Shooting Matt

Matt stops by in a panic...

All characters are over 18.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle for editing.

======

A couple of days pass before Matt emails me. I spent that time trying to get the vision of his body out of my mind. I picked up an extra shift. Sweet time-and-a-half come on home to daddy. Liam's financial aid package is excellent. He'd qualified for two scholarships, that plus low interested student loans (government, not fucking bank loans) had eased my money worries considerably. Old habits die hard, though. Besides, what else was I going to do? Sit home and jerk off some more?

I open his email. The file is still downloading when a request pops up wanting me to IM with him. Goddamn it. I open the email file. Despite the knocked together set up, it's a good photo. He looks happy and proud. And fucking sexy as hell, I grouse to myself.

I ignore the IM request. I can always claim ignorance. I'm a couple of years passed forty. Matt will have no problem believing I'm a tech ignoramus. I send him an email back, quoting the prices for various print sizes and printing options. After he picks a size and what he wants it printed on I'll have the print made and shipped to him. I close my laptop and make myself dinner. It isn't much. A ham sandwich and an Asian salad kit, washed down with a Rolling Rock. Fuck the Trumps and Rockefellers of the world. The poor, in spirit, bastards have probably never tasted a Rolling Rock.

I check the DVR and put on an episode of "Ink Master". I fast-forward through the insistent bickering and back stabbing. Some of the art is terrific. The same can be said for only a few of the personalities. I have a couple of tattoos. I shake my head, realizing they're pushing twenty years old. I've never been able to decide on what I wanted for my third.

The doorbell chimes. Nobody ever rings my doorbell, not since Liam left for college. The other day, when Matt rang, had been the first time in over a year. I bite off a curse as I push myself off the couch, telling myself there is no way it can be who I think it is.

It is.

Matt immediately starts apologizing.

"I'm sorry Mr. B, really, but I need to talk to you. It's important. Can I come in?"

I frown. I most definitely do not need this kind of shit in my life. I can't help looking up and down the neighborhood. No one is out on their porch but that doesn't mean one or two of the older biddies, some of them male biddies (Is there a word for a male biddy?) aren't peeking around the edge of curtains and taking notes. Let 'em. My curtains are pulled back. The living room is lit by the TV and the fifty-year old lamp from my mom's old house sitting on the end table.

I step back and Matt enters. His cocky smile is gone.

"My mom found the pictures." In case I'm as slow as he assumes I must be at my age, he hastily adds, "all of them."

"How, pray tell, did you let that happen?"

"She's a snoop. It's not my fault. I fell asleep. I was looking at the pics and the video. Remembering how much fun it was, got me, you know, hard. I hit the screen saver. I'm not that stupid. I jerked one out and fell asleep. I woke up late and jumped right in the shower. I'm working for the summer at Gower's. You know what an old crank that guy can be. When I came out, mom's sitting there. Just sitting there watching me jerk off! I couldn't fuck believe it. That's not right, bro. In no fucking universe is that cool. Fuck!"

"You mean to tell me that you don't have your computer set up to require a password when it wakes back up? Seriously!? I know you don't have brothers or sisters but you have parents. You have a roommate, or roommates. You know your mom's a snoop, as you put it. Yet, you don't require a password?"

I shake my head in disbelief as I grab the remote and cut Oliver Peck off in mid-critique. I'm frozen by a sudden fear.

"You didn't tell her I took those did you? I'll be fucking run out of town. Matt, please tell me you didn't tell her."

"What? Fuck no. She didn't ask. She didn't say a word. She looked at me with a blank face, you know like that chick after they dump pig's blood on her? She just stared and walked out."

"Jesus." I start to pace but stop myself. My curtains are open. I walk into the kitchen. "You want something to drink."

"Yeah, you got any beer?"

"Yes. Are you twenty-one?"

"No but, dude, come on."

"But, dude, no. You can have water or Coke or nothing."

"Coke. Fucking harsh, bro. Truly."

"When did this happen?"

"I told you," Matt snaps. "This morning, before work."

"And she didn't say anything when you got home?"

"Haven't been home. Came here after work."

"When did you send the picture then?" I frown. Something is not right here.

"This morning before work," Matt answers after a minute.

I sit down and stare at him. "Before work? You woke up late and still took time to email me that photo?"

He hesitates. "Yeah. It doesn't take long to do that." I notice he's dropped the 'dude' and 'bro'.

"True, but you just caught your mom watching a video of you jerking off AND you were late AND you stop to send me that email?" I lean toward him. "Matt, I'm not fucking senile. I can pull the email back up easily enough and see the time stamp on it."

He opens his mouth, closes it, looks defiant, then defeated. He slumps back into the chair. "Fuck. Fine. Okay. She didn't find the video or the photos. Of course, I keep my laptop secure and shit like that is in an encrypted folder. Goddamn it. I'm such a fucking moron." He punches himself in the middle of his forehead. "Fucking idiot."

My anger is replaced by confusion mixed with a dash of concern.

"What the fuck is going on, Matt?"

He leans his head back and covers his eyes with his left forearm.

"I was going to blackmail you."

"You were going to what? Blackmail me? You think I have any money to spare for blackmail? If you do, then you are a fucking idiot!"

"Huh? No, not money. Jesus."

"Then what?" I snarl. "You know what, it doesn't matter. Get the fuck out of my house. You have the photo. Have it printed at Walmart."

"No! I totally fucked up. I'm sorry. Dude, I'm seriously sorry for such a bonehead move. I was desperate."

"Matt, you'd better start making sense, and fast."

"I thought you, you know, maybe had a thing for me or something."

"What!?"

"I fucked up. I thought I saw you looking at me, maybe longer than needed for a picture or even when you weren't taking a picture. Liam..."

"Liam, what?"

Matt groans, arm still over his eyes. "He said Mary Beth told him you were gay. That that's why she got hooked on drugs and had to leave. He doesn't believe it or he says he doesn't."

"So, you decide to get me to take pictures of you so you could tell everyone I was gay if I didn't pay you?" I'm so angry I struggle not to pick him up and throw him out of my house.

"No! I fucking told you that already. Dude, don't you listen? Fuck. I don't want any fucking money."

"Then what the fuck do you want!?" I scream at him.

He jerks the arm from his face and leans forward so quickly I almost pull away. If I wasn't so fucking pissed, I would have.

"I want to suck your dick, asshole. There," he shouts. "You happy now? Yeah, I'm a fucking homo fairy fruitcake cock sucker. I always thought you were so fucking cool. I thought..." he struggles for words; not finding them, his face grows angrier. He jumps up and starts for the door. "Fuck this. I'm outta here."

"Matt, wait." He reaches the door. "Goddamn, Matt. Fucking sit back down. Jesus Christ on a fucking hopped up pony, what a goddamn mess." I sigh and lower my voice. "Sit down." I take a breath. "I'm not gay." I look at him. He's standing with his hand on the door knob. "I'm not gay but I am bi." Other than Mary Beth, he's the only person I've ever said that to.

Matt looks at me. I nod. "Yes, I'm bi. I've never been sure if Liam knows. I figured his mother would find a way to tell him. It'd be an 'accident' of course. That's her style. 'Oh, honey I can't believe I let that slip,' etc." I fix my gaze on him. "The rest is bullshit. I told her while we were dating. She was already way more into drugs than I ever was. I'd share a joint now and then but she had to try everything. Eventually, she tried heroin. The rest, as they say, is history. What a bitch." I say the last more to myself than Matt, still amazed I once loved the woman.

Matt crosses the small room and sits back down.

"I don't know anyone else who is gay," he starts and I jerk my head up. "Or bi," he adds holding up a hand. "You know the mall? Out on Battle Creek?" I nod, not bothering to point out what a stupid question that is. I've lived here all my fucking life. "I use to go out there. There's a bathroom where..."

"Where you can get your dick sucked, yeah I know what a glory hole is, Matt."

"Or suck a dick," he adds softly. He sighs and stands. "I should go."

"I don't get it, Matt. I still don't. What's with all the 'take my picture', 'video me for my girlfriend' crap?"

"I told you. I thought you'd let me suck you off."

"Yeah, you said that but I still don't get it? Why me? Why not head out to the mall? Hell, or to Randall park? You can find a dick to suck damn near anywhere."

"I don't want 'a' dick to suck, asshole. Jesus. How many times you gonna make me say it? I want to suck

your

dick. Fuck."

I put a hand out and take a hold of his arm as he passes my chair. He throws my hand off but stops heading for the door.

"Me? Why me? That's what I don't get. Christ, I'm

literally

old enough to be your father."

"So," he snaps. "You think I want to waste my time on a bunch of d-bags, constantly comparing pecs and biceps and abs? Fuckers love themselves more than anyone else. You think I want to spend the rest of my life suck dick through a fucking hole in a shitter wall? What the fuck, dude. Fucking get real."

"Matt," my voice is low. I'm ashamed of what I'm about to say. "It's not only that I'm way too old for you." I pause to gather my thoughts and my courage. "I grew up in a different world than you. I don't have the balls to come out. It sounds to me like you want romance. One, again, I'm too fucking old for you. Two, I can't give you that. I'm too afraid."

To my surprise, Matt grins. "You think the world is that much different? Just because gays can marry?" He shakes his head. "Hang around campus an hour or so. You'll hear plenty of 'fag' and 'cocksucker' and 'queer'. You think anyone in my frat, or the entire campus for that matter, knows I'm queer? Not a fucking chance. Dude, that's partly why I'm here. It feels safe. That, and like I said, I've always thought you were cool, that you were the kind of dad I'd like to have."

"But, Matt," I protest. "That makes it sound even creepier, almost incestuous."

"Fuck, bro. I'm not saying I want to suck my dad's dick! Jesus! I'm just saying I like you." He shakes his head."

"Matt, I honestly don't know what to say. I'm flattered, truly. I feel for what you're going through. I've been there. I know. But," I pause. I was about to call him 'son', which is the last thing I want to do at the moment. "But I can't get past the fact I know you as one my son's friend, not as someone I met at a bar or something. Can you understand that?"

"Sure, dude. I dig it, as you old fucks say."

"That is something my dad would've said. Christ, I'm not that fucking old."

Matt almost smiles. "I'd like the 8x11. You like the canvas wrap?"

It takes me a minute to shift gears. "Uh, yeah. That would look nice. I'll order it up for you."

"Cool." He pauses at the door. "Your grass is getting long. I can't tomorrow but I'll come over the day after - Thursday, to cut it; to start working off what I owe you for the photo shoot."

"I told you. You don't owe me anything."

"Untrue what you say," he says in what I imagine is a Yoda imitation. "Later," he adds in his own voice, opens the door, and is gone.

I finish my second beer staring at the black TV screen.

***

I'm more than a bit relieved when I pull into my driveway Thursday afternoon and the grass isn't cut. I'm happy Matt seems to have come to his senses. There's an after taste of disappointment but no more than an after taste. I pull my aging Ford onto the carport. I tell myself, as I do every time I open or close the driver's door, to spray a little WD-40 on the hinges. It runs, that's all that matters. I've only had one new car in my life. An Escort, blue, four-door since we had a baby on the way. I still had a real job at the Ford plant. Heroin was still a hobby for Mary Beth. She was working at the plant, on a different line. A new car seemed like something that would remain part of our lives. Right.

Mary Beth moved to the debit side of the ledger long before the plant closed. I'm not complaining, not much anyway. I found work sooner than most. What choice did I have? By the time mom shuffled off this earthly coil, I knew Mary Beth was in bad bad trouble. I put the bit of money mom had saved and what I got out of her small house somewhere safe from my wife's mitts. I considered using it to pay off the house but mom's estate lawyer (ain't that a laugh, 'estate') pointed out if we split she might get half the house. He set it up so the money was mine, and if I kicked, Liam's.

That was more worry than it was worth. By the time the divorce was done, she'd been locked up half a dozen times for prostitution, possession, intent to sell, you name it. I wanted full custody and with it, the house. I'm not a total asshole. I made sure Liam was available for supervised visits whenever she was clean enough to want them. And, when she was in rehab, or for the few weeks she stayed clean after rehab, I paid her alimony. It wasn't really alimony. The judge had emancipated me of all responsibility. I did my best. She had been my wife, after all. I could remember her smile and the way she could crack me up. She was Liam's mom. And, she was the brave one, always up for a new experience. I think that's why, before she needed a weapon to use against me, she was more intrigued by the idea that I was bi than she was appalled.

An August afternoon, with the temperature flirting with triple digits and the dew point in the upper 70s, is not a time to sit in the cab of a slightly listing Ford Ranger pickup running the threads of your past through your fingers. I climbed out, braced myself for the protesting hinges, and shoved the door closed with my ass.

I fumble with my keys and get the kitchen door open without the need to curse. My old school (as in old fashioned not that it's a lunch box from my old school) metal lunch pail, thermos still intact, goes atop the counter by the stove. I'll take care of my lunch debris later. It's a workingman's lunch box, from a time when I helped build things. I feel like a fraud carrying it some days. My 'work' nowadays consists of moving pallets around a warehouse almost as big as the old Ford plant. It's not union but I do get time and a half for overtime and medical. Pension? Very funny.

I pick up the glass I keep behind the sink for water, look at it for a minute and return it to the sill. It's too damn hot for water, even ice water. The house is marginally cooler than outside. I do have A/C but I keep it set at 80. Electricity don't grow on trees was one of my old man's favorite sayings. I open the fridge and grab a Rolling Rock. I toss the cap on the counter and down half the bottle. I rub the bottle over the back of my neck. Bliss. I finish the bottle with a second long pull and grab another.

I walk down the short hall. I stop, as I have been doing lately, and glance in the room with the tacked up sheet and covered pole lamps. I tip my bottle in salute and continue on to my bedroom. I sit my beer down on the top of a magazine. Mom hated, HATED, water rings on the furniture, and unbutton my work shirt. I don't need to sniff it to know it is past wearing again without a trip to the washer. I glance in the hamper and decide laundry can wait until the weekend.

I stand in front of the A/C vent and let the cool air dry the sweat on my chest as I sip my beer. This has become my dog days of summer routine, though usually with a glass of ice water, not a beer, or two. As I ponder why the beers, wondering if it is just the heat or does that after taste of disappointment have anything to do with it, the unmistakable sound of a lawnmower roaring to life reaches my ears.

My heart rate kicks up a peg or two. Well, I ask myself, which tastes better? Disappointment or fear? I suggest to myself that I shut the fuck up and walk to the front of the house. Matt is making the first pass up the driveway. He sees me in the window and tosses off a wave. I salute him with my beer bottle and wonder what to do. What I do, for the moment, is watch.

He's wearing an over large muscle shirt and a pair of cutoff jeans. His feet are stuffed into lace less old sneakers. I'd never let Liam cut the grass wearing shoes like that. I'm tempted to tell Matt to come back when he's wearing safer shoes. Playing the role of dad might chill his ardor, assuming he still harbored any when it came to moi.

I don't have a big yard. It doesn't take him long to do the front. I hear him move to the side yard. The back takes a little longer. There's only a small strip on the far side of the carport. It takes him thirty minutes, forty tops, to finish. When I hear him finish in the back I fill a glass, the largest I have, with ice and water.

I wait on the car port for him to finish. He shuts the mower off and parks it beside the driveway. He swipes an arm across his forehead and leaves a few sprigs of grass behind. He's soaked. Hell, I'm starting to sweat just standing here.

I hand him the glass. He takes a drink, a big one, too big. He lowers the glass and grimaces. "Brain freeze," he mutters through clenched teeth. He holds the glass out and I take it. He presses both palms to the side of his head. After a moment, his face relaxes. He rolls his head over his shoulders. "I fucking hate that," he offers. He opens his eyes, squints, and then opens them again. "Better."

I offer him the glass again. He jerks his shirt off first, wads it and dabs at both armpits before tossing it on the hood of my truck. I notice he's not shaving. There's stubble across his chest and in his armpits. His dabbing was done little good. I see rivulets of sweat begin to run down his sides. His cutoffs are pretty ragged. Like his parents, crosses my mind. There's a large hole over the left thigh. He's wearing briefs or nothing under because I see bare skin through the hole.

"Dang it's hot," he says, taking the glass from my hand. He's far more circumspect when he drinks this time.

"You should have skipped it or done it earlier before it got so hot."

"Thought about it," he admits. He grins. "I decide to wait until you were home."

I shake my head. I'm not going to get into this with him.

"Hey, Mr. B, can I come in? A little A/C action would feel sweet right about now."

"I don't think that sounds like a good idea, Matt," I tell him, shaking my head.

"Seriously, bro? I'm dying here."

He does look kind of miserable. His face is flushed and droplets of sweat coalesce and run off his face and chest, back, too I assume, though I can't see it.

"Alright," I concede. "But only until you cool off a little."

His smile widens. "Right on, Mr. B. Excellent."

He leans his butt against the front fender of the Ranger and raises one foot. He slips the ratty old sneaker off and lets it fall to the ground. He brushes the grass clippings off his foot. He brushes the clippings aside with his bare toes before setting his foot back down. When he lifts his other leg, whether intentional or not, I see the head of his cock peek out the leg of his shorts.