Fiction by Randy Brieger

(In Touch for Men.#116.July.1986)

Only on a Sunday. These things can only happen on a Sunday.

The day after you spent six hours cruising anything in a pair of 501’s that you could spy — in fact everything that wasn’t in a pair of 501’s, OK, let’s be honest … even some things in dresses … and you still wound up at home on one side of a queen-size (!) waterbed alone.

Yes, Sunday … the one day that you decide to say “fuck it all” — not intending for it to be taken literally. Only this certain Sunday I was taken literally.

It all began when I was trying to brush the taste of Crown Royal, pot, and morning mouth out of my teeth. The doorbell rang, and I (looking like Cujo) answered the door wearing only an old bathrobe, only to wish I hadn’t. Or maybe not.

Standing behind the torn screen was the statue of David encased in a muscle T shirt and a pair of cutoffs that came close to defying the laws of gravity and stress. Swallowing what little pride and what abundant toothpaste I had in my mouth. I casually stammered out the question, “What can I do for you?” I like to think of myself as the subtle type. Apparently he hadn’t been known to be subtle, for he answered with a five minute spiel about yard work, hedge trimming, prices, how shitty my yard looked, and “had my gardener died?”

It was love at first sight.

After agreeing on a price (I would have given him my Saks credit card, my autographed Bette Midler albums, and the condo I sublet in Key West — but he settled for twenty dollars), Scott (that was his name) began the job. while I began wondering if it were possible for me to perform a wardrobe change and a complete makeover in half an hour … or less. It took an hour, and it was less—less than I would have hoped for … less than I would have dared hit the bars with … less than I would have dared hit K-mart’s spring clearance sale with.

First of all, the shower was not working right because the water pressure was low — thanks to some kid washing the Shermans’ DeLorean two houses down (I do hate a show off). Then the electricity was not on — thanks to my not paying the bill on time. I did give the power company a quick phone call explaining that my mail carrier has limped terribly ever since his accident in Nam, so my check was probably en route as we spoke, and they assured me that the power would be back on approximately at the time that my yard boy would be working on his next lawn.

To top it all off, I had nothing clean to wear except a Gucci blouse of my sister’s and an old pair of football shorts with a huge hole in the lower right cheek (sans underwear), since some stupid jerk with a hot bodied youth finishing his yard work as he spoke hadn’t done the laundry this week (sigh).

So, looking like a cross between Joan Rivers and my high school gym coach (can we choke?) I approached my little lawnmower-tugging cherub with a pitcher of lemonade, a bottle of poppers, and a Grace Jones cassette in play on my portable tape deck. He had never heard of Grace Jones, he never did poppers, he never drank any lemonade before he and I were in my bedroom (I’m such a sweet talking devil, sometimes).

Things started off very smoothly as I showed him around my large and well appointed sleeping chamber. He asked me about the many large pictures of naked and handsome young men that adorned the walls.

I explained that all the great artists over the centuries had felt that the nude body of a well developed man was one of the most artistic subjects anyone could imagine. Didn’t he agree?

He said, “Ummm.”

I think that meant that he agreed.

He asked why I had such a large bed … much too big for a single man … I was single wasn’t I?

I replied that I was a restless sleeper and moved around a lot in the bed and that I had many friends who often came to visit me to discuss artistic matters and that when we talked too late they often decided to spend the night with me. Since I had only one bedroom, they of course had to share my bed, hence I needed a really big one.

He then asked why all my bedside lights seemed to have red shades?

I explained that I had weak eyes and red was easier on them.

To show him what I meant, I pulled the blinds and turned on a few well placed lights … so he could get the full effect.

Then things got less smooth as my young conquest began fidgeting. I casually explained how overheating caused by tight sweaty clothes could lead to sterility and sexual dysfunction. Believing me, he obediently removed all of his clothes. Since I had no clean clothes for him to change into (how utterly convenient of me), I thoughtfully took off my clothes so that he would feel less embarrassed (after all. we were both guys).

And what a guy he was. Obviously yard work was good exercise because his full pecs, flat stomach, and beefy thighs were a true delight to behold. As I stood gawking, I realized that I heard no music, so I asked him to reach behind him and flip over my Grace Jones cassette. As he bent over, his sweet puckered asshole winked at me from between two round white cheeks, as hairless as the rest of his statuesque frame. He turned around and faced me, his two erect nipples reaching out, while my hard cock jutted forward as if trying to meet them.

He asked inquisitively about the reasons behind my blatant erection. I swallowed hard, trying to remain coy about the whole situation, even though my purple cockhead was dripping pre-cum all over my oriental rug. Thinking fast, I blamed my turgid state on the poppers. “It’s an ordinary side effect,” I said. Then I expressed concern over the fact that his limp cock wasn’t responding in the same manner. Perhaps he had been too late in getting his sweaty clothes off and sexual dysfunction had already set in (I’m such a suave liar, sometimes). He began to cry, and I offered to console him and try to help him out of his predicament.

“This will be just between us fellas,” I said smiling as I put his dick in my mouth.

I had him cured in thirty seconds.

He pulled me up from my knees and stood me in front of him. As his thick prong tangoed alongside my pulsing rod, I had the sad feeling that he was going to call this dance quits. To make matters worse. I accidentally glanced into my dresser mirror, and it cruelly reminded me how I looked (I would have made Lily Munster look like Miss America at that moment). My virile little gardener didn’t seem to notice, for he looked into my eyes, smiled, and I saw the Clearasil crack on his face as he said, “I’d better make sure that everything is in working order.”

And that he did.

His able hands worked gently over my body, teasing my flesh into complete submission. His mouth worked beautifully, sucking my cock, chewing my tongue, biting my nipples, and licking my quivering asshole. And speaking of assholes, his tight red rosebud was in, oh, so wonderful working order also, as it drained my dick twice like a vacuum cleaner hungry for all the man-juice it could get.

But what he tested the hardest — and I do mean hardest — was that thick veiny cock of his. He filled every inch of my insides with that huge, throbbing tool. It felt so good that I wanted his firehose everywhere, again and again and again. Somehow he managed to accommodate me, as he repeatedly shot semen in my face, on my chest, up my ass, in my mouth, and various other places on my body. That afternoon, I got to know every detail of my bedroom ceiling by heart, I exercised every adverb I could think of for how he should fuck me, and I wound up trying every sexual position that I have ever witnessed in a William Higgins film, plus a few new ones, as I gave in to three hours (seriously, no less) of unhindered, uninterrupted, unbelievable passion.

As I sit here pulling blades of grass out of my hair and wiping sperm off my neck, I know it has all been worth it. I know that next Saturday night I won’t worry about how pressed my jeans are, how much styling mousse to put in my hair, or how I should swing my hips on the dance floor. Today … Sunday … only on a Sunday … I learned that being myself is all that matters. I’m not such a bad guy … I’m OK. In fact, I’m pretty terrific! Jeez, that sounds just like Erica Jong, but that sounds pretty good. That sounds like I’m off to a great start. That sounds like … that sounds like the doorbell. My God! I look like Shit!

So much for self confidence.

Knowing that Richard Gere wouldn’t dare come by unannounced, I gather my wits, wrap a towel around my waist, run a brush through my hair, and answer the bell. Standing in the doorway is a sun tanned, half naked youth, a half-familiar face (seen in a dream, perhaps), wet from the nipples down … his white shorts (sans underwear) revealing a bulging pink hard on. I politely pick up my towel and my jaw off the floor as the boy facing me speaks.

“Hi. I’m Jeff. I was just washing cars down the street, and my brother Scott said you might have some work for me.”

I pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming. The red welt and the pain tell me I’m not. I graciously invite the lad inside to discuss his wages.

I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t own a car.

Luckily, the subject never comes up.