Page 1 of Stroked Hard
Prologue
HOLLIS
“There was definite cuppage. I saw it, man.”
Reese shakes his head. “There was no cuppage. I would have felt cuppage. His hand was nowhere near my crotch.”
I raise an eyebrow at him and lean up against the wall, an ice cream cone in my hand. Fuck my diet; when there is a soft serve machine, I take advantage of it. “Listen, I’m not here to tell you how you get tailored but when I’m sitting there, watching an old man, wrinkles as deep as the Grand Canyon on his forehead, move his hand up your inner thigh, graze your dick, and then back down, I’m calling cuppage.”
“Why is this something we are even discussing?”
I take a bite of my ice cream. Licking is for pussies . . . literally. “Because, I want to know . . . did you chub out?”
“For fuck’s sake.” Reese walks away, not answering my question so I chase after him.
“Is that a yes? Dude, talk to me. Is this something you’re worried about? You know I would love you either way, right? Greg Lougains is my hero and he’s gay. I’m for whatever puts jollies in your pants because let’s be honest, everyone deserves to get off, no matter what private parts are touching.”
“Why can’t you just say love is love?”
“Because the way I said it is more fun.” Reese opens a bottle of water and chugs it, avoiding my question. “Seriously though, is that why you’re doing this reality show? Because you need a beard?”
“What? I have a beard,” Reese says, looking confused and rubbing his actual beard. The stupid fuck.
“Not an actual beard, you dumb shit. I’m talking about a fake girlfriend to cover up for the fact that you’re gay and you’re not quite ready to come out yet. They call those beards. So, is that why you’re doing this reality show? Because you need a beard because you’re gay and you really enjoyed the cuppage from the old man with a fucking shrub coming out his head? Dude had crazy fucking ear and nose hair.” I twiddle my fingers near my ear, pretending to be that unsightly shit.
“I’m not gay, dumbass.”
I throw my hands up in the air, exasperated. “Then why the fuck are you linking yourself with the biggest bitch on this planet since Hitler?” Let’s be honest, Hitler was a little bitch. I bet you anything, that dude had a massive bush bigger than his little peanut dick. It’s the only reason I can come up with for someone being that ornery and volatile.
Mein heir, zi can’t find your schnitzel.
“I told you.” Reese runs his hand over his face, clearly irritated with me but that doesn’t stop me. It just pushes me to dig more.
“Refresh my memory.”
“Because, this is my last go around. After this year, I’m retiring. I need to curb my image, cash in on endorsements. Ashley, my publicist, is convinced this will do that.”
“Curb your image? What, do you want people to think? That you’re the biggest douche in the entire world?” I start slow clapping. “Because if that’s the case, you’re right on track to claiming your trophy.”
This will be Reese’s fourth Olympics, my third. He’s getting old for swim years, and I get his need to retire and secure a future when he hangs up his goggles, but attaching himself to Bellini Chambers on a reality show? Uh, not a fucking good idea. The only reason Bellini Chambers is so popular is because Americans are masochists when it comes to reality television and love to hate the evil twat.
Hell, my twin sister, Holly—yes, Holly and Hollis, my parents are fucking precious—loves tuning in toRollin’ in the Baconjust to watch what kind of self-absorbed bullshit Bellini will get into only to bitch about it to me later.
The worst part, she will call me up after the show airs to talk to me about it. You would think I would stop answering my phone, but for some reason, I enjoy hearing her voice, even if it’s to bitch about something.
That happens when you almost lose your better half in a car accident.
“Is that why you came here? To harass me?” Reese asks.
I chomp on my cone and talk with my mouth full. “No, the free food, always the free food.”
“You know that’s going to catch up to you, right?”
Get fucking real. I lift my shirt and pat my abs; the same abs voted—more than once—the best in the country during several Olympic seasons. Yeah, I fucking read Buzzfeed, especially when they do the “toilet” pics with divers. You try doing four tuck flips off a ten-meter platform and not have a look on your face just screams “I’m shitting out a gerbil.” Thank you, Buzzfeed, thank you for making us look like we have chronic diarrhea. Slow clap for your employees.
“Metabolism of the gods.” I smirk. It’s true, but I also bust my ass in the gym.
“Just wait until you get to thirty.”
