Shooting Matt Ch. 21

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Randy starts to wrap up life in Cleveland.
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Part 21 of the 28 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 08/17/2016
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Turbidus
Turbidus
1,089 Followers

Randy starts to wrap up his life in Cleveland.

Thanks, yet again, to LarryInSeattle for his editing assistance.

========

By the end of the week, we were falling into a routine. We're both habitual early risers. Also, we're both feeling like our pants are getting a little tight, so breakfast is easy enough. Coffee, black and Greek yogurt with either raw nuts or fresh fruit. There hasn't been a drop of rain so after breakfast I get the damn sprinklers going. I've decided I hate, I really fucking hate sod. I've begun to seriously consider moving to the desert.

Before it gets hot enough for your balls to melt and drip down your pant leg, we head out and I show Kent my hometown. I always bring my camera and I've gotten some good shots. I went back to the record store and got the okay to hang out and take photos as long as no one complains and I stay out of the way. I decided to go with black and white. I haven't had time to process them but I think a couple of them could be the best shots I've taken. I'm almost afraid to work on them.

We get back before lunch and I move the fucking sprinklers. We shower. I change the dressings on Kent's hands. We read or listen to music during the hottest part of the afternoon. One of the CDs Kent bought is by a group called Arcade Fire. Outstanding. He shows me a clip of them singing with Bowie. Totally fucking cool. The other is from a group called Cloud Cult, also amazing. My idea was better than I realized. I'd never heard of either of those groups. I love 'em and not because Kent picked them out for me but because I really love their music. Kent seems to dig the Bowie albums I picked out. He's not convinced that going back to vinyl makes any sense. He may be right. For me, it's more of a nostalgia thing. If I'm honest, which I am most of the time, I can't say the sound is that much greater. I'd love to get an audiophile hipster into a sound booth and have a sound engineer play him, or her, analog music versus digital and see if he can really tell the difference. I did hear a story about a sound engineer who could tell, from listening to a tape, what amplifier was used. So, maybe I won't test my theory. I know what I want to buy him next, well, sort of. I'm going back and forth between "Meddle" and "Dark Side of the Moon". Or maybe we should switch from music to books. Or movies. Damn.

After supper, we sometimes hit the local watering hole, sometimes watch a movie, or catch a game on TV if the Tribe or the Pirates are playing. I'm not sure what we'll do if the Tribe ever ends up playing the Pirates in the World Series.

At times, those thoughts freak me out. The idea, this soon into a relationship, of wondering what book I should buy for him or how we'll deal with sports rivalries, seems strange. For that matter, even thinking of this as a 'relationship' is strange. I've known him less than a month. Yet, after a week, we've already fallen into a routine.

I'm breaking the routine today. Dale, a high school acquaintance and realtor is coming by to look at the house. So, instead of touring greater Cleveland, we enjoy a second cup of coffee and shower. We've learned to shower separately, if the primary purpose is to shower. The sex is still great, really fucking great, but we're not fucking like bunnies. I think we went almost 48 hours without one of us cumming the other day. Even so, and even with a tiny ass shower, if he gets in with me, one or both of us is getting blown. That's right up there with death and taxes. Death, taxes, Kent joins me in the shower, blow job. For a guy who claims to be 'mostly' a bottom and whose hands are wrapped in gauze, he sure loves to fuck. That's yet another evolution in our relationship -- condoms. Neither of us is worried about disease but they sure make clean up easier. It's not as messy as people seem to imagine but it is messy at times. I assume porn stars prep like they're about to have a colonoscopy. We're both on the neat freak side of life but, hey, it's a butt. Sometimes there's a little mess and Mr. Trojan makes life simpler. As much as they simplify life I'm not a big fan of condoms. I hate the taste of latex. Once he's had one on his dick, sucking him sucks. Of course, if he's been fucking me in the ass, he always washes up before I suck, if he didn't cum in my ass I mean. I've never had more than hookup with a man. I want to ask him how he and Brad had managed stuff like this but I don't really want to get into a discussion of how they fucked each other.

I'm just putting the last piece of tape on Kent's dressings when the doorbell rings. As I open the door, my mind flashes back to the afternoon I opened the door for Matt and his photo shoot. Dale is no competition. He's an okay looking guy but there's no part of my head that wants to get him naked. I show him around the place and we sit down at the kitchen table. He throws a couple of glances at Kent. I've introduced them, of course, but I can see the wheels turning in Dale's head. I motion for him to sit down before Dale starts talking to me about selling the place.

When Dale left, I was more confused than ever. I'd looked at online ads and he thought the price I had in mind was a good one but he didn't think I should sell. He pulled up several years of data, prices had been increasing all around my neighborhood. He was sure this area would be next. I found that hard to believe but Dale was convinced. We were close to downtown. We were close to major highways but they weren't in our backyards. He pointed out that two new restaurants had opened nearby in the past year. His recommendation? Rent it. That would provide income and if it looked like the market was overheating, I could sell then. I'd heard horror stories about renting out a house. Dale also managed properties. He'd deal with the leasing, maintenance, evictions, all that crap for 10%. I'd get a check every quarter.

After I showed him out, I sat back down at the table.

"What ya think?"

"Do you trust him?"

"Yeah, I mean I guess so. I knew him in high school. Our moms were friends. He sold mom's house for me and that went fine."

"He seems to be keeping an eye on the market. What he said makes sense."

"Yeah," I shake my head. "I was counting on the cash though. I offered to go in with Glenna and Leon. Help with the resort."

"You did?" I nod. "Did they agree?"

"Well, no, not exactly. I told them to think about it. That I'd have no hard feelings if they said no. I haven't heard their answer yet."

"Why did you ask? Is running a resort something you've wanted to do?"

"Nope. Never occurred to me. But the cinnamon roll idea seems to be a good one." I'm talking as much to myself as I am to Kent. "I think the place could be something really special. A place with a nice little restaurant, one that people would eat at even if they weren't guests. I was serious when I told Liam to fix the ceviche for them. And the limeade. I can see it as a romantic get-away spot, if the cabins are fixed up a bit and the restaurant idea works out."

"Lot of families and kids running around for a romantic get-away," Kent offers.

"True," I agree, nodding my head. "We could work that angle too. Maybe work out something with a fishing guide, water skiing lessons, stuff like that."

Kent nods, then gives me a long look. "But you don't know if any of that interests Glenna or Leon, correct?"

"Yup. Correct." We're both quiet. "You know I slept with Glenna? To try to help them have a kid, right?"

He nods.

"Well, I had, I don't know, a vision, dream, something. I saw myself playing with their son. He called me Uncle Randy and I was teaching him to swim in the lake."

"So, you don't think it was a dream? You think it was like that stuff you were telling me, about seeing what happened to Leon, in college before you ever knew him?"

"Yeah. I feel crazy for thinking it, much less saying it, but, yeah, I do." I run my fingers through my hair. "I don't believe in God or spirits or any of that shit."

"Well, given what you've told me, you might need to re-evaluate."

The room grows quiet enough so that when the refrigerator kicks on, I jump.

"I never told you about the accident." Kent's voice is so soft it barely disturbs the quiet.

"You don't have to talk about it," I tell him.

"It's not the accident per se but what happened right before it."

"What do you mean?" I have the sudden fear he'll tell me the accident was his fault.

"I was following way too close to that truck. My mind was a million miles away. I should have ended up smashed under the back end of the trailer but I didn't." He looks up from the table. "A voice told me to get off the highway. Ordered me to get off the highway. I didn't think about it. I'm not sure I even used the turn signal. I hauled the wheel over and took the exit. I was barely off the road when, wham, I saw the car go flying through the air."

"You heard a voice?"

He nods.

"That's not all. I was stuck in that car. My belt was caught on the shifter." He puts a hand on top of mine. "He was there. The old man. He peeked in the window we pulled Rosalita out of. 'Your belt, dummy. Move forward, unhook your belt. Hurry,' is what he said. An old man. An old man wearing a railroad engineer's cap."

"Holy fucking shit," I whisper.

"Well, said," Kent tells me with half a smile.

I turn my hand over, so I can hold his. "I'm glad you listened, even if he called you 'dummy'."

"I almost didn't. Part of me was thinking, 'the hell with it'. Only a little part of me, but it was there."

I don't know what to say to that, so I push myself away from the table and fetch two glasses and the bottle of Dalwhinney 15-year old single malt I keep for just such an emergency. It's not quite noon but fuck it. I pour us each a double shot. Kent doesn't ask for ice, so I don't have to ask him to leave. I breathe a sigh of relief and sip my whiskey.

***

"I'm not sure I like being a character is someone else's play."

Kent nods, struggling with a pint of Guinness.

"You want a straw for that?"

"Ha-ha, are you always this funny?"

I shrug.

Kent takes a long pull, then struggles to pick up a napkin and wipe the foam off his upper lip. He manages it much easier than just a few days ago. His hands are looking a lot better. Most of the swelling is gone. There's not much oozing. I think we're getting close to being able to cut back on the dressings.

"Holy shit." I sit up. "We need to get you to Youngstown tomorrow. You have an appointment with the burn guy."

"That's on Friday."

"Bud, tomorrow is Friday."

Kent shakes his head. "Are you sure?"

I pull my phone out of my pocket, touch the screen and turn it to face him.

"Son of a bitch," he whispers. "I'm losing my mind, not working." He takes another drink, draining a good third of the glass. "I can get an Uber or something. You have the yard to take care of."

"Don't be such a putz. I'm not going to sit on my ass and worry about my fucking yard if you need a ride. Jesus, bud. Are you serious?"

"I hate this. I hate being so, so, useless. I hate being dependent on you for everything."

"You aren't, so cut the crap. You could pay for a ride to Youngstown. You aren't dependent on me. I'm offering to help. You have options. Would you feel better if I didn't take you?"

"No." His voice is soft. I'm more than a little pissed. He must know it. "Look, I like the fact you want to help, to take care of me. It's just that's usually my role."

"You want me to lop off a hand, so you can take care of me?" I shake my head at him. "You sure you're not sneaking some Oxy on the side, because you're not makin' much sense. You do take care of me, you fucking bone head. And I don't mean with your dick, though that part is nothing to sneeze at. You listen to my bullshit. Laugh on the rare occasion I'm actually funny. Point out shit I've missed. Hell, you already turned me on to two bands I would've never even heard of if not for you. If it'll make you feel better, you can do my damn laundry. If you can hoist that nasty black shit to your mouth, you can pour in a capful of fucking Tide." I start to take a drink of my own beer, PBR, but put it down when I see the look on his face. "What the fuck you smilin' about?"

"You. You're kinda of cute when you get pissed."

"Really? I don't feel very cute."

"Randy, I'm sorry. Why are you so pissed? I appreciate all you've been doing for me. Honest. I'm just frustrated. I'm sick of having to stop and wonder how I'm going to scratch my balls or, hell, pick my damn nose."

"Well, that's something we can agree on." I take a deep breath and tell myself to get a fucking grip. "I'm sure as hell not picking your nose for you."

"Does that mean you'll scratch my balls?" He bats his eyes at me.

"Why you think I haven't shaved for a couple of days?"

"You fellas need another round?"

Pete, the bartender, gives us an even gaze. If he overheard, he doesn't appear to be bothered.

"I'll take another PBR," I tell him. "Thanks."

"I'm good." Kent says with a nod.

Pete turns toward the taps.

"Hey, Randy, how is American beer like making love in a canoe?" Kent asks me, still smiling.

"I don't know, how?"

"Fucking close to water." He chortles at his own joke. Unseemly.

"Randy, you bring a beer snob into my bar?" Pete tips me a wink as he sets my beer down.

"He comes from a fine old family from Pittsburgh," I reply.

"I come from a dirt farm in Tennessee and you know it," Kent shoots back. He looks at Pete. "I promise not to ask how hoppy a brand is, fair enough?"

"I can live with that," Pete snorts. "What happened to your paws?"

"Just a little accident," Kent replies.

"He pulled a baby out of a car before it went up," I tell Pete.

"No shit? You that guy? The Guinness is on me. I can't sell the stuff anyway."

"What about me?" I ask. "I drove his gimpy ass here?"

"Randy just tells that story to get free beers. Don't believe him. I got hurt helping Randy pulls his head outta his ass," Kent interjects.

Pete chuckles.

"I wasn't going to put his on the house anyway," Pete assures Kent before walking back down the bar, checking on the other customers.

I cut myself off after my second beer. I'm driving after all.

***

I can't deal with the fucking sprinklers again. I twist the faucet closed, wincing at the squeak. Kent waits for me on the carport. He holds the screen door open with one elbow and motions me inside.

Once we're inside, he puts his arms around me and squeezes me with his forearms. His kiss is long and slow.

"You taste like peanuts," he whispers when he steps away. "Come on, we can do something about that."

I undress Kent first. He can manage on his own but we both enjoy doing it this way. I take my time, smoothing out his shirt after undoing each button. The fabric of his shirt, cotton, is soft. Underneath it I feel crisp curls of hair. I don't touch his skin not yet; I limit my caresses to the soft cotton. The tail of his shirt is tucked into his jeans. I smooth the fabric, let my hands slide over the sleeves of the shirt, feeling the soft cotton and hard muscle under my palms.

There's still at least one, possibly two buttons, to go. How many times have I buttoned and unbuttoned a shirt? Yet, I couldn't tell you how many buttons a man's shirt has. He's not wearing a belt. It's easy to thumb open the top button of his jeans. I carefully pull the shirt from his pants. One button. I allow the shirt to hang open. My eyes drift across his partially exposed torso. I want to know every inch of it. I don't ever want any part of him to become as uninteresting as shirt buttons.

I do my best to memorize how a few strands of his chest hair curl over his collar bone. The hair on his chest is not long; if their intent was to climb over his collar bone, they fail. The hair thickens as my eyes move lower only to fade again as it surrounds his nipples.

The hair at the base of his throat does the same thing; it curls over his chest bone, appearing to want to rest in the hollow of his throat. Above it, his Adam's apple juts. There's a nick there. It's not easy to shave wearing the equivalent of mittens on your hands. The dark stubble of his whiskers washes up over his chin and jaw. His lips are ever so slightly parted, wet and as tempting as Eve's apple. I have every intention of giving in to temptation but not yet. Nose, closed eyes, eyebrows, tousled hair, my eyes feast on his face.

I reverse the course of my gaze. Flat belly, tuft of hair around his crescent-shaped bellybutton. The sparse trail that leads to his dick. A few curls of pubic hair spill over the top his underwear.

I slip my hands under the open shirt and cup his shoulders. I trace the line between his delts and pecs. My fingers glide over his collar bones and meet in the middle before separating. I cup his face, then entwine my fingers in his hair. His lips part a little more. I kiss his forehead, the tip of his nose, and, briefly, his lips.

I slip his shirt off his shoulders, free his right hand, then the left. I fold the shirt lengthwise and drape it over the back of the chair. My hands roam over his body. Soft skin, crisp hair, firm muscle, scratchy whiskers, I feel it all, burning the sensations into my brain. I trace his lips with the tip of my index finger. He shivers. I draw it down the ridgeline of his nose, down his jaw, and through the hair that grows across the middle of his chest.

I press my palm against the left side of his chest and feel the thud of his heartbeat. I trace the outlines of his deltoids, biceps, forearms. My hands rest on his sides and I rub them up and over his chest. The bedroom is quiet. I can hear the crackle of his chest hair. I trace each nipple, wet the tip of my finger and do it again.

I step closer and once more kiss his forehead, the tip of his nose, and his slightly parted lips before I re-trace every line my fingers have made with my lips. In the end, my lips are pressed to the ridge above his bellybutton, my hands on his hips.

I step back and sit down on the side of the bed and unbutton his jeans. I slip them off, fold them, and lay them on the chair. His boxers are tented. I pull the waistband out and free his dick, then ease them off as well.

I kiss the head of his cock, stand, and kiss his lips.

"Lie down," I tell him.

After he's comfortable, I undress myself. I don't try to emulate Magic Mike. I simply undress, enjoying the way he looks at me and the way his cock bobs in time to his heartbeat.

He pats the bed and I lie down beside him. His body is warm. I snuggle up beside him, support myself on one elbow, and bend to find his mouth. My hand finds his dick and I massage the precum over the head and shaft.

I miss the feel of his hand on my cock. I'm sick of the bandages.

I'm appalled at myself, appalled that the main reason I want him to get better is so he can stroke my cock. I know that's not the only reason; I know my hormones have hijacked my brain. I chide myself for giving myself credit for being appalled. What do I want? Credit for knowing I'm a dick? If I was really appalled, my cock wouldn't be throbbing and I wouldn't be dreaming of having his cock in my mouth or ass.

It would be nice if my cock could hijack my brain completely enough to turn off this continual self-assessment or self-abuse or whatever the fuck it is.

I wrench control of my thoughts from my Id, or conscience, or whatever the fuck it is, and re-focus on the feel of his tongue against mine, the way his dick feels in my hand, the way my cock is smashed against the side of his leg.

"I want to touch you," he sighs into my mouth. "I hate these fucking bandages."

"Me, too, bud. Me, too," I tell him as I ease away from him. I position myself between his legs. I'm sitting on the backs of my legs. All I need to do to worship his cock is lean forward. It sounds awkward but it's become one of my favorite positions. Once his cock is in my mouth, my hands can roam up his body to pinch and roll his nipples, or under his ass, down his legs.

Turbidus
Turbidus
1,089 Followers