Front Loader

Chapter 1: Ashland Construction-2

Sissy and I do lunch together. We leave the office and have tuna fish sandwiches and side Caesar salads at Patoni’s Deli on Carbon Street. We drink sugar-free iced teas, clink glasses together in a friendly toast: “To great days of working together in the near future.”

She tells me about herself: no children, Italian boyfriend who models underwear, parents in Texas, went to school for design at Temple in Philadelphia, enjoys shoe shopping, likes Captain Morgan and Cokes, wants to have three children, and thinks I am one of the most handsome blond men she has ever seen.

She also tells me about the Ashland siblings: “Brian is a total d**k. I honestly think he beats his wife, Gertrude. He has three kids, never smiles, and he’ll burn in hell one day.

“Patty is a doll. A real lady. Thirty-three-years-old. She’s got sweetness and a punch. The best manager I’ve ever seen. She’s dating a man by the name of Melvin Franco, one of those ditzy starving artists and no clue about life. Roger and Tonya—the parents—loved Patty. The parents unfortunately died in a plane accident in May of 2003.

“That leaves Joey. The oddkin. He’s had a hard life. Queer to the core. Single. Likes to party a lot and have a good time. His brother and sister both think he hasn’t grown up yet. I think he’s very mature at twenty-eight, easy to look at, and has enough charm to knock any guy or girl off their bar stool with a look.”

“How often does he come into the office?” I ask.

“Not very. He and Brian mostly work on the job sites. They both manage projects. Joey isn’t big on the office scene, anyway. He likes his hands-on work at the job sites.”

“Is he a bully?” I ask, wanting to know more about him.

Sissy shakes her head. “Brian is the bully. Joey is a dove. Cute as a button. Sweet as pie. If he were straight, I’d make him mine.”

“When did he come out to his family?”

“At nineteen. It was an ugly scene, from what I understand. Both his parents cut him off from the family business. Brian threatened to kill him. Patty was the only family member who seemed to like having him around. Rumor has it that Joey tried to commit suicide over it, but Patty saved his life and—”

Brian calls Sissy on her personal cellphone and bitches her out for not being in the office. Both of us are already ten minutes past our lunch breaks. Brian screams into her cellphone, “Get back to this office now or you’re fired!”

Following the interruption, I tell Sissy, “Joey called his brother an asshole this morning. How true is this?”

“You like dudes, right?” she returns her own question.

I agree, having been out of the closet for the last eighteen years. “I do like guys.”

She nods and puts out the tip, then snatches up her purse so we can head back to the office.

Back in the office, I develop an outline of my personal history, in case I want to present it to Joey: Beverly Hawkins is my mother with the same blonde hair; father unknown; no siblings; try to exercise at least twice a week; enjoy swimming; read best-selling fiction; despise poetry; like back rubs; bears are my favorite type of men; I’ve liked playing with numbers since I was a little boy; broke up with my last boyfriend (Taylor Lighting) about seven months ago Taylor decided he liked the company of women; so much for thinking he was queer); I despise roast beef; enjoy taking long walks after dark; Sundays are my favorite days to sleep in.

I work myself to death all afternoon, finally find the strength to pick up my leather satchel and head home at six-thirty back to my bungalow at 762 Melbourne Street near the lake.

In the Ashland Construction parking lot, I click the door locks open on my Nissan Frontier and slip inside.

In a matter of seconds, I see the hottest bear in my rearview mirror as he walks toward the building. Blueprints dangle from his bearish right palm. I take in the man with a deep hunger: cocoa-brown eyes and hair, five o’clock shadow on cheeks and chin, six-foot-plus frame, about 200 pounds of pure muscle, denim shirt open. And my imagination supplies more: a mat of cocoa-brown hair on his chest, rolling abs, taut n*****s on firm pecs, and—

My cellphone rings and pulls me out of my s****l world. I take the call and hear, “Would you like to have a drink with me this evening, Nolan?”

It’s Carter Royal, one of my best friends. The man is a queen of queens, sexy as hell with her full head of red hair and emerald-colored eyes. She wants to celebrate her upcoming trip to Cancun, where she will spend the last week of summer, all of autumn, and most of the winter. The twenty-six-year-old lives off her lover’s fortune. Her lover being a lawyer named Franklin Bast, who just happens to represent Ashland Construction.

“I’m pooped. Honestly, I just want to go home and relax.” I turn my head to the left and watch the brown-haired bear enter the office building. Within seconds he is gone, vanished from my life.

“No one misses out on a drink with me.”

“I’m sorry,” I admit. “I can’t do it. Take Franklin with you.”

“Franklin doesn’t love me anymore. He only cares about his clients.”

It’s true. Carter’s relationship with the man has plummeted in the last few months. This is why she’s going to Cancun, to find some fresh meat to lust after, date, f**k, and share a new relationship with.

“I can’t do it,” I confess, being honest.

“Suit yourself, Nolan. Thanks for nothing.”

I want to tell her not to be such a b***h with me, but Carter hangs up and cuts me off before I have the chance.

In truth, I can’t help what happens to me. The sexy bear decides to leave his imprint inside my memory and I grow hard while driving home. As I imagine him (burly chest, pretty-boy face, and muscles up the wazoo) between my temples, I begin to stroke myself off at the red light. While holding the steering wheel with my left hand, I unzip and jack off with my right. Elation surfaces on every pore of my body. Ripples of deep satisfaction tingle my hairy balls and cascade through my torso. I begin to huff and puff, perspire under my Brooks Brothers shirt, and—

At the stop light on the corners of Redbolt and Slinksky, sticky sap charges out of my eight-inch c**k and lathers my fingers, the shaft’s cut cap, and some of my leather-covered steering wheel. A string of ooze hangs from my thumb, which I lift to my lips, press against my tongue, and take a hearty taste of my spent. I feel dizzy for a few seconds, breathe heavily, and feel a smile of pure elation surface on my face. And I whisper a single demand that causes my joint to bounce happily and aggressively between my legs: “I need to f**k a bear.”