Page 2 of Pucker Up
“For the millionth time, they’re not getting naked.”
We joined the queue to exit the ferry, Morton waiting patiently next to us. “I still can’t believe you talked me into coming to this thing.”
“My boss sponsored one of the plungers. She wants me to get a picture for social media.”
We followed the crowd to the beach, and once we were out of the wind from the ferry, the temperature rose from downright miserable to almost tolerable. “Plungers. They need to fire their marketing team; all I can think about is a toilet,” I said.
“I don’t think ‘icy hunks’ is politically correct anymore.” Mel had done her homework; up until a couple of years ago, the “Ice Hunks” had been the official name.
Morton tugged at the leash as he saw open water. “Oh no you don’t. I’m not dealing with sixty pounds of wet dog fur in my apartment.” As though he could read my mind, Morton glanced back and then fell into stride next to us, but not until he gave an audible groan. The open water next to the dock looked dark and frigid. “I think that they should call it the one-inch dunk.”
“Inch?” Mel scanned the shoreline. “It looks like there’s at least eight inches of ice out there.”
“I wasn’t referring to the ice.” We wound our way through the crowd to get a front-row spot to watch the action.
Mel groaned, but her lips drew into a grin. “The disappearing dink dunk.”
“The shrinkage splash.” I could barely get it out without laughing.
“Ooh, that’s a good one.” Mel was practically howling and had to remove her glasses to wipe away tears.
“The cocksicle maker,” a man standing next to us stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
Mel clapped her gloved hand to her mouth. I hadn’t realized that anyone was listening to our immature and completely inappropriate conversation. The man was wearing a hand-knit sweater, the kind that my hippie mom wore in the nineties, and snowpants patched with duct tape. Unlike the rest of the guys in the crowd, his hat didn’t have anything to do with basketball, hockey, soccer, or lacrosse. It was a black and yellow hat with the wordBombardierrunning around the circumference, topped with a black, white, and yellow pompom. His face was covered in scruff and he was wearing those sunglasses with the little leather pieces on the side. He looked homeless, but also…warm.
“I think thatdicksiclehas a better ring to it,” I said.
He smirked, but kept his gaze on the lake. “I think you’re right, but we’d have to combine it with dunk. The dicksicle dunk.”
Mel and I giggled. “It’s perfect.”
Morton nudged the man’s hand and he tore his gaze away from the water to give him a pat on the head. “Hi, boy. I bet you’d like to get in there.” His voice was low and warm like honey when he spoke to my dog.
“Most people think I’m being cruel when I walk him in the cold and snow, but he’d be right at home in that icy water.”
The man crouched to get down to Morton’s eye level. “I bet you would be, but I think that you should keep your mom company on the shore here. Are you a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” He put on that goofy voice men get when they talk to “good boys.” He ruffled Morton’s neck fur and my dog hopped to his feet, ready to play.
He looked at me. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to get him all riled up.”
Initially, I thought that the man was my dad’s age, but as he spoke, I could hear the youth in his voice. It was impossible to tell if he was good-looking, as there was only a three-inch section of his face that wasn’t covered in horribly mismatched clothing. But, like the guy on the boat, my intuition was firing—hard. Only this time I didn’t feel sick, I felt something else: a tingle between my legs and heat running to my cheeks. It was strange. Without seeing his face, I knew there was something different about him. Being around him brought out a sensation I hadn’t felt in a long time…horny.
“Come on, I want to get closer to take a picture. Aubrey has sponsored number four.” Mel tugged at my sleeve.
“Holmes.” The man beside me stood and brushed the pelt of dog fur from his gloves. “Number four is Mikey Holmes.”
“That’s it, Mike Holmes. Come on,” Mel shouted. The players had their shirts off. Most were standing stoic, covered in goose bumps, but some rubbed their well-toned biceps. The plungers were lined up in order, by donation amounts, and at the end of the line stood the dark-haired Bailey brother.
Before I could protest, Mel dragged me and Morton away from the cocksickle man.
“What a weirdo,” Mel whispered as we shimmied our way to the front of the crowd. “You’re welcome.”
“I thought that he was kind of…” What did I think of the man? There was no reason for me to be attracted to him. It was crazy. I didn’t even know what he looked like and he’d had more of an interest in talking to Morton than to me. Other than his penis-synonym wit, there wasn’t anything about him that should’ve left my heart thumping a little harder than normal. But yet, as it thudded against my rib cage, there it was.
“A weirdo,” she repeated, finishing my sentence. “Don’t you dare tell me your spidey senses went mad wild about that Grecian-looking god over there…” She pointed to Gideon. “And they didn’t warn you to stay away from the guy who looks like he just robbed the thrift store.”
Scanning the crowd, my heart slowed when there was no sign of the pompom or those stupid mountaineer sunglasses. Maybe Mel was right. He was kind of…odd.
The loudspeaker crackled as the MC announced the corporate sponsors. Metallica blared from the tower of speakers as the first guy, number twenty as evidenced by the number scrawled onto his back in body paint, flexed and stepped out of his unlaced boots. He pulled down his sweatpants and the crowd went wild. Even Mel screeched as he flexed his arms and gave a body-builder pose before jumping into the lake.
