"Diane says you can suck yourself."
He went on: "Says you have an extra vertebrae or something, and that's how you can do it. She says that's what you do at night in the guest bedroom while I'm with her in your bed. She says it's how you deal with it. Not getting any from her anymore I mean." And here Ty--short for Tyrone--shrugged, as if in limp apology.
Drake stood listening to this in a state of shock. Not so much that Ty knew some of his innermost secrets. It didn't surprise him that Diane, who'd been in a relationship with Ty for months, and was a blabbermouth, had at one point or another fessed up about her husband's rather unique talent. No, what shocked Drake was that Ty was here in the first place.
It was a Saturday, early afternoon, Drake's usual arrival time. But unlike all the other Saturdays they'd spent together Diane wasn't home. She was upstate tending to her sick mom. The soonest she'd be home was Monday afternoon. She'd left Thursday evening after getting confirmation her mother had had a stroke. Drake had helped her hastily pack.
Then, all alone and feeling surprisingly good about it, and free, completely free, Drake had stripped and done himself, in the usual contorted way, in the comfortable middle of his own queen-sized bed. And shot a decent-sized load and swallowed it all down. And then washed his guilt away with a cold--very cold--vodka martini. And made himself a tasty frozen dinner in the countertop Breville oven, a second and third martini having followed the first.
What are you DOING here? Drake again wanted to ask the man he shared his wife with. Had Diane forgotten to text him the news? No. Diane was meticulous. She didn't forget such things. She would have texted her lover Friday morning at the latest, if not Thursday night, after arriving at her mother's house. After all, Ty spent both Friday and Saturday nights with them and she wouldn't want him showing up on their doorstep, empty, out of luck (fucks).
The last thing Diane said to Drake, as he loaded her bag into the back of her Infiniti SUV, or as he liked to call it, the Silver Schoolbus, was..."You'll do the cleaning, right? Saturday morning? I mean..."
I mean, Ty won't be coming over this weekend, but still...
"And you'll put fresh sheets on the bed?"
I mean, Ty won't have soiled them tomorrow like he usually does, but...
"I'll take care of it," Drake assured her, before closing Diane inside the bus. He'd walked out onto the driveway with her wearing only a white dress shirt, sans tie, whose long tail hid from view his bikini panty. His legs and feet bare. It didn't matter. It was dusk. Nobody could see him.
At any rate, two days later, here Ty stood, in Drake's kitchen, taking hit after hit off a green bottle of beer. His second in the space of less than ten minutes. WHY WAS HE HERE?
He'd arrived carrying a grocery store bouquet of flowers, sheathed in green cellophane, a price sticker still on it: $9.99. To Drake's knowledge, aside from a cheap box of candy last Valentine's Day, or the weekend after actually, it was the only thing, aside from his thick cock, and otherworldly stamina in bed, he'd ever brought to the "party." Even the green-bottled beer, which only Ty drank, fell on Diane and Drake's two-income grocery bill. Along with all the food he ate, while staying over, and all the lube he used, because of his cock's girth.
"I like having two men in my life," Diane had happily smiled once, pre-Drake, after seeing off an earlier lover. "A generous, loving husband and a great, part-time lover. It's, like, the perfect arrangement in my book."
"Even you like it," Diane added, pointing at the slanting erection in Drake's little panty. Then she brushed past him and went upstairs, calling down, "Don't forget to change the sheets!"
"In memory of Diane's mom," Ty solemnly said, handing over the cheap bouquet.
Drake: "She's not dead."
"But didn't she, like, have a stroke?" looking back from kitchen's edge.
"She HAD a stroke, she didn't die of it."
"But don't most people that have strokes die?"
"No." Then: "Well, eventually." Meaning: We all die eventually. Of something or other.
"Oh," Ty blinked, as Drake tossed the bouquet waterless onto the kitchen counter.
Goddamn he's dense! Drake thought. But then most guys his age are. Of all the horny guys in the world how had Diane managed to hook up with one young enough--almost--to be her son?
"I'm sorry...," Drake began, "but did you forget something?"
"Huh?" Ty had just opened the fridge, as if it were his own, and taken out a green bottle. He flipped the top off, macho style, with his thumb tip.
"Leave something behind?"
Ty swallowed a slug of beer. "Me? No. Just wanted to pay my respects."
"Well as I say...she's not dead yet."
Another slug. "Just a question of time, seems to me."
"Well, at any rate, she's, like, a hundred and fifty miles from here."
"Diane?"
"No. Well...yes. At the moment. But her mom..."
A beyond awkward silence followed while a beyond thirsty Ty polished off his first bottle. Then he reached for another.
"Diane says you can suck yourself."
This leading, eventually, to: "So do you, like, suck other guys off too?"
