by M. Rode
Jesus, I wasn't halfway through the store and I was already out of breath. All I wanted to do was buy a fucking table saw, not train for the Boston Marathon.
Lighting. Home Décor. Paint. Flooring.
Finally, just as I was ready to crawl into the basket of my cart and take a nap, I spotted it. Wedged between Drills and Lumber was the aisle I'd been searching for. Saws. I turned down the aisle and immediately became overwhelmed.
Hand saws, backsaws, hacksaws, reciprocating saws, circular saws, jigsaws, band saws, scroll saws, miter saws, chainsaws...
You have to be fucking kidding me, I thought, as my head snapped side to side and up and down, trying to take in the huge variety of tools. Nothing was in any sort of order that I could determine—not alphabetical, not according to size. Big ones and little ones sat side-by-side on the shelves, long ones, round ones, square ones, and a few that didn't even look like saws at all.
Finally, I did what every man dreads doing, the thing that ranks just behind asking for directions. I wandered around until I found an employee in a red apron that looked as if he had at least passed through puberty, and asked for help.
"I need to buy a table saw,” I said, feeling relief at the name badge on his chest. It read “Frank Warren” and “Ass. Store Manager.” Thank God! This man should be able to help me.
"Why sure! Right this way,” he said, leading me back down the aisle. “What's your pleasure? Bench top, Contractor, Cabinet, or Hybrid?"
"Table,” I said, thinking that perhaps he hadn't heard me the first time.
"Yes sir. Bench top, Contractor, Cabinet, or Hybrid?"
"Table saw,” I repeated yet again. I could feel sweat beginning to pool under my arms.
Warren lifted a brow, giving me the once-over. It was obvious that he'd realized that I didn't know squat about tools. “Maybe if you gave me an idea of the project you have in mind, I could steer you in the right direction."
"It isn't for me,” I said, trying to refrain from wiping the sweat from my forehead. “It's for my partner, for Valentine's Day. He wants to build shelves."
"Oh, I see ... your partner.” He said the word as if it tasted foul on his tongue. “On second thought, maybe it would be best if you checked out the list of contractors we have on the bulletin board. Any of them would be happy to do the work for you. Better yet, we have a great selection of pre-made shelves in Home Décor. Guys like you shouldn't be messing with equipment like this saw. You'll get hurt."
Okay, sweating or not, intimidated by the selection or not, that pissed me off. “Guys like me? What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"Look, don't go getting your panties in a twist. I just meant that if you don't have experience using power tools, then—"
"I've already told you that the saw isn't for me, and at what point in this conversation did you morph into my mother? I have a charge card and I'm not afraid to use it. If I want to take the goddamn thing home and saw off all of my expendable body parts, that's my fucking business!” I was getting hot now, my voice rising, but I didn't care. Who was this bigoted asshole to determine what I could and could not buy, anyway?
Heads turned in our direction as his voice rose to match mine. “There's no need to raise a ruckus. We don't want any trouble here. Maybe it would be best if you took your business somewhere else. There's a Lowe's over in DeBarry that might have what you're looking for ... sir."
The emphasis he'd put on the word “sir” wasn't lost on me. He'd said it with a sneer, as if he truly doubted that I had anything between my legs besides possibly a lace thong.
"I want to speak to the store manager,” I hissed, gritting my teeth and trying—really trying—to control my temper.
"He's busy, and you need to leave. We don't need business from people like you."
It had been a very long time since I'd last run across ignorance like this, but the incident brought a backwash of every bitter memory I had of people like him. The summer camp counselor who'd decided that I needed to be “fixed” and that public humiliation in front of my peers would do the trick. My twelfth grade teacher who'd thought that she could use me as a living, breathing example of homosexuality in Sex Ed. The Board of Education who'd refused to let me bring the date of my choice to the prom.
A virtual parade of contemptible people marched through my head, and every one of them suddenly wore Frank the Ass Manager's face. I know that it was a case of transference; that I was blaming him for the sins of all the others. I know that I could have handled the situation better than I did, but at the time, I didn't give a shit. All I wanted to do right then was beat Frank over the head with nearest, heaviest power tool I could lay my hands on. “You two-bit, redneck, homophobic asshole!” I yelled, feeling the blood pound in my temples and my hands curl into fists. I might not be as big as F.B., not by a long shot, but I could still do plenty of damage in a fight. I think. Truthfully, I'd never had the opportunity. “I have just as much right as anyone else to buy whatever I want, wherever I fucking well please!"
A crowd had begun to gather at both ends of the aisle, curious shoppers drawn to us like rubberneckers to an accident scene, scenting blood. I ignored them. The only person I saw was Warren, and as far as I was concerned, he had a large red bull's-eye printed in the middle of his forehead. I continued to hurl verbal assaults at him, peppered with a healthy dose of vulgarities.
"Is there a problem here, Mr. Warren?"
"Hell, yes, there's a problem! Get this goddamn fairy out of my store!"
A heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder. By then I was ready to plow my fist into whatever bastard had thought to lay a hand on me. Turning around, I found myself face-to-chest with a huge, bullet-headed giant in a security uniform.
Now, my mama didn't raise a stupid boy. Even as angry as I was, nearing nuclear meltdown, I knew when I was outmatched. If I swung on the security guy, not only would I end up being beaten into Matt Mush, I'd probably get arrested to boot. The last thing I wanted was to spend Valentine's Day in the hoosegow. That would go over really well with F.B.
"F.B.? Happy Valentine's Day, hon. Can you bail me out?"
Yeah, that'd be great.
"I'm going, I'm going,” I huffed, shrugging off his hand. My eyes were burning as much as my cheeks, but to my credit, I didn't break down until I'd marched all the way out of the store and into the parking lot to my car.
Worst of all, it was late, all the stores were closing, and I still didn't have a present for F.B.
* * * *
F.B. was waiting for me when I got home, an empty venti cup of Starbucks at his elbow and a hungry look in his eyes. He was completely addicted to caffeine, and had a real Starbucks fetish, although he'd promised to avoid it after six at night.
"Tell me you didn't just drink that, F.B. You know what caffeine does to you, especially at this hour! You're going to be up all fucking night, tossing and turning! You may not need a solid eight hours, but I do and it always feels like you're using the mattress as a fucking trampoline when you can't sleep! Can't you have a little bit of consideration for me? Think of someone else besides yourself, for God's sake—"
He was up and out of the chair before I could blink, my angry little discourse silenced by a hard, teeth-clacking, tongue-lashing kiss. Big, strong arms pulled me in close, crushing any protest out of me. Flattened against F.B.'s broad chest, tasting Starbucks and Sweet ‘N Low and warm, wet tongue, the scent of his cologne making my head spin, I couldn't have formulated words if I'd tried. My anger whooshed out of me, replaced by a need that sizzled and popped like oil in a frying pan. Visions flitted through my head of the two us naked and sweating, grunting and thrusting. I tried to tell him, but all I managed was a low groan, the sound swallowed by his mouth.
Lucky for me, F.B. is something of a mind reader.
He muscled me bodily into the bedroom, my arms clinging to his neck as if I were drowning and he was the only buoy in the ocean, my toes brushing across the floor. His thick fingers too
k hold of the collar of my t-shirt and suddenly the room filled with the surprisingly loud sound of material ripping as he shredded it, literally tearing it from my body.
God, I loved it when F.B. went Rambo on me.
When I felt his fingers slip under the waistband of my pants, I finally found the wherewithal to move. “Not the jeans,” I managed to croak, slipping out from under his arms and shimmying out of them at light speed, “they're Abercrombie."
F.B. grunted, a sound I'd come to know meant that he was horny, hard, and that foreplay was not high on his list of priorities. Not a problem for me—I had an erection that could've cut diamonds.
He hadn't even bothered to lower his pants. F.B.'s zipper was open, his fat cock hanging out through the fly, a condom in one hand and lube in the other.
Wow. My boy really was ready.
I took my cue from him, crawling up onto the bed on my hands and knees. I expected to feel his fingers lubing me up, but instead I felt warm breath and a wet tongue lapping at my hole.
Oh, Sweet Christ on toast! F.B. rimmed like nobody's business, licking and lapping at my ass, breathing hard, tongue fucking me until I was wriggling and mewling, begging him to fuck me. My cock was dripping, balls aching as I stroked myself feverishly. I needed him, and I needed him now.
"Stop fucking teasing me and get in!” I hissed over my shoulder. “C'mon, F.B.! Fuck me!"
"Yeah,” was F.B.'s only reply, because it was probably the only word he could manage. When F.B. got this worked up, conversation—even the basest and simplest dialogue—was beyond him. All the blood in his head rushed to his prick, leaving very little for cognitive responses. At best, he could manage a few monosyllabic grunts.
Again, that was just fine by me. I wanted him to take me hard and fast, and that was exactly what I got. Without further adieu, he pressed the slicked head of his cock against my hole.
"Fuck!” I screamed as he entered me, stretching me wide. The feeling of him filling me up, full to bursting, was incredible. My entire world shrunk to the two of us, to his cock slamming into me, his hips pounding my ass, and my hand working my dick.
I found that I wasn't exactly articulate myself. “Gonna, gonna, gonna..."
"Do it,” F.B. ordered in his gruff, gravelly voice. “Now!"
Crying out something that might just as easily have been a string of nonsense syllables as his name, I came in hot spurts across our bedspread. I felt F.B. shudder at the same time, making that wonderful grunting noise that I loved as he came. It wrung the last few drops of come from me, leaving me feeling as boneless and done as a jellyfish washed up on the shore.
I collapsed onto the mattress. To my surprise, instead of wandering into the bathroom to clean up, F.B. crawled up next to me. He put an arm around my waist and tenderly kissed my forehead.
"Wanna tell me what happened, now?” he asked.
"Huh?"
"I know you, Matt. You don't come home and rip me a new one just because I gave into temptation and stopped at Starbucks. Something had to have happened."
Damn him for knowing me so well. “It's nothing, hon. Just another day in the life."
"Bullshit. I know something happened. Tell me."
I sighed. I never could keep anything secret from F.B. His years in the military had taught him how to read people far too well. “I had a run-in at the store today that I'd rather forget. I was going to buy you a new table saw for Valentine's Day, but you're going to have to settle for the cash. You can buy it yourself. Let's just forget it, okay?"
It wasn't okay and I knew it. What's more, by the time F.B. finally got me to spill my guts about what had happened, he knew it, and if there was one platitude that did not exist in F.B.'s vocabulary, it was forgive and forget.
* * * *
I awoke to the tantalizing aroma of roses and chocolate.
Next to me, resting on F.B.'s pillow, were two dozen long-stem coral roses—my favorites—and a huge box of Godiva chocolates.
"Happy Valentine's Day, hon,” F.B. grinned from the doorway. He leaned against the jamb, bare-chested. His light cotton sleep pants rode low on his lean hips, and he looked good enough to eat. “That's part one of your gift."
"Oh, man ... F.B!” I cried, touching a finger to the soft petals of the roses. “They're beautiful, babe.” Roses and chocolate were two things I'd never have expected from F.B. Yesterday, I would have said that he wouldn't even know what they were, much less where to buy them.
"Not as beautiful as you."
Who was this guy, and what did he do with my big, tough ex-Marine? Oh, God, I was going to fuck up the moment by bawling like a baby, I just knew it. I swallowed hard, not trusting myself to speak again. Instead, I sniffed long and loud, got up, and threw myself at him, kissing him for all I was worth.
"I don't even have a card or anything, F.B.,” I said, pressing my lips against his throat, breathing in his scent. “I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You being here when I wake up every morning is enough for me."
Oh, my God! F.B. being romantic? Maybe it really was the Apocalypse. That's definitely worth a morning blow job, I thought, dropping to my knees and taking his sleep pants down to his knees along the way.
F.B. didn't argue, either. He just leaned against the wall sucking in his bottom lip, and tucked his hands behind his head, waiting. Damn, he looked hot enough to melt the polar ice caps. Global warming has nothing on my F.B.
I sucked in his soft cock, teasing it with my tongue. I loved the times when I could get to F.B. before he got hard, and feel his cock stiffening in my mouth. Not caring about the noise I made, or the drool that dripped down my chin, I nipped and licked, leaving his cock alone only to suck his balls into my mouth, one at a time.
His big hands gripped my head, his groan rumbling. Gonna bring you to your knees, big guy, I thought happily.
"You?” he breathed, looking down at me. He was breathing hard. I could tell he was hovering right there at the edge.
I shook my head. This wasn't about me. This was for him. I sucked hard at the crown of his cock, tasting thick salty-bitter drops on my tongue. Opening wide, I took him as deeply as I could, feeling the head of his prick touch the back of my throat.
The muscles of his belly and thighs tightened just before he came, fingers twisting in my hair, hips pumping.
No chocolate on earth could taste half as good as my F.B.'s come. I drank all he had, and still wanted more.
"Wow,” he said, slumping against the doorframe, a big, goofy grin on his face.
"Happy Valentine's Day, love,” I said.
"Get dressed. I've got plans for today."
"So you've said. Want to fill me in on them?"
"Nope. Its part two of your present, and it's a surprise. Move.” His words were gruff, but there was a tender smile on his face when he said them.
It was another order and I jumped up, the good little soldier, eager to obey.
* * * *
Showered, shaved, and dressed in a pair of khaki pants and navy button-down that was open at the throat and accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist, F.B. looked almost as good dressed as he did naked.
He slid behind the wheel of his Hummer, a man perfectly at ease with the metal monster beneath his ass, one who knew he had mastered the beast. As a matter of fact, that's what I'd nicknamed the truck—the Beast. The truck suited F.B.; both were big, brawny, move-or-get-the-hell-out-of-my-way creatures that nothing short of an act of God could stop once they started rolling. The Beast was black, with a rich, dove-gray leather interior, wood trim, OnStar, and all the other bells and whistles. It made my bare-bones Datsun look like a midget clown car when parked next to it in the garage.
"So, where are we going?” I asked as he maneuvered the Beast through the streets of town and out onto the highway.
"You'll see."
"Come on, F.B.! Tell me!” I wheedled, desperate to know what he'd had planned. Add impatience to my list of shortcomings. Secrets, especially when
they involved me, were high on my top ten list of things I loved to hate.
"No,” he said, turning up the sound on the Beast's CD player. It blared Creedence Clearwater Revival's Fortunate Son, the volume eliminating any further opportunity for conversation.
Shortly afterwards, he made a left-hand turn into a parking lot and when I realized where we were, I nearly stroked out right there in the front seat.
"What are we doing here?” I asked in a strangled voice. I felt my blood pressure skyrocket as I stared at the front doors of the Home Warehouse.
"You promised me a table saw for Valentine's Day. I'm here to collect,” F.B. said, turning off the motor. He shot me a look that sparkled with mischief, and was out of the Hummer and striding toward the store before I could say another word.
Oh, God. This was not going to be pleasant. I only hoped Mr. Ass Manager wasn't on duty. Swallowing my fear, I hopped out of the Hummer and raced after F.B. I caught up with him just as he'd entered the store and was heading for the Saw aisle with the unerring accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.
Slowing down, I followed at a snail's pace, wanting to watch the fireworks from a safe distance. I'd already had one unpleasant encounter in that store and wasn't looking forward to an encore presentation. Sure enough, F.B. stopped at the head of the saw aisle, looking around. I knew what he was looking for—or rather, for whom.
Suddenly, there he was, Frank Warren, Mr. Ass Manager himself in all his pompous, arrogant, bigoted glory, practically drooling at the amount of testosterone F.B. exuded like cologne.
"How do. Name's F.B. I'm in the market for a table saw,” F.B. drawled, jerking his thumb toward the aisle. “Cabinet saw, in particular."
"Oh, yes, sir! We've got a real nice one in stock. Right over here..."
Warren didn't seem to notice me as I followed them down the aisle, his attention riveted on F.B. I stopped a few feet away, avidly eavesdropping on F.B.'s conversation with Warren.
"Sure is a beauty, isn't she? Gonna need a 220v outlet for her, though."
"Yeah, she's sweet,” F.B. said, whistling through his teeth as he ran his fingers over the shiny silver metal. “Twin cabinet with a router, accessory storage, dedicated dust containment. Very nice. It ought to do me just fine."