Page 28 of Wood

The song winds down and Pearl calls out, “Please give a big welcome to Vodka Martinez!” and the music changes to the opening of ‘I Am What I Am’ as the drag queen comes out. Her magenta gown catches every light in the place, almost blinding. It shimmers around her, six-foot-four of her moving deliberately and unhurried.

When the opening bars hit, the room actually quiets down for once. Men set down glasses that were halfway to their mouths. She doesn’t lip-sync the lyrics. She delivers them. Her chin is up, catching eyes as she moves, and she trails one hand along the edge of the dance floor railing like she’s touching every person in the room. By the time the song swells into the chorus about being exactly who you are, half the bar’s got a hand over their heart. A few men swipe at their faces with bar napkins.

So out there. Going for what she wants. Her journey has been so much harder than mine. I feel like a wuss.

As the applause dies, Freddie leans over and asks, “So. Pro caddie now?”

“Yeah,” I reply. How do I broach this topic? Is there an easy way to ask how to seduce my sexy as fuck silver fox golfer? Shit, my stomach is already jumping from nerves. How am I ever going to get past being friend-zoned if I can’t even start this conversation? Just blurt it the fuck out, Geoff, be fucking brave. Be more like Vodka Martinez.

“Got yourself a yummy golfer, too, yum, yum, yum,” he hums, digging through the ice with the scoop, loosening it up in the bin. “That man needs to be your Daddy. Ben Vance is such a hot silver fox, daaayummm.”

Bless you, Freddie. “Yeah,” I sigh.

His eyes snap to mine, and his face lights up in delight.

“Oh, really, finally see the light, do you?” he titters. “Do tell, how is he?” he giggles as he leans on the bar. “He is so hot, so, so, so hot. Can boss me around any time.” He wiggles his hips to each syllable of ‘an-y time’.

“Fuck, Freddie, I’m new at this, at guys,” I groan. “I need some help.”

His eyes fly up and he leans in closer, his chin on his crossed fingers. “Ohhh,” he tsks. “You poor dear, give Freddie all the deets.”

Fuck, I need alcohol for this, but I have my sweet new car to drive home. I huff a sigh and unload, tell Freddie about Ben’s promise, my hookup in New York, my hookups here and Connecticut, how I heard Ben groan my name, twice now, how I’m friend-zoned - fucking everything.

“Ohh, you both are dancing around each other like little jumping beans,” he sighs with his fingers on his heart. “You need to give him clear signals so he can cross that line, sweetie. He made you a promise and that,” he smacks the bar top for emphasis, “is a man of principle. He wants you, but he will not make that first move.”

“Freddie!” I groan. “Not helping.”

“Ok, sweet cheeks, here’s what you are going to do to seduce your man,” Freddie giggles.

19

BEN

This was a mistake. What the hell was I thinking when I invited Geoff to move in? I did not give enough weight to the fact that I want Geoff. It’s been pure masochistic torture to sit so near him and not touch him. I fucking promised him I would not try to go there with him and I am fighting every minute we are together to keep that promise. My fingers twitch to run over his broad shoulders, that gorgeous ass, over the newly smooth sides of his head and grab his shaggy brown hair on top as I force him to fix those gorgeous blues on me.

I jerk off every night, so glad he is in another building and I can groan out his name as I imagine him on his knees in front of me as I splatter in my shower. In Connecticut, I had a string of dark bar blowjobs. Last night, I hit up one of the gay bathhouses, and some obliging guy sucked me off in a dark corner. No idea what he looked like. Don’t care. In my head, it was Geoff’s mouth swallowing down my cum, his plush lips sucking on my shaft, my hands in his dark hair, holding that newly shaved scalp as I thrust into his mouth. I was only at the club for twenty minutes total. In the door, strip, stand in the right place, cum, get dressed and leave. I finally slept.

And now?

Now Geoff is sunning on my deck wearing only the tiniest of thongs.

That glorious young body is laid out to perfection on the lounge chair, oiled pecs, stomach and shoulders glistening, tan lines from his golf shirts wrapped around beautiful biceps. And those legs. I want those legs around my waist. The pale ass just so high and tight I want to grip, hold on to as I… Dear god, I cannot stay out here. I turn to retreat to my bedroom but am stopped by him calling out “Hey Ben?”

“Yeah?” I answer, my voice tight, keeping my eyes inside the house.

“Could you get my back?” he asks.

Oh holy fuck, shit, damn. If I touch him…

“Sure,” I manage and walk to him, eyes on the deck, and sit on the lounge next to him. I extend a hand to grab the lotion and squeeze, too hard, squirting a far-too-big glob into my palm. Shit.

“Sit up,” I demand curtly. I am not going to try to do this while he is lying down, hell no. Not with that delicious ass right there, fuck no. He rotates up to sitting and puts his back to me. I reach out and try my damnedest to make short work of spreading the white goop over his back, desperately ignoring the feel of his hot skin under my hands, my cock achingly rigid. Dammit, I have too much lotion and it’s streaky as hell.

“Here,” he says, “give me the extra. I’ll get my legs.” And he turns around. His cock is hard, testing the ability of that thong to keep him contained. He spreads his legs, one on each side of the lounge and the other against my knee, reaching for my hand to scrape off some of the excess, holding my wrist in a vice grip. Swiping his palm over his thigh, he doesn’t release my wrist. The tip of his cock escapes the thong, dark and glistening. He makes no move to cover it, and sweat runs down my back. Again he scrapes his palm over mine, then huffs and says, “Just rub it onto my chest, I guess?”

I must make a noise because he finally catches my eyes, and he steals my breath. He is staring into my eyes, pleading. He leans forward and puts my hand on his pec, right over his nipple. It pebbles under my palm, and he leans in harder, not releasing my hand.

“Geoff,” I grunt, tugging my wrist, trying to retreat, get away, before I can’t stop.