Macho
Straight Taste, Volume 2
Jaylen Florian
Published by Jaylen Florian, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
MACHO
First edition. August 13, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Jaylen Florian.
Written by Jaylen Florian.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Author's Note
Chapter 1
I was just out for an evening jog, along the small roads weaving through the wooded areas between the vineyard and the Missouri River. Because of the muggy summer heat, my running shorts and athletic shirt stuck to my skin and droplets of sweat poured down the sides of my face onto my neck. I didn't hear the car coming up behind me until it was right on my ass, honking for me to get off the dotted middle line, and scaring me half to death. I flinched, moved out of the way, and waved a clumsy apology at the man in the red sports sedan. He wore a fedora hat and a bomber jacket. He responded to my wave with a nod of his head and a casual two-finger military salute—something I have seen in the movies that effectively conveys a meaning like "carry on"—and he sped ahead toward the winery.
As I picked up my pace again, and my heart rate slowed from the jolt of the encounter—as I generally had these secluded roads all to myself during my daily runs—I thought about the refined man and wondered what he was like. However, it never occurred to me then that he would rocket into my life over the course of many nights and cultivate my sexual adventurism and so much more.
But I am getting ahead of myself. My story would lose its significance if I skipped ahead too soon to the good parts. First, I think you need to know more about me.
My name is Kieran and I am twenty-two, introspective, and quiet-natured. I am much more comfortable in a library than at a bar or a party. I spent perhaps an inordinate amount of time that summer battling loneliness by toning my body with exercise and trying to discover who I was. Or, to be more exact, I wanted to discover who I could be.
My transformation had begun months ago while in college. It was less a physical transformation, though my attitude had begun to change about my ginger hair, pink-toned and freckled skin, and heterochromatic eyes (one blue, one green). Instead of hating myself, I started to realize that I held appeal to some. My sex life in college had been non-existent until I spent a weekend in an industrial zone of a small town and rented a room that shared a wall with a glory hole connected to virile men in an automobile and motorcycle repair shop.
The anonymous sex experience had ignited an obsessive frenzy inside me that I expected would have to lie dormant during my summer internship at the Midwestern state conservation park areas north of the river. I wasn't thrilled about living for three months in another small and sleepy town, but that was essentially all I had known in my life. The intern training, ranging from conservation and preservation to protecting wildlife areas from vandals and poachers, was full of promise to help me launch a future profession as either a ranger or other officer safeguarding nature.
I had found a village nestled south of the river positioned within five miles or so of each of the three conservation areas I had been assigned to work at on a rotating schedule. The community did not have any apartment complexes, but a handful of rooms were available for rent. Two rentals were for rooms inside family homes and a third was for a dilapidated guest house that I imagined had probably been converted from an old shack or lawn shed, based on the hazy pictures online. So I chose my fourth option. A tiny bedroom above a three car garage, which was attached to a winery by a covered walkway—an arched and columned colonnade—and rested on a remote hillside overlooking a vineyard on one side and the river valley on the other.
This was one of those rare times when the reality of a room rental exceeded the quality of the pictures and descriptions online. The garage building, built in the 1920s and clad with rounded stone, resembled a European villa with a hipped roof and dormer windows with flower beds under the sills. My room was even more cramped than expected, with barely nine feet of width and eight feet of depth, but a narrow stairwell led down to an elongated and vaulted room behind the garage. It had exposed wood ceiling beams that smelled decades old, but the scent was pleasant and the charming shape reminded me of the interior of a small church or large boat. The room was just big enough for a kitchen, a television room with a sofa and a lounge chair, a billiards table, and a bathroom with a tub and shower. The wood plank walls were undecorated. A flat screen monitor was on one end of the room and a dartboard on the other. A vintage pinball machine stood beside a gumdrop dispenser and an antique liquor table cluttered with bottles of spirits.
This informal room was comfortable enough for spending hours in the evenings and on the weekends, using the bedroom only for sleeping. I missed my desktop computer from home, but there was just no room for it. The landlord, the manager of the winery, had informed me that I would basically have the living area to my self during the summer. However, she said, periodically, the owner of the winery and vineyards might occasionally visit and utilize the second bedroom above the garage and share the living space downstairs with me. When I asked her how frequently the owner would visit, the manager told me that he could visit weekly, monthly, or quarterly, depending on the needs of the various wineries he owned in the region. She added that it was possible he might not visit at all during the few months of my stay.
So, more comfortable than expected in my temporary living situation, and with interesting and meaningful tasks during my days on the verdant land in the conservation areas, I only battled bouts of acute melancholy brought on by brooding loneliness and raging hormones. By the time the stranger arrived midsummer, I had already given up hope of finding any outlet for my fantasies and dreams of lusty, and perhaps secret, encounters with other young men in the village.
Yet somehow I knew, finishing my jog that night and seeing the sporty red sedan parked beside the stone facade of the garage building, that intrigue had just creeped into my placid summer. Golden light glowed from the second floor bedroom beside mine. I ascended the steep steps on the side of the building to access the elevated colonnade and hid behind a pillar while I looked up and waited to catch glimpses of the affluent stranger moving about in his room behind the window.
Chapter 2
I first met Teddy minutes later. Only seconds after the light extinguished in his room, he was coming down the outdoor steps between the garage and the colonnade. I figured he must have just taken a suitcase up to his room and changed into a nice button-down shirt that he kept untucked over stylish blue jeans. His cowboy boots thudded rhythmically on the stones at a leisurely pace.
"You must be the tenant," he said, spotting me by the railing and shaking my hand with an especially firm grip. "Is it Kevin? Or Kellen?"
"Kieran," I answered. "Nice to meet you."
"Irish?"
"That's right, on my mother's side of the family."
"I'm Teddy. I'm sharing this place with you tonight, but I'll be out of your way tomorrow."
"You're the owner of the winery?" I felt stupid the moment the question left my mouth. Of course, Teddy was the owner, and he knew I knew it.
Teddy replied only with a nod of his head. "I'm on my way to dinner. Would you like me to bring you anything back?"
"I'm not hungry, but thanks for asking."
&nbs
p; And with that, Teddy was off. He zoomed away noiselessly in his sports sedan.
The whole exchange lasted less than fifteen or twenty seconds. But he occupied my mind for the next two hours until he returned. My first impressions were that Teddy was a supremely confident man, comfortable in his own skin, and he was friendly without being gregarious. I guessed his age to be approximately thirty-five, and at six feet in height he was taller than me by a few inches. He had asked about my heritage but had not offered any information on his own. I guessed he could have been partially Brazilian, Greek, Italian, or Spanish, but I really had no idea. I realized I had not met a man quite like him, in appearance or demeanor, and the closest comparisons I could make from my past were a combination of my hometown sheriff and the high school basketball coach.
Prior to Teddy's arrival I had not been inside the vacant room set beside my rented room above the winery's three garages. That vacant room was always locked. Gaging from the building's exterior, and the rooms' identical windows, I knew it had to be a replica of mine. So I wondered why a man with wealth would choose such modest accommodations, even for one night. It didn't make sense to me. On the other hand, he owned the land and the building. It all belonged to him. And the nearest motel—a sad motor court inn, probably built in the 1950s—was a good ten miles away.
Looking around the downstairs living areas that evening, I saw all of the furnishings and elements of the rooms in a new light. This was Teddy's home, and it was like his play area. The closest I had come to being in a man cave before was when I visited friends whose dads had portioned off segments of basements for their studies, smoking rooms, or mini bars. This instantly changed my appreciation for the living space in the winery's garage building. Instead of comparing it to an old house, I understood it was a large and casual dwelling whose purpose was the comfort and relaxation of the visiting owner.
The cupboards and cabinets were filled with my food. Nevertheless, I felt awkward about Teddy returning and finding me utilizing his kitchen and watching his television. Even then I knew this didn't sense. He owned it, but I rented a room and that entitled me to the use of the common areas. Perhaps also being too excited about him returning, I decided I would rather feel the most ease as possible, forsaking comfort. So I skipped dinner and changed out of my running attire into nicer clothes, including khaki slacks and a long sleeve shirt with a turquoise color that complemented the two colors of my eyes. Instead of turning on the flat screen television monitor I read a science fiction novel on the couch beside a floor lamp.
I read halfway through my book when I heard the garage door opening. Not thinking, just acting, I sprinted up to my room and continued reading on my bed. I heard Teddy enter the room downstairs and then ascend to his own room. A few minutes later, he stood in the doorway to my room. He had a glass of whiskey in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. His shirt was unbuttoned and open, revealing a strong physique and robust chest musculature.
"Kieran," he said.
"Hello," I smiled.
"Are you going out tonight?"
"No." I wondered if he was trying to ask me to leave for a while. I searched his face for clues.
"Then why aren't you in comfortable clothes?"
"I don't know." My answer rambled out. I had no explanation.
"Make yourself at home," Teddy said. "I'm the intruder tonight, not you."
"Can I go downstairs and watch something on cable?"
"Of course." Teddy turned to leave, then looked back before he descended the stairs. "I brought you some dinner in case your appetite comes back."
"I am getting hungry," I admitted. "Thank you."
"Nuke it in the microwave and it'll be almost as good as if it was served at the restaurant."
Pleasantly taken aback by Teddy's easygoing manner and politeness, even going so far as to refer to himself as an "intruder," I opted to take his advice and make myself much more comfortable. I changed into the clothes I normally wore at night when I was by myself, which included sweatpants and a t-shirt.
The dinner he brought me was terrific. Pasta with sun-dried tomatoes and olives, a deluxe salad with artichoke hearts, and several slices of garlic bread. Once I began taking bites I became ravenous and tried not to scarf it down too quickly while Teddy watched a crime thriller on television. He had slipped off his shoes and stretched his legs out on the couch. Black socks contoured around his sizable, shapely feet.
After finishing my meal and cleaning the dishes, I thanked Teddy profusely for bringing the dinner. Fancy restaurants, on my budget, were completely out of the question. Even going to diners could sometimes wrack me with guilt for spending too much money. I took the seat in the lounge chair, which was positioned in a perpendicular manner against the end of the couch, and watched the movie with him. Midway through, Teddy pushed the pause button on the remote control and refilled his glass with more whiskey.
When Teddy returned to the couch, he pushed the remote control away, keeping the show temporarily paused. He looked at me with what I would describe as blurred eyes—I knew well the look of men getting buzzed or reaching the early stages of drunkenness—and asked me to tell him a bit about myself. I assumed Teddy was just being polite and I did not want to bore him. When I gave him a one sentence answer, he thoughtfully questioned me about my internship, collegiate studies, and my hometown. At least half an hour went by, probably longer, and by the time I was sharing with him my hopes for a future job as a park ranger or other park officer, I found that I was no longer quite so intimidated in his presence.
Initially, I did not understand how I had gone from being so overawed by this handsome stranger to feeling like I could share personal information with him. But the answer came to me in a flash as I stared at the contented expression on his mouth. Teddy was not judging me or looking down at me. He hadn't flinched when I mentioned my financial strains or my difficulties choosing a career path for studies in college. Teddy neither admired me nor regarded me as pathetic. He was being polite, but more than that, down-to-earth, and genuinely interested in learning a little about me.
The effect was liberating. He offered me some whiskey, which I declined because I don't like the taste, but I did go to the refrigerator to and grabbed a beer so I could drink with him.
I was getting ready to ask Teddy about himself, but before I could he had resumed the movie. We watched it in silence. Before the movie ended I had another beer and Teddy kept sipping more whiskey. He fell asleep before the credits rolled. I took the remote control from his side, turned down some of the volume, and found a police adventure series to watch.
I couldn't help but study Teddy's sleeping face, periodically glancing away from the screen to note his powerful jaw line, the cleft in his chin, the thickness of his eyebrows, and the assured expression on his face. How does a man become so confident? So calm and steady? So rock solid and at peace with himself?
As I already mentioned to you earlier in this story, my journey to even accept myself had been a long and challenging one. And it was still in development. An unfinished work. My road ahead was vast. So you can understand Teddy fascinated me like no man had before, and my mind wandered all about him and I wanted to learn everything I could.
I also evaluated Teddy's jewelry. The diving watch on his left wrist had a hulking 45mm face with a thick band of black rubber. He did not have a ring on his wedding finger, but on his right hand he wore a silver college class ring with a square red stone. Around his neck was a gold figaro chain with what appeared to be a vintage medallion, also made of gold, embossed with the image of a falcon.
Teddy's chest effortlessly rose and fell with his breaths. His hands were folded and entwined over his stomach, then dropped to his sides, resting by his hips on the couch.
I believe I had drunk most of my third beer by the time I noticed the growing lump under Teddy's jeans. Veering to the left of his zipper, the growth began almost imperceptibly. But Teddy's bulge, thickening and elongating, accelerated
its massive swelling while he slept.
My heart raced with this unexpected situation. I, too, became hard, watching Teddy grow. I assessed his breathing and decided he was unquestionably in deep sleep. I leaned closer toward him, observing the throbbing motions he was involuntarily making under his jeans. I wanted to unzip my pants right then and there, and stroke myself. Of course, I didn't dare take such a risk and I did not want to do anything that would disturb and wake him. So I took mental snapshots of what I saw, knowing I would want to recall the precise images, with every detail, to fantasize about when I was alone. I memorized everything, and his throbbing continued.
Teddy grew to his full and impressive length and his erection strained against the denim. I desperately wanted to touch it. To feel its raging heat on my fingers, against my face, on my lips. But I knew Teddy wasn't doing this for me. He was sound asleep and his erection was naturally the result of his dream state. I bent even closer toward him and imagined what I would do to him if I had free reign.
Teddy's eyes opened. I must have rustled and startled him. He caught me ogling him, fixated on his crotch.
Teddy yawned and stretched, noticing his obvious tumescence. "Pardon me," he said and chuckled. Teddy did not attempt to hide it and he exhibited no embarrassment. "The movie is over?"
"Yeah, I started another one." I tried to speak nonchalantly, but my voice faltered and my face flushed red.
"I didn't intend to put on a show," he said, referring to his bulge, which I could not help but continue to steal glances at, even though it could no longer be a secret endeavor. "It happens, you know?"
"No problem." I could have left it at that. But, in my nervousness, trying to account for the reason I was gawking, a ridiculous question slipped out. "Is it real?"
Teddy gave me the oddest look and cocked his head. "Why wouldn't it be?"
Macho Page 1