Rite of Passage
(Part 4 of "Shepherd's Pie")
Sunday morning, after spending the night alone in our empty house, haunted by lingering thoughts of Cynthia, struggling to escape the memory of her begging me to cum inside her, I jumped out of bed and frantically started cleaning every corner of the house, partly to keep from sitting still, but largely also to ease my guilty conscience.
The day before, I'd not only fucked my landlord without a condom, I'd also fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book, letting her convince me she was on birth control, easily my worst decision ever, beyond reckless, completely inexcusable, yet also impossible to take back.
To make matters worse, Mom called from New York on Saturday night, asking how I was doing, and then making some cryptic comment about meeting some really great guy whom she couldn't wait to tell me all about.
After two hours dusting, mopping, and scrubbing every surface in sight, I turned my attention to Mom's closet, spending at least thirty minutes organizing all of her shoes, pleased to discover out of 26 pairs that 23 of them were high heels.
Admittedly, the simple task of organizing Mom's shoe collection should have taken no more than ten minutes, if only I hadn't stopped so often, smelling them one at a time, hoping her fragrant aroma would hold me over just a few more hours until she got home.
By noon, I was so looking forward to Mom's return that I lost count of how often I checked the time. The house was spotless. Still, I couldn't just sit there. So I took Mom's car and quickly sped off to the gym, hoping to burn off my nervous energy with a long, strenuous workout.
Shirtless in the locker room, standing in front of a mirror, it was easy to see how six months of rigorous training had really paid off, having slimmed down to almost zero body fat on my hard, lean, wiry frame.
My abs looked completely shredded, as I stood there admiring my well-earned six-pack, a testament to eating mainly fish, chicken, and protein shakes, along with a whole ton of raw fruit and vegetables. In addition, for increased stamina, my trainer started me on daily regimen of vitamins and supplements, including testosterone, all of which had a visceral effect on my volatile teenage hormones, to the point where a stiff breeze in the right direction could easily produce a massive erection, rivaling the might of any towering skyscraper in the city.
Around 3 PM, I hit the showers in order to meet Mom at Logan by 4:15. Once dressed, I walked to the car, where I sat in the parking lot, casually rolling a blunt, hoping to calm myself down, as I quietly proceeded to sit there and smoke the whole thing. I rolled down the windows to let in some fresh autumn air, feeling no less anxious, not when I knew how good Mom was at telling when something was clearly on my mind.
Around quarter to four, I started making my way through Boston traffic, which thankfully wasn't too bad, reaching the terminal just as Mom texted me from baggage claim.
She walked out rolling her Gucci carry-on, in full make-up, hair down as usual, in a black leather, waist-length jacket, over a thin, white, pullover sweater, with sandy brown riding pants, so tight I could see her cameltoe as she stood there waving from the curb in sexy, brown, spiked-heel boots.
On a 45-minute flight from LaGuardia, she had no reason to look so incredibly hot. Yet, that's just who she was. After helping her put her bag in the trunk, she hopped in, leaned over and gave me a kiss, moaning while greeting me with her soft lips, reaching down, sliding her hand between my legs, making my balls tingle as she lovingly squeezed my cock.
"Mmm, I missed you," she whispered under her breath, as I sat there enjoying the floral scent of her perfume. "Did you want me to drive?" she asked curiously, as I turned and gave her a puzzled look.
She'd always been sensitive about her car, especially when I was driving, which only made me feel more agitated than I already was.
"I'm good," I answered through a half-hearted smile. "How was New York?"
She leaned back in the passenger's seat, voice pitching with teenage enthusiasm. "New York was uh-ma-zing," she said, drawing out each syllable. "Of course, it would have been better if you were there, but I still had a really great time."
"Cool," I said, pulling off, headed toward the expressway, when I bluntly decided to ask her the one question stuck in my head. "So who is the guy you met? Tell me about him."
"His name is Doug Vincent," she said glowingly. "I met him at the conference. He was one of the guest speakers. He's from Albany, also divorced. He started his own chain of department stores than sold them to Macy's for a small fortune. He lives in Manhattan now, makes most of his money on investments. He's only 45, very smart, really funny too."
The longer she spoke, the more my temper slowly kicked in. It was only supposed to be a weekend business trip, not an excuse to go out and meet other guys. What happened to all her talk about being my new, live-in girlfriend? Was it all bullshit? By then, I was so pissed I had no idea how fast I was driving.
"Slow down, sweetheart," she said, touching my arm. "You're making me nervous."
"Don't worry," I said, snapping at her. "I know what I'm doing. I'm not going to wreck your precious car."
"Excuse me?" she said, clearly displeased with my tone. "I think you know better than to speak to me that way. Nothing happened between us, if that's what you're worried about. We had some drinks. We talked for a while. He took me dancing, and that's it."
"He took you dancing?" I said, raising my voice. "Then what, did you go out to the parking lot and jerk him off like that other guy?"
As soon as it happened, I instantly knew I'd fucked up. Nothing was said for several seconds, as my hands tightened around the steering wheel, eyes staring through the windshield, as Mom turned, voice incredulous, holding back imminent rage.
"Um, I'm sorry...what guy?" she said. "What are you talking about?"
