Page 6 of The Trailer Park Twink
His hand touches my cheek, and he’s staring at me with a concerned expression. “Did your ex call again?” His jaw works left to right, then back again, his teeth grinding loudly in his mouth. I know for a fact if I told him that was the case, he’d stay with me all night, just to make sure I’m okay. The thing is, I don’t want to win his heart by trickery. I might push the boundary lines of truth and fiction from time to time, but I’d never want to flat-out lie to him. I respect him too much for that, and there’s no way we’ll ever forge any form of relationship that way. “What did he say to you?”
“I haven’t talked to Tatum or the Bens,” I assure him, shaking my head. “I’m just feeling a little lonely.” I look up at him, blinking back my tears. Can’t he see how much I want this? Doesn’t he know I’d give him everything he could ever hope for?
His brows furrow, and he studies me like he’s trying to read my mind. He must not be trained in the art of clairvoyance, because instead of dropping his towel and offering himself to me, he just grins like the Cheshire cat.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he finally says. “Once I’m done . . .” He turns and looks at the door, clearing his throat. “Once your mom is asleep, we can play all the games you want. We’ll stay uphalf the night. Just you and me.” He reaches down and tweaks my nose. “What do you say about that?”
And as he stares down at me with his big brown eyes—as my heart cracks into a million tiny pieces in my chest—I let him go. I give him to her, knowing what it’s going to cost me, emotionally.
Sniffling, I shake my head. “It’s okay.” I lean in and press my lips against his belly button, puckering them and blowing a raspberry, because if I really kiss him, he’ll know. He’ll know, and everything I’ve ever wanted will slip away. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can manage my emotions.” I squeeze his hips with both hands, then I pull away, feeling lost without him as my tether. I smile my biggest, brightest smile at Daddy, because that’s what a good boy does. He makes Daddy’s life a little easier. He gives more than he takes. “I love you, Dallas.”
His chest makes a strange rattling sound and his eyes narrow like he’s trying to read me. I guess I must be a master of emotion, because my heartbreak doesn’t even register. But he still takes the time to say, “I love you too, Aussie,” before kissing my forehead, then leaving me all alone in this cold old bathroom, taking what’s left of my heart and leaving behind all the broken pieces.
I don’t leave the bathroom, because it’s the furthest room from theirs. It’s where their voices will be the quietest, should Mom follow through with her threat. I can’t stand the thoughtof listening to her screaming out in pleasure, so, I do what I always do when I know they’re going to fuck. I tune them out.
Pulling open the drawer on the counter beside the toilet, I grab a pair of old earbuds I use whenever I need to drown out the noise. Once music starts playing in my ear, I lean back against the toilet and bring up my gallery, flicking through images trying to find the one we took last summer at the apartment I shared with my exes. When Tatum found the place, I was stoked, because there was a public pool inside the gated community. Dallas and I must have swam at least three times a week for months. Then summer shifted to fall, and it was too cold to swim, so we didn’t see a whole lot of each other after that.
When I find the picture, I stare at his face, soaking in the sight of him. His farmer’s tan. The light brown hair that hangs down past his eyes when he doesn’t have it pulled back. That sexy cowboy hat he wears at all times, looking like the biggest, sexiest trailer-trash cliché I've ever seen. The way he’s smiling so fucking bright, right at me, makes it seem like I’m his sun and moon and stars, and he’s just happy to bask in whatever light I provide. And then there’s the way his shorts cling to every nook and crook thanks to the pool water. I can make out the base of his cock in the photo, and I’ve stroked myself staring at it more times than I could ever hope to count.
I keep an eye on the doorknob, because there’s no lock on the bathroom door, and Mom has a habit of barging in unannounced, thinking I’ve hidden her stash in here. I wouldn’t because I don’t give a fuck how much she takes.
I back out of my phone’s gallery until I’m scrolling through the videos I’ve got stored. There’s an old clip on my phone that never fails to guide me to completion. In it, a drunken Dallas is singing karaoke at Manhole, the gay bar where I used to work. He came out with me and a few of the boys a couple of weeks before I moved in with Tatum. When he told Mom he was going to the bar with me, she looked at him like he was stupid. That night, Tatum clung to me, and every time I would make eye contact with Dallas, his jaw would clench, and he would grip his beer bottle so tightly, I worried it would shatter. I think part of the reason I started dating Tatum was to see how Daddy would react. While he was never cruel to Tatum—or any of my other exes, for that matter—he was standoffish to the point of making things uncomfortable. That night, though, Dallas looked like he was ready to rip Tatum’s head off every time he touched me. When Dallas drunkenly announced to our party that he was going to sing a special song for his special boy, it felt like I was floating on air. Of course, I was drunk on lemon drops, but I think I would have felt it anyway if I was sober.
I set the phone on the bathroom counter, tilting it against our toothbrush holder. When I extend my legs, my feet touchthe baseboard on the wall in front of me, because our bathroom is microscopic. I slide my pajamas down until they’re resting around my ankles, and I wrap my hand around my half-hard cock.
Through my earbud, Dallas’ drunken country twang shines through as he slurs out, “Wanna sing a birthday song for my birthday boy,” sounding like an absolute lush. “He just turned twenty. Can you believe that? Look at him. Look at my sweet boy.” In the video, Dallas spots me cuddling a little too close to my then-boyfriend. “Stop lookin’ at him,” Daddy barks at Tatum. I can still picture his smile when our eyes met and I slid out of Tatum’s embrace, wanting to focus all my attention on Dallas. Music plays in the background, but he’s still slurring, even after it’s time for him to start singing. “Hey, everybody. Every one of you, shut up and look over there! That’s my boy.” He had a finger pointed in my direction and so much goddamn love in his eyes, it felt like the only thing that ever had or ever would exist was our two beating hearts, pumping out the words neither of us could say. “That’s my Aussie.”
Halfway through the karaoke track, Dallas finally starts singing along, reminding me via Mariah Carey that I’ll always be his baby.
With my eyes closed tightly, I chew my bottom lip, increasing the speed of my strokes. I can picture him in front of me, knelt beneath, staring up at my aching cock, his eyes pleading.I bring my hand to my mouth and spit into my palm, needing a bit of lube to make it more comfortable. With a wet hand, I stroke myself again, imagining the sight of Dallas’ mouth opening and swallowing me whole.
I get a funny feeling like someone’s watching me, and when I open my eyes, I’m relieved to find I’m still alone in the bathroom. The relief is short lived, because a few seconds later, I watch in horror as the knob twists and the door swings open.
Dallas is wearing nothing more than his boxer-briefs, and the sight of his barely clothed body sends a sensation of lightning shooting up my spine. He has his towel in one hand and another pair of skimpy boxer-briefs in the other. I look up, horrified to see his eyes locked on my swollen shaft.
We don’t speak. We barely breathe. His eyes widen when he looks at my phone, seeing his drunken face plastered across my screen, singing his birthday boy a birthday song. I yank the earbud out of my ear, my eyes bulging as I use my other hand to shield my cock.
“Sorry,” I say, tugging the tail of my shirt over my dick, the outline still fully visible to him. “Fuck. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
His eyes glance at my phone again, his mouth hanging open. “Austin? Why are you watching—were you . . .?”
My breath hitches. “Was I what?”
His mouth opens and closes a few times, but he just shuts it in the end, letting the question die on his tongue. “I need to take another shower.”
I close my eyes in an attempt to calm my racing heart. Holy shit. Dallas just saw my cock.
“Why do you need another shower?” I ask, but my voice is high-pitched and comes out sounding frantic.
His cheeks flush. “We had a little mishap. You mom had too much to drink and . . . well, let’s just say regurgitated meatloaf isn’t the most pleasant smell.”
“She threw up on you?”
He nods, looking down at the floor, unwilling—maybe unable—to look at me. “I couldn't get hard. I tried and tried, but I couldn't get it up. Shelly didn't take it well, and I guess she thought it meant it was her fault, so she glared at me, opened her mouth, and projectile puked on me.” He sighs, scrubbing his hand with his face. “She says it's just because she's drunk, but I saw that determined look in her eyes.”
“So, she puked on you out of spite?” I gag, because eww.
He shrugs. “That's what it felt like. Either way, I really need to hop in the shower. If you don’t mind.”
