My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

reaches for my head. He shoves me down his already hard dick and fills my mouth with it instantly. It’s kind of salty, and I have a flashback to when I twelve years old and my father took me to watch the local baseb farm team, the Wichita Aeros, and I picked the sexiest player the biggest basket and used the binoculars to watch him the game, and when my dad got me a hot dog, I removed it from bun, and while watching my baseball fantasy, stuck the whole in my mouth at once. I got away with it for several innings, Winston, so astute to my desires, tattled on me. Though my took a hard swipe at Winston for his claim, causing him to cry, never did take me to a baseball game again.

I try to take a moment to catch my breath, but JT is me down, and pulling me up, working my head like a hand from the get-go. I press my hands against his thighs to brace

I feel the starch in his jeans. “Someone’s coming!” he warns, grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking my head up so hard get whiplash.

I sit up. We wait. A small compact car drives around the circle,

passes us, and drives out of the park. JT watches it in the rearview mirror. When it’s gone, he grabs my head again and says, “OK!”

Man, what’s the rush? He’s pumping my head like Helen Keller pumps the water well. My nose is running. My eyes are watering. Then all of a sudden he says, “Now!” and holds my head down until I swallow. Then he lets me loose.

“That was great,” he says, zipping up. Then he starts the engine of the green Ford and says, I’ll take care of you next time.” Then he puts out his hand to shake, as if we’ve clenched another car deal.

After he’s gone, I sit in my car and laugh. After wiping the water from my eyes and blowing my nose, I realize why straight women are obsessed with. waterproof mascara and those little pocket packs of tissues. And no wonder a lot of them would rather eat a good bar of chocolate and read a good book than fuck their three minute husbands.

At least I’m safe from AIDS. They say straight men don’t get it, so I guess JT is protected. But if he’s straight, what’s he doing with me? What a crock of shit. I’m an idiot. That guy didn’t connect with me any more than he connects with his wife or any of the hundreds of other people he’s probably done it with. Shit, I’ve yet to meet a guy who is willing to connect truly connect the way Amity and I do. Maybe I should marry Amity. Not only do I love her, but it may help me to stay alive.

he bills keep rolling in for the dinners I offer to charge, fancy cowboy boots Amity yearns for, concert tickets name it, I charge it. But along with the overdue notices, phone calls start. I’m amazed at the tenacity of these peol: collection agencies who call eight times a day. And though I like I’m sinking under it all, it’s worth it. Amity is so happy me that Hunt fades out of the picture. I’m satisfied to have gone because I’ve never liked having him around after hearing bar story of beating up fags. It’s weird, this competitiveness I with her boyfriends. I know I can’t satisfy her in the same they can, but for some reason I want to try. Before she goes on a date, I become wildly entertaining and make her laugh much as possible so her date seems substandard and boring comparison. I bring home little sugar cakes from her favorite can bakery and pick up her laundry from the cleaners, and that it’s warm enough, I wash her car once a week.

If actions speak louder than words, then Amity must know

I feel. But since I’ve made no verbal declaration, she takes another beau, Wade. Wade is a flight attendant who believes in power of green algae. He’s tall and has a good body, but he’s in the head, Amity says. “Dumber than a jar of hair.” He

make her laugh, because he’s always promoting the benefits of green algae. She laments, “I’ve tried to tell him I don’t need more oxygen. I need more clothes.” I can tell she’s bored with the whole thing, and it’s almost as if she’s daring me to tell her to get rid of him. I ask her what she sees in him, and she tells me his mother has an oceanfront house in Pebble Beach, and that’s what she sees in him. She’s planning a trip to Pebble Beach with Wade near the end of the month. “You must think I’m awful,” she tells me.

“Not at all,” I assure her. “You’re just with the wrong guy.”

“I hate this,” Amity says of her period. She’s lying on the sofa, a hot-water bottle on her abdomen. “Muffle is miserable, Harry.” Muffle is another name for her Virginia. Virginia, Muffle, Libby,

Lady. I really think she has a schizophrenic pussy.

“What can I do for you?” I ask.

“Will you drive me to Ben Franklin? I’m craving penny candy.” Pinny Caindee.

The five-and-dime is only blocks away in Snider Plaza. We both go into the store. If Amity’s getting penny candy, then I want some too. She loads up on all kinds of bite-size confections: saltwater taffy, caramels, Tootsie Rolls, Bit O’Honeys, candy corn, jelly beans, Dots, licorice you name it. I get some jawbreakers and Hot Tamales.

Back at home, we sit on the sofa, get stoned, and eat. And she eats it all. Everything. Then she wants to go to a movie. I drive us in her car to see Romancing the Stone, and we have to travel on Central Expressway to get to the theater.

Central Expressway, nicknamed Suicide Express by the locals, is an