Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Lucky Dog (12)

The orange light of the answering machine was flashing. Bud ignored it to rescue dinner in the kitchen. Both steaks were overcooked, but you don’t start a wrestling match in the middle of a cookout if your real goal is a properly done T-bone.

Unselfconsciously Matt stripped himself bare before coming back into the house. He left the soggy shorts on the patio tiles. He walked around the kitchen table picking bits of dead leaves and grass off his skin. His cock was full and firm, but drooping now—chummily slapping his thighs.

Bud only rinsed himself off in the shower. He hoped the cold water would tamp down his raging hard-on. It mostly worked. As he slipped into clean shorts and an old work shirt with holes in it, he heard music and talking in the living room. Matt, naked and spread-eagle on the couch, sitting on top of some old magazines, was watching a rerun of Kung Fu. Bud tossed him a towel and pointed to the bathroom. While Matt showered, Bud hung a T-shirt and some jeans in the kitchen, on a hanger off the knob holding the keys to the back door and tool shed.

It had gotten dark outside.

He put the meat into a hot iron skillet to warm up. It hissed as it touched the black metal. He put the corn in a pot of boiling water with a tablespoon of sugar. While dinner warmed, he put forks and knives and napkins out. He scraped the burnt crust off the steaks and poured on some Wesson, hoping the oil would tenderize the meat.

Matt reentered the kitchen with a white towel over his head. Still buck naked. Bud pointed to the clean dry clothes next to the back door. Matt slipped the shirt on first, finished combing his hair, then tugged on the tight jeans.

For dinner, Bud poured the beer into tea glasses. When he set the plate of meat and corn in front of Matt, he said, “Heinz 57 can save anything.” For salad, he cut two wedges of iceberg lettuce, which he topped with two boiled eggs and Kraft’s French Dressing. The meat was tough, but still it was fun to watch Matt spear a chunk with his fork and then tear at it with his teeth like a starved dog, grease and sauce dripping down his chin.

They talked a little. Not much. Matt mentioned a girl, Deniece, he had known since high school, but Bud didn’t get the impression they were involved anymore. Briefly they debated the best brands of beer. Matt described the Kung Fu show he had been watching.

When it was time for Matt to go, Bud found the good-bye awkward. He put Matt’s wet things in a grocery bag and threw in a couple of cans of beer for the drive home. Before Matt left, Bud noticed that he lifted a key off the knob in the kitchen and slipped it into his pocket.

(To be continued)

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