Rewriting Singularity Ch. 13

Hec was walking funny. I think it was either that last piece of pumpkin pie with three dollops of whipped cream or that last piece of me-- I didn't come with whipped cream though-- still, I knew we could both fit in that bathtub, and he did say I tasted a bit like whipped topping, maybe Reddi wip. I told him "I'd rather be topping then whipped," but then I added, "Hey, I'm ready for it if you are."

Eat, drink and be merry, I'd said. Or fairy. Maybe a merry fairy. He didn't laugh, but me? I was pretty merry knowing in a few days Christmas was coming and so was I, in or out of the bathtub. Best of all I wasn't leaving anytime soon.

"I can't believe you're still hungry," Hec said. I watched his wet derriere cling sumptuously to the old flannel pjs he threw on so we could make our incredible-edible journey to the kitchen without showing skin. I was for the natural look, but Hec was a bit more modest.

"I can't believe that Kate's fried chicken, mashed potatoes, lumpy gravy, and extra special seven-layer salad wasn't enough! You are a bottomless pit, Jake."

"I know-- I'm a bottomless pit for your love."I walked behind, taking in the view, wiping my sweaty palms on my sweatpants. Anywhere you go, I will follow. Any excuse to trail behind that perfect ass makes Mr. Happy, happy.

At our destination, he opened the fridge and leaned over. Be still my heart.

"There's leftovers from tonight," he said. "America's Finest fruitcake or corndogs."

"America's Finest fruitcake? Isn't that an oxymoron?"

"No, actually it's good. Doesn't taste like any fruitcake you've had-- I mean, it's palatable. Has walnuts and candied pineapple and--"

"Stop! I'll pass. I have nightmares about the fruitcakes my Aunt Bess used to make. The third little pig could have used them to build his house. I like corndogs though-- makes me think of the county fair. That's a better memory."

"Sounds like corndogs it is--"

"Yes, I'll take horn dogs for twenty, Alec."

"You're a horn dog alright."

"Corndog, horn dog, porn dog-- so many choices!" I joked.

"I can microwave some. How many you want?"

"I don't know," I said. "How many are in a pack?"

He counted. "Eight."

"Sounds good."

"Eight corndogs?!"

"I figured you'd want one."

Hec laughed. Such a comely laugh. Made me want to bend him over that counter and--

I wonder how many times I could come in one day? We'd have to test that sometime-- send the results into Kinsey Institute.

He arranged the corndogs carefully on a microwave-safe plate. The way he fingered those corn-covered dogs made me wish I was an Oscar Meyer wiener.

I watched the carousel go round and round. I caught Hec smiling at me.

"You have any mustard?" I asked, turning to the fridge. I opened the door and began rummaging around. "I like to dunk them in mustard."

"I bet you do."

Found it.

As I shut the door, Hec came in for a kiss. I liked the contrast of the cool against my back and the hot against my front.

"What?"

"What do you want for Christmas?" he asked, lips parting mine.

The microwave rang. We separated, and I popped open the microwave's door and set the corndogs on the counter.

"Let's see... what do I want? Well, actually-- I already got what I wanted."

I turned. Loved that blush on him. He wore it so, so well.

"Besides that," he said, and kissed me again.

"Not that. Although that is always good. It's you. I'm staying here with you. That's what I wanted."

I squirted a puddle of mustard on the plate, then looked up into those warm-brown eyes.

"Yeah, but you have to want something. Come on, tell Santa."

I gave him my most serious look as I dunked a corn dog in the mustard.

"Anything you get me would be special." I put the corn dog up to my lips. "Surprise me. I like surprises." I bit in. "Oh, shit! Hot!"

Hec to the rescue. He grabbed a glass, rushed to the sink and ran cold water. He filled it in a rush, then ran back to me and thrust the dripping glass to my lips. I took the glass from him, swallowing the cool liquid.

"Burned my damned tongue," I said. Felt like my tongue was still on fire.

"Gluttony is one of the deadly sins."

"Smart-ass," I said.

"Now you got a reason to poke that tongue out," he teased. "Come on, let's take those corndogs upstairs and give you and them time to cool."

---------------------

After my tongue mended and the corndogs were no more, Hec and I settled down to write. We'd finished the rough draft of the sitcom the night before and now the real work began: polish, polish, polish. The house was quiet. Over the last few nights our ghostly friend was shy. I wondered if Henry wanted to let us work or maybe he was just bored with one-liners, b stories and scene call-backs. For whatever reason, he'd left us alone to work and play. But tonight my thoughts turned to Henry and more importantly to Hec. He'd hinted at a bit about his family history the night before, which made me curious, more curious than I was prior. I knew his parents' disappearance was a sore spot-- every time the word parents came up, he'd squirm and stealthily change the topic. I'd let it go. Not tonight.

We sat, our backs against the headboard, toes touching and the laptop between us, when I brought up an idea I'd been bouncing in my brain about Johann.

"I was thinking," I said. "Henry is unsettled because Johann isn't here. What if we found out where he was buried and brought his remains and buried him near Henry? I mean, seems to me that Henry's restless spirit stems from their separation, not only in life, but in death. Maybe if we re-unite them, Johann's spirit can finally be at peace."

"That's a good idea, but I think there's laws against digging up people--" He laughed. "Besides we don't even know where Johann's buried."

"I don't think it'd be hard to find out, and you know where Henry's buried, right?"

"Yeah, in the plot behind the house here." Hec scratched his chin. "Actually, I have thought about this before-- but it occurred to me: What if Johann is at rest? Wouldn't unearthing his body and moving it disrupt his spirit? I mean, I'm no psychic, but it occurred to me that we might be making matters worse."

"I'd be willing to bet that wherever Johann is, he's not resting. That might be part of Henry's problem." I hesitated. "What if there's another way to bring them together?"

"What? Conjuring spirits? As in with a medium? Here? A séance?"

"Well, yeah, but to start I thought that we need to find out where Johann is. I know a couple of private investigators who could help us locate Johann's remains-- or where he's buried. And the men I'm thinking of could help us find a good medium, too-- someone on the up-and-up. Someone who could find out if Johann's spirit is restless somewhere else. "

"So you want to hire private investigators to locate the dead and find a reputable psychic? I didn't know private investigators did that. Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters?"

I sighed. For a man who'd lived with a ghost for years, he sure wasn't taking this too seriously.

"Missing people are missing people," I said. "Doesn't matter if they're dead or alive."

"Not sure if you need a private investigator for that-- and digging em up? I think you'd hire grave robbers for that. I wonder if Igor is busy."

"There are professionals who make a living finding people," I said. "And they have nothing to do with mad scientists."

No one spoke-- not even Pete twittering in his cage.

"Nothing to do with mad scientists, huh? But everything to do with-- this isn't just about Johann, is it?" He dug his nails into his arm and scratched.

"No--" I plunged forward. "--they could locate-- your parents."

"I knew it," he mumbled.

"So, you've never tried looking for them."

"No. If they didn't care enough to stick around, then why should I care enough to try and find them?"

"What if they didn't run off-- what if something happened to them? The PIs could give you answers."

"Answers. Sometimes answers are worse than questions. When I was a kid, I used to come up with all sorts of elaborate stories about why they disappeared-- I'd lie awake in bed pretending like they were double agents off on some secret mission and that they'd come home. Or pretend they were superheroes off on some intergalactic adventure. Mostly I'd pretend that they went into some witness protection program because they turned on some underworld villain. Even told myself that they didn't really leave-- they were just on vacation. And you know what I told people sometimes? I told them that my parents were dead-- that they drove off a bridge into the bay."

"I didn't want to bring it up, but you know that something like that might really be the case."

"It isn't." He kicked the quilt to the end of the bed. He stared at his feet and scrunched his long toes while I waited for him to continue. "Detectives looked into their disappearance. Never came up with a thing. That and well, they packed. Took valuables. My mom took her favorite earrings. And clothes. IDs. Credit cards although they never used them. They left us alone. Drove off and never looked back."

"If you'd like-- now I'm not pushing-- but if you'd like, those private investigators I know are really good. They did some work for my sister Margie a few years back. Found her sleazoid ex-husband off in the Bahamas living the high-life. They could find them. I mean, if it was me, I'd want to at least confront them. Tell them what I thought. And then what about your sisters? Wouldn't they want to know the truth?"

"So these PIs would look for Johann and find a psychic for us."

"And find your parents."

"Let's forget about that--"

"For now."

He shook his head at me. "You're impossible. Come here."

I pushed the laptop aside and rolled on top of him. "Thought you'd never ask."

"Since when did I have to ask?" He mashed his mouth into mine while I mashed our hard cocks together. Hec's mouth curled up and my heart frantically pounded in my chest as his hand untied the string at my waist and reached inside my sweats-- god, such sweet, long fingers wrapped around the base and appreciatively slid up to the tip. His other hand entangled itself in the sheet next to my head. I slithered my hand down his flannel pjs and held his heavy cock in my hand, running my thumb on the ridge of his dick then into his slit, toying with him just to hear his delicious moans. Eyes wide. Ankles hooked. In the deepest pit of my stomach I ached to feel him hard and hot and sweaty. His cock bobbed as I let go briefly, and he groaned. Kisses came all weightless and wet along my neck, encouraging me. I grabbed him again, toyed with the pre-cum that had bubbled up on the tip, then I pumped him. I loved his enthusiasm--how he'd rut into my hand and moan. Increased the tempo as a reward. He hummed in approval.

His fingers released the sheet near my head and touched my face before his fingers made a full assault. Down, down. Both hands on me. I hissed through clenched teeth as the rhythm increased. I was desperate, delirious. A red-hot pulse quickened.

I bucked and moaned and begged. He bucked and moaned and begged.

It didn't take long for the fireworks.

I love the rockets' red glare. Bombs bursting in-- our pants.

"I think you killed me," I shuddered. "God, only you can make me come in my sweatpants."

"We're a mess," he mumbled into my ear. "Might need another bath."

"Then you'd really kill me dead."

Ah, the aftermath. Heart rates returned to normal and limbs turned to rubber. Life made steady. He snuggled closer, his hair tickled my nose. I loved sex-- don't get me wrong, but I loved this part more.

"So tell me about these two PIs." His hand found mine under the sheets and held it tight.

"They're a couple of older guys in their 40s. Partners."

I didn't tell Hec that they were partners in other ways too. Or that they were both hot. Or that I used to have elaborate fantasies about the two guys involving a ménage a trois with me as the recipient of various and sundry deviant ministrations-- one of which involved pink furry handcuffs, a riding crop and maraschino cherries.

"Their names are Jorge Domingo and Wes Linden. Domingo was in the elite Mexican Secret Service, Linden graduated from Duke-- he's been a PI most of his life. The team is highly respected, specializing in international entanglements."

"They sound expensive."

"What's the saying? You get what you pay for. They aren't cheap, but they're good."

Hec moved our joined hands over his chest.

"Let's call them after the holidays."