Big-dick Bottom Pt. 11

"Hey!" I yelped, as he pressed his hips against my ass, pinning me to the couch.

"Shut up," he grunted, pulling at my belt, trying to get my khakis down past my ass.

I began to flail my arms, but he grabbed my wrists and bent my arms painfully behind my back. I felt the hardness of his erection pressing against my ass. I writhed again, harder, and as he wrestled with me, one of my legs slipped out from the lock of his hips. I slammed the heel of my shoe down on his bare foot and he howled and fell to the floor, releasing my hands. I whirled and tried to run out the door, but he grabbed my foot and pulled me back toward him.

"You little shit!" he hissed at me, pulling me closer and closer to him, clawing his hands up my leg.

Desperate, I looked around and grasped at a large decorative vase from a nearby table. My fingers closed around the neck of it and I brought it down onto the sad dad's head. The vase shattered and he wailed, letting go of my leg and grabbing his head in his hands. I saw blood start to seep from a cut on his temple.

"Fuck!" he screamed, scrambling to his feet. "I'll kill you, you fucking faggot!" he screamed again, but I was out the door and running full bore back to my truck.

I slammed the door, started the engine and tore out of the driveway, not looking back to see if he was coming after me. I didn't start to calm down until I'd put about a mile between me and his house.

Shaking, I pulled over to the side of the road next to a wide, empty park and took a few deep breaths. God damn. I thought back to all the times I'd sucked sad dad's dick in his garage... his mopey look and those thirty extra pounds... the harder edge I'd started to sense in him over time... and then, today, the rage in his face and in his voice. I felt a sense of danger lick up my body and exit my chest with a shudder.

I pinched my eyes shut and then opened them again, trying to clear my head. As I gazed out the window, I realized that where I'd pulled over wasn't actually a park. I'd driven by this place countless times this summer, not realizing it was a cemetery. The gravestones were low and flat, and a few of them had bouquets of flowers laid next to them. Overhead, great oaks swayed in the wind.

I started the car and drove off, back to the restaurant.

~

We were slammed all the way through close. Mario even had to call Jeff to help Danny and me cover all the deliveries. By the time I got back to the restaurant after my last run, it was after 10:30. I heard loud music pouring from the back door of the restaurant, which was propped open to the parking lot.

Inside was a whole scene. The Top 40 radio station was blaring and everyone was clustered around the pizza-making counter, singing loudly. Pretty much everyone was there—Amanda, who had stuck around after her shift, Stacy, Derek, Jason, the new guy Ryan, the waitresses, Becky and Frannie, and the two other drivers, Jeff and Danny. When I walked in, Mario was making the rounds, pouring liquor into red Pizza Hut cups in everyone's hands.

"Paulie, Paulie, Paulie!" he yelled when he saw me come in.

He ran over and handed me a red cup filled with soda and that reeked of vodka.

"Looks like the party started early," I said, taking the cup from him.

"We were gonna go to Gio's but yeah," he said. He put his hand on my lower back and then patted my butt.

He smiled at me. I could tell that he was drunk, but not completely wasted. I took a sip from the cup and winced at the ratio of soda to alcohol. Mario pulled me by the shoulder toward the rest of the group, and I was greeted by a chorus of shouts. I felt a warmth spread through me. It was partly the liquor and partly the hot night... but also... the realization washed over me in an instant. These were my friends. It was maybe the first time in my life that I felt I could actually say the word—friends—and have it mean something.

The thought hit me simultaneously with the awareness that I still hadn't told them that this was it, that this was my last day.

I took another sip and looked around. It seemed like everyone, even Stacy, was having a good time, dancing and singing as one banger after another came on the radio. The guys were taking turns spinning around with the ladies, taking Mario's lead, dancing like we were at some sort of old-time high school prom.

Suddenly, Amanda grabbed my hand and pulled me up to her voluminous chest, and then spun me around the room while Mario and the rest of them laughed and whooped.

"Lookout, Paulie, keep your head up, buddy!" Mario yelled as my face dipped perilously close the exposed ledge of Amanda's cleavage. I laughed and broke away from her, then grabbed Stacy's hand.

At least for the moment, I decided to let loose.

~

Later, Stacy pulled me outside to have a cigarette. We leaned against the dark, multicolored brick of the Pizza Hut and blew our smoke out into the heavy night air. I was somewhere between tipsy and drunk—I was pretty sure Mario was topping off my drink when I wasn't watching.

Out of the blue, I blurted out, "I don't want to go, Stace."

"What do you mean, you don't want to go?" she said.

"I mean, I wanna stay here, with you guys," I said.

"No you don't, Paulie. You're just drunk."

"I'm not drunk, and it's true. I don't wanna go."

"Talk to me tomorrow, Paulie, when you're sober."

"But that's just it, Stace," I said, waving my cigarette out in front of me dramatically, "there is no tomorrow."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Stacy said, making a face at me.

I took a deep drag on my cigarette and then threw it onto the ground. It exploded in a shower of brilliant sparks.

"I'm leaving," I said.

"Yeah, no shit, Paulie. I know. At the end of the summer," Stacy said.

"No," I said. "I mean, like, this is it. I'm leaving. On Monday."

Stacy turned to look at me. "What?" she said.

"Yeah," I said, and I started laughing. The booze, the cigarette, the fucking Pizza Hut. It was all too much. Hysterical, all of a sudden.

"This is it. Tonight's the night. My last day. The last hurrah," I said.

Stacy didn't laugh. She just stared at me. "You're kidding," she said.

"No," I said. I shook my head.

"I don't believe this," she said, and she threw her cigarette on the ground and walked away.

I ran after her and grabbed her hand. She tore it away from me.

"Whoa, Stacy, wait," I said.

She turned to face me. She stuck her finger in my face.

"Fuck you, Paulie," she said. "Honestly. Fuck you. I don't believe you. Does anything matter to you? Your fucking job? Me? Mario?"

I took a step back, shocked at how angry she was. It took a moment for her words to register.

"How can you even ask me that, Stace," I said, "after everything..."

"Yeah, after everything that's happened, you're just going to fuck off? Just like that? Were you even going to say anything?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Well, when?" Stacy said, looking at her watch. "Cause it's twelve fucking thirty AM and your boss is in there, thinking you're gonna show up to work tomorrow."

"There wasn't any good time, OK?" I said, getting angry myself, now. "You and Mario—neither of you were talking to me all week. And then, today, all of a sudden, it's a party, and everyone's happy again, and..."

"Oh my God, you're such a baby, Paulie," Stacy said, cutting me off. "When are you going to grow the fuck up?"

The disgust in her voice sliced through me like a blade. I closed my mouth and took a couple steps back, away from her. She took another cigarette out of her pack and I saw that her hands were shaking as she lit it. I stood for a moment, looking at her and listening to the music and loud voices coming from inside the kitchen. I couldn't go back inside. Not like this. So I turned away and started walking across the parking lot toward my truck. Nobody came after me.

I was halfway home before the tears came. I pulled off the side of the road and let the sobs take over my body.

~

The next day, my mom knocked loudly on my bedroom door to wake me up, way too early. I stumbled to the bathroom and immediately got sick, puking into the toilet. I must have had more to drink than I thought, and once again, I hadn't eaten any dinner so all the booze had hit me on an empty stomach.

The car ride to the outlet mall—about an hour away—was misery. Not only was I hung over and concentrating on not puking, but my mom was chattering incessantly. She must have mentioned David Deacon about a hundred times, encouraging me to seek the chaplain out "first thing" once I got to campus.

"I just think that starting off on the right track is going to be so good for you, honey," she said, starting in again after having been blissfully silent for about a minute. "So will you definitely go and make an appointment with him right away when you get to campus?"

"With who?" I said, rubbing my temples. But when she looked over at me with dismay, I just smiled.

"Yes, mother, I promise I will go and talk to him, OK?"

"Oh, Paulie, I'm just..." she reached over and grabbed my wrist and gave it a squeeze. "I'm just nervous is all... you're my last one. My last baby, going off to school, and so far away..."

She sniffed, and then she was crying, wiping tears away with her fingers.

I sighed. "Mom, it's OK," I said.

"I know, I know," she said, shaking her head to gather her composure.

We drove for a few minutes in silence.

"But, Paulie..." she said.

I inhaled impatiently. If she said one more thing about that fucking chaplain... but she cleared her throat. When she spoke again it was with a clear, steady voice.

"Paulie, I know," she said.

My heart skipped a beat. "What?" I said, quietly.

"I know," she repeated. She turned to look at me and in her eyes I saw that she did know. There was a clarity there that I rarely saw. A light of understanding.

"I know..." she said again, and she cleared her throat again before saying, "... that it's not going to be easy for you... in this life. The way that you are. And I don't know that I fully understand, but..."

Her hand went to her neck, where she pulled at the metal chain of her necklace. I had gone completely cold, not moving, as she spoke. The yellow-green of endless fields of cornstalks whizzed by, out the car window.

"But I want you to know that we love you, your father and I, and your sister and brothers, your family, Paulie. We love you." She stared straight ahead, and wiped more tears from her face.

"I love you too, mom," I said, finally, finding words.

My mom reached for my hand again and clasped it tightly. "Now," she said, "in terms of clothes. It's probably not going to get as cold out there as it does here, but you're still going to need a sturdy jacket. So we'll go to the coat factory, first, I think..."

~

We didn't get back until after three in the afternoon. My hangover had faded but I was still exhausted and just wanted to take a nap. I hauled all the shopping up to my room—two huge suitcases and more clothes, it seemed, than I'd ever owned in my life. I was surprised at how generous my parents were being. My mom hadn't even let me spend any of my own money.

Back in my room, I crashed on the lower bunk of the bed and passed out. I woke up to my dad yelling at me from the bottom of the stairs.

"Paul! Phone!"

I pulled myself up and was momentarily disoriented by how dark it was. The sun had gone down. I must have been asleep for hours. I trudged into the hallway phone and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" I said. I heard the click of my dad hanging up the phone downstairs.

"P," the voice said. My stomach lurched.

"Mario," I said.

"Hey, P," he said, "Stace gave me the news... about you leaving us."

I heard a loud clanging in the background—the telltale sound of a dropped pizza pan. I could picture him there, at the restaurant, calling me from the manager's kiosk in the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, Mario," I said, "I wanted to tell you, but..."

"Hey P, it's OK. No worries, huh? I mean, yeah, we coulda used a bit more notice," he said, but he chuckled.

"Sorry," I said again.

"Come over, huh, P?" Mario said, dropping his voice.

"Mario..."

"Just come over. Tonight."

I sat on the line, listening to the sounds of the restaurant through the phone.

"Paulie?" he said.

"Yeah, OK," I said.

~

I ate dinner with my parents and then watched TV with them until about ten, when they went to bed.

"I think I'll stay up a while," I said.

My dad looked at me suspiciously, but then he and my mom said goodnight and went upstairs. About an hour later I turned off the TV and listened for them, but the house was completely quiet. Padding silently, I made my way out of the house.

Outside, I didn't want to start the truck, since I was parked in the driveway and I knew that my parents slept with the windows open. So as quietly as I could, I put the truck in neutral and rolled it down the driveway into the road. The momentum carried the Blazer into the street and a ways down the road until I felt I was far enough away to start the engine.

When I pulled up at my usual spot around the block from Mario's house and walked through the gap in the adjoining yards, my eyes caught on the shabbiness of it all. Not that many nights ago, I had walked these same steps through the overgrown grass, the rusty chain-link fencing, the leaning particle board sheds in the corners of the yards. Then, it had all had a kind of a surreal, magical quality. Details sparkling in the fairy dust of excitement and the forbidden pleasure of clandestine sex. But now, in the bright moonlight, everything just looked flatter and sadder.

I hesitated at the foot of his back steps, looking up at the old Victorian house with its peeling paint and the uneven gutter running along the roof of the porch. There was a light on in the kitchen—the light over the stove—and a light on in the bathroom upstairs. As I stood looking up at it, I heard the familiar creak of footsteps crossing the kitchen floor—Mario, trekking from the living room to the cabinet by the sink where he kept the liquor.

I contemplated turning around. I wasn't sure if I had the heart to go in, to see him. But then I remembered the waver of his voice from earlier, on the phone, asking me to come over, and so I climbed the stairs.

He was at the back door to meet me when I pushed it open. He put the glass he was holding down on the table and then I was in his arms, wrapped up in him, and there were tears coming down my face.

"Oh, P... Paulie, no," he said, smiling at me, wiping my tears with his wide thumbs, bending to meet my eyes, which I couldn't bring to look at him.

I was wracked with sobs and he was hugging me tight to his chest saying, "No, No, P, it doesn't have to be like that, it's OK."

He lifted my chin with his finger and made me meet his eyes. There was a sadness there, and a kindness—a warmth that broke my heart, all at once, into a thousand pieces.

"It's OK, P," he said.

I reached up and pulled his head down to mine, and kissed him. He was hesitant at first, reluctant to kiss me, not opening his mouth to mine. But I kept pulling at him until he relented, with a great sigh, and then we were kissing and stumbling in a haphazard tango through his kitchen and into the living room until we were on the couch, laid out next to each other, pawing at each other's bodies and grinding our erections against each other.

It was the same couch where we'd first jerked off, and the same one that he'd fucked me on for the first time, and then many more times subsequently. I knew the feel and the smell of the old, matted fabric of the couch and it felt good—correct—against my bare skin, when he pulled off my shirt and my pants, and I pulled his off, too, his sweaty skin pressed against mine and my body ground into the old, ratty couch under his weight, his furry chest and belly, pressing into me, and his fat, uncut cock poking me, sticking out through the slit in his boxers.

He fucked me there, on that couch, my underwear pulled partway down, and my legs folded up between us, pressing into his belly. Sweat dripped down onto me off of him. The thick, black hair on his head was wet with his exertion, his grunts and moans mingling with mine as he worked his cock into my hole with just his spit for lube, licked onto his palm and rubbed between my legs.

His cock sank into me and I took him, the familiar bulk of him, inside me. I knew the way his cock head felt as it slid inside me, the way my hole knew to relax for him, his smell, the rasp of his stubble against my skin. The skin of my neck, the skin of my chest and cheek. And when he kissed me, breathed on me, he exhaled the sweet-acrid stench of whiskey down onto me.

He made me come, like that, folded up underneath him, with just the action of his stout cock in my hole. He pushed into me and held himself there when he realized that I was shaking with an orgasm, and then, gently, he pulled himself out of me and held me in his arms as I quaked and shivered with post-orgasmic tremors.

"Don't go, P," he said, whispering into my ear as he stroked my chest with his thumb.

"Mario..." I started to say, but he cut me off.

"I mean tonight, P. Don't go. Just stay with me tonight, OK? Stay the night? Don't leave."

I took his big mitt of a hand in mine and traced the gaps between his fingers. His other hand was on my belly, stroking me.

"OK," I said.

~

When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining bright and and birds were singing in the trees outside Mario's bedroom window. I opened my eyes and saw the frilly, lace curtains billowing in the breeze. I stretched my arms over my head and looked around—the bed was empty.

I got up. I was completely naked. My mind flashed back over the preceding hours. My memory was blank after a certain point—my brain wiped clean by an accumulation of sex and whiskey. My head was fuzzy, but I didn't feel too sick. I walked out into the hallway and then I heard him calling up the stairs.

"Hey P! Waffles are ready, get your skinny little butt down here!"

"Coming!" I said, and made my way to the bathroom, where I washed my face. I saw tracks of dried cum on the skin of my chest and belly. I took one of the seashell-embroidered hand towels from the basket on the bathroom table and wiped the cum from my skin, then hung the towel on the rack on the wall.

In the kitchen, Mario was humming, shirtless, flipping a waffle from an iron onto a plate already piled high. When he saw me, naked, he whistled.

"Ooo, Paulie, the naked delivery boy!" he said, and I hustled into the living room to collect my shirt and shorts.

He poured himself a coffee and one for me, and as I pulled up to the table, I saw him drip whiskey into his mug from the bottle that we'd opened last night. He held the bottle up to my mug but I shook my head.

We ate our waffles and sipped our coffee, not talking. After he'd devoured the lion's share of the waffles, he said, "So, when's your flight?"

"Tomorrow," I said, "early."

"Hmm," he said. "Minneapolis?"

"Yeah."

"You'll come back to visit, huh, P?"

"Yeah."

"Christmas?"

I nodded, forking the last of the waffle from my plate into my mouth and avoiding looking at his eyes.

When we were done, Mario stood up and took my plate from in front of me. He carried it, with his, to the sink. I heard the water run. I rubbed my hands together in my lap, both of them sticky with syrup. I saw the shoulder blades flex in his broad back flex as he worked at the sink, humming. I heard the clink of the dishes as he washed them.

~

I pulled up the dirt driveway and slowly approached the old, dilapidated trailer. There was a beautiful cottonwood towering over the place I'd never really noticed before, its leaves twisting green and yellow-green in the morning sunlight. I cut the motor on the Blazer and checked the clock on the dashboard. It was almost nine. Hopefully not too early, I thought.