The Tinder Stories

by Tory Temple

  Chris shrugged. The last time they’d visited, Maribel had asked Morgan to take a casserole from the oven. Morgan had accidentally touched the pot holder to the oven rack and burned a brown hole in the middle of it. “Dunno, Mom. He’s kind of weird.” In truth, Chris had thought it was a sweet gesture.

  “Christopher. He is not. He’s a perfect gentleman.” Maribel rose, holding her bowl. “Let’s go. Your father is fiddling with his model trains. He wants you to go up to the guest bedroom and look at them.”

  He wondered what his mother would say if Chris told her exactly what Morgan “perfect gentleman” Daniels had done to her son last night in bed, but discarded that idea. “Sure, Mom.” He took the bowl of peas from her and followed his mother inside. “Did Dad set up the whole model railroad thing like he wanted to?”

  “I am not talking about your father’s railroad. He came to bed at midnight last night. Midnight! Because of the railroad!” Maribel snatched the bowl from Chris and put it on the table, then hung her new pot holder on the oven. She sat down and began shelling peas again. “Midnight!”

  “Okay, okay.” Chris laughed. Clearly, it was a bone of contention between them. “Nothing much changes around here. I’ll go say hi to Dad.” He dropped his gloves on the kitchen table before heading for the stairs.

  “Lunch in an hour!” she called after him.

  Chris paused to drop his jacket and backpack in his old room before searching for his father. He found John Matthews in the spare bedroom down the hall, looking thoughtfully at a table that contained a perfect model railroad.

  “Cool, Dad.”

  John turned with a smile and open arms. “Chris.”

  Chris hugged his father and then stood looking at the railroad. “So you went with the town theme instead of the coal mine, huh?”

  “I’m doing both,” his father answered with glee. “The town is just about done. I only need a fire station.” He pointed to the empty spot at the corner of the table.

  “Aw, jeez. That should have been your first building, Dad.” Chris grinned and poked at one of the fake pine trees.

  “It’s special.” John couldn’t contain his wide beam. “I’m having it custom-made. They’re painting your station number on it. Station Nineteen, right across the top.”

  Chris blinked. “Dad. That’s… hey, awesome. Seriously.” There had always been the unspoken expectation that he would take over the almond orchard one day, but Chris had known from the time that he’d gone on his third-grade field trip to the fire station that he wanted to be a fireman. From that moment on, his parents had never been anything but supportive of his career choice, and his father delighted in telling friends and neighbors about his son who was a firefighter.

  “Well. I can’t just put any station in my town.” John adjusted one of the tiny stop signs at an intersection. “Where’s Morgan?”

  “I know Mom told you he wasn’t coming with me.” Chris sighed. “God. There used to be a time without Morgan, you know.” Although truthfully, it was getting harder for Chris to remember the time before Morgan. He sort of liked it that way.

  Chris’s father nodded. “Yes. I vaguely remember.” He winked at Chris. “Then take fancy pictures with your fancy camera of my railroad and show it to him, okay?”

  “Sure, Dad.” He’d brought his good camera along to get some shots of the orchard in full flower. Pictures of his dad’s railroad would make John happy, and Morgan would doubtlessly be interested.

  They spent another half hour looking at the railroad and discussing how John would set up the new one with the coal mine until Maribel called them to lunch. Chris sat down to his mother’s homemade macaroni and cheese and fresh cherry pie. “Nice, Mom. Did you wrap—”

  She held up the plastic container of food before putting it in the freezer. “There should be enough for two meals. Share it with Morgan.”

  “He’s going on about his cholesterol again.” Chris shoveled in mac and cheese, feeling fortunate that his latest department fitness test had showed his blood work all in the normal range.

  “He needs to start that medicine.” John began eating his lunch with vigor. “There are pills he said he can take.”

  Chris and Morgan had had the argument about medication plenty of times. Chris wanted him to start the pills; Morgan wanted to hold off as long as possible. By now they were at an impasse over it. “Yeah, I know, Dad.” He gave a halfhearted shrug and continued wolfing down his lunch. Nothing on earth compared to his mom’s cooking.

  After they were finished, Maribel waved them out of the kitchen, so Chris grabbed his camera and went out to the orchards with John to check the beehives that helped to pollinate the almond blossoms. It was nice to spend time with his father. Chris noted the extra gray in John’s hair and made a mental note to increase his visits.

  The afternoon passed quickly enough. Chris and John strolled back up to the house together, and John disappeared once more into the spare bedroom to fiddle with his trains. Chris used the time to shower and take a short nap until Maribel called them both down to supper.

  He waited through his parents’ evening television shows while picking idly at one of the ever-present bowls of almonds. Chris managed to derail a minor argument regarding which VCR tapes were blank and which had Maribel’s soap opera on them, but his parents both offered him confused looks when Chris tried to explain the merits of a digital recording system.

  “The box records things? How do you get the tapes out?” His mother frowned at her embroidery.

  “There aren’t any tapes,” Chris said patiently for the third time. “You hook up the box to the TV and you just use the remote to scroll through the list of stuff that you tell it to record.”

  “So I can’t watch my tapes?” John looked puzzled. “That doesn’t sound like a very good deal to me.”

  Chris sighed. It was always amazing to him how his parents could own and cultivate prosperous acres of almond orchards, but the mysteries of DVR were too much for them to handle. “Just stick with your VCR, Dad.” Chris grinned and popped some more almonds into his mouth.

  When it neared nine o’clock, John and Maribel kissed Chris good night and went up the stairs to bed. Chris knew they’d be awake well before the sun, as they were every day. His father would be checking the almond trees, and Maribel would be busy in her garden, floppy hat on to protect her from the morning sun. All frustration with their technology issues aside, Chris was comforted by the fact that his parents’ routine never changed.

  He turned the sound down on the television and waited half an hour before pulling his cell phone from his pocket. The house was still and silent, and Chris knew his parents wouldn’t hear anything from their bedroom on the second floor.

  Morgan answered after two rings, and Chris could hear the TV in the background. “Well, look who’s not dead in a ditch.”

  Chris laughed softly. “I told you I’d call you.”

  “I expected it to be when you got there, not ten hours later. How was the ride?”

  They spoke quietly for a while about not much of anything: how the ride up had been, how Chris’s parents were, how the orchards were faring. Morgan relayed some information about upcoming classes he was going to teach and whether or not they’d both be able to go on the fire department’s annual street bike ride together.

  The phone line grew quiet after a time. “So,” Chris said in a low voice. “It’s kind of weird being here without you.”

  Morgan surprised him by not coming back with a sarcastic quip. “It’s weird here too. When’s the last time we didn’t spend the night together?”

  “The last shift I worked.” Chris chuckled. “We spend a lot of nights apart.” That wasn’t saying Chris liked it; it was just the nature of the job.

  “No, you know what I mean.” Morgan shifted position. Chris could hear him moving over the phone. “The last time one of us went away without the other.”

  Chris moved too, stretching out along the couch and resting
his head on one of the arms. “Shoot, I have no idea. We go camping together, riding together… aside from work, we’re always together. No wonder it feels weird.”

  “I have no one to suck my dick before bed.”

  “Your fault.” Chris chuckled and rested one arm behind his head. “Told you to come with me. ‘No, I have to work,’ you said. And now you’re bitching about the lack of blowjobs.”

  “Clearly, I didn’t think this through.” Morgan was smiling; Chris could hear it.

  “Clearly. What do you do when I’m at work and you want head? I know you can’t reach it yourself.”

  Morgan snorted. “Not with my mouth. I have to resort to my own hand. See all the trouble you put me through?”

  “I know you jack off plenty without me. And what about before I came along, huh?” Chris shifted again, his cock beginning to wake up with all the mentions of blowjobs and hand jobs.

  “Oh, well. Before you came along, Mr. Matthews, I had men beating down my door. I made them line up and take numbers. I had very strict qualifications too. No firemen.”

  “Too bad. Firemen are good in bed. Are you jerking off?” Chris slid a hand inside his own shorts and rested it alongside his hardening prick.

  There was the sound of movement and what sounded to Chris like a zipper being undone. “I’m thinking about it. Talk me through it.”

  “You like phone sex,” Chris reminded him with a laugh, curling his fingers around his dick and waiting. His skin was warm under his palm.

  “You’re right.” Morgan’s voice was raspy and Chris heard him draw in a small breath, signifying that Morgan had started to stroke himself. “I especially like it with you. Now talk me through it.”

  Chris groaned a little. “Okay, okay. Take your jeans all the way off so they’re not in the way.”

  “Hold on.” Morgan put the phone down for a moment and then returned. “Jeans off. Yours better be off too.”

  In fact, Chris was trying to wiggle out of his shorts with one hand. He managed to get them down past his hips and kicked them to the floor. “They’re off. Get the lube from under the couch cushion and use a lot of it.”

  “I already did.” Chris could hear Morgan slicking himself up. “Lick your hand, use that for lube. You’re teasing the head with just your fingers, aren’t you?”

  It was either kind of cool or kind of freaky that Morgan knew exactly what Chris was doing without being able to see him. Chris rubbed his thumb over the slit in his prick and felt a bit of fluid slide around. “Yeah,” he whispered. “And you’re playing with your balls.” Morgan wasn’t the only one who’d watched. Chris loved to see Morgan jerking off in the shower in the mornings.

  “You’re right.” Morgan made a soft sound into the phone that traveled straight to Chris’s leaking cock. “I’m playing with them and squeezing a little, just like you do to me right before I’m about to come. How do you always know?”

  “I just know,” Chris answered. He palmed the length of his dick and gave a good, stroking squeeze. “Oh, God. I think I’m closer than I thought.” Listening to Morgan on the other end was a huge turn-on.

  “Wait, wait.” Morgan’s words were soft, but his breathing was loud. “Wait for me. I need a minute.”

  Chris paused with a heroic effort. “God, you’re old,” he half groaned, half laughed. His prick pulsed in his hand, but he didn’t stroke. “Hurry up.”

  “Fuck you,” Morgan replied. “I just don’t pop my cork in thirty seconds like you young people do. Oooooh Christ that’s good.” He made another one of the little noises that Chris could practically feel.

  “Morgan.” Chris closed his eyes and forgot his promise to wait. His hand moved on its own, squeezing and stroking and pushing eager fingers into his slit. “Morgan, come on.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Come on,” Chris said immediately. “Hurry up. I need to hear you. I want to come with you when you spill.” He gasped and took a deep breath and continued, hand still playing over himself. “I want to hear that noise you make when you’re on the edge, the one that always sets me off. Are you ready? God, please be ready, I can’t hold off. I’m aching for it.” He arched his neck on the arm of the couch, straining to hear Morgan.

  “Chris, fuck,” Morgan moaned into the phone. “You’re—oh God, yes!” There was a gasp and a grunt and Chris knew Morgan was coming, the white ribbons of spunk making little arcs over his fingers.

  The mental picture, combined with that little noise that was Chris’s favorite, sent him over. He gritted his teeth and somehow didn’t cry out, but only by sheer force of will. The heat in his spine and balls all rushed together to form an electric current that zoomed up his legs and then out. Warm fluid spilled down over his fingers and pooled on Chris’s belly while Chris shuddered and then went still.

  “Don’t fall asleep like that on your parents’ couch, Christopher.” Morgan’s voice was warm and rich with laughter. He was satisfied and smug, Chris could tell. “Clean yourself up.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Chris yawned. He sat up and stripped off his T-shirt, using that to swipe at the mess. “I should have called you from my bedroom.”

  “But then your parents would be right next door, and you wanted this, didn’t you?” Oh yeah, definitely smug.

  “What I wanted was for you to come up here with me. But you didn’t, so I made do with mediocre phone sex.” Chris grinned and sat up, reaching for his shorts. He found them in the dark and slipped them on, then got off the couch and headed for the stairs.

  Morgan chuckled. “Remind me to write down the definition of ‘mediocre’ for you, Mr. Matthews. That wasn’t it.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Chris smiled into the phone. He ascended the stairs as quietly as he could and slipped into his room.

  “Call my cell, not the house. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

  “Okay. Um… miss you.”

  There was a beat of silence. Then, “I miss you too, Chris.”

  Chris hung up and lay down on his bed. He held the phone until he dropped off to sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHRIS GOT through another full day at his parents’ before deciding it was time to go home. His father’s new train obsession and his mother’s insistence that Chris go to visit the neighbors—all the neighbors—with her were beginning to wear on him.

  And besides, it wasn’t shameful to admit he missed Morgan. Chris slept alone while he was at work, but it didn’t mean he had to do it at other times too. It was time to go home.

  “I thought you were here until Saturday,” Maribel said, putting a second helping of turkey pot pie in front of him. “We invited the Lockharts over for brunch.” She sounded hurt and Chris felt guilty.

  Not guilty enough to stay, however, especially when his father said, “You invited the Lockharts a month ago, before you knew Chris was coming home.”

  Maribel had the grace to blush, and Chris laughed. “Sorry, Mom. I, uh. Forgot about a shift at work.” It was just a little fib. Better that than his mother’s hurt feelings.

  “I suppose,” she sighed. “But you tell that man of yours that I won’t accept another visit without him again.”

  Chris didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended, so he contented himself with rolling his eyes and finishing his dinner.

  HE DIDN’T call Morgan to tell him he was coming home, so it wasn’t a surprise to find an empty house. Morgan had said he was working anyway. Chris thought for a moment about cooking a nice dinner, then realized that if Morgan didn’t know Chris was there, chances were good that he’d just eat at whatever fire station was having classes today. Chris should probably save dinner for tomorrow night.

  The laundry had to be done and Chris needed uniforms ironed for his next shift, so that took up the bulk of his Friday afternoon while he waited for Morgan. He put a little music on while he dewrinkled his work clothes and took his time grooving to one of the indie bands he preferred.

  His uniforms were too
many in number for the closet Chris and Morgan shared, so the designated place for them was the closet in the guest room. The room also doubled as Morgan’s office, since the two of them rarely had actual guests. It was very “Morgan” in there, Chris thought, with a large cherrywood desk and a twin bed made of solid oak.

  Chris pushed open the door, hands full of hangers, and deposited his uniforms in the right place. He glanced over at Morgan’s desk on his way out of the room and paused. Morgan’s laptop was there, the lid open and screensaver in place. Morgan’s battered briefcase, the one he refused to exchange for a new one because he claimed the one he owned was the perfect size, was on the floor. Papers and class schedules were spread out over the desk, just like they were when Morgan was home and working.

  The thing that was weird about it was the fact that Morgan’s laptop and briefcase accompanied him to every station, every class. There had been days when Morgan had called the house from work, asking Chris for this paper or that computer disk that he’d forgotten to put in his briefcase before leaving. And once, when Chris had done a really good job of giving Morgan some spectacular head, Morgan had called an hour later, sheepishly requesting that Chris bring his forgotten briefcase to him.

  It stood to reason that Morgan had forgotten one of these things when he’d left this morning and Chris wasn’t home to get it for him. But both the computer and briefcase? It was next to impossible that Morgan had forgotten both, especially with the papers scattered everywhere.

  Chris sat down in Morgan’s chair and swiped his thumb across the laptop’s touch pad. The screensaver vanished instantly and Morgan’s email program popped up. That was unexpected; Chris had been ready to be blocked by Morgan’s password.

  He wasn’t nosy by nature. Chris had never been one for gossip, despite it running rampant throughout the fire department. Firemen were notorious for being talkative and gossipy. Chris listened to the chatter if it was unavoidable, like at the dinner table during a shift, but he didn’t seek it out, and he never repeated what he heard.