Page 18 of A Long Con

It was with trepidation that I called Royal and told him the package would arrive at eleven that morning. His voice was so resonant and growly. He had growled with my cock in his mouth and the vibrations had shaken me to my roots. I tried to think about cleaning as I wiped down the white tulip dining table. That would give us a place to display the canvas.

But Royal arrived at a quarter to eleven.

“Hey, brah,” was all he said as he entered my house without being invited.

Wow, had he always been that damned tall? Was he wearing heels, maybe cowboy boots? I looked down. No. Just the usual flat, steel-toed biker boots. But he was clad in a long leather duster that made him look like a Game of Thrones character, his root beer-hued locks flowing.

I stammered, “The painting’s not here yet. You’re early.”

Royal just swaggered right on into the family room. He eyed the spot I planned to display the painting as if he knew my plans, then spun around. How did he do that, raise just one eyebrow? “That’s OK. There are plenty of things we can do in fifteen minutes.”

What in the name of . . . I’m sure my lower jaw hung low. “I thought you weren’t gay. The other day was just a . . . one-off.”

The eyebrow went even higher. “Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.”

What kind of fucking cruel game was he playing? I took a step toward him and pointed at the ground. “Listen, you dingus. Either it was or it wasn’t, but you know you’re teasing me, and I think that’s what gives you pleasure. Anyway, I have a fucking partner. Back in New York. I don’t need your crumbs.”

“Oh yeah? Then why did you and Mayo Snodgrass come in from the back alley the other day arranging your crotches?”

“Mayo Snodgrass? He’s not even in the fucking class!”

“Exactly my point. He wasn’t in the class. So why was he smoking your cock in the alley?”

I sputtered. I had no fucking ground to stand on. “Why are you so damned interested if you’re straight?”

More than meeting my challenge, Royal stepped so close to me he almost stood on my toes. I could smell he’d just toked some weed not long ago. Magic Bus. “Maybe I’m not completely straight. Maybe I’d like to find out.”

I had to stagger back a bit. He was so overwhelming. “You’re bi-curious. And you want to use me as a guinea pig?”

He shrugged. Looked amused. “Sure. Why not?”

Indeed. Why the fuck not. Since I couldn’t think of why not, I said, “Listen, I found some more of that Depression glass, if you think you can offload it.” I had no interest in the fancy sunset-colored glass, so why not make some bank off it?

“Sure. I believe I can. Is it a matching set?”

“I put it up here,” I said, squeaking off on my Dingo boots to the kitchen. Moving the step stool to the appropriate cabinet, I jumped to the top step.

“Let me know if Pothole’s stolen anything else from you,” said Royal, appearing in the kitchen.

“Why, you think he would? I thought he works for you.”

“He does, but I don’t trust him not to go rogue, if you know what I mean.”

I pivoted, two pink plates in one hand and two chartreuse glasses pinched in another. “No, I don’t think I—ah!”

In a flash, Royal gripped my hips and plastered his open mouth over my penis. How the fuck did he know I wouldn’t drop those dishes? I was so stunned I swayed back and forth on the top rung, his steely talons the only thing that kept me from crashing to the tiles below. My eyes widened in horror, my head tilted back so all I saw was black mold. He exhaled around my dick while mouthing it, sending hot, comforting vibes shooting directly to my balls.

I found a part of my brain. “Listen, I think Pothole is cleaning the fire—” I inhaled sharply like a drowning man who’d just surfaced.

Royal groaned while he mouthed my dick. As he clawed at my belt buckle, I swayed precariously on the ladder like a weathervane. I was like a fucking juggler holding those colorful dishes while this bruiser chomped on my pecker. Royal had the top three buttons of my jeans undone and had plunged his face into my crotch, gnawing at the root of my cock while snaking his tongue around it. Spunk squirted from my slit, although Royal had only been at me for forty-five minutes. I mean seconds.

And, of course, that’s when the doorbell rang. FedEx.

“I’ll get it,” yelled Pothole from the living room.

He had to pass by us positioned there idiotically in the fucking kitchen, and Royal immediately withdrew from me. He left me teetering there like a moke, as he would say, some dumb bastard who’d let anyone blow him.

“No problem, brah,” yelled Royal, “I’ll get it.”