Handy Men Do It Better (4 page)

Cory looked down. “Oops.” He grabbed his cock through the towel and attempted to move it out of the way and strap it under the cloth’s fold. “I should get dressed.” He walked toward a set of stairs. “There’s beer, water, and soda in the fridge. Help yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Jake said and crossed his leg at the knee.

“Y
ou’re sure you don’t have to pick them up?” Jake asked, as Cory pulled his parents’ Lexus up to their condo complex.

“No, they’re already home in bed. Even on event nights, the clubhouse closes at ten. They were going to head back with the Richards next door.”

Jake looked at the car’s clock. “How’d it get to be eleven so quickly?”

Cory shut off the car. “It did go by fast.” He turned to Jake. “I really enjoyed myself.”

“Me too. Dinner was great.”

“And I’m glad you like action movies too.” Cory tried to put the keys in his jeans, but they were too tight. “Want to go for a walk?” Cory asked.

“That’d be nice.”

The car’s interior light went on. They got out and shut the doors. As they headed toward the walking path, which paralleled the quiet street, Cory clicked the car’s alarm and shoved the keys in his pocket.

Jake looked back at his Ranger, with its dented bumper and worn tires—parked next to the Hamiltons’ silver Lexus—and felt a surge of embarrassment. Yet if Cory didn’t like Jake’s truck, he didn’t show it. He obviously came from a wealthier family than Jake’s. “So,” Jake said, “is your place back in Charlotte as nice as this?”

Cory didn’t say anything right away, but stopped and waited for Jake to catch up. “Why do you ask?”

Jake jogged ahead and then walked in step with Cory. “I’m just curious. I told you about my family, and my dad leaving us when we were kids.”

Cory put his arm around Jake’s waist.

Jake looked behind them. He’d never before showed affection in public with another guy.

“I have a nice place,” Cory finally said. “I’m grateful for what I have.”

Jake put his arm around Cory’s waist. “You rich?”

Cory chuckled. “Depends on your definition.”

“My standards are low.”

Cory stopped, pulled Jake in so that they stood face to face. “You should aim higher.”

“Higher than you?”

Cory smiled and kissed him. “No, higher
for
you.”

“Oh, ’cause for a minute I thought you were saying you weren’t good enough for me.”

Cory looked down. “That may be.”

Jake put his hands on his hips and slapped Cory softly in the gut. “I doubt it.”

Cory grabbed his stomach and started walking again. Jake followed.

“Back in high school,” Jake said, “the kids made fun of me because of my last name.”

“Honeywell?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Jake toed the sidewalk with his Sperry knockoffs. His sockless feet stuck to the insole of the shoe. “Well, you know how I told you I have a hard time controlling my...my—”

“Your orgasms?”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Well, it started way back when. I’d jerk off nearly every day after fifth period.”

“And you got caught?”

Jake looked down. “They called me Nuttin’ Honey.”

“Oh,” Cory said, looking away as if trying not to laugh.

“It’s okay. Looking back at it, it is rather comical.”

Cory chuckled. “Kids can be so mean. So this has scarred you?” Cory asked.

Jake shrugged. “No. It made me stronger, actually.” He walked in step with Cory. “I started working out, got bigger, more threatening. Started throwing kids up against the lockers if they fucked with me.”

“Shit.”

“Jocks got jealous because the girls thought I was all hot and shit. You know, that bad-boy exterior.”

“You had a bunch of girlfriends.”

“A few, as cover. But my junior year, I had the quarterback sucking me off in the fields. I didn’t need to beat off anymore after shop class. ‘Come here boy, take this fat cock,’ I’d say to him.” Jake gave his crotch a tug.

Cory jerked his head back. “No shit!”

“He was pretty good too.”

“Damn.”

The two ambled their way down the walking path and around a bend, which led to a cul de sac of more townhomes.

Jake stopped and pointed. “You see that flowerbed over there?” He hit Cory on the shoulder to look in the direction he pointed. “I planted all that about two years ago. My boss wanted to put in annuals. I told him it’d be a waste of the client’s money. They spent a little more for it upfront, but in the long run it paid off.”

“Nicely done.” Cory walked closer to it.

“Over there,” Jake said, pointing again, “there’s over five different species of palm. I picked them all myself. Juan and I spent one rainy afternoon in October planting them.”

Cory stopped and put a hand on his hip. “I didn’t know there were so many different varieties of palm trees.”

“Oh, shit yeah.” Jake moved closer to Cory. “There are tons. Honestly, I grow tired of them. One day I’d love to see a forest of deciduous trees and experience the colors of fall, like I’ve seen on TV.”

A buzz occurred, breaking Cory from a stare at Jake. “Oh.” He reached into his pocket and took his cell phone. He grimaced when he looked at its display. “Excuse me,” he said, turned his back and walked away. “Hey, babe.”

Babe?

Cory stood there, nodding his head and throwing in an occasional
uh huh
,
sure
and even a
not a problem.
When he hung up, he turned to face Jake and offered a wry half-smile.

“Everything okay?” Jake asked and lifted an eyebrow.

Cory nodded and walked forward. “Yeah.”

They didn’t say much during the walk back toward Jake’s truck.

At the edge of the parking lot, Cory stopped “Look, um. I’ve got to be honest with you.”

A pit formed in Jake’s stomach. “I heard the
babe
part of your conversation, if that’s where you’re heading.”

Cory scratched his jaw and then wiped his hand across his mouth. “I’ve got a girl back in North Carolina.”

Jake’s gut grew cold, and he scratched at the back of his neck. “A girl?”

“Um.”

Jake just wanted to leave and dug for the keys in his pocket.

“Wait!” Cory said, and put a hand on Jake’s shoulder but said nothing.

With a flip to his arm, Jake pushed Cory’s hand off and walked to his truck. He’d never been scorned before in a relationship and wasn’t sure what to feel, let alone how to react. The girls he’d had up until recently all ended on his terms. This felt different.

Cory jogged after him. “I’m sorry, Jake. I’m sorry.”

Jake got in his truck and slammed the door.

Cory leaned against the Ranger’s door frame, stammered for words and hung his head.

Jake started the engine, threw the transmission into reverse and left Cory standing in the parking lot.

I
t took moving into the new apartment to shake Cory from Jake’s mind. With Jocelyn away in South America for the semester, he finally felt comfortable getting out of the house.

The small two-bedroom apartment sat across from a Laundromat and over a pizza shop in the middle of town. A set of redwood-stained stairs in the back led up to it. The living room, rarely used by either him or his roommate, had one couch and a broken TV. A kitchenette looked over the living area, and a set of barstools—with their backs to the television—faced the kitchen. Down a small hall and on the right, was a purpled-tiled bathroom—across from it, Jake’s room and diagonal to Jake’s was his roommate Steve’s.

The first week on his own, Jake celebrated and bought a present. He wanted to have a guy over, but didn’t want to risk outing himself in front of his straight roommate. Yet since Jake’s time with Cory, jerking off at a football game with a buddy not only seemed amateurish, but no longer quenched Jake’s needs. He ached for something more.

One rainy afternoon after letting the crew off early because of the weather, he drove down to the city and stopped in a porn shop. In a pair of polarized sunglasses and his baseball cap, he worked his way to an area of the shop designated for women. There he found a dildo that seemed about the size of what he remembered Cory’s cock to be and bought it.

Stiff in the pants all the way home, he nearly blew a load just thinking about Cory’s cock and the dildo. With the nondescript brown paper bag on the passenger seat, he peeked at it now and again on the ride home. He’d grabbed it off the shelf so fast he hadn’t had time to really get a good look at it. It’d been the biggest one there—big like Cory.

When he got home, neither Steve nor Blu—his roomie’s five-year-old pit bull mix—were home. “Thank God.”

Jake took a piss, which proved a bit difficult because of the anticipation in his dick. With his present tucked under his arm, he bent his erect shaft toward the bowl—as best he could—finished and flushed. He didn’t bother to zip back up—for he knew his pants would be coming off faster than a Corvette on I-75. In his room, he closed the door, locked it and turned on Nirvana.

While Kurt Cobain sang about rape, Jake stuck the ten-inch lifelike phallus to the hardwood floor—using the handy suction cup he hadn’t realized it came with. With some lube, he lathered the dildo and his hole and lowered his eager pucker over Cory’s resemblance.

“Jesus! Fuck that hurts.” He rocked at the knees. “Son of a bitch. How the hell do guys do this?”

He jacked his dick, which leaked upon each push onto the cock. “Oh, wow.” His hand blurred as he picked up the pace. “Cory, man. I want you inside me.” He lowered himself more. Grit his teeth. “Damn, that stings!”

As rape turned to Kurt shouting about
coming as you are
, he heard the front door of the apartment open and Blu running down the hall. “Shit,” Jake said yet couldn’t stop his carnality. He had a rhythm.

“Jake, you home?” Steve asked.

Jake continued to play. “YEAH!” he yelled, finally getting his sphincter around the base of the shaft. “I’m coming!”

“That’s alright. You don’t have to!” Steve yelled back.

“Shit,” Jake whispered, and without touching his cock—and just the tip of the dildo up his ass—he splashed the door with his load. His eyes rolled back in his head.

“Good song!” Steve yelled.

Jake’s hand slid in his own spunk, and he fell face forward.

P
aying the first month’s rent hadn’t presented a problem. Jake had saved for it, but handing over the next left little behind in his checking account.

Not much went on in Hodge Podge. With Frank’s Bar closer now than it had been when Jake lived at home, he spent more time there. Yet with gas and beer money low and his sister abroad in Chile, Jake opted to spend more time around the apartment.

Steve’s addiction to women didn’t bother Jake so much. Most of Steve’s time revolved around strip clubs and watching porn—the latter of which he did locked in his bedroom with a laptop. The situation suited Jake fine. He enjoyed the freedom, and Steve asked few questions.

Blu added an extra hundred dollars a month to Steve’s portion of the rent, but Jake quickly became the one to spend most of the time with her.

“Jake!” Steve yelled from the front of the apartment. “I’m going out to the club. Can you watch Blu?”

Lying on his bed and reading
Sports Illustrated
, Jake yelled, “No prob!” The dog moseyed into Jake’s bedroom and collapsed on the rug by his desk. “Hey, girl, it’s just you and me again.” Jake put the magazine, with the picture of Tom Brady that he’d been staring at, face down on the mattress.

On a Saturday afternoon threatening to rain, Jake found himself bored, while waiting for his sheets to finish in the Laundromat across the street. He got up and went to the kitchen and grabbed a Mountain Dew. From the window over the sink, he watched Steve drive his bike off the dirt lot. “He really should wear a helmet.” Jake took a sip of soda.

Steve’s short, spiky hair barely moved in the breeze, but his green T-shirt rippled in the wind, lifting up to expose more of the sleeve tattoo, which started on his shoulder.

Jake headed down the hall.

The dog’s snoring rattled the walls. “God, Blu. You can fall asleep on a dime,” Jake said. He looked into Steve’s room. A stash of girly magazines lay strewn on the floor by the unmade bed. “God, I could never have Jocelyn sleep over with this shit.” He went to shut the door but spotted a plastic tube on Steve’s nightstand. “No way.” Jake recognized it from the Internet. He looked over his shoulder and at the front door, and walked farther into Steve’s room. The FleshPipe masturbation toy he’d seen on a couple porn sites gave him an immediate erection. The sweatpants he wore, without any underwear, provided no boundary.

He’d only been in the room a handful of times to either get Blu or give Steve money for the rent, as he had the other day.

“Shit,” Jake said, and touched his dick through his sweats.

Despite Steve’s heterosexuality, something about his redneck roommate made Jake horny. The thought of Steve fucking the FleshPipe had Jake with his hands down his sweatpants faster than a hillbilly downing moonshine.

A year older than Jake, Steve worked at an equipment rental store a few miles from the apartment. He bore a close-shaved goatee, short dark hair—perpetually looking like he’d just got out of bed—and carried a build smaller than Jake’s but slim and toned nonetheless. Cowboy boots, tight jeans—crowned with a metal Triumph motorcycle’s belt buckle—and some form of Irish T-shirt to mark his heritage or a United States one to note his patriotism were Steve’s standard apparel. And he fucked loudly, as evident by the one or two times he’d hosted a girl.

Jake sat on the edge of Steve’s bed, with his hands down his pants, beating himself vigorously. The light green fabric of his sweats jolted as he gripped his thick mushroom head beneath the cotton and yanked it hard. “Fuck!” He saw what looked like a cum stain on Steve’s sheets. Jake moaned and jerked harder. He couldn’t help but get turned on thinking of his hot roommate beating off on the bed, or plowing balled-up sheets, wishing it were one of those waitresses at the wing place where they went together once.