Designated Driver Ch. 01

Dedicated to readers who loved "Bittersweet" and wrote to me, again and again, requesting another story "like that." I hope this satisfies.

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I knew something was wrong that morning when, slowly coming awake, I didn't immediately know where I was. My sense of direction and place is impeccable, a good thing for a driver. It's not often that I feel lost. I did at that moment. Lost in a bed I didn't know, inhaling smells I didn't recognize. I was wearing a tee shirt and briefs. Socks, too. Which wasn't right either. I sleep in the buff. But what really tipped me off was the bedroom ceiling. I didn't know it.

Then I felt a warm body beside me.

Arthur. It was Arthur. And he was naked. No shit, no dream. He had restlessly kicked down the Egyptian cotton sheets allowing me to see him in all his sleeping-prince glory. Tousled black hair, skin a Mediterranean bronze, sculpted shoulders and a chest shaved smooth. Not overly buff, just firm. Like the handsome hard-on rising out of the black patch of his pubic hair.

I gazed, enthralled, at the sensitive veins and silken gold skin of that beautiful chubby, the darker mushroom head so proudly flared. Saliva pooled under my tongue. And that's when the events of last night returned to me. All of it.

Crap. Oh, crap.

Trousers. Where had I left my trousers? Kitchen. That nook of cabinets where it had all happened. My shoes were there, too. Jacket was draped over a chair. I glanced over at Arthur. He was still very much asleep, a winsome smile on his chiseled face. I wanted to kiss those lips. Kiss him awake and suck on his tongue, then nibble my way on down to breakfast.

And that was not going to happen. I had to get out before those eyes came open.

But first I had to take care of my own morning wood.

I tiptoed to the bathroom and did my business fast as I could. Then I splashed cold water over my unshaven cheeks. Wake up, Eric! I told myself. My mirror image gazed back in dismay. I suppose I'd be called a twink if I was at all cute. 5'4" and skinny is a generous description. A scrawny wimp is more accurate. Basic brown hair, basic washed out complexion. My gray eyes tend to gog. There is nothing all appealing about me, not even my very average cock.

Which is why I was in the situation I was in now, one I had sworn, on my mother, on my soul, I'd never get into again. And how the fuck had I gotten into it again?

I snuck back into the main room. Arthur was curled with hands near his chin. I felt my resolution melting and quickly fetched my jeans and shoes out of the kitchen. One shoe slipped and hit the hardwood floors. I winced, but Arthur didn't stir. I ended up with shoelaces between my teeth, brown oxfords swinging as I struggled to get into my pants. My stocking feet slid out from under me and I stumbled into the bed.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap! My pounding heart spiked as I sat on the mattress. I was such a horrific bundle of nerves I couldn't even get my damn pants on. I set down the shoes, sucked in some air, and was about to make another go of it when a hand clamped on my bare arm. Arthur had large, strong hands with hair between the knuckles.

"Eric?"

My heart was racing now. Pulse pounding in my ears. Worse of all, I'd started to tremble.

"M-morning, Arthur. Gosh, will you look at the time—"

He didn't let go. If anything, his grip got tighter. I was going to have to face the music. I looked at him over my shoulder. He was frowning and I prayed it was confusion and not anger.

"What happened?"

#

What happened--Eric

For me what happened started all the way back in elementary school. I'd always been the shy kid, the small, invisible one. Neighboring moms and dads would overlook me when they passed out cookies. Other kids would reach and ask, and walk out with two. I'd end up with none.

Things weren't much better at home. I'd try to get my parents' attention, and they'd say, "We have to get your brother to soccer practice" or "Can it wait, Eric? I'm working" or "I'm on the phone, be a good boy and amuse yourself." At the dinner table they'd all talk to each other, mom, dad, my big brother, but never to me. On the rare occasions that I did try to speak up, they'd stare at me till I was done, then go right back to whatever they'd been discussing.

Maybe it was because I'd come late into their lives, seven years after my brother who was the family darling. I'd been an unplanned and unwanted extra and remained so as I grew.

Even the posse of kids I hung out with didn't know what to do with me. I remember all too clearly that fateful day the gang went quiet and looked my way as I approached them. I knew something was up because they usually paid no attention to me at all.

"Hey, what's going on?" I murmured, feeling a sudden tightness in my throat. Why were they all looking at me?

A glance between them, and then Ric, the leader said, "We don't want you tagging along anymore. You're no good at sports or anything."

"Yeah," the others agreed.

It was the first time I'd ever felt my stomach drop with dread. It wouldn't be the last. "Did I do something wrong? I won't do it again," I tried.

"Sorry." Ric said and led the group away. I never did find out what I'd done to make them cut me out, and I never stopped wondering about it either.

So, okay, kids can be cruel, right? And if that had been all, I might have gotten over it. It wasn't. There was this new kid, Pedro. I saw him standing alone at recess and shyly asked if he wanted to play. He did, that day and the next. For about a month, we were inseparable. We skateboarded together at recess, and always saved each other a place at lunch.

He made other friends, which I didn't mind as it meant I got to share those friends with him. Then I made the mistake of trying to join in on the conversation. The guys were talking about how annoyed they were with kid brothers barging into their rooms, and big sisters having a superior attitude.

"Yeah," I tried to assert, "my brother...I mean like he always has to be the center...of attention I mean and...he's always ignoring me and...."

The eyes were on me again, the silence deafening. I stopped and shrugged, as if I'd finished. But I felt Pedro's embarrassed shift. The next day, when I came over with my lunch, his friends nudged him, and he put his hand down on the bench.

"Seat's taken," he told me.

He never talked or played with me again.

By junior high, I had a pretty good idea of who and what I was. I was the guy who didn't get invited to birthday parties, or movies or sleepovers or trick-or-treating. No one let me join in on the practical jokes or computer games. Picked last for the team didn't even begin to cover it. I wasn't picked at all.

By high school I was also pretty sure I was gay, which didn't help me with the shyness, but it did save me from being rejected by girls as well as guys.

By graduation, I'd learned two, immutable laws: no one, not a group of friends, not even my family, was going to willingly invite me in unless I could be of some use. And if I did get let in, I couldn't ever forget that I was there on sufferance. One slip and I'd be out. Those were the rules. By college, I was living by them.

I came out of the closet, though it hardly mattered. No one who knew me really cared, and my social life remained pretty much the same. If I wanted to see a movie or a band, I went alone. At dances and events, I stood against the wall. Scoping eyes passed over me. It's not that I expected the studs to vie for my favor. All I wanted was to feel I was worth someone's time.

Not that I was completely friendless. Obeying my first law, I'd ingratiated myself with some fellow students by loaning them notes, arranging a study group, and offering to fetch the pizza. I didn't impose, and they tolerated me. They even waved me over now and then, allowing me to sit with them at the coffeehouse.

Which is how, one fateful evening, I ended up in the local gay bar seated at a table with Bob. Bob was a handsome, black grad student who, like me, was in the architecture department. Bob, however, was at the opposite end of the spectrum: he was enormously popular and social. One of my study buddies was dating one of Bob's buddies and when I entered the bar, my friend waved me over.

Bob's group was smart and lively and confident. Most were about to get their degree and, like Bob, already had jobs at some firm or company. I sat quietly and, I thought, invisibly, enjoying the laughter and conversation, and Bob's gregarious personality. Being an alcoholic lightweight, I kept to club soda with lime. The rest of the guys challenged each other's stamina with Boilermakers. I watched them overturn shots of whiskey into their Coors before swilling the brew. It didn't take long before everyone was three-sheets to the wind.

That's when Bob's attention suddenly fastened on me. "Are you still sober?"

I froze. That kind of question usually meant that I was going to become the night's entertainment, forced to chug till I threw up. And if I wanted to stay in the group's good graces, I was going to have to do it. Rule two: I could not slip up.

"I don't drink much—" I tried, half-heartedly.

"Good!" Bob unexpectedly grinned. "You can drive us home!"

Bob's suggestion was the best stroke of luck that could have happened to me. I may not have had a talent for sports or conversation, but I was a natural when it came to driving; I was not only good at it, I loved it. I would travel around the city in my used Acura, sometimes late into the night, heading down side streets, listening to the radio and memorizing shortcuts.

I drove the group home that night, and found myself called upon to drive them home again a week later. Bob, I quickly learned, was a hyperactive madman who believed in working hard and playing hard. If he had a weekend free he filled it: dancing, clubbing, poker games. His nights out didn't always involve drinking, but they did involve others and usually required a car. I provided this and did all the driving, which Bob liked. Pretty soon I knew where most of his buddies lived, and I organized the stops to make pick up and drop off more efficient.

Which brings me to blond, blue-eyed Sam. He was almost always the last one in my car because he lived nearest to me. One night, Sam got really wasted. He was barely able to open the car door, stumbled and ended up seated on the steps to his apartment trying to find his keys.

I turned off the ignition, got out and took the keys from him. After opening the door to his bachelor pad, I got a shoulder under his armpit and walked him in. Flipping on the yellow light in the hall, I maneuvered him into the living room.

"There you go," I said and turned to leave.

"Don't go," Sam asked, hands pawing after me. "You're cute. Wanna suck my cock?"

That stopped me. I wasn't a virgin, but my few experiences had been quickies in toilets and dark corners. And the desperate guys I done it with had treated me like I was nothing more than an alternative to their right hand. Now here was Sam, buff and handsome, acting like he actually wanted me. Like he really saw and desired me.

He'd called me "cute." No one had ever said that to me.

He was slumped in a chair, drunk as a skunk. I hesitated for about two seconds, then I went to my knees, undid his jeans, reached into his shorts and got out his flaccid cock. It was pale and blue veined, and reeked of sweaty underwear.

"Oh, yeah," he breathed as I took his warm mushroom head into my mouth. "Oh, babe, that's the way I like it."

I felt his hands on my head, stroking. Sucking cock was something I loved doing, and this was the first time I'd been given a chance to really enjoy it. It was also the first time that a guy had ever run his fingers tenderly through my hair, as if I were a great lover.

Saliva flowed and I slicked down his tool.

"Oh, that's sweet," he said, and a shiver ran up my spine. His cock was growing thick and stiff and I was able to take it down deeper. Precum, salty and bitter, like pretzels and beer, played over my tongue.

"So good, so goooooood—"

My own cock was getting hard, throbbing there in my jeans. I was aroused by the cocksucking, but most of all by Sam's words, his hands stroking my neck, his focused attention. On me. All on me.

I bobbed and slurped, and fondled his nuts through his shorts. Sam continued his endearments.

"You're the best. I love you. Oh, baby—"

He began to fuck my mouth, nearly choking me. Then he grabbed hold of the chair arms. Stiffening, he shot his seed down my throat. I tasted that glue on my tongue, and swallowed what I could. The rest dribbled out, wetting Sam's underwear. I rested back on my heels, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. Sam gazed at me with drunk, lidded eyes. He smiled peaceably.

"That was wonderful," he said, and leaned down to give me a very sloppy kiss. Then he passed out.

I wasn't frustrated. To the contrary, I was elated. I went home, and jerked off while replaying the scene. The memory of Sam's voice calling me "babe" and telling me that he loved me got me so hard, so hot that when I finally came it left me breathless.

Not that I expected Sam to remember any of it, not given how drunk and out of it he'd been. And he didn't. The next time I was invited to sit at a table with him, he didn't even glance my way. I suppose if he recalled anything, it was that he'd gotten a blowjob, or maybe just dreamt it. Who had given it to him was likely a blur.

From my end, however, the encounter with Sam was nothing short of a revelation. It should have been obvious, but it hadn't been to me, not till that night: the drunker the guy, the more likely he was to take notice of me. Simple as that.

I started hanging out in the gay bars, drinking my soda water, and keeping an eye out for lone studs. Whenever I saw a promising one on the brink of inebriation, I offered to drive him home. For his own safety, of course. It worked out pretty well for a while. I made sure I wasn't with anyone too unpredictable, and that the sex stayed safe. And while I might have done the driving, I always followed the drunk guy's directions. Whatever he wanted, he got, and when we were done, I left him safe in bed.

There was a price to pay, of course. None of these guys ever sought me out for a second date. Hell, few of them even learned my name. I'm sure some remembered our lovemaking, but in the cold light of sobriety they wanted nothing more to do with me. I accepted that. I never tried to reconnect with them. For one night, their silky cocks had been all mine. Their attention and affection, all mine. That was good enough for me.

And then I made a mistake. A bad one. Mike. Roan haired, red-bearded Mike with his pumped body and twinkling eyes. Mike was sexiest guy in town and everyone wanted him. But only the best ever got him. Every other week he was with a different stallion. Even college jocks, usually discreet about their sexuality, were willing to be seen with Mike. He'd come into a bar with a blindingly handsome hunk, and they'd drink and tangle tongues until cocks were bulging.

I use to watch and imagine what it would be like to be noticed by Mike. Then, one night, Mike came in alone. He ordered a shot of whiskey and made himself comfortable. I thought he might be waiting for someone, but no one showed. He asked for shot after shot, until the bartender, Ken, asked for his keys. Mike surrendered them and had some more shots. By now he was swaying and looking rather hazy. He demanded his keys back.

The inevitable argument started up between him and Ken.

"They're my keys, you fuck! I'll fuck you up if you don't give 'em back—" That sort of thing.

That's when I made my move. "I'll drive him home."

"Oh, hey Eric." Most of the bartenders knew me by name. I'm sure they also knew what I was up to, but they didn't seem to care. So long as I got the drunks off their hands. Ken certainly looked relieved. "You sure?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Mike demanded.

"Eric's our good Samaritan," Ken said. "He saves guys like you from DUI's."

Mike pondered that, then muttered, "Okay. But I'm still comin' back t' fuck you up!"

Ken rolled his eyes and handed Mike's keys to me.

I got Mike's into my Acura and drove him home. I helped him inside, which wasn't easy. He weighed a ton and nearly crushed my spine as he leaned on me. Once inside, however, things went pretty much as planned. He decided he was horny, and that he was going to take my ass. I figured he'd be rough about it and he was. I'd barely gotten the condom on him before he had me on the rug.

"Tell me you wanna be fucked!" he demanded giving my vulnerable ass a hard slap.

"I wanna be fucked, " I yelped, even as he shoved in lubed fingers and stretched my hole. I groaned and wiggled my butt, which got a drunken laugh.

"Beg for it bitch!"

"Fuck me, please. Please fuck me!"

And then his cockhead was at my entrance, pushing hard and fast enough that I cried out. He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me onto him.

"Fuck! I love fucking twinks!" he growled. "So easy to toss around." Which he pretty much did, all the while banging my ass. He left me with all kinds of rug burns before he finally shot his load.

That's where it ought to have ended, but I was too limp and shaken to move. So I remained, panting on the floor, until Mike hauled me up.

"Let's to go to bed—" he said, breathing his liquored breath on me.

"I have to go home—"

"Bed." And before I knew it, I was in bed with him. He lay atop me, kissing and cuddling me. Even though I knew he was drunk, it was nice to imagine he actually liked me. Nice to feel safe and cared for in his arms.

I went to sleep. That was my mistake.

The next morning I was woken by a snarl: "What the fuck?" I squinted to see Mike propped up on an arm, red-eyed and glaring at me. The hard light of day was pouring into the room, which probably wasn't helping Mike's hangover.

"Um, good morning," I murmured, and tried to slip out of bed.

He grabbed me by the throat. He had huge hands and I have a very skinny neck. I gasped and tried to pry off his fingers.

"Did we fuck last night?" he demanded.

My heart was racing. I tried shaking my head.

"Did we?"

"Y-you fucked me—" I managed to gasp.

He shoved me off the bed. I landed hard and tried to crawl away, but he was already out and standing over me. He was as naked as I was, but he didn't look vulnerable. His fist came down, getting me in the back. I screamed.

Then he grabbed me by my skinny arm, so hard I thought he was going to break it. "I must have been really, really drunk," he said, "and you must have known it, because I don't fuck desperate sluts like you. I don't invite them into my home. I don't invite them into my bed. And I don't let them suck my cock."

"I didn't—I didn't--you insisted—"

"I don't fuck their asses either!" Mike backhanded me. Then he kicked and punched, till I was huddled in the corner, protecting my head and shaking. I thought he was going to kill me.

"Get the fuck out!" he barked.

I scrambled for my clothes and got on my jeans before ending up on his front porch.

"You say one word about this to anyone, and you're dead," he promised, and slammed shut the door.

Somehow, I managed to drive myself home. Locked in my student apartment, I checked myself out. There were livid, bruises on my arms and back. My lip was swollen and bloody. My one thought was that if I went out like this, I'd be noticed. Everyone would go quiet, and eyes would fix on me in that not-good way.

So I hid in the apartment for the rest of the week. I cut classes and ordered in food, limping about and sleeping badly. Every time I drifted off, I came awake with a start, sure I heard Mike's angry fist hammering on my door.