The green of the foliage outside of the car windows is bright, oppressive in its succulent vibrance. When I look at it, it seems that the leaves are glistening, dripping with hot moisture--the association is so painful that I have to dig fingers into my eyes. I'm suffocating inside, the airco shut down when I cut off the engine, but I can't bring myself to open the windows. I'm too much afraid of a familiar smell getting inside, or some sound--this gentle wind that rustles the branches, the crack of a twig, the sigh of hot air blown into the grass. I can't go out. I can't look outside. I just sit here, biting on my knuckles, trying to swallow sobs, cursing the day I met Connie Brown.
*
It started with a phone call. I get a lot of phone calls since my number is in the ads in the local media, in the telephone directory and plastered all around my Renovation, Masonry, Repair and Other Services Company's website. Renovation, Masonry, Repair and Other Services are good business, with all that influx of people to the town of late, but an irregular business all the same, and my phone was not ringing quite so often over the past few weeks. That particular time when it went off, however, I wish I was sleeping, or passed out drunk or on the fucking can.
"This is Mrs. Constance Brown," a rigid, dry voice informed me. "Can your firm provide a laborer for heavy, manual work next Thursday?"
I did not bother to explain to Mrs. Brown that my firm composes of only one laborer, namely me, but agreed to be there, since I had very few appointments that week. The job consisted of moving things into the house and seemed like easy money. When I got the address I recognized it as the new set of suburban houses that were recently built on the west border of the town and were being sold in a semi-finished state. That they were moving furniture in meant that they had found someone else to wrap up the electricity, the paint and all the rest, but I was scornful of the competition's luck only for a moment. After talking to her on the phone, it seemed to me that I couldn't care to spend time around Mrs. Constance Brown, even if she would be a guy.
*
On the appointed day and time I drove my old van to the place. A truck was parked in front of the house with its back door open and after looking inside I started to regret taking the gig. It seemed that the Browns taste was for the kind of minimalism that nevertheless requires everything to be made of metal and weight a ton. There were also appliances--the wash machine, the tumble-drier, the lot. As I approached the house through a small front lawn it was with half a mind to tell the woman to go and hire a moving company. I rang the bell, the door opened. I opened my mouth and froze, gaping at an attractive, blond young man, ten years my junior.
"Hello," he smiled friendly at me. "You have to be here for the moving."
I did my best not to stare at his brilliant teeth.
He extended a hand towards me. "I'm Constance Brown."
"You're Constance Brown," I couldn't help gasping a little.
"Well, everyone calls me Connie," he laughed again. "You spoke on the phone with my wife, right?"
I shrugged out of it. "Yes. Yes, of course. I just wanted to say that there are some heavy things in there," I pointed towards the van.
"Oh, I'll help you, of course. Of course you couldn't do it alone. It's just that my wife is quite particular about our stuff. She wouldn't let moving company guys handle it. Since she couldn't oversee it herself, it's just best that I'll take care of it with a little help. Come," he waived me inside "let me show you first where everything needs to go."
I went in, trying to digest that the woman actually introduced herself with her husbands name, as if we'd be in the fucking nineteen sixties. In the end, it was a pleasant substitution--I liked Connie and found him charming, too charming in fact. Soon, however, I couldn't be distracted by my host's graces as we got to work, and it was as heavy as it seemed. We dragged the bed, the closets and lounging chairs upstairs. Then we furnished the dining space downstairs; the massiveness of the table and chairs made me thank heavens that Mrs. Constance did not count on hosting more than six people at a time. The appliances came next and the last thing to be finally put into place was a double-door fridge. The damn thing needed to fit in a corner behind a cooking island. When, after struggling with the damn thing for more than half an hour we managed to squeeze it into the recess, I was quite done. I was boiling in my old work jeans and I looked at Connie's thin sweats with envy. He was dripping with sweat himself, but ever in good humor. He slapped both of his hands on the door of the fridge and turned to me with a laugh.
"That's perfect. I mean, except that I only have warm beer to offer to you. You don't mind?"
My thoughts became a bit panicky. I shouldn't drink on the job. The job was finished, of course, but still, drinking with your employer somehow never seems like a good idea. But then I noticed again how broad Connie's shoulders were and how well-defined his body seemed under the sweaty t-shirt.
"No," I laughed.
He squatted down and opened the cupboard. He took out a bottle of olive oil and put it on the counter overhead, without straightening up.
"My wife's doing," he murmured. "You can't sleep in the house yet, but you can whip up a healthy salad."
I laughed again and he brought up two bottles of pilsner. We opened them and clinked.
"I'm exhausted," Connie sighed. He looked around and indicated the floor with a wave of his hand. "Do you mind if I...?"
It was even more absurd, but I sat next to him on the floor. I couldn't help myself and I guess I didn't see any harm. We stayed there, with our backs to the cupboards for a long moment. The space we were occupying was too intimate for comfort, the warm beer was disgusting, and yet, I wouldn't think of getting up and going away. I also didn't have nerve enough to look at Connie, so I sat there, stealing glances at his outstretched legs, thinking, What's your deal?
"Thanks for helping me out," he broke the silence.
"It's my job," I said, immediately cringing at myself.
But Connie chuckled, softly. "I don't know anyone here. We just moved in. In a way, I'm starting over with my life. It can be..."
"Scary?" I offered, dumbly.
"Exciting," it was almost as I could hear him smile when he said that.
Then his shoulder touched mine. I tensed up, my bicep hardening, my chest stopping mid-breath. I tightened my grip on the bottle, waiting for him to shift away. He pressed again, this time with intent. I heard him whisper "If I find someone to help me,
someone like you maybe
, it doesn't have to be scary at all."
I couldn't bear it any more and looked right in his face. Connie was flushed, his eyes averted; the corner of his mouth trembled in a little smile. And in that moment, I was gone.
"Maybe," I said, reaching for the bulge in his crotch, "I'll start with helping you out with this?"
He had one of these dicks that you really want o suck on, which I did immediately. Connie gasped and twitched, and dug his fingers in my hair. He was red hot down there, smelling sharply of sweat--I had to stink as hell myself, but I didn't care as long as I had this delightful creature trembling under me.
At that moment I wouldn't even dream of anything else than making him cum there on the floor, but he suddenly pushed me away. He scrambled up ad slapped something on the wall; I heard a mechanic hum and some ever-professional part of my brain recognized one of these automatic shutters that people want to fit in Southern-facing windows. Connie didn't wait till they actually closed down, but started to pull his sweats off right away. I got up myself and beheld my employer, completely naked, in what strange, dim light was left in the room.
His body was as beautiful as his face. I wanted to say that and maybe kiss him, ask him how does he prefer it; but before I could open my mouth Connie turned around, bend down pushed his ass into my crotch. If there was ever an invitation, that was it and I tore the zip of my jeans open with trembling hands. I put my finger between his ass cheeks, realized that I wasn't prepared; then remembered something, fumbled around us with my hands and, finally, produced the bottle of oil. It was one of these fancy things with a stopper and it popped while being opened. I poured the oil high on Connies back, letting it trickle down to his crack; he shivered when it run over his spine and his skin broke out in little bumps, which made me even harder than I already was.
I slid one finger up him. He gasped. When I added another one, he moaned; I turned them around and separated them, and closed them again, and Connie whimpered, bending over onto the counter and jerking his ass higher. He was ready. But when I rubbed the tip of my dick against his asshole he suddenly straightened up.
