The Day I Met Connie Brown

The green of the foliage outside of the car windows is bright, oppressive in its succulent vibrance. When I look at it, it seems that the leaves are glistening, dripping with hot moisture--the association is so painful that I have to dig fingers into my eyes. I'm suffocating inside, the airco shut down when I cut off the engine, but I can't bring myself to open the windows. I'm too much afraid of a familiar smell getting inside, or some sound--this gentle wind that rustles the branches, the crack of a twig, the sigh of hot air blown into the grass. I can't go out. I can't look outside. I just sit here, biting on my knuckles, trying to swallow sobs, cursing the day I met Connie Brown.

*

It started with a phone call. I get a lot of phone calls since my number is in the ads in the local media, in the telephone directory and plastered all around my Renovation, Masonry, Repair and Other Services Company's website. Renovation, Masonry, Repair and Other Services are good business, with all that influx of people to the town of late, but an irregular business all the same, and my phone was not ringing quite so often over the past few weeks. That particular time when it went off, however, I wish I was sleeping, or passed out drunk or on the fucking can.

"This is Mrs. Constance Brown," a rigid, dry voice informed me. "Can your firm provide a laborer for heavy, manual work next Thursday?"

I did not bother to explain to Mrs. Brown that my firm composes of only one laborer, namely me, but agreed to be there, since I had very few appointments that week. The job consisted of moving things into the house and seemed like easy money. When I got the address I recognized it as the new set of suburban houses that were recently built on the west border of the town and were being sold in a semi-finished state. That they were moving furniture in meant that they had found someone else to wrap up the electricity, the paint and all the rest, but I was scornful of the competition's luck only for a moment. After talking to her on the phone, it seemed to me that I couldn't care to spend time around Mrs. Constance Brown, even if she would be a guy.

*

On the appointed day and time I drove my old van to the place. A truck was parked in front of the house with its back door open and after looking inside I started to regret taking the gig. It seemed that the Browns taste was for the kind of minimalism that nevertheless requires everything to be made of metal and weight a ton. There were also appliances--the wash machine, the tumble-drier, the lot. As I approached the house through a small front lawn it was with half a mind to tell the woman to go and hire a moving company. I rang the bell, the door opened. I opened my mouth and froze, gaping at an attractive, blond young man, ten years my junior.

"Hello," he smiled friendly at me. "You have to be here for the moving."

I did my best not to stare at his brilliant teeth.

He extended a hand towards me. "I'm Constance Brown."

"You're Constance Brown," I couldn't help gasping a little.

"Well, everyone calls me Connie," he laughed again. "You spoke on the phone with my wife, right?"

I shrugged out of it. "Yes. Yes, of course. I just wanted to say that there are some heavy things in there," I pointed towards the van.

"Oh, I'll help you, of course. Of course you couldn't do it alone. It's just that my wife is quite particular about our stuff. She wouldn't let moving company guys handle it. Since she couldn't oversee it herself, it's just best that I'll take care of it with a little help. Come," he waived me inside "let me show you first where everything needs to go."

I went in, trying to digest that the woman actually introduced herself with her husbands name, as if we'd be in the fucking nineteen sixties. In the end, it was a pleasant substitution--I liked Connie and found him charming, too charming in fact. Soon, however, I couldn't be distracted by my host's graces as we got to work, and it was as heavy as it seemed. We dragged the bed, the closets and lounging chairs upstairs. Then we furnished the dining space downstairs; the massiveness of the table and chairs made me thank heavens that Mrs. Constance did not count on hosting more than six people at a time. The appliances came next and the last thing to be finally put into place was a double-door fridge. The damn thing needed to fit in a corner behind a cooking island. When, after struggling with the damn thing for more than half an hour we managed to squeeze it into the recess, I was quite done. I was boiling in my old work jeans and I looked at Connie's thin sweats with envy. He was dripping with sweat himself, but ever in good humor. He slapped both of his hands on the door of the fridge and turned to me with a laugh.

"That's perfect. I mean, except that I only have warm beer to offer to you. You don't mind?"

My thoughts became a bit panicky. I shouldn't drink on the job. The job was finished, of course, but still, drinking with your employer somehow never seems like a good idea. But then I noticed again how broad Connie's shoulders were and how well-defined his body seemed under the sweaty t-shirt.

"No," I laughed.

He squatted down and opened the cupboard. He took out a bottle of olive oil and put it on the counter overhead, without straightening up.

"My wife's doing," he murmured. "You can't sleep in the house yet, but you can whip up a healthy salad."

I laughed again and he brought up two bottles of pilsner. We opened them and clinked.

"I'm exhausted," Connie sighed. He looked around and indicated the floor with a wave of his hand. "Do you mind if I...?"

It was even more absurd, but I sat next to him on the floor. I couldn't help myself and I guess I didn't see any harm. We stayed there, with our backs to the cupboards for a long moment. The space we were occupying was too intimate for comfort, the warm beer was disgusting, and yet, I wouldn't think of getting up and going away. I also didn't have nerve enough to look at Connie, so I sat there, stealing glances at his outstretched legs, thinking, What's your deal?

"Thanks for helping me out," he broke the silence.

"It's my job," I said, immediately cringing at myself.

But Connie chuckled, softly. "I don't know anyone here. We just moved in. In a way, I'm starting over with my life. It can be..."

"Scary?" I offered, dumbly.

"Exciting," it was almost as I could hear him smile when he said that.

Then his shoulder touched mine. I tensed up, my bicep hardening, my chest stopping mid-breath. I tightened my grip on the bottle, waiting for him to shift away. He pressed again, this time with intent. I heard him whisper "If I find someone to help me, someone like you maybe, it doesn't have to be scary at all."

I couldn't bear it any more and looked right in his face. Connie was flushed, his eyes averted; the corner of his mouth trembled in a little smile. And in that moment, I was gone.

"Maybe," I said, reaching for the bulge in his crotch, "I'll start with helping you out with this?"

He had one of these dicks that you really want o suck on, which I did immediately. Connie gasped and twitched, and dug his fingers in my hair. He was red hot down there, smelling sharply of sweat--I had to stink as hell myself, but I didn't care as long as I had this delightful creature trembling under me.

At that moment I wouldn't even dream of anything else than making him cum there on the floor, but he suddenly pushed me away. He scrambled up ad slapped something on the wall; I heard a mechanic hum and some ever-professional part of my brain recognized one of these automatic shutters that people want to fit in Southern-facing windows. Connie didn't wait till they actually closed down, but started to pull his sweats off right away. I got up myself and beheld my employer, completely naked, in what strange, dim light was left in the room.

His body was as beautiful as his face. I wanted to say that and maybe kiss him, ask him how does he prefer it; but before I could open my mouth Connie turned around, bend down pushed his ass into my crotch. If there was ever an invitation, that was it and I tore the zip of my jeans open with trembling hands. I put my finger between his ass cheeks, realized that I wasn't prepared; then remembered something, fumbled around us with my hands and, finally, produced the bottle of oil. It was one of these fancy things with a stopper and it popped while being opened. I poured the oil high on Connies back, letting it trickle down to his crack; he shivered when it run over his spine and his skin broke out in little bumps, which made me even harder than I already was.

I slid one finger up him. He gasped. When I added another one, he moaned; I turned them around and separated them, and closed them again, and Connie whimpered, bending over onto the counter and jerking his ass higher. He was ready. But when I rubbed the tip of my dick against his asshole he suddenly straightened up.

"Please, be gentle with me," he panted out.

I bent down to muzzle his neck. "Why should I?" I chuckled.

He turned his face towards me and whispered, "Because I'm a virgin."

"Oh, you little fox," was all I managed to gasp before my dick pushed through and inside him.

I did go slow on him, as slow as I could, and I managed to make him come before me. Then we stood for a moment, panting, Connie resting his temple on the counter, me with my elbows propped each next to his side. When he finally raised his face to me, he was smiling again.

"That didn't hurt at all. Thank you."

"What do you mean?"

He seemed a bit surprised. "I told you."

"You want to tell me that was really your first time?"

*

Back home, sitting down with a properly chilled beer, I tried to make heads and tails out of what had happened. My recollections were initially marred by reproaching myself for barebacking a stranger, a thing I've sworn over and again not to do. I've made a mental note to go and get myself tested at the clinic right away sometime in the end of the week, then devoted myself to contemplating the curious case of Connie Brown.

That he was married didn't bother me that much. This is a small town and most queers here are closeted, a good deal of them with wives (and I've done many among these). Maybe it was that he looked so young while his wife sounded ancient. There was also the whole "virgin" business. I did not disbelieve him, but that was hardly an awkward first time--the guy was a fucking force of nature. I guess I can still be surprised by things, I thought, rubbing the sweaty neck of the bottle. I sat for some time, recalling the sensations, until I had to jerk off.

*

A few days passed and I did not come back to the events of that Thursday--there was a time when I could thing about something else than Constance Brown--filing them in my brain under things that I will reminisce about when I'm old and useless.

At certain point I had to go to the local wholesale for some work supplies. I was just going to get back into my car when I spotted Connie going out of the shop. After a moment of hesitation, I called out to him. He recognized me and I remember feeling elated. He came towards me with a smile.

"Hello again," he took my hand without so much as a twitch.

"Yes, hello. Doing some shopping, eh?"

"Oh, few things for the house," he laughed.

"Where're you parked?"

"Oh I jogged, actually. Seeing the weather is so nice."

"Oh," I glanced at his sweats, thinking if they might be his staple outfit. "That sure sounds great. But maybe you want a lift home?"

"Now that you say it," Connie looked me square into the eyes "I would like that."

We got into the car and I crawled out of the parking lot, then slowly went along the suburban street.

"You know," I started carefully "there is another way to get to your place. It goes through the forest. I would say its probably faster than going through the town. And definitely better for jogs."

"Oh," I heard Connie say.

"If you want, I can drive through there now. So, you know, you can see."

"I think I would like that very much."

I felt my heart beat faster as I took a turn from the road. Some part of me fretted that I still might be misreading this; but as we cleared the last suburban buildings, Connie's hand was already on my lap.

We went through the forest, first on asphalt, then on a tolerably tamped dirt road.

"I want to show you something," I said, turning the car and driving it between the trees. "There barely is a path, so most people think there is nothing here. But that's not true."

I had to drive very slowly now, to not bump on the roots bulging out of the ground every meter, but finally we made it. The car emerged into a tiny clearing--just enough place to park, go out and have a smoke. Or go out and do something else. I would have known, I used it for thirsts before.

I killed the engine and looked at my passenger. Connie's hand was not on my leg any more, but he was looking at me with such expectancy, biting his lower lip, that what apprehension I had was completely banished from my head.

With two fluent moves I pushed my seat as far back as possible and undid the safety belt "I was thinking," I said, unzipping my trousers "last time I've done you a favor you never really reciprocated."

He went for it in a snap. He was overeager, pulling on my dick way too hard, but I came in his mouth all the same. He gagged a little and I saw a few drops of milkish spit come out of the corner of his mouth. He made an attempt to wipe it off, but I caught his hand; I brought his face to mine and kissed him for a very long time.

I wanted to pull him on top of me, but it was him who stopped me this time. He took my wrist and looked at my watch.

"I can't," he whined. "I need to be getting back."

"Oh, come on."

"It's my wife," he made one of these cute, studied grimaces. "She really gets anxious when I'm not back on time."

"I guess its me who owns you one now, then," I said, letting him get back to his seat.

He laughed. "That suits me just fine."

*

I've let him out in front of his house. When he was slamming the car door closed, something came up to me.

"I don't have your number," I said to him through the open window.

"Would you like my number?" he smiled coyly at me.

"Well, you can find my number without a problem. That puts me at an unfair disadvantage." I unlocked my phone and passed it to him through the window.

He took it, giggling like a teenager, and tapped the numbers onto the screen.

As I was driving away, I glanced inside of the house's front windows, hoping to maybe spot the elusive Mrs. Constance Brown. There was no one there, just the kitchen with the counter tops where I fucked her husband's brains out.

*

I managed to hold out precisely seventeen hours before texting Connie first. I told myself it's all right and just a bit of fun, but I couldn't ignore the adrenaline shot in my brain every time the text signal went off. You're thirty nine, I told myself when my hand snatched the phone before it even finished buzzing, you're thirty five and not sentimental. I read the message. I'm alone whole afternoon tomorrow. Wanna come?

I'm not sentimental, I thought, typing a one-word answer, but I'm also not daft.

*

I got there a little late the next day as a matter of compensating for my very obvious eagerness in contacting him. While walking towards he door I noticed that the blinds were already down and my heart leaped a little. Connie opened for me and I went in.

We didn't engage in any pretense this time. I embraced and kissed him; he fondled my neck and hair. I moved down to his neck and Connie started moaning, the sound making my legs want to give in. We scrambled backwards, intertwined, until his behind bumped into the table; I pushed on, putting my hands on the surface at his sides. My palm slipped on an object and send it rolling with a clutter. I caught it, reflectively, and straightened out, a bit startled.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Connie gasped "my wife leaves her crap all around the house."

It was a small lipstick. I took the cap off and twisted the base of the applicator. The core slid out, red and glistening, even in the dimness of the room. Then I looked at Connie--he looked back at me, confused, his mouth parted and his pretty brow in a slight frown. I'll never be able to tell what came over me, or what made me do what I've done, even if now I want to cut off the hand that's done it. All I know is that I raised the lipstick and dabbed it onto Connie's lower lip.

He started and blinked at me. Then, before I could react, he jumped off the table and ran, pushing past me, across the room and upstairs.

"Connie?" I said, looking after him. But he was gone.

I put my elbows on the table and leaned in, rubbing my eyes in with my palms. "Connie, I'm sorry!" There was no answer. "Oh fuck, look, I didn't want to offend you, or embarrass you, or whatever..."

A sound of feet rumbling down the stairs interrupted my whining. I jerked my head up, then I straightened out, but had to put my hand back on the table to not lose my balance.

Connie was coming to me, with small, awkward steps. He was wearing a dress. I was so dazed I couldn't tell any more what color it was. What I remember clearly is how it stretched along his chest where it was way to tight, the straps twisting uncomfortably into his big shoulders, and threatened to rip at the seams in his waist; but hung shapelessly around his hips and tights. He was pale and when he reached me I saw that the reddened lower lip was trebling. But he looked me right into the eye.

I grabbed him and pulled him onto the table. I reached under the dress and removed his underwear, then, holding the insides of his laps firmly in my hands, I sank into his groin. I slid his dick in and out of my mouth a few times, slowly, then I sucked on his balls. When I moved further down and tickled that stretch of skin between the balls and asshole with my tongue, Connie jerked his buttocks up. I pinned him back again, and he groaned and grasped at my fingers as I ate him out. At first I had to use all my strength to keep him in place, but then his moans became longer, soft, even sleepy and he stopped struggling. Soon, I was putting my tongue inside him without much resistance. I reached out blindly to feel him. His dick was so hard I had to fight an urge to ride it myself.

I climbed on top of Connie and took him like a woman. When I pulled the front of his dress down and took his nipple between my fingers, I thought he would faint.

*

I couldn't sleep that night. I lied awake in my bed, pondering. I was never even into that kind of thing--drag, cross-dressing. Well, here we are, I thought. Not that Connie haven't eagerly followed lead. It seemed that he was something more than a closeted queer. Maybe I was helping him through the realization? He had to have precious little support otherwise, certainly not in that bitch of a wife. The woman seemed so perfectly dreadful it was hard to believe a guy like Connie would be married to her.

Well, and suppose he wasn't, I thought. Suppose there was no wife. Come to think about it, save a bottle of olive oil and a lipstick there was no tangible proof she'd even existed. Earlier, when we lied on the table resting after the lovemaking, Connie said something about the dress being his wife's, that it was delivered in a wrong size or something, and that she chugged it away and forgot about it. Now it seemed eerily convenient.

Well, there was of course the small matter that I've actually spoke with the woman. But then, the voice I heard on the phone was so oddly strained, one might've even called it unnatural. And Mrs. Constance Brown? Seriously?