Don't Try This at Home

by Ellee Hill

“Not one of our best laid plans.”

  “Not by a long shot.” I heard the smile in his voice as he caught on to the extra meaning.

  “Speaking of nuts, how are your dick and ass? Burning stop yet?”

  “Still tingles, but it’s manageable. I’ll remember not to get too horny the next time I see you in an apron. At least not until I see what you’re chopping.”

  Colum paused and then added, “At least the avocado quelled the fire.”

  “Quelled? The fuck, using your word-of-the-day?”

  “Trying to get you out of your fucking fuck! rut.”

  “Ha, fucking, ha.”

  THIS was supposed to have been a food and sex weekend. We’d barely seen each other in the last eight weeks. Colum was working on his master’s in engineering, and I was working on a master’s in public health. Along with the internships and our full-time jobs, there was little room for anything but a blowjob here and some heavy petting there before we collapsed in exhaustion. We usually had to relieve ourselves, alone, during our morning showers. Jerking off in the shower, by myself, is not my idea of fun.

  It was my idea to rent the small house at Carolina Beach. Sun, sand, sex, and food. That’s all we were going to concentrate on for the four precious days of break we had. We were both foodies and did the research for the weekend. Ancient aphrodisiacs, food erotica, spreadable and edible—we had all the supplies in the kitchen.

  It’s not like we had a great track record in our other adventures. Our five-year chain of sexcapades had landed us stranded in the ER (three times), laid up in bed (and not in the good sense), nearly hypothermic (and quite close to being eunuchs), nearly asphyxiated, sunburned (in places where the sun should not shine its devilish burning rays), locked in a closet (with a mop handle up my ass, no less), hanging off the side of a cell tower buck naked (during a “leaping over tall buildings in a single bound” bungee jump), and naked up a tree (call of the wild thing, and the wild came—I have the scars on my ass to prove it). Nothing ever goes right for us when we plan a simple, seemingly harmless getaway. I should have fucking known that this would nearly kill us.

  Again.

  THE burn had subsided, and the snot flow slowed down. Oddly, the mucus soothed the second-degree burns near my right nipple. We sat in silence for what seemed like hours. We were both fucking afraid to move, knowing that with our luck, we would have a freak accident.

  Again.

  With food.

  “The swelling went down on my face. The capsicum was good for something.”

  “Yeah, my toes don’t throb as much since I rubbed them with my skin-melting hands.”

  I heard Colum laugh again, amused, no doubt, by my painful encounter with a self-moving couch. I was sure it was not in that spot yesterday, fucking blocking the kitchen.

  How had this weekend gone so wrong? We were like two fucking stooges. Why did we have to try so hard to just fuck? Dick-in-ass pumping? Why use simple things like handcuffs, whips, dildos, and ass plugs to amuse ourselves when faced with the not-so-surprising thrill of how we can totally screw up a simple, straightforward sex act between two men? It never starts out that way, yet it always ends up this way.

  “Who would’ve guessed you were allergic to an obscure aphrodisiac like artichokes?”

  As I held the now very warm tomatoes to my eyes sockets, Colum started to giggle—yes—giggle.

  “Popcorn as an erotic food. Who came up with that one?”

  I groaned at the thought and tried to defend myself. “The damned popcorn kernels used my nipples for target practice before I could cover the pot.”

  I had read that popcorn was very erotic on some internet list. It was supposed to be simple.

  “Fluffy homemade popcorn can be lifted up by the tongue, and stays in place while dragging it against the skin”—my ass. Ugly little sons of bitches. There was absolutely nothing erotic about jumping around after hot oily projectiles scorched my chest. Colum had tried to help me, and I’d elbowed him hard in the ribs as I quickly backed away from the fluffy white-hot grenades spilling from the stove.

  “That’s why I wore the full-frontal apron when making the guacamole, idiot, so I could shield myself from the evil foodstuffs.”

  “You wore nothing else, idiot. Your ass is my weakness. It was so tantalizing with the strings hanging down your crack.” Colum lowered his voice. “You lured me into my doom.”

  “That’s when you grabbed me from behind, while I chopped the hot peppers for the guacamole.”

  COLUM had started to nibble and hum against my neck—a true erogenous zone of mine. Lost in foreplay land, I got very hard very fast. I dropped the knife, turned, and grabbed his cock while snaking my other hand to his ass to play with my favorite pucker pal—dipping my fingers into his deepest, darkest recess to find his prostate.

  Colum screamed a very unmanly scream in my ear as he pushed me away.

  “Fucking shit! I’m on fire—it’s burning my dick off! My ass!”

  Shit! I had hot pepper juice on my hands, which was all over his very sensitive skin.

  I grabbed the full ice bucket and thrust the bright red, still-hard length into the cubes. He grabbed a few ice cubes and rammed them into his ass.

  I needed something to take the burn away, fast.

  Avocado!

  I grabbed the knife off the cutting board and was about to cut into the avocado….

  “Don’t you fucking dare cut that avocado with that acid knife.”

  Oops.

  I dropped the knife and reached for another one when I noticed my fingers felt like torches. I quickly grabbed the avocado, cut it with the new knife and spread the soft green flesh on my hands, quelling the heat.

  Fucking new word of the day; Colum had me using it too.

  Mashing more avocado, I pushed it onto the angry and inflamed anus of my weeping lover.

  “Inside—I need it inside,” Colum said between alternating chattering and clenched teeth.

  Rubber gloves! I opened the sink drawer, racking my brain for something else to ram up my partner’s ass.

  Remembering the laptop on the food bar, I searched and found a page of natural remedies for pepper burns.

  If it worked for the hands, it would work for the rest of the body. Right?

  Olive oil. All natural. Who would have guessed a great lube would relieve internal burning? I hoped and prayed and grabbed the bottle of olive oil, then coated my gloved fingers with it.

  “Turn around.”

  “Just make it stop burning, pleeaasse! It’s tearing me up inside!”

  Crap, nothing like hearing Colum beg. I loved to hear him beg in desperation, but not like this. We were into kinky shit, but not that kinky. Well, at least not by choice.

  I drove my fingers up his ass and started pumping. Nothing—he still cried without relief.

  Shit!

  I bent him over further, removed my fingers, and plunged the neck of the olive oil bottle inside his ass as I thrust and poured. Colum bucked and rode the bottle to hurry the relief. I looked down into the ice bucket. Fuck! He was still hard in the melting ice. My ungloved hand, still thick with avocado, pulled his dick out of the bucket and cranked him in time with the bottle thrusts.

  Colum moaned.

  My love torpedo made a tent in the apron. I pressed my tented dick against him and dry-humped his ass cheeks. Fuck, this was really erotic. Colum’s long moan and his erratic movements indicated he was near completion, and that spurred me on; I rode his ass cheeks like there was no tomorrow. Just as he was about to come, I moved my foot right into the puddle of oil that had collected on the floor, slipped back, pulled him with me, and almost rammed the whole bottle up Colum’s ass while nearly pulling his cock off as he came.

  “BEST orgasm I had in a long time, though not something I want to repeat.” Colum’s musing brought me out of last night’s replay of the series of unfortunate events. “The bruise on your ass is a fine dark purple, by the way.” I grunted in respo
nse.

  THE olive oil had splashed all over the floor. We played a demented form of Twister as we attempted to get up. I needed to find the butt plug to keep the olive oil in Colum’s ass for a while. I plunged my rubber-gloved fingers back into his ass and helped him to bed. His dick still burned, so I made a poultice out of baking soda and water and coated his now semi-hard length. He sighed in relief as the poultice took effect. I removed the glove, inserted the ass plug, and secured it with the strap to keep the plug in place. Moist washcloths took the paste off his now very pink manhood. I handed him ibuprofen and a glass of water.

  Colum had fallen asleep. The kitchen was needed, if not to cook, then to get water and access the foodstuffs we did not have to cut, cook, or alter in anyway. My public health side knew that the giardia, norovirus, shigella, or other nasty gastrointestinal viruses or pathogens were lying in wait in the kitchen after our little sexcapade. Scrubbing and disinfecting every surface and utensil in the kitchen was in my immediate future. A nasty gut reminder of this getaway in five to seven days was not something either of us would want or could afford. I trudged back into the kitchen for KP duty. Two hours later, exhausted, the kitchen was cleaned. The last thing I did was toss the peppers into the garbage.

  If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, his partner’s pecker would surely puff and poof!

  I laughed at my new version of the children’s rhyme as I fell into bed next to my lightly snoring partner.

  “WELL, it’s day two. What do we do as an encore?”

  I dropped my hands from my eyes. Colum collected the now squishy tomatoes.

  “How about parasailing or surfing?”

  “Sharks.” Oh yeah, sharks seemed to patrol the waters wherever we went. Did they sense an easy meal? It was really very creepy.

  “How about renting bikes and going for lunch at that little cafe down the beach?”

  “No riding—my ass is still sore.” I noticed Colum walked a bit gingerly. He still had not taken the ass plug out. Either he got off on it or it sealed in relief.

  “Scott, open your hands.”

  Colum coated my hands with the baking soda paste I’d used on his penis last night. My eyes no longer burned and the sting on my hands subsided.

  “I’m doing this for my own protection.” Yeah, right, no repeat of last night’s debacle.

  I laughed as I noticed Colum’s hard-on. Okay, now I knew he got off on that ass plug.

  My hands were out of commission. I leaned forward and took his boner in my mouth. Nice and smooth and hot. I loved Colum’s body. Nothing brings me to full mast faster than my lover’s scent and the taste of his hard penis. I attempted to deep throat him as he fucked my mouth. Before I could gag, Colum pulled out. He reached around, unsnapped the strap holding the ass plug, and pulled it out. He reached for the small bottle of toasted sesame oil on the counter and slicked up my very hard dick.

  “Since I am already lubed and stretched, let’s dance.” He held my dick in place as he slowly impaled himself on me.

  “Ahhh!” The bruise on my ass added a painful pleasure aspect as Colum pressed me into the chair. I grabbed him around the waist and brushed his bruised ribcage.

  “Shit!”

  The twisted fuck I am, I pressed the bruise again.

  “Fuck!”

  His response spurred me on. I pulled on his length and stroked it with my gritty hands. That put him over the edge. He came hard and heavy on my chest. His momentum faltered after he came.

  “Turn around and grab the counter.”

  He stood up, a bit shaky from the orgasm, turned and braced himself against the counter. I followed, grabbed my dick with my gritty hands and slid into his bright red pucker. The grit mixed with the sesame oil was a fucking stimulating combination. I didn’t last much longer, and I came hard before I too was spent. I leaned across his back and kissed his neck.

  “Anus exfoliation was free.”

  “Thanks, asshole,” Colum said without heat or anger behind it.

  The concoction that came out of Colum’s ass and ran down his leg fascinated me. I wiped the oddly viscous cum mixture away from his crack and earned a hiss. Shit, his hole was very raw.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Rubbing the wrinkles off my orifice?”

  “Anal-yzing the sex goo.”

  “Ha, ha you public health freak.”

  Colum stood, aware of the puddle around his foot, and threw a few paper towels on the floor. He stuffed a few more paper towels in his crack, hissing as he did so.

  “I’m taking a shower. Don’t slip on the sex goo.”

  Just as he left the kitchen, I slid on the paper towels and landed on my bruised ass. Again.

  “Shit!”

  “I warned you.”

  As I lay on the floor, I groaned. Another session of bleach and scrub the kitchen was in my immediate future.

  COLUM and I lazed on the back porch hammocks. The hammock was easier on his entirely exfoliated, raw, and sore ass. It was easy on my bruised bum as well.

  “Hungry?”

  Colum opened one eye.

  “Are you cooking?”

  “Maybe.”

  I heard the birds chirping and the people frolicking on the beach. The breeze lifted my now dried hair.

  “As long as it does not involve peppers, popcorn, artichokes, or heat, I’m in.”

  “Cheese, crackers, and fruit it is.”

  How hard could that be? We could feed each other—very sexy. We could lick our fingers. Yeah, finger food.

  About a half an hour later, I came out with a tray of cheese, crackers, assorted berries, a bowl of chocolate syrup, a couple of bananas, and some wine.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  The bandage did little to conceal the pool of blood beneath it.

  “Knife slipped when I cut the capsule on the wine bottle.”

  Colum shook his head and took a glass off the tray.

  I slowly bit into a nice, red, plump strawberry. The red juice oozed from my mouth and painted my lips strawberry red. Colum smiled and I leaned down to kiss him.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

  My weight unbalanced the hammock, and we flipped off, arms waving, legs kicking in true cartoon fashion.

  Wham!

  We both landed on the wooden deck in a heap.

  “Jeessus!”

  “Ow ow ow ow…”

  Fuck! I’d landed on my bruise yet again. My knee and shin stung like a son of a bitch.

  I looked down. A gash bled heavily down my leg. Fucking shit.

  Colum held his arm to his body.

  “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!”

  I grabbed Colum and stood him up. His arm was at an odd angle. Great. A compound fracture.

  “This hurts like a motherfucker!”

  “I’ll get the car keys.”

  WE lay on the couch. Colum, in an analgesic haze, clutched his casted arm to his chest and went on about the mural on the ER wall.

  “Sun, sand, families picnicking, all smiles—never showing the dark side of it all. The pain.” The dark soliloquy worthy of a Shakespearian tragedy, complete with the dramatic pauses, had been going on for the last half hour. Colum became quite the thespian when hyped up on painkillers.

  Damn those word-a-day calendars. Fuck is rapidly being replaced. Damn Colum and his evil plot to rid me of my favorite word.

  “Colum, you need to keep your arm elevated.”

  I placed his arm on the stack of pillows next to him, then lay back and placed my leg, with its twenty-nine stitches, on another stack of pillows. We watched some on-demand movie. It seemed, at the time, to be the safest option.

  We ordered pizza.

  Harmless, right?

  Folded beach towels served as our tablecloth and napkins. All unclothed areas were covered with the towels. No need to add pizza burns to our list of injuries. We ate in silence as we watched the movie. The flick’s action hero gritted his teeth when his shoulder was grazed by a
bullet.

  “Ha!” Colum spit out pizza bits as he exclaimed and pointed his casted arm to the screen. “Big pussy! That’s all, a bullet graze? How about having a hot poker and a pumice stone rammed up your ass? That’s real pain! Not some fucking pussy-ass bullet graze.”

  “It was a poisoned bullet.”

  “Still, he’s a pussy.”

  Colum mumbled “big pussy” again as the pizza fell out of his hand. The adrenaline had worn off, and the pain meds took over. He was out cold.

  I took the half eaten piece of pizza from his hand and boxed up the rest. Did I dare go into the kitchen, or just toss the pizza away? Not tempting fate, I tossed the pizza into the garbage. I tied up the garbage bag, stepped out into the garage in my bare feet, and tossed the bag into the trash can. As I turned to get back into the house, the door snapped shut. I tried the door knob. It was locked.

  I reached into my pocket for the keys when I realized I was in my boxers and the house keys were on the kitchen counter.

  “Shit!”

  I gingerly made my way around to the front door, avoiding the twigs and rocks on my delicate foot pads. Locked.

  “Fuck!”

  I tried the windows. Didn’t budge.

  I remembered the patio door was open!

  As I made my way around to the back porch….

  “Police. Keep your hands where I can see them. Turn around slowly.”

  Fuck. My. Life.

  “Good evening, officer.”

  “Who are you and what are you doing?”

  “I’m Scott Bills. My buddy and I rented this house for the weekend. I locked myself out, and I’m trying to find my way back in.”

  “Do you have any identification?”

  I’m in my fucking underwear. Does it look like I have my ID on me, asshole?

  “Ah, no. It’s in the house.”

  “Why don’t you call your buddy to let you in?”

  Could I pull off a decent pity story? Or should I make the guy laugh? Fuck, just tell it straight.

  “He broke his arm today. He’s passed out on the couch from the painkillers. I locked myself out when I tossed the trash.”