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

into a bowl carefully, credit card balanced on top, and fill the bowl until water is five inches over and under the card. “You gotta have the credit card frozen right in the middle of the block of ice so you have to wait hours before you use that card and by the time it thaws you’ve come to your senses, and you just put it back in the freezer.”

“You’re crazy,” I laugh, grabbing her around the waist and kissing her. “You definitely need to meet my mother.”

The next day, as I walk by myself through the airport terminal, pulling my luggage on my little luggage cart, I have a confidence I didn’t have before Padre Island. I feel more authentic, as if I’m finally a citizen of the world. It’s hard to explain, but I mostly go through life thinking that everyone else is stamped with APPROVED while I’m left blank. But after my tryst with Amity, I’m stamped. One of them.

After we’re airborne, a girl I’m working with says, “So you’re Amity’s latest?”

“Latest? I guess.” I’m flattered to be chosen by one of the most beautiful, mysterious women at the airline. I smile. “Yes.”

“What’s it like living with Amity Stone?” she says with half a smirk on her face.

“Everyone always asks me that at work,” I tell her. “It’s great. We’re always laughing. I love it.”

“Do you guys sleep together?”

Man, this girl isn’t shy. But then again, most flight attendants aren’t. They’ll tell you anything and expect the same. My second

month on the job I flew with a girl who shared all the gory details i of her impending divorce and said, “I haven’t had sex with husband in three years, but I’m finally having orgasms again becau I’m sleeping with my therapist, and would you mind taking a of peanuts and a Miller Lite out to the guy with the cowboy hat row eight?” “Amity says never kiss and tell,” I say, finally answering her question.

“It’s a good philosophy,” the girl agrees, “especially for

Amity.” ‘

“Hey, I know all about the professor at CCT,” I say

“Big deal.”

“I don’t know anything about a professor,” the girl

“I was talking about her first husband, the millionaire.”

“I know about him too,” I scoff. A lie. She told me she’s been married, and naturally I believed her. Does this girl have facts right? Surely this can’t be true. Why wouldn’t Amity just ,. me if she had been married?

Not an hour after I return home from my trip, as I’m totally stoned on pot, the yard boys appear. Amity, who is flying, has told me about them, and though I’ve yet to see they are legend in our household. Now I know why: they’re They bail out of a very expensive, candy apple red Chevy three of them, and they’re so beefy and muscled and naked that I expect them to turn the volume up on the “Union of the Snake” by Duran Duran is playing in the and use the hand clippers to snip off their little short shorts bump and grind in G-strings on the front lawn.

Amity says that the house we’re living in is one of the of properties owned by one of those Dallas families with a I definitely recognize, because my parents are friends of And the particular son that manages and looks over this is gay. So the yard boys he hires are like the A-list at

I go from room to room, looking through windows to check them out. I can’t stand it. I have to pull my dick out. I drop my pants around my ankles and use one hand to separate the miniblinds, the other to warm my dick.

The beefiest yard boy, the one with a buzz cut and a tattoo on his exploding biceps, is just beyond the glass. His triceps flex as he trims the grass next to the house with the weed eater. I’m apud whacker he’s a weed whacker. It’s a beautiful relationship.

I look down, past the bulge in his shorts; his legs are shaved. Hotski wow-wow. This big moose, with biceps and a tattoo, shaves his legs. It’s a mixture of feminine and masculine that sends me through the roof. Shit, he’s moving on, just as I swear I’m going to come!

My pants at my ankles, I hobble like a doped-up, perverted Easter bunny into Amity’s room to follow. I make it to the window, push the lace coverings away, separate the miniblinds. I’m stroking away when her phone rings, and the machine picks up. “Hi, honey,” the woman’s voice says, “it’s your mom and dad. We really miss you, and we’re worded because we haven’t heard from you in a while. You all right? Please call us, Amy, and let us know you’re all right. You know we’ll be there in a heartbeat if you need us.”

I feel so weird, jerking off while Amity’s mother is talking. I concentrate on the yard stud when her father comes on. “That’s right, darling’. Your momma and I miss you something’ awful. You call, OK? “Bye now.”

” “Bye!” her mother’s voice adds before they hang up.

God, they sound nice.

The yard stud, the yard stud. Back to business.

Ding-dong.

Shit! Someone’s at the door! Someone’s at the fucking door! Oh, God. What if it’s one of the yard boys? I pull my pants up as the doorbell continues to ring insistently. If it is a yard boy, I can tell by the way he rings that he’s a top.

I stuff my stiff dick into my pants and think of puppies and squirrels and innocent little things to make it go down. It’s not working, and as I move toward the front door I go for the old standby, Heidi Schaeffer. Heidi was a fat little German girl grammar school whose bottom never smelled right, particularly after recess. I’ve used the visual and olfactory memory of Heidi to squelch hard-ons for years. I’m only semi by the time I open the door. The