The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance

by Scott Hildreth

  “In all her glory,” my father said in snide tone.

  I huffed out a sigh. “Where’s Jarod?”

  “Ask your mother,” he said. “I’ve been busy tending my weak heart since I heard you were rushing over here to make an announcement.”

  “It’s not that big of a deal,” I said. “I just wanted to make everyone aware of something.”

  “That T.J. fella didn’t knock you up, did he?” he whispered.

  “Daddy!”

  He stretched his arms high over his head and yawned. “Well, it’s a question worth asking.”

  My mother wandered into the living room. “What’s the occasion, dear?”

  “I had something I wanted to tell everyone,” I explained. “When Jarod gets here, I’ll tell you.”

  “Is it about that boy?”

  “No. Yes. Kind of,” I babbled.

  She let out a sigh. “Now, I’m worried.”

  I gave her a look. “Why?”

  She wiped her hands against her apron. “Just tell your father and me, and you can tell Jarod when he gets here. He’s never on time, you know that.”

  “It can wait.”

  She crumpled the edges of her apron, and then released them. “Give me a hint.”

  “It’s not a big deal, how’s that for a hint?”

  “If you called an impromptu meeting, it’s a big deal,” my father complained.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I insisted.

  “A big deal to your generation and a big deal to my generation are two completely different things,” he said. “Kids nowadays will kill someone who calls ‘em a name. Back when I was a kid, all we had to worry about was getting hit in the mouth if we said something offensive. And, let me tell you, every kid in high school had a pickup truck with a gun rack, and those racks were filled with guns. Damned parking lot was like an armory, and nary a one of those guns was ever carried into school. Say what you’ve got to say, Jo.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  The front door swung open. Jarod looked at my parents and then at me. “What’s going on?”

  “She won’t say,” my father responded. “But, it’s about that football player.”

  “Jo called this meeting?” he asked with a laugh. “Should have known.”

  I glared. “Shut it, Jarod.”

  Jarod looked at my father. “I was afraid something happened to your heart.”

  “Something happened with my heart in nineteen and sixty-nine, when I met your mother. It was my junior year, right after History class.” He kissed her on the cheek. “That was the day I fell in love.”

  My mother and father’s relationship was something to envy. They’d fallen in love as high schoolers. My mother was like me, reserved and quiet. My father was loud, boisterous, and the quarterback of the football team. According to my mother, he brought out all the good in her.

  Over the years, their love never faded. Seeing them interact with each other was rewarding.

  “Let’s sit down,” I said.

  “If that’ll let us get to the crux of this situation, I’m all for it,” my father said.

  We each took a seat, with me letting out a long breath as I sat down. I looked at each of them and let out another. “Tyson is coming for dinner on Sunday.”

  “That’s exciting news,” my mother said with a smile.

  “That’s not exciting enough to have me so worried I feel like I’m gonna shit my pants,” my father said. “I’ve been half sick since your mother told me you called. Now, I’ve got bubble guts for no reason.”

  “You were asleep when I opened the door,” I argued.

  “Exhaustion from pacing the floor for the last two hours,” he replied.

  “Well, he’s coming for dinner, and I need to set some ground rules before he gets here.”

  My father’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

  “No razzing him about his ankle,” Jarod quipped. “Right?”

  I drew a slow breath, and then glanced at each of them. “There’s more to it than that. I’ve struggled all day with what to tell everyone, and then I decided just to tell you the truth.”

  “Well, thank God for that,” my father declared. “I must have done something right.”

  “Daddy…”

  “I’ll listen.”

  I looked at my mother.

  She folded her hands and rested them in her lap. “I’m ready when you are, Josephine.”

  “His ankle was broken in a car wreck,” I explained. “In that same wreck, his father was killed.”

  My mothers face washed with grief. “Oh heavens,” she gasped. “I’m so sorry, Josephine.”

  I swallowed against my dry throat and continued. “Someone crashed into the driver’s side of the car, killing his father on impact. The car he drives today is the same car his father was driving when they were hit. I just want to make sure no one mentions football, his ankle, his parents, the wreck, or asks how or why he rebuilt the car. I want him to be comfortable.”

  “That’s just awful,” my mother murmured. “Was his mother hurt?”

  I sighed. “She left when he was little. His father raised him. He hasn’t seen or heard from his mother in over twenty years.”

  My father stood and began pacing the floor. “I know a little something about being attached to a car.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  I looked at Jarod. “Nothing about the ankle. Okay?”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “No football questions,” I said.

  “I won’t.” He stood. “I always wondered what happened. I heard he was in a car wreck, but I didn’t know if that was what broke his ankle. I’m sorry, Jo.”

  I forced a smile. “Thanks.”

  “What kind of a mother could leave their kid?” my father bellowed. “Was she wacked-out on dope?”

  “I don’t know, Daddy.”

  “I bet she was wacked out on that meth-a-phetamines.”

  “Meth-AM-phetamines,” Jarod said.

  “That’s what I said. That shit’s gonna be the downfall of this nation. People lose their minds on that crap.”

  My mother reached for my knee and rested her hand there. “I’m sorry, Josephine. I really am. Anything we can do to make him comfortable, you just tell me.”

  “That’s another thing,” I said, looking toward my father as I spoke. “Can you give up your diet for a day?”

  “Suppose I can.” He put his hands on his hips. “Why?”

  I looked at my mother. “His dad used to cook this: chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, and green beans with bacon and onions. I’d like for you to make that when we come.”

  “Sounds like my kind of fella,” my father said.

  “He said he hasn’t had a good home-cooked meal in years,” I whispered. “After his father died, he moved in with his best friend. I guess this guy’s mom didn’t cook very well, if at all.”

  She patted my knee. “I’ll cook the best I’m able, Josephine. If he doesn’t like it, he’s not a Texan.”

  “He was born and raised here,” I said. “He’s a Texan.”

  “I imagine he’ll leave full, and happy,” she said with a smile. “I’ll use my mother’s recipes. They’re southern through and through. The secret is to let the steaks marinade in the buttermilk overnight.”

  My father clapped his hands together. “Is this the recipe with the cayenne?”

  “It sure is.”

  “Whoo-eeee. This fried steak will make a puppy pull a freight train,” my father bragged. “Fry up some green tomatoes with it.”

  My mother lowered her chin and gave a playful glare.

  “If we’re frying dinner,” my father said. “We just as well fry dinner.”

  She grinned. “I might fry a few tomatoes.”

  “What if he brings up football?” He glanced at me. “What do we do?”

  “I guess tread softly. Be sensitive of his loss, now that you know about it.”

 
My mother wagged her index finger at my father. “If you say one word, John, mark my words…”

  “I’m not saying a damned thing,” my father assured her. “But, if he brings it up, I’m not going to be rude.”

  “If he brings it up, you better just change the subject to the Texas weather.” She looked at Jarod. “And, you, mister come-late-or-not-at-all, can talk about cars.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Jarod replied.

  My mother dusted off her apron. “I’m going to need to pick up this pig sty.”

  “It looks, fine, Mother.”

  She glanced around the room. “I’d be ashamed to have him here with the way it looks.”

  “I’m nervous,” I whispered.

  She looked up from her survey of the room. “Why?”

  My shoulders slumped. “I just want him to like me.”

  “Don’t be nervous.” She put her hand on my cheek. “If you act like yourself, he can’t help but like you. The good Lord put him in your life for a reason. If it’s not for him to like you, I sure don’t know what else it would be for.”

  Sex was the other viable option, but I didn’t mention it. While my stomach churned at the thought of having Tyson over for Sunday dinner, I simply offered my mother a smile. “I hope you’re right.”

  20

  Tyson

  Well-manicured lawns, neatly trimmed shrubbery, and driveways occupied with the occasional children’s play toys lined the streets.

  I pulled into the steep drive and admired the two-story cottage. Each of the mullion-fitted windows were free of any draperies, allowing a full view into the home. Situated on an oversized corner lot and constructed of weathered white-washed brick and white lap siding, the home could have easily been placed along the coast of Chesapeake Bay.

  An inviting brick sidewalk led from the edge of the driveway to the uncluttered front porch. I came to a stop alongside the walk and took one last look at the home before getting out of the car.

  I meandered to the porch and brushed the wrinkles from my shirt. Before I had a chance to knock, the door opened.

  Her hair was up, in a tightly-braided bun. Wearing a coral-colored sleeveless summer dress and flats, she looked remarkable. Breathtakingly beautiful was more like it.

  She gave me the once-over and then smiled. “You look nice.”

  I was lost in admiration. Her dress came to mid-thigh. Long enough to cover her assets, and short enough to garner my interest.

  I gave her a nod of approval. “So do you. That dress is…wow. It’s perfect.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled the door closed behind her. “I like that shirt. It looks nice on you.”

  I’d worn my favorite pearl snap shirt, jeans, and a pair of well-worn – but polished to perfection – black leather boots. I reserved the shirt for special occasions, wearing it infrequently, at best.

  Beaming with pride that she’d mentioned it, I turned toward the driveway. “Thanks. It’s a favorite. I rarely wear it.”

  “Why? It looks good on you.”

  “I hate the thought of something happening to it,” I explained. “It’s got sentimental value.”

  “Well, it looks nice.”

  I walked to the passenger door and opened it for her. “Thank you.”

  She turned her backside toward the open door and paused. I noticed she wasn’t wearing her glasses. Her eyes twinkled with content. I raised my finger to her chin, lifted it slightly, and kissed her.

  Before I met Jo, kissing was something I never really cared for. With her, I found it satisfying, but wasn’t quite sure why.

  When our lips parted, she looked at me with wonder in her eyes. Her lips parted.

  I kissed her again, before she had the chance to speak.

  With reluctance, I leaned away. The surprised look on her face vanished, only to be replaced with one of content.

  “Sorry.” I shrugged and gave her one last kiss, a quick one. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “That was uhhm.” She wiped her lips on the back of her hand. “That was nice.”

  With our eyes locked, she smiled and lowered herself into her seat. I sauntered around the car, wishing we were going somewhere else. I was anxious about having dinner with her parents, and it was worsening the closer we came to our dinner date.

  I sat down in my seat and buckled my seatbelt. “This was my father’s shirt. He hated spending money on clothes for himself, but never hesitated to buy me things. I bought this for him as a Christmas gift. He wore it all the time.”

  “If he looked as nice wearing it as you do, I bet he wore it with pride.”

  “He did. He loved this shirt.”

  “What about your boots?” she asked.

  I glanced at my feet and chuckled, surprised she’d asked. “They were his, too.”

  “He had good taste. Was he built like you?”

  I started the car. “He was. The older I get, the more I realize I’m going to look just like him in a few years. He was thirty-nine when he died. If you saw a picture of him, you’d think we were twins.”

  “Do you have one?”

  I searched through my phone, retrieving one of the many pictures I’d converted from photographs to .jpeg files.

  “Look at this one.” I handed her the phone. “It’s when we got the car.”

  The photo was of my father and I standing beside his car, right after we bought it. She studied it for some time, alternating glances between the phone and me.

  The corners of her mouth curled up as she handed me the phone. “You were a really cute kid. He was a very handsome man. He looks just like you. Or, you look just like him. Whichever way you want to look at it.”

  I looked at the picture, and then at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I hadn’t made the comparison in some time, but she was right. I looked just like my father.

  I set the phone aside and backed out of the driveway. “It’s crazy how much we look alike.”

  “You’re his doppelganger.”

  Her saying the word caused me to recall her likeness to Miss Garber. Although those similarities were what originally drew me to her, I now saw them as nothing but coincidental.

  Jo was attractive in many ways other than her looks. She was kind, caring, and had a softness that surrounded her. I found an odd sense of comfort being in her presence, especially after we spoke of losing my father. The accident had been an off-limits subject since my father’s funeral, even to Shawn. My admitting to Jo about losing my father opened a door of recovery for me that had been shut since the day he was buried.

  In short, I’d become grateful to have someone like Jo in my life.

  “Doppelganger.” I chuckled. “I told you. We look like twins.”

  “Do you have any of his mannerisms or characteristics?”

  I smiled a prideful grin. “He picked up things with his toes. Socks, little toys I’d leave on the floor, that kind of stuff. I do the same thing. He had a little Nerf ball he’d throw at the TV, when someone did or said something he thought was dumb. I do that, too. I find myself saying, ‘What in the everlasting fuck’ more often than I probably should. That was his go-to phrase. I shave like him too. Sideburns first, every time.”

  She seemed to savor what little I’d revealed, choosing to simply smile slightly in lieu of speaking.

  I fixed my eyes on the road ahead and began reciting my father’s words of wisdom. “An unmade bed is the sign of a cluttered mind. When you’re wrong, admit it loud enough that everyone can hear. When you’re right, brag silently. Nobody likes a tattletale. Be conscious of the weight of your tongue, use it sparingly and wisely. Don’t ask questions if the answer is obvious, it’ll only make you appear foolish. Never leave a tip that’s less than five dollars; if you can’t afford to, you should be eating at home. Routines are recipe for good health; make them and stick to them. Treat your car the same way you treat your woman; with respect and kindness.”

  I barely choked out the words of the last phrase. He’d r
eminded me of it on many occasions, as we were cleaning his cars or changing the oil.

  I was a walking contradiction. It hit me like a speeding freight train. I lived my life in my father’s footsteps, making every effort to be the man he was. To make him proud.

  Yet.

  I’d spent my adult life treating women like sexual objects, not people. I gave the cashier at HEB more respect than the women I’d allowed into my life. I swallowed a mouthful of shame, and then looked at Jo.

  “What…what do we have?” I asked. “What is this?”

  Her face contorted. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

  “I’m going to your parent’s house to have Sunday dinner. We obviously like each other enough to orchestrate something like this. Are we dating?”

  Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Well, we haven’t discussed it. Do you want to? Be exclusive, or whatever?”

  My father’s policy was to love one woman and love her with all your heart. My mother’s inability to adhere to the same rule was what caused the collapse of their relationship, and of my subsequent life. If I was going to mirror one of my parents, my mother certainly wouldn’t be that person.

  Yet.

  I had become the woman I’d spent a lifetime resenting.

  “I’ve got no plans to be with any other woman,” I assured her. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I’m satisfied completely…” She wagged the tip of her index finger between us. “With you. With this.”

  “Okay,” I said as I took the off-ramp. “Let’s be official. If that’s okay with you.”

  “As long as.” Her smile faded. A look of apprehension replaced it. “Be truthful with me, please. Always?”

  My future would embrace a truthfulness and transparency matched by no man.

  I nodded. “I will.”

  She nodded eagerly. “As long as we can be truthful with one another, I think I’m okay with that.” She smiled and then covered her mouth with her hand. “I know I am.”

  I was okay with it, too.

  Very much so, to be honest.

  I rolled to a stop at the traffic light and tilted my head back. After momentarily closing my eyes, I spoke silently to the man I’d undoubtedly disappointed.