Thirst Trap

  By R.W. Clinger

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2022 R.W. Clinger

  ISBN 9781685501518

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Thirst Trap

  By R.W. Clinger

  Let’s get something straight: I like JD Lawson. A little too much. And yes…I admit, I’m in love with him. But he might not be attracted to me. Listen to me, kid, here and now: I’m Joey Pollard, and I’m thirty-three years old, and I’m telling you right now, clear as the black night without any of its glittering stars, JD is straight. Everything about him. Everything. We’ve been friends now for almost six years. Best friends. We tell each other the secrets of the world. All the ins and outs of life. The mysteries of the heart. Trust me, I know.

  I swear.

  I swear.

  * * * *

  I’m getting ahead of myself and have to slow down. I do this a lot. Enjoy a breather. Calm down. Breathe. Just breathe. My doctor, Larry Bodine, says, “Joey, your heart has a few extra beats. It’s not normal. It’s called tachycardia. So, pace yourself in everyday life. Take your time with things. Try and stay calm.”

  Calm.

  Calmer.

  Calmness.

  Here goes:

  I currently live with JD in his miniscule Tudor on Hugh Street in a northern suburb of Pittsburgh called Etan. The house sits along the Allegheny River. A bathroom on the second floor splits our tiny bedrooms. This morning, May 13, I work on spreadsheets on my laptop downstairs, seated on the sofa in one of its cozy corners. JD doesn’t have a Keurig, and I wait for the vintage Mr. Coffee unit to do its magical-morning thing with grounds, water, and a filter. Snores echo out of JD’s bedroom from upstairs and creep down into the living room. He never keeps his door fully closed; blames the action on nightmares from his childhood and some kind of invasion and burglary when he was eight or nine. The obnoxious grunts and huffs float and make their decline on the maple stairwell, find my back and earlobes, and eventually fall into my ears. It’s annoying, of course, but I’m slowly growing used to the noise now that I’m living with someone, and experimenting what I like to call Roommate Life.

  Roommate Life. It’s happened rather all of a sudden. Long story short: I have my own Tudor in South Side on the Slopes near the Monongahela River. To some extent it’s bigger than JD’s place, but just by a margin. My neighbors, the Jardonis, have three sons in their late teens: Jake, Jonah, and Jameson. They were smoking a joint in one of their upstairs bedrooms and caught the bedsheets on fire. The fire took out most of their Colonial and half of my Tudor. Thank Christ no one got hurt. No burns. No injuries. Bless us all. Anyway, Janice, the mom, has a rich sister in Fox Chapel and the family is living with them until the Colonial is rebuilt. When JD found out that my Tudor’s kitchen on the first floor, and my bedroom and bathroom on the second floor were more than torched, he told me, “I have a spare room you can use. Stay as long as you need.”

  Thanks, JD. Thanks a lot.

  That was a few weeks ago. Back in April. I’m still settling in now. I’m happy. Comfortable.

  Comfortable.

  * * * *

  This morning. The sun is bright for May, and it feels like a rushed summertime has seeped into town like a cranky guest. Hotter than not. Almost sticky.

  JD’s snores become loud and louder.

  When he wakes, we have breakfast together. It’s somewhat of an uncomfortable occasion for me, because he doesn’t wear anything more than a pair of thighs-and-hips-snug, white boxer-briefs. His ripped, six-three frame still has its golden tan from a recent fake and bake, and his nipples resemble spikes. Light sweat coats his ripped abs and no-fat pecs. And the brown tangles of hair around his navel are somewhat damp, which tells me he has slept most of the morning away in the moderate sunbeams like a sleek cat, overzealous in dreams. Of course, my eyes stray to his thick and veined thighs and calves and biceps and shoulders and…

  Jesus, he’s remarkable to study. A total eye-catcher. An art piece by Michelangelo or Da Vinci or Raphael. A masculine portrait of severe beauty. A replica of the male gender at its finest. Art at its purest form and find. The elitist when it comes…

  We have coffee and bananas together. He’s on one end of the sofa and I take residence on the opposite end. I can almost bare watching him unpeel the piece of arched fruit, and stick the tip of its rounded end inside his semi-opened mouth—one inch, two inches, three inches, four inches—and collapse his teeth and lips around its length. How exhilarating it is to see the meaty flesh vanish inside him. Excitement unravels between my legs. Heat forms under my arms. Sweat begins to form on my forehead.

  My eyes flash, alert. So bright and aware. They travel to the area beneath his dented and curly-hair-covered navel, to the white package between his thick thighs. Here, my glance hangs for a few seconds and I lose track of time. His part is quite the sight to see in the tight cotton and cause me to lick my lips, abandoning all thoughts of consuming my breakfast banana. The limp and arched joint at his center is nothing short of five inches long and two inches thick. And yes, since I know you are curious and have desires of your own while enjoying my boner-gossip, I can see its cut cup: a perfect line just beneath its domed top, and the additional piss-hole at its apex where he ejaculates from.

  He chews…chews and swallows. Takes another bite. Larger this time. Chews and swallows. No, I can’t see the food fall into his gut, but know where it goes. Rushed, he takes a sip of the hot coffee, rinses his mouth. A second sip. Stares at me. Asks, “You going to eat your banana, Joey?”

  “Sure. Yeah. Of course,” spills out of me. I sound inept, unable to put a sentence together, nervous as all hell.

  “Big day today.”

  It is. For both of us:

  Etan College is making him a full-time head coach of the Etan Eels football team, after eight solid years as an assistant coach and part-time health professor. He’s excited about the position, glad to take the title, because it’s well-earned. He’s worked so hard for the position. And it’s solid tenure for him; a firm benefits package, and a full-fledged career at thirty-three. He’s established now. And rightly so. Not many men his age have accomplished what he has. I’m proud of him.

  As for me…Penny Cage of Vexon Auto is dropping off my new 2022 Mazda CX-30 in JD’s driveway. I might have paid too much for it, but the thing is a beauty: sleek, brushed red-and-black, loaded all the way. And so much more reliable than 2002 Honda Civic that sits there now.

  “Tonight, we celebrate our wins with drinks,” he says, finishing the banana, and downing the remains of his coffee.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I watch him carry his peel and coffee mug to the kitchen. There’s no way I can help myself, and check out his ass on his travels: bulbous, tight, eye-catching, slappable, the perfect peach.

  On his return, he says, “Heading to the college. Papers need signed to seal the deal. A late lunch with the administration. Drinks. Talks. You know how it goes. It will probably be most of the day. See you this evening.”

  I hear him, but don’t respond. My stare concentrates on his “sex lines” that fall into the white briefs: long, narrow, chiseled. Goddamn, is he the hottest man on the planet. Too hot. Fiery. Perfect in unthinkable ways. The best of the best. Thor-like. Immortal. Superhuman and…

  “Did you hear me?” he asks. He stands next to my face. He’s so close, I can almost lick his balls and dick in the white material that covers his man-goods.

  “I did. You have papers to sign down at the college. A lunch too. See you this evening.”

  “You did hear me. Good boy.” He pats my head as if I’m his pet dog. I’m okay with this. Maybe I want to be his pet. Who am I kidding? I do want to be his pet. If I can only have a bone, preferably his.

  * * * *

  JD leaves. I have his Tudor to myself for the next six or more hours. The spider plants. Netflix. The last slice of cheesecake in the refrigerator. His set of Shirley Jackson stories in hardback form atop a walnut dresser inside his bedroom. Everything.

  There’s no time for play, though. I have a job to do. I work from home mostly, killing the keys. Statterbaum & Masonary China has me study their gross margin reports on a daily basis to show that money is being made. My job is simple: numbers, numbers, numbers. Study them. Calculate them. Move them from column
A to column F, or to column C. Show them off. And make bosses go ahhh and ohhhh, proving that lots of money is being made in the porcelain world of dinner plates and tea cups. I can do this job anywhere. Dr. Seuss might say: In a car, in a house, in a bus, with a mouse. I don’t need an office or coworker. A laptop or phone can accommodate my needs and be my buddy. Anywhere. Anytime. Numbas. Numbas. Numbas. It’s all about the numbas, Joey. Give me the numbas, Joey.

  I’m busy at work on the sofa when JD’s doorbell rings. It’s around two in the afternoon. The house is quiet and the sun and warm heat bleeds inside the open windows. The doorbell is a pathetic sound: more like a big ass letting out a fart than anything else. The fart sounds three times. Phhaatt…phhaatt…phhaatt. I place my work aside and head to the door: no windows, plane of white wood, no peephole. Anyone can be on the other side. Gangsters. Death. Donald Trump. It seems unsafe to me, but whatever. It’s not my door. On the fourth fart I open the door and…

  It’s JD’s boyfriend, friend…some label that I’m unclear about. I’m not sure. I just know that they’ve been buddies for the last six years or so. The guy’s name is Victor Base. He hates his first name and goes by Base. Base is a total thirst trap from toes to head. He looks like one of those guys on the television show The Bachelor: all-smile, perfect hair, shimmering and magnetic green eyes, high cheekbones, a few pumped lines along the length of his sculpted neck, broad shoulders, trimmed eyebrows. Today the thirty-year-old decides not to wear a shirt, probably because the day is stunning-sweaty. He sports the V-shaped chest from hell: pumped pecs with hard nipples and covered in light blonde fur, eight-pack abs, depressed navel, narrow pathway of trimmed treasure trail leading into Under Armour running shorts. He’s a doll, Hollywood-beauty, and probably more of an AI replica than human.

  Base stands on the stoop outside and holds two paper coffees in his hands. He’s not a fan of mine and says, “Forgot you were holed-up here. Glad you didn’t burn to death. Is JD home?”

  “Went to work.”

  “Thought he was off today?”

  “Had to sign some papers for his new position down at the college.”

  “What position?”

  “Bring that up with him. He’ll want to tell you.”

  It seems strange to me that he doesn’t know about JD’s new position at the college. If he doesn’t know about this news, then maybe the two men aren’t as close as I think they are. Strange. Very strange. Base should know about JD’s new job. Why doesn’t he? Hmmmmm…Besides, aren’t the two best beaus, since they’re always together, inseparable? I see them together three, maybe four times a week, paling around. At the market on Fifth Street. At Pylon’s Gym. Running along the Allegheny or Ohio. They are bros all the way.

  “I’ll ask him about it.” He passes me a coffee. “Take this. It was for JD, but you look thirsty.”

  “I am thirsty. Thanks for the coffee.”

  “I can quench your thirst,” he says.

  Is he talking to me? Yes. No. I have no clue. I know so little about Base it can be considered pathetic.

  “You, Joey. I can give you what you want.” He does speak to me, checks me out from toes to head again, because once is not enough. Nods. Likes what he sees. He spreads his arms, waves two of his fingers in his direction, and provides me with permission to move in for a hug.

  I stay put. There will be no hugging Base today. No Bachelor-action with him. No way. His pecs and abs are shiny-sweaty-tanned. And his smile says eat-me-up. I keep my distance, though. I’m not into quickies with super jocks. I like romance and dating.

  “I’m good, Base. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  “Anytime. Any place. You’re a fine-looking man and I wouldn’t mind having you for an hour or two?”

  “Just an hour or two?”

  “Whatever it takes. You’re a masculine, blond beauty like me. We eat well, drink the right vegies, and take care of our bodies. Men like us are hard to find these days. I’m sure we can bang like porn stars together.”

  How romantic. Base, without a doubt, has a way with words.

  Men like us are everywhere. A dime a dozen. He’s trying to get into my shorts. Nothing more. Nothing less. He’s horny and wants to unload a creamy-sticky cargo from his personal post with a few licks and jacks. Truth is, Base isn’t attracted to me. He’s here for JD. To talk bro-stuff. To run. To go to the gym. To drink protein with JD. Something. I’m not like him at all.

  More truth: I’m somewhat taken aback when Base reaches forward with his right hand—because his left one holds his coffee—and he grazes the area above my navel. It’s a quick rub with knuckles and offers affection and tingles. He smiles his pretty boy grin like a gentleman, winks at me, and says, “You know…I’m feeling a bit frisky this morning. I’m single. And rumor around town is that you’re single.”

  How does he know I’m single? Who did he hear this from? Probably every queer in Pittsburgh. My breakup with Adam Cutler this past New Year’s Eve is probably still talked about: too much drinking; weatherman Adam’s tongue down another weatherman’s throat after being with me for a year; me catching them in action and pulling them apart; my fist meeting Adam’s right eye and calling him unspeakable names and…

  Base’s thirst trap is charged and on full throttle. My stare falls from his Prince Charming eyes to his pecs and lands at the area between his legs: pumped, always prepared for action with another man, not at all a little turbo regarding width and length. Do I lick my lips? I think so. Do I become unblinking and immobile? Of course. Can I welcome the chiseled delight inside JD’s home, walk him to my bedroom, and have my way with him? Yes. But…I have manners and morals and better taste and shake my head. “The coffee will do. Thanks.”

  He deflates and loses the adorable grin on his Hollywood face. “But we could rock each other’s worlds?”

  “I’m sorry. Not today.”

  He begins to rub the semi-boner away between his legs—I admit this action is beyond a sexual delight and turn-on for me, but I still send him on his way—and he shakes his head. “Not many men turn this body down.”

  “I’m not like many men.”

  “I would have had some outrageous fun with you,” he spins around and says over his left shoulder.

  “Sorry about the disappointment.”

  “DM me if you change your mind and want to have that fun.”

  “Sure. Yeah.” Maybe someday I will. Maybe not. Who knows?

  Off he goes, to the sidewalk, and beyond, into the land of other men and more coffee and jogging. A sufferer of not getting laid. Poor thing.

  * * * *

  Much later today. After I’m finished working. JD texts: I’m running a little late. We’re still at the restaurant/meeting. Start the drinks and party without me. Luciano needs to talk about his lats. Gigi is bringing those God-awful deviled eggs again. The red ones. Ugg.

  Me: Party? What party? Luciano? Gigi? What are you talking about?

  My heart skips a beat. Two beats. Maybe even three beats. My temperature rises. The room begins to spins to the right, now to the left.

  JD: Did I forget to tell you? A few of our friends are coming over for drinks to celebrate or W’s. Be there soon.

  Me: Are you fucking with me?

  JD: No. Maybe later I’ll fuck you…LOL. My nephew, James, not Jonah, should be there soon. Don’t call him by his twin’s name. He hates that and will go off…James should be showing up with food and drinks. He’s catering the event. Another client for his catering business. He’ll handle everything. Leave him be. You just have to look pretty. Wear a nice dress. LOL. I love a man in silver heels. LOL.

  Me: Too funny.

  JD: Gotta run.

  * * * *

  James Boll looks nothing like his Uncle JD. They can’t be from the same family. James has charcoal hair and beaming-blue eyes. He’s twig-like and sports a sharp looking razor-like nose that you might see in a comic book, graphic novel, or cartoon. His eyes are somewhat tilted inwards and he barely has a mouth. He’s a good-looking young man at twenty-four, but doesn’t scream cover boy or famous actor, or even porn star. But…he does know about food and catering, and he operates as the professional he is, in charge. He shows up with a staff of four in penguin outfits: Bennie, Bernie, Ty, and Chip. Hors d’oeuvres are heated and served on Statterbaum & Masonary China plates that I have donated to his company. Flutes are filled with champagne. Ty, a beautiful blond who looks like Tayler Swift, has a tiny bar set up with an arrangement of classic cocktails. Beefy Chip lets me try a lobster crostino as I admire his biceps. Things come together with the speed of light, no faults, and a party begins before I realize.