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ok, you've clicked the link and you're here. i'd throw streamers, but that's not my way of things.
this is my way of making up for a lack of a Perfect Uncle update until the end of next week. i'll explain the title at the end, if anyone is finding themselves in confusion over it.
maybe i should mention that this is also loosely based upon a dream i once had, but so loosely based that when i was finished writing, i had nearly forgotten just which dream it was i was putting into words. that happens to me, sometimes.
i'm still working on getting something published with deepcrimsonfeenix this summer...probably in July sometime. i plan to have three or four short stories that have been revamped. so far, i have Beautiful Ronnie, and i'm currently finishing a vamp of Promise is a Promise. i know i've asked for suggestions before, but another quick two suggestions couldn't hurt. it could be anything you've liked but feel has a potential to become better than it is. i may include My Forced Mating or Going Home Wasn't Easy.
much love to Amindaya for another beta'ing. i doubt i'll ever tire of putting this note in my works. (laughs)
thursday, 21 june, 2007. 1:55 pm.
Maybe I missed this without realizing.
Life impeded this sort of thing in high school, and sequentially, so did college. I’m still a junior, although I’m in my fourth year; my parents don’t know it yet, because I doubt I’ll ever tell them. Not over the phone, and not in a letter. And since they made it clear that once I’m out of the nest I’m to stay clear until married, I doubt I’ll ever go home either. Probably never, if they keep that requirement.
Although, I was tempted to marry Greg just to visit during Christmas my first year in college; it’s a good thing I didn’t, because I had to leave him just after Groundhog’s Day. He was too…whatever he was, he was too much of it for me.
After Greg was Jefferson, the ethnobotanist. He was far too fruity for me, even if his laugh had almost been enough to forgive the rest. But he didn’t laugh enough for me to keep him. I hate that I made him cry when I called it off, though, because he was a true sweetheart beneath all that veneer.
Greg was a college drop out, Jeff was a college student, but Eli is a professor.
My statistics professor, to be exact.
He wears dark gray jackets and white shirts, contacts, and a stylish cut to his hair. He’s thirty-six to my twenty-two. His family is wealthy; he comes from good money, and his living style shows it. A house in a nice, sheltered neighborhood, a built-in pool lined with Spanish tiles, a master bedroom nearly half the size of my apartment. Three cars, each a different color, make, and model. He treats me to French cuisine in his own home, having his hired chef fix dinners especially for when I’m there. And maybe I’m not a huge fan of French food, but I’m not one to complain when it’s…free. Besides, what do I have at home? Microwave pizza, mac and cheese, or peanut butter sandwiches? He has breakfast served in bed, grapefruit and cottage cheese, sliced-thin cantaloupewith strawberries, crepes and other pastries served with European espresso or tea.
But I’m not allowed over without invitation; the last time I showed up without cause was a night where he was having a small get-together, and while he didn’t turn me away, it was clear that I was unwanted. When I left, he wasn’t around to see it, off entertaining, or whatever the hell they call social smoozing.
Eli is cool and smart and very sweet when he wants to be.
I was supposed to meet him for lunch two hours ago.
The river rushed beneath my feet, and the sun beat down and raised a film of sweat across my skin, the metal beneath my arms not as hot as it was before. My cell phone buzzed in my pocket, and I contemplated ignoring it, but then I had second thoughts; if it’s Eli, then I change my mind.
Moving for the first time in an hour, I removed my arms from the bars and sat back, digging into my pocket and removing the cheap phone from my jean pocket. A quick glance at the flashing display said that it was just Father. I replaced the phone back into my pocket and it eventually fell silent.
Well, that just broke the mood, at any rate.
Shuffling away from the edge on my rear, I got far enough out to place my feet beneath me and pull myself upright with the aide of that same bar-fencing, brushing off my numb ass and the backs of my thighs with an absent hand. I leaned against the railing once more, looking down at the running water as the sun cooked the back of my neck.
A horn blared just behind me, pulling me from my thoughts enough that I finally turned from the river and looked back at the traffic; ants scurrying back and forth with their daily lives, everything important.
I’m a four-year junior without a declared major, working at an Indi-Film gallery.
Once the numbness receded from my ass, I pulled my bike from where it leaned against the same railing, swinging my leg over and finding the pedal without much effort or thought; I pushed off just as easily, continuing down the sidewalk as I had when I’d had the compulsion to stop and sit there on the bridge.
Maybe I’ll go visit my friend Martin at his work.
-
A soft bell chimed my arrival into the antique shop, and the thin black man standing on a step-stool while changing the bulb in an ugly floor lamp glanced in my direction.
“Russ. Be with you in a minute.”
“Take your time.”
I heard his faint snort even across the store, but I ignored it as I slowly began to drift around and look things over, sidestepping displays and allowing my fingers to trail over the various objects that seem to always change out daily; I love coming here. I then heard him lightly jump from the stool and fold it up to tuck behind the counter again before he walked over to stand next to me, his arms crossed over his chest in a comfortably relaxed stance.
“Back from lunch?”
I didn’t look up from curiously examining what appeared to be a small farming implement from the thirties or something; “Never made it to lunch.”
“Oh?”
“Decided it’s not working.”
“Ah.”
I did glance up at his amused comment, the whites of his eyes flashing as they rolled in his head in a gently mocking manner. “What?”
“Russell, you are a slut.”
“I am not. Three boyfriends in four years? How does that make me a slut?”
“Because you sleep with them before you can remember their names?”
I set down the rusted tool, moving on to a shelf of thin china sets covered in dainty blue paisley designs. “Oh.”
His laughter was warm, before he made a sound in the back of his throat, attracting my attention to where he was frowning while staring at the back of my neck.
“What?”
“You’re all burnt! What have you been doing all afternoon?”
“Oh,” I shrugged and decided against picking up a fragile-looking teacup, “I sat in the sun for a while, that’s all. I’ll be ok.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Russell Shaw is always ok.”
I frowned and turned to him; “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you’re never ruffled, never put out, and certainly never angry. Man, sometimes I think you’re a clone or something, until you get that wicked glint in your eyes right before you pull something outrageous.”
He shook his head, but then brightened, “Speaking of which; Elise says to mention how she’s still angry, still going to kick your ass, and she wants her panties back.”
I laughed; “She shouldn’t have given them to me in the first place! I mean…what else was I going to do with them but to use them for that skit?”
His laughter was loudly baritone, even though he has to bear the brunt of his girlfriend’s anger towards me. Bah, it had been funny to see me in lilac leopard print, and she knows it.
“You should come over for dinner with us tonight. She’s going to make Creole chicken and rice and I’m making my beer’n cheddar biscuits. You can bring your new beau, too.”
My forehead crinkled; “Who says I’m going to have one?”
His eyes solemn, he gave my nose a poke with the tip of his finger; “A little birdie.”
“And who says he’ll want to eat with the likes of you?”
“You don’t date assholes, despite all else. Although, sometimes I think they’re the unlucky ones to get you.”
My lip popped into a pout, but I don’t doubt the truth to what he says. I know I’m not the easiest person to be with; I’m too casual, and I never seem to follow the rules. Not the ones they want me to follow, anyways.
But then I gave a flip of my hand into the air, saying, “I’ll show. And if I have someone from now to then, I’ll bring him along if he wants.”
Martin nodded and brushed the palms of his hands together, as if finalizing the decision in his mind. “Right-o. See you tonight, Russ.”
I walked over to the front of the store, my hand on the door when he called, “Oh, Russ.”
Turning, I looked at him. “Take the long way home.”
“What’s on the long way?”
Lips curving into a smile, he said, “Free ice cream.”
My eyes lit up; “Right on!”
The bell softly chimed once more as I left, finding my bike exactly where I left it; except that someone had slashed my tires while I was in the store.
I gave a sigh; “Right.”
Martin could have warned me of that rather than give his mumbo jumbo about the free ice cream. Although, ice cream might just make the long way home worth it. Especially banana ice cream from Button’s. And that’s on the long way home.
-
Halfway between the antique store and Button’s, wheeling my pathetic bicycle home, I heard the quick slapping of running tennis shoes coming up behind me, so I turned, only to see a kid wearing a leather jacket and thin wire-frame glasses. He ran up and grabbed my arm, glancing behind him and then at me a split moment before pulling me into the small alley between two stores; I was forced to drop my bike onto the sidewalk. Without a word, he hastily stripped off the jacket and dropped it to the ground, hiding it with his legs before he glanced out into the street and whipped his head back.
“Shit!”
Hands caught my shirt and swung us around until he yanked and slammed his back against the wall as I was pulled up flush to his chest; running feet were almost to the alley by the time he smashed his lips to mine, quickly moving my arms up to his neck and obscuring his head even as the running shoes paused just beside my bike. More shoes were heard even as the kid vaguely opened to my tongue, his body stiff with tension against mine.
“You find the little shit?”
“Naw, looks like two fags. ‘Sides, the kid’s got a fucking jacket.”
“Then c’mon and quit gawpin’! The fucker’s gettin’ away!”
The feet moved on, and the kid relaxed against me moments before he froze and shoved me away, wiping his mouth with a twisted grimace.
“Fuck, man, you didn’t hafta French me!”
I gave a shrug; “You let me.”
“Well, not on purpose! ‘Sides, those guys were set to jump me!”
“You should go home then. Maybe ditch the jacket.”
I moved from the alley and gathered up my bike, hearing his angry mutters as he snatched up the jacket and came up beside me, where he stiffened and pointed at my fifteen-speed.
“That yours?”
“Yes.”
“Oh man, I’m sorry ‘bout the tires. I was just…bored.”
Stopping, I slowly turned and faced the nervous kid—well, teen, really—who looked about to bolt again. “You’re buying me ice cream.”
That decided, I pushed on, leaving the non-descript boy standing there with his jaw hanging open.
I wonder if he likes Creole chicken.
-
“Banana waffle cone and a cherry slush.”
The kid’s voice floated over the bustling noise of traffic and the two families eating their sweets at two of the various café tables outside of Button’s. I sat back and stared up at the slightly-orange sky, feeling a warm breeze ruffle my hair; the back of my neck is starting to feel the effects of the baking I’d given it earlier. Leather hit my nose before the smell of banana and cherries, and I looked over to see him nearly to our table; he thrust out my ice cream, his face neutral as he sank into a chair to my left.
My cell phone buzzed, and the kid looked around before asking, “That you?”
“My pocket is vibrating, yes.”
“…Gonna answer it?”
“Nobody I want to talk to.”
The phone went silent, and I gave a long swipe to my ice cream with my tongue. My phone went off a second time, making me pause before I continued to nibble at my ice cream; banana has been my favorite since I was four years old. He crunched on ice and stared at me with antsy eyes, his lips and tongue a dark red from his slush.
The third time my phone started buzzing, he impatiently cried, “Dude, answer the fucking phone!”
The nearest family flinched and shot us angry glares.
I paused in mid-lick and pulled the cone from my mouth, shifting in my seat so that I could pull my phone out and look at the flashing display; Eli. I thought a moment, but then flipped it open. “Yes?”
“Russell, where the fuck were you today? Did you forget our date?!”
I resumed licking cold banana perfection; “Didn’t forget.”
“Then what the hell?! Where were you?”
“On the bridge. I hate French cuisine.”
There was a long pause, and then, “What’s that supposed to mean? It was an Italian restaurant!”
“Means I’ll see you in class Tuesday. We have a test, don’t we?”
Flustered, he spluttered, “Well, yes, but-”
“Bye.”
I hung up and set my phone down onto the table, still working at my ice cream before the cone can get soggy and drip.
“Who’s that?”
“Eli.”
“And who’s that?”
“My professor.”
He paused to think; “You in college?”
“Yes. You like Creole chicken?”
“Buh…what?”
“You’ll like Creole chicken. C’mon, I have to get this bike home first.”
I stood and he hastily followed suit, scuffing his shoe in his haste; “I bought you the fucking ice cream, man! What more you want?”
Pausing, I flicked a gaze from his head to his feet and back up again, where he was now sporting a vivid blush; I didn’t grace the question with an audible response, and he fell in step beside me as I walked away from Button’s Sweets Emporium.
-
We took the elevator up to the ninth floor, and I led us to the third to the last door on the left at the end of the brown hallway. He hung back from entering, and I left him there as I pushed the bike into my apartment and left it leaned up against the wall next to the kitchen.
Walking through the living room, I saw the red button blinking on my answering machine; I touched the button and ambled away, hearing the message play before my father’s voice came, saying the normal shit before he admonished me for never answering my cell phone. Oh well.
“Hey…dude?”
I leaned backwards to see to the front door, and he hesitantly said, “Um…you’re not gonna…jump me?”
My eyebrow rose; “You want me to?”
Another blush flared up, but he abruptly laughed, the sound of which froze me into place.
The door shut and pulled me from my stasis, and he jumped when I turned and stalked over to where he was standing just inside my home.
His eyes widened but he didn’t overly protest when I slammed him against the front door, mouth already open and hot against his, feeling him faintly moan even as his hands skittered up my back and lodged in handfuls of my shirt. That laugh had sent fire spiraling down my spine in ways nothing else ever has.
It was only when the short inhales of air through my nose weren’t enough that I pulled away, breathing deep and then managing a humored murmur, “Oh good, you wanted me to.”
Again, he laughed, and my pale blue eyes rolled up as I closed them with a groan, my lower half pressing forwards and drawing a gasp from those cherry-stained lips.
“…S’your name?” The puff from his lips hit my mouth.
“Russell.”
“Mm,” a low hiss as my thigh moved between his, “John.”
“I think I can remember that.”
A tug at the button of his jeans had his head falling against the door, his eyes closed and his lips parted before I swallowed the moan he gave when my fingers slid down his pants.
Yeah, I think I can remember his name.
-
Martin and Elise’s apartment was six floors down, and I could smell food before the door opened to let us in; Martin wasn’t surprised to see the extra company, instead shaking his head.
“Russ, you’re a slut.”
“I am not. I remember his name.”
“Which is?”
The kid stuck out a long-fingered paw, confident in saying, “John Papazion.”
“Whoa, what is that? Italian?”
“No clue.”
He was genial, and Martin looked at me; “I like this one.”
“Yup, he’s John. Where’s Elise, I brought her panties.”
“I’m in the kitchen, motherfucker! And you better have washed the motherfuckin’ things! I won’t be havin’ no dirty panties worn by your bum ass, you hear me?!”
The tall black woman was standing at the stove when I entered; “I hear you. I washed ‘em good. They’re all Downy fresh.”
She turned and raised a skeptical eyebrow, snatching free the lilac leopard garment from my outstretched hand and giving a disbelieving sniff for their freshness; grudgingly accepting my promise, she dropped them down on the countertop and stuck out a hip.
“Now why didn’t you tell me you were going to parade around like some fruitcake in them things?”
I gave a shrug; “Didn’t think it important. Food smells good. John will like your chicken.”
She softened; “Another white boy, huh?”
“I like white boys. But Jeff was Asian.”
“Pfft, that boy was a fruitcake, honey! Tell me you got you a good man.”
I shrugged and stole a bit of something crispy from the plate of chicken, earning me a mild slap on the ass to get me from the kitchen.
-
John did well beneath the stares from my two friends, tucking in good into the chicken and Martin’s biscuits, and downing it with a tall glass of milk.
“You in school, sweetie?”
Elise’s voice can be silken-honey when she wants it to be, and John flushed a bit as he said, “Charleston, miss. That’s when I’m there, anyways.”
“Charleston…that’s the high school eight blocks over?”
He nodded, and my friends gave me a reproving glare that I ignored.
“Russ, how old is he?!”
I turned to him, mildly inquiring, “How old are you?”
His eyes became antsy, “Sixteen in two weeks.”
I turned back to my friends, “He’s fifteen.”
“Russ, he’s jailbait! You’re twenty-two!”
“I know how old I am.”
“Corr, that’s the oldest guy I ever made out with! Sweet.”
I slid a grin at John and popped a piece of biscuit into my mouth.
“You told me to take the long way, Martin. He ran into me, and I got my free ice cream, and now he’s here, just like you told me.”
“Russ, that didn’t mean you could jump a kid!”
I shrugged; “Only other dude I saw on the way here was Mr. Belson, and even I don’t go for eighty year old dog-humpers.”
John snickered, and a heated crawl fell down my spine, but it was just enough to ignore.
There was silence except for the clink of mine and John’s silverware on the plates, until Martin sighed; “And how long do you plan to keep this one, Russ?”
I paused, turning to John, and asked, “How long are you staying around?”
He shrugged, and I copied the motion before lazily announcing, “I’ve got to piss.”
Pushing up from the table, I heard John ask, “He always like that?”
And their simultaneous response, “Oh yes.”
-
“Where are your parents, aren’t they worried about you?”
“Oh, I have ten brothers and sisters; someone always covers for me so Pa don’t tan my hide again. That or someone will lose count; with the little ones running around, it‘s easy to count one of ‘em twice.”
“Your father beats you?”
Martin’s tone was sharp, but the kid shrugged and pointed at a picture on the wall; “When was that?”
It was a portrait of the couple with me and Jeff, two years ago during the Fourth of July; I was doing a one-handspring, and mere seconds after that picture was taken, I landed my wrist into a cast.
Instead of answering, I asked, “What’d you do to make them chase you?”
Dark eyelashes surrounding brown eyes blinked at me behind those glasses before realization dawned; “Oh, them? I was bored, so I called them some things and insinuated some things and faked a pass for the leader’s girlfriend because she blew me a kiss.”
“Stupid.”
My neutrally-stated comment drew a laugh from him, and my fingers clenched against my jeans. I could feel the muscles of my face becoming tight and strained, and my control snapped when he ended his laugh with a low chuckling, causing me to bolt upright and to my feet.
“C’mon, we’re leaving.”
Startled, he stumbled as I yanked against his wrist; “What’d I do?”
Swooping down, I ruthlessly swept the taste of him into my mouth before pulling away. He stumbled once more, breathing, “oh,” before he lit up and raced to the door, turning to toss a quick wave good-bye at my two slack-jawed friends before he disappeared.
I made as to follow him, but Martin called, “Russell!”
Impatient, I jerked to a stop and snapped, “What?!”
That startled him, his eyes growing wide; I’m ruffled and verging on angry if they delay me further.
“N-nothin’.”
John’s voice floated from the hall, as impatient as I felt, “Ruuuss!”
My mouth pulled into a wide grin, and I sketched a slight bow before I turned and childishly ran from the apartment as well, shutting their door with a low ‘bam!’ before I raced to catch up with John, who had the elevator waiting for me. He had me slammed to the wall as soon as the doors closed with a low chime, his moan loud in the enclosed space when my hands reached around and drew him in tight.
“You should meet my parents.”
“Corr!”
ok, those may help to explain my choice of the title. and two other words that may need some explaination:
corr: a type of slang, meaning an awed or eager agreement, such as in 'awesome.'
buh: another slang term, meaning shock or awe, such as in 'whoa.'
wow, i'm giving definitions! it's a glorious day, indeed. especially as i got to witness my brother eat gravel while 'attempting' to cross a busy four-lane street on his bike. he ended up with a trail of blood down one arm and leg, and i almost fell over laughing, although i rather tried not too. he's spiteful when he wants to be. random info for the day.