Page 25 of Napkins and Other Distractions
“Planning a wedding is not for the faint of heart,” Olan says.
“Marriage isn’t either,” I reply.
“Noted.” Marvin places a fresh napkin on my lap. “But when it’s true love, you persist.”
“I’m less concerned about the wedding and more interested in being married to this one,” Olan says, taking Marvin’s hand as he returns to his seat.
Marvin grins. “My mother would disagree.”
“Your mother isn’t getting married,” Olan replies.
Watching these two, the weight in my chest reminds me I’m older than both of them. Will this ever happen for me? The countless SWISH dates at The Purple Giraffe would argue no. Do I even want it? Would anyone ever be able to handle my idiosyncrasies on such a permanent level? Kent’s sweetness and patience never waned. But that foolishness is done. I tuck the edge of the extra napkin into my pants pocket, securing it tightly, hoping it doesn’t fall to the floor.
Bright guitars tangle and tease before Lindsey’s voice comes in, singing about the wrongness of loving you. When the ladies’ voices crash into his, a wall of harmonies washes over me, and my bathroom’s walls shake with the ferocity of the drums.
I step into the shower and the bleach scent soothes me. Warm water cascades over my body, and I adjust the temperature to make it hotter. The scalding spray hits my shoulders, and I brace myself against the wall, hoping to sanitize every atom. As I squeeze the bottle of liquid soap, its silky texture glides onto my hands. I begin with the top of my smooth head. Slowly scrubbing and scouring every inch, I move my way down.
Washing my chest, my fingers linger on my nipples. The attention brings them to life, and my thumbs prod and poke, and my groin simmers. Slippery bubbles help the sensation, and my right hand travels south while the left continues giving my pec attention.
When my fingers reach my cock, it’s already swollen, blood racing south as thoughts of Kent swirl. His thick beard. His furry chest and stomach. His delectable, long dick sliding in and out of my mouth, stretching my lips in the best way possible. His hands on my head. Massaging my earlobes. Telling me to swallow him like a good boy.
Palming myself, I stroke slowly, the soap billowing between my fingers, my cock stiff and unyielding. Teasing the head, my thumb glides back and forth. The steam and fragrant orange and honey soap cocoon me in bliss. As my insides smolder, I glide my palm harder, faster, and pinch at my nipple, sending shivers of pleasure through my chest, straight to my core.
The music pours over the glass shower door, the guitar solo hinting at the imminent fadeout. I use both hands to create a tunnel and begin thrusting faster, fucking my hands to the rhythm of pounding drums. My hands wrapped around myself, I throw my head back, savoring each stroke and brushing the sensitive tip with my thumb until my knees shake.
I reach around with one hand and place my index finger near my hole. I have no interest in entering myself, but the right pressure, right near the base, yup, right there, and everything kicks into overdrive. Closing my eyes, I picture Kent’s face, the saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth, grabbing his fuzzy ass, his fat cock plunging inside my mouth, filling me up. It all blankets me, and my orgasm crawls up. My toes tingle, my balls begin to tighten, and with a few more tugs, I shoot thick ropes into my hand. Water rushes over my face, and I blow out, pushing it away from my mouth. With each spasm, my hole clenches, and my mouth falls open, gasping as my fingers catch every drop.
I run my hands under the water as the guitars layer over each other, and the song trails off. Exhaling sharply, I stare at the mess I’ve spilled down the drain. Kent’s face ripples in my head. What has this man done to me? I close my eyes and start counting breaths.
CHAPTER 10
Kent
“This isn’t for you.”
Corrine gives Sweetums her best attempt at a teacher’s glare. We used to play this game of trying to stare each other down. As a human resources manager for a small local shipping company, she doesn’t have much practice, but we always laughed about who could give our daughter the sternest stare-down.
“He just likes to watch.” I pet Sweetums’ long, thick orange coat before settling in on a stool and rubbing the fluff at the end of his pointy ears.
“Just watch, my ass.” Corrine tips her chin. She’s never bought my bullshit.
Sweetums, unswayed by my attempts to soothe him, swats at the waving ends of the scallions as Corrine chops. Now, I’m the proud recipient of her glare. I lug Sweetums off the counter and move to the sofa, turning so I’m still facing the kitchen island where Corrine does her magic.
Since our divorce and her subsequent marriage to Charlie, we still chat regularly. We don’t see each other often, but after the last few weeks with Vincent, I needed a night with my best friend.
“Still no citrus,” she asks, a bowl and whisk in her hand. Her new diamond, bigger than the one I bought back in college, shines against her fair skin.
“Nope,” I answer. My cholesterol medication warns against grapefruit specifically, but being an overcautious Jew, I avoid all citrus.
She spoons more sugar into the bowl and begins whisking.
“The implementation is going well?” she asks. Corrine has always been my biggest champion. Even after our divorce, she still plays the role of my loudest cheerleader.
“I think so. We have weeks before we go live.”
“Right before spring break?” She pours the dressing onto the salad and tosses it with large wooden tongs.
“It’s a blessing. We’ll finish before the school board meeting. I can report out and then relax over break.”
