Below the Boarder

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Honestly, I can’t even tell that Dayton lives at the house. He is very quiet and seems to keep to himself. No visitors come and go; not even his older sisters.

When he is not working at O’Hare’s Garage on Smithfield Avenue as an assistant mechanic, he enjoys playing table pool at Tubby’s Lounge, a local pool hall where all the blue collar boys and men congregate and have a good time. Sometimes he does come home drunk in the middle of the night. The guy attempts to be as quiet as possible, respecting my sleep, but I can still hear him accidentally bump into a kitchen chair, a doorframe, or trip on one of the steps leading to his attic bedroom. Rarely, do we see each other, crossing paths within the old Cape Cod. But when we do, our meetings are short, concise, and somewhat awkward.

On June 7 we meet in the kitchen as both of us prepare for our day of work ahead. I unintentionally discover Dayton in nothing more than a pair of freshly laundered briefs. He stands at the counter drinking a glass of pulp-free orange juice. Upon my entrance, our eyes immediately connect. Here, I take in his chiseled and pale core. The guy has a toned torso with reddish n*****s and orange-red-blond tangles of delicious looking hair below his comma-shaped navel. His thighs are thick, just like his shoulders, and a limp package between his legs looks five inches soft and cut with a mushroom-shaped cap.

He says to me, “You’re tie is crooked, Nino. Why don’t I fix it for you?”

I nod my head, agreeing with his suggestion. “Please.”

He places his glass of orange juice on the counter, moves up to me, fingers the Kenneth Cole tie at my throat, and exhales his morning breath on my face, which smells of oranges and a late night sandwich.

The moment becomes somewhat intimate between us. Our middles touch and my right palm instinctively reaches out and grazes two fingertips against his left hip. Following this action, my hand pulls away quickly and leaves us in a state of obdurate silence.

“Better,” he eventually whispers and backs away from me.

I provide a smile and ask the first thing that comes to mind, “Do you need a lift to work today?”

“I do.”

“How long will it take you to get ready?”

“Just a few minutes.”

When he walks out of the kitchen with his glass of orange juice I watch his right hand slip to his middle. Dayton adjusts the covered goods between his legs, perhaps pressing his fresh hardness and excitement away.