The Boss of Me - Origins

"First day at work, and I get sent home in the first hour," I laughed as I stripped off my jeans and button-down shirt and leaned into my bedroom closet at my parents' house.

I'd hoped -- actually planned -- that today was going to be an interview only for this summer job, and I'd have a few days before I was asked to start at the used-car lot in town. But Russ Wilks had other plans. He hired me without any kind of real interview, and told me to go home, change and come back for training.

Must be desperate, I thought. And I also thought that Russ seemed pretty cocky... in more ways than one. He'd already paraded out of the shower room in front of me and his mechanic this morning, his freakish dong swinging like an elephant trunk. That was weird enough, although the mechanic, Haskell, acted like it was no big deal.

But what stuck with me more was how Russ reached across his desk and pressed his fingers into my jugular. I guess he meant it as a joke, but it startled me. It was an aggressive move, and he wasn't gentle when he pressed my neck. He was close enough that I could smell the coffee and cigarettes on his breath, feel the heat off his just-showered body.

I pulled on cut-off jeans and the cleanest T-shirt I could find in my pile of dirty clothes, tied up my sneakers and then headed back out to my car. I wasn't in a hurry to get back to the car shop, because Russ seemed like the kind of guy who was going to work my ass off when I got there.

Sure enough, he was standing outside in front of the office windows, legs spread in a an aggressive stance and his hands on his hips. I looked twice out the side window as I swung my car into an open parking space to the left of the building. Was he really pointing at his watch?

"Petey, I hope this isn't an indication of how this whole summer is gonna go," he barked as I hustled around the back of the car toward him. "Fifty cars aren't gonna wash themselves, and I sure ain't getting wet today!"

As I drew close, he clasped a firm hand on the back of my neck, pivoted and steered us both back toward my car, around the corner of the building and then on to the back of the service area. Guess he figured that since I was 18 and he used to be a drill sergeant, he could march me around like I was some new recruit.

On the ground was a hose with a pistol grip end, a bucket, a container of liquid soap and a large sponge. He squeezed my neck, sending a jolt up down my spine that tingled in my balls. "Now that you're dressed for the job, are you ready to actually LEARN the job?"

"Sure," I said, wriggling free from his grasp and stretching my neck side to side.

"Good, because it's something you're going to do once a day. Twice, if it rains or the wind kicks up the dirt. Ever hear of a chamois?"

I looked at him, unsure. Did he just say "shammy?" Russ looked annoyed. He reached into the bucket, which had no water in it yet, and pulled out a yellowish square of material that was about the size of a dish towel.

"Chamois. Chamois. Or if you prefer, sham-WAH, as they might say in Gay Paree." He tossed it at me and I clutched it before it hit my chest.

"What's it for?" I asked. By now, Haskell was out of the service bay, wiping his hands on the blue rag and grinning. He seemed amused that Russ was giving me a hard time, just like he seemed in on it when Russ swaggered naked around the office that morning.

Russ raised his hands, palms up, in mock exasperation. "Haskell, what are they teaching these kids over at that high school? What the actual hell." He took the fabric out of my hands, held it daintily between thumbs and forefingers, and said, "This here is your towel."

"One towel? For 50 cars?"

"Ever watch the Olympics, those fruity looking divers in their little Speedos, diving into the pool? And when they get out they dry off with a tiny little patch of towel? Yeah? Well, that's this, a chamois. Observe!"

With that, he picked up the hose handle and in one sweeping move blasted my lower body with a full spray of jarringly cold water. I spun away reflexively, and he doused my ass and the back of my legs.

"What the fu... What're you doing?!?" I sputtered as he let off the hose. I turned around and he tossed the chamois back at me. Haskell was bent over, laughing and slapping his leg.

"Start drying," Russ said. Shaking with anger and humiliation, I did as he commanded. I swept the soft fabric up and down my legs, and over my sodden denim shorts. I was surprised at how quickly it sopped up the water -- a couple passes and my skin was dry.

I was bent over absorbing the water off my socks when I heard a chortle and then a firm but playful smack on my ass, the sound amplified by the wet jeans.

"Here ya go, sport," Russ said, taking the towel from my hands. With one big twist that flexed his Popeye forearms, he wrung the water out onto the pavement. One twist the other way extracted the rest, and he tossed it back to me.

"Now you know the magic of the chamois cloth," he said. "That's how you dry 50 cars with one towel. Now, let's get you out onto the lot and get some work done."

I collected the chamois, sponge and soap into the bucket and grabbed the hose, but wasn't having so much luck corralling my racing thoughts. First the casual nudity, then the non-interview interview, and now an embarrassing job initiation, right in front of Haskell.

Their laughs were ringing in my ears, but what struck me most was a bizarre feeling of excitement and anticipation. This had to be like no summer job ever... it wasn't going to be boring, that was sure. But what was it going to be, when it was said and done?

Russ had me unspool the hose out to the far car on the lot, a 1985 Pontiac Grand Prix with dapples of rust over the back wheel wells. He squirted some liquid soap into the bucket and took the hose from my hand. I flinched when he reached for the grip and he chuckled as he sprayed water into the bucket.

"You're jumpy, Petey," he said. "I never teach the same lesson twice. So, pay attention going forward." Once the bucket was full and foamy, he told me to dunk the sponge until it was sopping wet. He sprayed the Grand Prix liberally with the hose.

"You gotta wet it before you wash it," he said. "Otherwise, you're just grinding the dirt into the finish."

I nodded.

"Start washing on the roof, big sweeping strokes and be generous with the squeeze," he said. "Spread that soap around and make sure you hit every spot with the sponge." Not wanting to disappoint, I was so liberal with the soapy water that it sloshed well up my arms and a bit onto my chest.

"That's it," he said in a firm voice. "Now the hood, then the trunk. More water in the bucket, now. Keep that bucket full, don't skimp on the soap. Now work the windows down to the doors."

I did what I was told, and it wasn't until halfway through my first car that I realized I was already tuned into the cadence of his commands. Is this what boot camp is like, I wondered.

He prodded me to work fast, so the soap didn't start drying before I could hose it down. Once I had sponged off the tail lights and back bumper he slid the bucket away from the car with his foot and handed me the hose.

"Same drill, kiddo. Start at the top, sweeping motion, don't spare the water and work from top to bottom."

I circled the car as I sprayed. When I'd gone halfway around, cleaning from the top, he instructed me to work back toward him counterclockwise, spraying the quarter-panels, doors and rocker panels.

"Most numb-nuts will keep going all the away around, and end up like a dog wrapped around a doghouse with that hose," he said. "Now, before we start drying, get that next car wet to prep it for soaping."

I turned and sprayed down the next car, a Chevy Impala that was dulled from too many years in the sun. When I was finished and worked my way counterclockwise back around, Russ was waiting with the chamois held from both upper corners, dangling like a flag over his crotch.

"And here comes the most important part," he said. He tossed it at me again. "Show me how to dry a car."

Eager to display my newfound knowledge, I opened it up flat and dropped it onto the roof, and with my palm pressed down in the center, began a pattern of big arcing circles. I was confused as the water pooled and swished about, and the chamois began to ball up around my hand.

"No no no no no no no no," Russ said, and there seemed to be satisfaction in his voice at my ignorance in the use of this strange towel. "Hand me that." I did, and he wrung out what little water I'd been able to collect.

"C,mere," he said, tapping the hood of the Grand Prix. "Come press your dick right up against it." I stood where he'd instructed, and pressed my hips into the car's fender. He came up behind me, so his chest touched my back, and reaching both arms around me, unfurled the chamois so it rested at about the midpoint of the hood. Then he leaned onto his left hand and turned so he was beside me, to my left.

"Now," he said in a softer tone, his mouth just inches from my face, "take the corners closest to you in both hands, and pull the chamois toward you." I reached forward, grabbed each of the corners, and pulled the cloth to my waist. It seemed like an odd way to dry a car, as it bunched and skipped over the top of the water beads.

Russ sighed in an exaggerated way, and slipped back behind me. "Again," he said. I placed the chamois back where he'd had it, and began to pull. "Stop!" he commanded, right in my left ear. I startled and let go of the cloth, but he quickly grabbed my wrists and pushed my hands back to the starting position. Once there, he slid his palms over the top of each of my hands, and interlocked his fingers in mine.

My hands were now his hands. "Feel THIS," he said, and he began pulling the chamois lightly, slowly, until something strange happened. The water caught the fabric, and put up resistance across the width of the cloth. As he continued to drag the chamois that friction came off the car surface, through the fabric, into my fingers and on back to Russ, who controlled all motion.

"Feel that tension?" he whispered authoritatively. I felt the heat of his chest on my shoulders, and contact from both the mass of his crotch against my ass, and the point of his chin into my left shoulder. All I could do was nod. Nod, and continue to pull the cloth back in concert with his wishes.

When the chamois was all the way back, and the tension released, Russ took a step back. The uncoupling left me a little woozy in a way I couldn't define.

"Now, wring it out. Rinse, repeat." I hadn't turned around yet, but I nodded. "Petey, boy, do you think you have it from here on out?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "I think I get it now."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lunch break brought all new eye-openers. Russ had called me in from the lot, and invited me into his office to eat my bag lunch with him and Haskell. The desk was average size, but with three of us spreading out bag lunches out it felt a little tight. Haskell got up and skirted past me, then returned a minute later with three cans of Coke from the refrigerator in the break room.

"So, newbie, tell us how rewarding it feels to achieve your lifetime goal of cleaning cars that will be dirty again by the next morning," Russ said, popping the top on his soda can.

"Ha, it's more like achieving my goal of earning some money for college so I don't have to do this kind of work for a living," I said.

Haskell nudged me brusquely, and I turned to lock into a stern face. "You got a problem with honest work, boy?" He stared, unblinking, and I felt anxiety rising. Moments later, he and Russ busted up in unison.

"Fuck, boy, relax!" Russ said, and Haskell clapped a big palm down on my bare thigh, gave it a squeeze and shook it.

"Gotcha, there," he said. "Don't worry, I got nothing against college boys."

"In fact, Haskell here finds college boys kinda cute, don't you, hoss?" Russ said. Haskell put his knuckles under his chin and surveyed me in mock disapproval.

"Don't know, boss, not a lot of meat on these bones. Think I'll stick with Trudy for now."

Russ winced and laughed heartily. "Oh, you wanna go there, huh. Ouch!"

"Who's Trudy?" I asked.

"Well, she used to be a bank teller in town that I was banging," Russ said.

Haskell nudged me. "She's still a bank teller, and she's still in town -- those parts are still true!"

Russ picked up his sandwich and waved it at Haskell. "She went Black..."

"... And she ain't come back!" Haskell finished, and with that they both were laughing again. "Actually, I just think she likes my sensitive side. You know, she does likes the rough ride but she also likes having a guy wake up with her in the morning, too!"

Russ tossed back some Coke to wash down his bite. "So, apparently, it's not just the more exotic hue." He glanced over at me and winked, "Or the anaconda in his trousers."

They both probably noticed the surprised look on my face. First, this constant penis theme that seemed to be emerging. And... if Russ, with that monster cock, was calling Haskell's unit an anaconda, what the hell was in the water at this place? And what was happening to me?

All of a sudden, in the matter of hours, I'd gone from totally and naively unaware to men as sexual beings to feeling drenched testosterone-crazed horniness. Other than some "you show me yours, I'll show you mine" horseplay with friends when I was younger, I never gave too much thought to men's junk. I was preoccupied enough trying to lose my cherry to my girlfriend.

It was almost like Russ read my mind.

"So, Petey, is your honey-dipper getting into any sugar?"

"My honey-dipper?" Haskell laughed.

"Son, you getting any action? Do you have a girlfriend? Are you parking your car in her garage?

Russ leaned in. "Hooked into any red snapper? Eating some whisker biscuit?" I just smiled and shook my head. He slapped his desk, rattling our pop cans and jolting me upright. "Are you fucking some pussy, son?" he bellowed.

"Uh, what... I... " And then Haskell and Russ were laughing their asses off. I shook my head and rearranged my sandwich and pop can out of nervousness. I collected myself.

"I have a girlfriend, and we get along pretty well," I said, feeling pretty unsteady in the pool with these sharks.

Both of them were chuckling. "Pretty well," Haskell said, and put two fingers over his lips in a V shape, and snaked his tongue between them. Russ laughed and pointed at him in validation, then upped the ante by leaning back in his chair and using two hands to pantomine riding the hips of some woman up and down over his crotch. He punctuated it with several thrusts.

"Seriously, Petey, tell us about her," Russ said. Something told me this wasn't such a good idea, but I threw some red meat on the table, blurting it out in one run-on sentence to prevent any further crude play-acting.

"Her name is Katelyn, she's a year older than me, she was a cheerleader but you know, a Stockdale kind of cheerleader if you know what I mean, she's an only child and helping support her mom, she works at Quinn's Diner and she likes to bedazzle her clothes."

I looked at them both, and they just stared back. Then started laughing as if on cue.

"Great bio, sport," Russ said. "You might want to hang on to a bedazzler. That sounds like a keeper." He leaned over the desk toward me. "Are. You. Fucking?"

"No," I fessed up, and then a little too urgently, "we are having some, uh, some sex you know. But not that."

"Hmmm. Sex, but not sex? What do you think about that, Haskell?"

"Don't know what to think, boss," Haskell said. "Didn't know you could have sex without having sex. If you're just sniffin' it, or lickin' it, that sounds like playing doctor or something."

"OK, Petey, no shame in being a virgin. Maybe Haskell here and I can help you get over the finish line this summer. What do you say, Mr. B?" I looked at Haskell and saw him nod; but it wasn't just a nod... i noticed he gave a casual tug of his crotch. Except, his crotch extended well down his right thigh.

"Sure can, boss," he said, and the humor seemed gone from his voice.

"She a blonde, son?" Russ asked.

"Huh? Blonde? Umm, yes... in fact she is," I said.

"Carpet match the drapes? Help me get a visual here, Petey," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"You mean... "

"Yes, I mean, is she a natural blonde? Are her pubes the same as her head?"

I looked down and blushed a little. "Well, when I'm down there is usually a bit dark. But I'd have to say, yes, I'm pretty sure it's all natural."

"'Pretty sure' ain't gonna cut it, virgin," Russ said. "We're gonna need some evidence before you get to sit at the big boys table again." He stared at me until he heard Haskell break into a laugh.

Russ half stood and high-fived Haskell. "Lunchtime is over, rookie. Back to the hose and bucket."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I set in on the last dozen or so cars that I hadn't been able finish washing before that totally bizarre lunchtime session with Russ and Haskell. I kept thinking, "Is this actually a first day at work?" I mean, yeah, I'd washed about 40 cars. And that's what I'd probably tell my parents at dinner tonight when they asked how it went. But that's definitely not what had been jumping around between my gut and mind since moments after I walked into that office for the first time this morning.

As I pulled the chamois across the hood of an old Ford Mustang II, I saw Russ striding across the lot toward me. I immediately felt a tension through my shoulders, but also a strange tingle from the base of my neck down to my balls. His crude, authoritative ways weren't just new to me, they seemed to ignite some kind of fascination in me toward his primal personality.

"OK, sport. You need to step up the pace here a bit. I ain't gonna baby-sit you after closing time. Besides, Haskell needs some help in the shop."

"Sure, Russ. Can do. Does he need me now?"

"No, but he needs to get on it before closing time. Can I see that chamois for a second?"

"Sure," I said, and handed it to him. I'd already wrung it, but he did it again, flexing out some more water. He flapped it a few times to straighten it out, then in one quick and violent motion he snapped it at my groin. It made a loud CRACK as the corner nicked my right nut, a true marksman shot. I winced.

"Step it up, son!" he said, and tossed the towel over my shoulder, then spun and walked briskly back toward the office.

Fifteen minutes later, I walked into the service bay and sat down the bucket, sponge and chamois. "Haskell?" I called.

"Up here, boy," he said. I glanced up, and he was in a loft above the work area, crouched over some equipment.

"Russ said you needed me for a job?"

"Yeah, I do. You're good down there, just hang on a minute." He hunched down and pulled back and forth a few times, clearly trying to untangle something. Finally, he stood about three-quarters of his height; that's as far as he could go without hitting the ceiling. He walked to the edge of the loft, and put his hands on the railing.

"OK, here's the deal, Petey. I got hoses up here that are connected to oil tanks. Those are the reservoirs for oil changes. We gravity feed it down for oil changes. I got one right now that's clogged or got an air gap or something."

"OK, what do you want me to do?"

"See that 5-gallon bucket over there, by the bench?" I located it, and nodded. "OK. I'm gonna drop the hose down. I'm hooking a compressor up to this end, and we're gonna try to blow out the clog. You put the hose in the bucket and hold the depressor in after I tell you to. Got it?"

"Yeah, sure." I walked over, got the bucket and came back. The black hose was already hanging the spot I left. On the end was a metal depressor grip. When a mechanic held that in, oil chugged out.