“Bedtime now,” he says to the empty study around him. He closes his tablet, places it on the organized desk in front of him, and stands. It only takes a few seconds to walk the stairs to the second floor, enter the bedroom, strip out of his clothes, clear down to his bare bottom, and slip into bed, falling asleep under a single cotton sheet.
Part 3: Denver Rawlston
Chapter 21: Bump Into His Skin
July 1, 20—
3:02 P.M.
Cup of Beans
“You again,” Denver Rawlston says to Toby, almost spilling his coffee on the blogger’s chest, running into the man at Cup of Beans, a coffee shop the two men frequent on Weston Row Street in downtown Templeton.
Cup of Beans is oval-shaped with a coffee bar to the left and one to the right. Chairs, tables, and two sofas are positioned in the center of the place, between the coffee bar areas. Battleship gray and lime green stripe the walls. Adele plays down from the overhead speakers. College students drink caffeine from paper cups and write term papers on their laptops at the oak tables or play phone sexting with their. Soccer moms enjoy baked goods—triple layer chocolate cake and blueberry tarts—before they have to pick their sons and daughters up from after school programs. Teens flirt with each other and drink water or cheap cups of the standard brew. The business does well with many Templeton patrons, and has an upstanding reputation. It’s owners—Kyle Barker and his lover, Damian Frost—are planning on opening a second Cup of Beans in the nearby town of Boscar, which sits east of Templeton. Both have business degrees from West End College and know exactly what they’re doing with the coffee shop and future developments to make money.
“Me again,” Toby says, smiling and making contact with the redheaded beefster. Denver is massive in size. All two hundred and twenty pounds of the queer screams muscles and protein drinks. Although he only stands at five-ten, he looks taller because of his bowling pin shape. His suntanned cheeks are covered in red fur that is cut close. The jock’s pale blue eyes are the color of a newborn baby boy’s blanket. And his shoulders and nose are covered in splotches of red, orange, and muddy brown freckles, which causes Toby’s dick to stir awake in his jeans.
They’ve met many times before because Denver works as a lead nutritionist at King’s Barbells and Boxing, since the place opened for business. They’ve attended dinner parties together with David King, holiday events, and other functions together in their circle of friends. Truth is Toby knows a lot more about Denver than what he lets on because King tells him things about the nutritionist that really isn’t any of Toby’s business. King’s like this, though. A blabbermouth. Someone who likes to gossip. Not that Toby holds it against his best friend.
The details that Toby has in his memory bank of Denver Johnathan Rawlston are of the mundane. Such facts that come to mind about the man include the length of his dick when its fully erect (eight inches), that his family is from Denver, Colorado, and that he has six brothers, all of which look pretty much like Denver, except for his Men’s Health frame. Other details include that Denver is single, never has a boyfriend, and enjoys one-night stands over long-term relationships. He has two cats, Karen and Valley, enjoys his body more than people, and is a devout Christian that just happens to be of no denomination, praising Jesus.
Chapter 22: Holiday Proposition
“I have a favor to ask you,” Denver says, scratching the muscular area between his tank-covered pecs by using his left hand. Fingertips meet his left nipple, making the nub hard and pointed.
He wants to fuck me, Toby thinks, recalling what King had recently confessed to him in private, All Denver Rawlston talks about is slamming his cock in your tight ass. He says you’re the hottest guy in Templeton and wants you. It’s flattering, Toby knows, but it’s also gossip. As far as he’s concerned, what King tells him about events and peoples’ lives in their small town means nothing, until proven otherwise.
Not that Toby wouldn’t fuck the freckled bear with his red hair and pumped chest. Toby might be a fool, but he’s not foolish. Denver is probably a prize in the sheets, a good fuck with the handsome ginger.
“What’s the favor you need, Denver?” Toby asks, standing just a few inches away from the nutritionist, holding his coffee cup in his right hand and studying the leprechaun’s block structure, thinking it more desirable than Blue’s.
“You know I’m from Denver, right?”
Toby nods. “King and I call you Denver from Denver behind your back.”
“Cute,” Denver says, winking and grinning at Toby. “Well, my family lives there and I’m expected home for the Fourth of July, which means I’ll need someone to stay at my house.”
“The Tudor on Bretton Way, right?”
“The only Tudor on Bretton Way.”
“How long do you need me?”
“I need a house-sitter from tomorrow through the fifth. Any way you can help me out?”
Toby would like to help the jock out by finding out if he’s good in bed, has a long cock, and an even longer stamina while ramming a man’s taut ass with his dick, after sharing a few whiskey shots with him. Plus, a little cuddling wouldn’t hurt, just to add some romance and flavor to the occasion. There’s no chance in hell this is going to pan out, though, so he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he rubs his chin, thinking about the Tudor on Bretton Way.
“Listen,” Denver says. “The place is all yours for four days. You can eat any of the food you can find in the place. I have a closet overflowing with alcohol for your pleasure. And I’ll even toss in a hundred bucks for your trouble. I just want to make sure the house won’t be broken into and that my cats are taken care of. What do you say?”
Toby thinks, I’d say you’re the sexiest damn man I’ve known for a very long time and that I have a little crush on you. That’s what I would like to say.
Toby doesn’t say this, though. Instead, he looks at the mound of private parts between the gingerhead’s inflated thighs, discretely and accidentally licks his upper lip with his extended tongue, and responds with, “Why are you worried about the Tudor? You live on a safe street.”
Both of them know that Bretton Way is safe with middle class families who live middle class lives. It’s not pretentious or poor. It’s locked in the middle of society with next to no crime, nice yards, and filled with American dreams.
“It’s better to be safe than sorry. This is more about Karen and Valley, if you want to know the truth. They hate to be alone,” Denver admits. “I want to feel comfortable in Denver, knowing that someone will be watching my property and cats. What do you say, will you help me out or not, Toby?”
Toby usually isn’t spontaneous with anything in his life. But today is not an average day in the world of blogs and a handsome man named Denver who just happens to be from Denver, which means thinking before acting is out the window. This is why he says to the beefcake, “I’ll do it. I can write my weekend and holiday Bear Blog anywhere. Who knows, your Tudor and kitties may just provide me some inspiration.”
“I agree,” Denver says, grinning with the largest and infectious smile a muscular leprechaun can muster. “Can you meet me at my place at five o’clock tomorrow evening? I catch a flight to Denver at seven. We can take about fifteen minutes out to go over what you need to know.”
Toby nods and says rather professionally, as if he house-sits for a living, “Tomorrow through the fifth, right?”
“If this works for you.”
“It’s perfect.”
“Perfect.”
And their conversation in the coffee shop ends with Toby saying, “I’ll be there. You can count on it.”
Chapter 23: On Bretton Way
July 2, 20—
328 Bretton Way
5:00 P.M.
Denver’s arrangement does not go as planned, Toby learns when arriving at the nutritionist’s Tudor for a tour and instructions while house-sitting. Rather, a white standard envelope is stuck between the Tudor’s screen and storm doors. On its front
is Toby’s name in blue ballpoint pen, which he knows is Denver’s scrawl. Inside the envelope are two items, a silver key to the front door to the place, and a beige index card that reads: Toby, had to run to the airport. My plane isn’t leaving at seven, it’s leaving at six. My mistake. Take care. And thanks. DR
Toby makes his way inside the Tudor. The first thing he notes is the thick aroma of a honeysuckle air freshener mixed with Denver’s perspiration. Two kitties bounce into the room—purebred gray Russian Blues named Karen and Valley—and skirt around his ankles. Valley mews and then gets swatted by her sister, Karen. Frankly, Toby can’t tell the pair of felines apart, so he simply picks one to call Valley and the other Karen, randomly.
After petting “the girls” as Denver calls his pussies, Toby looks around the Tudor’s main floor, scoping out its low ceilings, narrow hallways, and tiny rooms. Such rooms consist of a modest living room area to the left, an unused dining room area to the right, and a kitchen in the rear. All are decorated by one of Templeton’s best interior designers, Marshall Patton. And all are tidy, showing no dust, clutter, or broken anything.
Upstairs is just as blah as downstairs. A miniature bathroom sits at the top of twenty-one steps. To the right of the bathroom is Denver’s room, which has baby blue walls, three windows, and a walnut dresser with a high definition Sony television planted on its top. To the left of the dwarf-size bathroom is a second bedroom where guests, which includes Toby, can spend a night or two.
Toby decides not to sleep in the spare room. Instead, he likes to live on the edge sometimes and drops his North Face knapsack on Denver’s bedroom floor, climbs on his bed, and inhales the redhead in a stalking-like manner, becoming numb in Denver’s strong and sweaty scent. Fuck the guest room when he can sleep where Denver sleeps. Since the opportunity for Toby will never occur to fuck the redhead, this is about as close he can get to the man, besides sliding his tongue inside Denver’s tight asshole, which will probably never happen, either.
Denver’s queen-size bed is lush with comfort and not at all a disappointment for Toby. Frankly, it is so unbelievably cozy, it prompts Toby to undress, clear down to his bearish birthday suit, and slip between its summer sheet—a cotton blend that Denver probably purchased from an uppity designing establishment called Nature’s Fine Linens—and mattress cover.
Of course, Toby thinks about masturbating on Denver’s bed, jacking a load of semen on its cheap cotton and two pillows while imagining the redhead’s palms and fingers around his dick, gliding the excess skin on Toby’s erection up and down, getting off. This doesn’t occur, though. Rather, Toby closes his eyes, drifts into sleep, and naps.
Chapter 24: What Toby Does
Toby wakes after dark. Somehow and someway the cotton sheet no longer covers his nakedness. Valley is curled up at his knees and Karen is warm against his naked stomach. He listens to the air conditioner hum, knowing its ninety-two degrees out with a dome of humidity. He yawns, stretches in the bed, stirs “the girls” away because of his sudden movements, and decides to take a piss.
The stone bathroom on the Tudor’s second floor is a mix of granite, sandstone, and slate. Blacks, grays, and browns blend together within the small room. The miniscule sink sits to the left, the bathtub is to the right, and the American Standard toilet is straight back. There’s a window that hangs over the toilet and looks out into Denver’s backyard. One can look through it while standing up to take a piss. It’s too dark out to see what’s beyond the plane of glass. Toby’s pretty sure the view is just like other views in a Templeton neighborhood: sprawling flat yard, a white brick garage that can most likely house two vehicles, and an alleyway covered with potholes and lined with aluminum garbage cans and plastic recycling bins.
Following his piss, still naked, the cats mew—in unison and at a high pitch—behind his heels to be fed. Toby finds some dry food downstairs in the pantry, the pets’ bowls, and fills both of them. As “the girls” eat, swishing their gray tails to and fro like parade flags, he finds a bottle of whiskey inside a kitchen cabinet, pours himself three fingers in a Mickey Mouse glass—real classy—and decides to check out the in-ground pool in the backyard, beyond the kitchen.
* * * *
Denver’s pool is shaped like a giant kidney. Blue lights illuminate its clean water. A pump hums in a small shed to the left of the contained water, circulating and filtering the pool’s water. The pool is four feet deep on its shallow end and ten on its deep end. Truth is Toby has always been a sucker for some pool time, especially in the raw. Excited about a quick dip, feeling surrounded by the dome of July humidity, he swallows all of the whiskey down, feels it burn the back of his throat—a sensation that he actually enjoys and expects from the whiskey—and places the Mickey Mouse cup near his feet, which are positioned on zigzagging bricks that surround the pool. He walks to the edge of the pool’s shallow end, rubs his cock with his left hand for no apparent reason, and dives into the pool, arching his body through the warm water and brushing his torso off the pool’s bottom, being a skilled diver from his childhood.
The water is warm and refreshing, just as he thinks it will be. He holds his breath, keeps his mouth shut, and swims through the comforting stillness, bending his elbows and knees, kicking water behind him as if he is a fish, Michael Phelps, or a merman, relishing this time alone, and having the pool all to himself, without any hindrances of the world around him.
Eventually he surfaces for air, breaking through the calm water, and meets night.
Chapter 25: What Toby Reads
10:11 P.M.
Toby dries off with a fluffy blue towel next to the pool. Head first, shoulders, chest, private parts, ass and back, and his legs. He places the towel over a chaise lounge that sits next to the pool, drying it out overnight, which might be a challenge since the humidity is so thick, and probably won’t break for the next few days. His cellphone beeps inside the house and he escapes the pool area, having every intention of fetching the device.
* * * *
It’s King calling, he determines, studying the man’s name on the cellphone’s screen. Toby decides to take the call and says, “What’s going on, King?”
“Are you at Denver’s, house-sitting?”
“For the next few days. Through the holiday.”
“Can I come over with a girl and swim tomorrow? It’s supposed to be in the nineties.”
“Only if you call first. I’m sure Denver won’t mind.” Toby pauses for a few seconds and asks, “Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Daisy. She’s a stripper. I met her this afternoon. She works out at my gym. Black hair. Blue eyes. Built like a stripper. And beautiful. I don’t think Daisy is her real name, though.”
Never does King mention a woman’s attributes besides her looks, which is sort of unfortunate since he will most likely be a single man for life. “Beautiful is nice. You’ll find out her real name soon, I’m sure,” Toby says. He can start an argument with King about being shallow and one dimensional in King’s relationships with women, but he chooses not to. Instead, he’s pleased that his friend has to run, something to do with another call coming in on his cellphone. Perhaps Daisy, or whatever her name is, is confirming their swim date for the following afternoon, or not. Toby signs off with a quick, “See you tomorrow,” and ends the call, feeling bad for his best friend and his sexually haphazard use of women in his life.
* * * *
Toby searches out his bag in the master bedroom, slips into a fresh pair of lime green boxer-briefs, and decides to spend the next hour snooping through the Tudor. He opens closets, looks behind doors, and reads a number of queer fictional titles on Denver’s three-tier bookshelf in the living room. He pulls drawers open, preys upon the space underneath the abode’s furniture, but doesn’t find anything remotely exciting that entices him. Unsatisfied with his hunt, he decides to eat an apple and read a slim hardback mystery from Denver’s collection, something about two men visiting Key West and accidentally drowning.
&
nbsp; Around two o’clock in the morning, reading over one hundred pages in the chosen tome, he turns in for the night, sleeping in Denver’s bed again. Naked is the only way he rolls, and doesn’t let himself down. His skin feels comfortable in the man’s sheets, and aroused, but it doesn’t entice Toby to masturbate. Rather, he closes his eyes, drifts into pleasant dreams, and sleeps until almost ten o’clock the next morning.
Chapter 26: What Toby Watches
July 3, 20—
Bretton Way
12:00 P.M.
Toby passes on lunch because he gets up too late and it still feels like breakfast. Instead, he takes a run around Denver’s neighborhood in a pair of shorts, bootie socks, and Nike shoes. Sweat glistens on his bare chest and thighs, and he’s soaked with the stuff after his two-mile run. Once returning to Denver’s residence, he decides to jump in the pool, does a few laps, and retires in the shade, next to the pool, creating a new Bear Blog.
The bear blog happens to be about how bears live in the city compared to those who live in the country. Two hundred words spill out of his fingertips and decorate his laptop’s screen. And just as he begins to craft the next one hundred words, King and his date, the nicely built and beautiful Daisy (no last name provided, nor a real first name is shared), arrive unannounced in their swimming gear, planning to spend the next few hours in the pool, drinking.
Toby gives the couple a few hours to themselves in the pool. While doing so, he escapes to Denver’s bedroom, finishes his bear blog—a total of six hundred words—and accompanies King and Daisy for an early dinner, which consists of brats on the grill, bottles of Rolling Rock, and grilled corn on the cob.
Bear Hunting Page 5