who apparently was crap in the sack. My head was beginning a slow descent toward the table so I raised it to point out the obvious. “You’re only dating him because his name is Mario. You could do way better.”

“I know, right?”

I made a sound that was a laugh/belch/hiccup combo because Twyla, who was keeping up with me in the intoxication department, talks like a teenager when she drinks. I tried to look deep into her eyes, but couldn’t find them, so I settled on her breasts and said, with the sincerity only the drunk can muster, “I love you, Twyla, you’re my best friend.”

“I love you, Mason… oh… Fuck me!”

I was flattered. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but our deal is to just be friends. I hope you’re okay with that. It’ll have to be enough.”

“No, you idiot. Glen’s here. He’s coming over!”

I turned just in time for the arrival of Glen’s bulge. It was at eye-level since I was sitting down and I remembered it well. Did I mention Glen has a donkey dick? Well, he does. Glen’s is the only ten-incher that will appear in this story, folks, so appreciate it while it lasts.

“Mason! God, it’s so good to see you, babe.”

I tried to swim up from the haze
of liquor I was drowning in and finally managed a little bit of eloquence. “Hey.”

Twyla is a mean drunk. “We’re drinking, Glen. Fuck off.”

Glen squeezed in next to me. He smelled like a distillery (I think I was smelling myself, but I don’t want you to like Glen.) He gave Twyla a used car salesman smile (he really is a used car salesman) and said, “Nice to see you, too, Twyla.”

Twyla decided to ignore him. “I’ve got to powder my nose. Will you come with me, Mason?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to go into the girl’s room.”

Twyla stood up like a zombie rising from the grave, tottering dangerously on her stilettoes. “There is no girl’s room here, just come on.”

“Okay.” I tried my best to climb over Glen, but ended up sitting on his lap. I felt Glen’s totally undeserved blessings pressed against my backside and, in a case of what can only be attributed to muscle-memory, I gave him a thirty-second lap dance.

Twyla was not too drunk to notice I’d turned into a down on his luck teenage runaway
. “Mason, come on!”

I gave a final grind and reluctantly climbed down from the Everest of dongs. “I’m coming.”

We made our way to the bathroom, which Twyla cleared out by announcing  that she was not a drag queen and was about to pull down her panties. I tried to leave, too, but she stopped me by grabbing me by the collar and pulling me up to my tiptoes so that we were nose to nose.

“Listen up, you drunk
en fool,” she seethed, “if you end up leaving here with Glen, I will cut your dick off.”

“Easy, Lorena
Bobbit! I was just saying hi to the guy!”

“Well, then you were talking out your ass as usual,”
then her tone turned dangerously sweet, “Now, I’m going to reapply and when I get back Glen is going to be gone. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes,” I said as she finally let go of me.

I felt a little ruffled as I tottered my way back to the booth. Glen was waiting, all smiles. I sat down opposite him and squared my shoulders, preparing to give him the brush-off. I opened my mouth, but Glen was quicker.

“I’ve really missed you, Mason.”

I think that’s the second I entered the blackout stage of my inebriation… okay, okay, I didn’t black out. For the rest of this chapter, though, can we just pretend I was in a blackout? Give me a little dignity. The whole point of getting falling down drunk is being able to do something really stupid and then say, “I must have blacked out. I don’t remember any of that, Judge, I really don’t.”

“I missed you,” I slurred, “I think about you all the time.”

“You wanna get out of here?”

Somewhere, deep in my brain, I knew I was about to make a mistake. Glen must have read
the hesitation on my face, because he kicked off his shoe and started massaging my cock with his foot. I was done for.

Twyla appeared, hands on hips and looking ready to kill. “I’ve called us a cab, Mason, let’s go.”

Glen smiled up at her. “I’ll give you guys a ride. It’s no problem.”

“We don’t need a ride.”

I thought of Glen’s giant dick and stated the obvious, “I need a ride.”

Twyla spun on her heels and walked away.

I wasn’t stupid enough, or drunk enough, to take Glen back to Gran’s. We went to his place. We were both naked by the time his front door closed.
Glen’s cock was pointed straight at me and, even though I’d seen it plenty of times before, I was taken aback by what a whopper it was. I reached out and grabbed it, running my hand up and down its length. It was hot and hard and I was a happy homo.

He led me to the bedroom and pushed me down to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
Glen had a wicked grin on his face as he dropped to his knees and took my dick in his hand. He gave it a few pumps before he began licking slowly up and down the shaft.

I lay back and let
Glen do the work. It had been way too long since I’d felt that good. I let out a moan as he took me fully into his mouth, puffing out his cheeks and spinning his long tongue around my length. Then he started sucking, bobbing his head up and down like a piston. He sucked me like that until I was at the very edge, then he pulled off and said the magic words, “Roll over.”

I did as ordered,
turning over onto my stomach. Glen pulled me up to my hands and knees. I braced myself because, well, ten inches is
ten inches
, but I didn’t get the ten inches. I got tongue instead.

Glen used his tongue on my ass, licking, probing, generally making me feel like I’d died and gone to the great bathhouse in the sky. He reached around to pump at my cock. I had my face buried in the mattress and I was fighting the need to come with all I had.

He came up for air and said, “You’ve got the best ass on the planet, Mason. Need to fuck it.”

“Do it,” I panted, “fuck
me.”

Glen did the lube and rubber thing in under thirty seconds and then pushed himself about halfway into me. I
was breathing through clenched teeth and trying to handle it. He didn’t move his hips. He just rubbed my lower back until I was completely relaxed and then began thrusting with slow, steady strokes.

I met his thrusts, pushing my ass back against his hips, but stopped when he picked up the tempo and really started pounding me. I was biting my forearm to keep from yelling, wishing it would go on forever and knowing it wouldn’t last long.

I could tell Glen was close because I could feel his whole body start to shake, so I stroked myself quickly and we came together (that had never happened before.) We both collapsed onto the bed. Glen rolled off of me and we fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed.

The next morning, Glen shook me awake. “Hey, you’ve gotta go.”

My head was pounding, of course, and I wanted to go back to sleep or die, I didn’t care which. “Just let me sleep for a bit, Glen.”

“Don’t you have work?”

“I’m calling in sick,” I answered, closing my eyes.

Glen shook me harder. “Look, it’s almost 7:30, you’ve got to go.”

Oh. I get it.
My eyes popped open and I struggled to sit up and shimmy to the edge of the bed. I didn’t look at Glen. “Are you expecting somebody?”

“Shit… my boyfriend works nights. He’ll be back any minute.”

Yep. Right on the money.
I stood up and turned to face him. “You are a monumental asshole, Glen.”

“Come on, babe. Don’t act like you didn’t have a good time. We can do this again whenever you want.”

“Whenever your boyfriend isn’t here.”

“Well, yeah, of course we’ll have to be careful, but, God, I’ve missed your perfect little ass. I never forgot how good you are in bed.”

I was hungover enough to cry, but I, being a good, spiteful homosexual, hatched a plan. “You’re the best, Glen. I’ll call you.”

He smiled. “Great
. Now, you better hurry. Cedric’s going to be here soon.”

I dressed quickly and was out the door and down the street to the corner before a truck pulled into Glen’s driveway. A very large man climbed out and walked up to the door, pausing to retrieve the gift I’d left behind: it was my pair of navy-blue boxer briefs, which I’d left hanging on the doorknob. I smiled, wishing Glen a great morning, then I found a bush and threw up.

I stood as tall as I was able and walked toward the bus stop with wrinkled clothes, a bruised and confused ego, and a very sore ass.