All a Steer Can Do Is Try

All a Steer Can Do Is Try By J.D. Walker I live and work in the city, but I grew up on a farm. My best friends back then were animals—not my brothers or sisters, or the multitude of cousins I had scattered across the countryside. There’d been Blackie the cow, who disappeared one day while I was at primary school. The meal that evening had consisted of steak and potatoes, but I didn’t put two and two together until the next morning since she didn’t come when I called. Then, there was Puggy the pig, who squealed at me whenever I came around. He, too, disappeared one day, though I didn’t notice any bacon at breakfast time. Candace, the best mouser on the planet, gave me love whenever she felt like it. Which was…never, actually. I pretended she did anyway. Last but not least was Bullray the poodle, who looked at me funny until the day he died because of the m*******a-laced brownies I’d given him when I was fifteen. I thought I’d about killed the damn dog, the way he lay on his back, legs stuck in the air and hardly breathing. That must have been some trip. Had he chased fire hydrants while high? It was the only time I’d ever prayed to any deity who would listen to bring back my best friend. He recovered, but he never ate anything I gave him ever again. Smart mutt. Basically, I seemed to have bad luck when it came to pets of any kind, but I’d like to think I’ve improved over the years. They made more sense than people, most days. Naturally, that did nothing for my dating life, of which I had none. I was the steer who wished he could, but…well, you understand, don’t you? Which leads me to my current predicament. My cousin, Ian Lilley—thrice removed—is getting married this coming weekend at a chic little resort four hours away. I’d checked out the website and found it to be trendy without trying too hard. Ian had tracked me down somehow and asked if I would attend his wedding. Maybe it was because I was the only other “out” gay person he knew in the family, since none of our living relatives were speaking to him anymore after he came out, or so he’d said on the phone. Hell, mine weren’t either, but that was fine with me. It was weird, though, because we hadn’t been at all close as kids. I’d always been the odd man out. Thing was, he wanted me to not only turn up, but bring a plus one, too. Right. As this was to be a very gay affair, I knew there’d be snickers and sneers from all the sure-to-be well-hung guests if I dared to show up stag. Maybe I’d bring my dog, Bambi Turgelson—the only female I’d ever love, and no, my mother doesn’t count—as my date. At least we got along. Here’s the problem. I was the right-hand man to the head of a multi-million-dollar corporation—a man so arrogant, he made Donald Trump look like the Dahli Lama. He was the real reason why I rarely ever had time for dates, or a one-off. Or sleeping. CEO Lambert Morton kept me running around 24/7, because that’s what he paid me to do. But we used to be friends, once, and because of that, I let him take advantage of my forgiving nature, and created a monster. Anytime I tried to take off more than a half-day from work, he pitched a fit and would sabotage something so I’d have to come into the office and fix it. I told myself I put up with this OCD ultra-possessive bullshit because no one else would, and the company would fail, yadda yadda, but as always, there was more to this story… * * * * Just so you know, I could run this company with my eyes closed. I’d had to, what with the numerous occasions when his royal pain in the heiny had been in Italy or on his yacht somewhere, screwing around and not giving a damn about conference calls or closing deals. He knew I’d always be there to get the job done, to make him look good. I held all his secrets in my hands, knew all his passwords, forged his signature for documents as needed, negotiated contracts, and managed high-dollar accounts. I pretended to be him so often, I sometimes forgot who I was. What good was it that I made an obscene amount of money? Or had a huge loft with a nice skyline I rarely saw, and lots of nice things I almost never used, simply because it was my job to wait hand and foot on my former college roommate? The rumor mill in the company assumed I had balls of steel because of the abuse I put up with constantly. Perhaps I’m a sucker for punishment. As I was pushing forty, I really should move on. I was damned tired of being stepped on. Yet here I remained. Why? Because there’d always been something about “Bertie,” as I called him when no one else was around. In spite of his outrageous, self-centered behavior, once you got past the smoke screen of full-time asshole, he was someone else entirely. Someone loveable and vulnerable. We’d had some good times together, in and out of bed, but I hadn’t seen that side of him in the last seven years, and it was only getting worse. The image of “bad boy corporate” had to be maintained at all costs, according to Lambert. I, alone, knew the truth. It had been a long time since a nineteen-year-old Bertie had sucked my d**k under the covers in my dorm bed and made me howl… * * * * “…let me suck you off, Cliff,” Bertie whispered, hair falling into his eyes as he looked up at me with a shy smile, his hand slowly jacking my c**k as he fondled my balls. “As if I’d stop you, man,” I replied. Bertie’s mouth was made to suck d**k. He had suction that rivaled porn stars, I was sure of it. “s**t, baby, you know how to work me over good, dontcha?” I said, keeping my hand in his hair as I guided him up and down my quivering length. “No talking, just getting off,” he said before mouthing my balls, then getting back to business. “I could love you, you bastard,” I murmured, wishing I could get Bertie to admit to his feelings, but he always seemed afraid to do so, even though I knew they were there. Didn’t matter, I was sure he would eventually cave, because he was it for me, and I could tell in his eyes he felt the same. “Let me love you, baby. Let me suck you dry, and then I can f**k you. You have the tightest ass known to man.” And I let him. Over and over, whenever he wanted it, like a fool… * * * * I missed that man and had loved him. Still did, though it got harder to do so every day. If the world only knew…but the real Lambert Morton was firmly and completely locked in the closet now, caught up in the facade he’d built for himself, and which I’d helped preserve. It was all kinds of crazy. We’d both attended graduate school after earning our Bachelors, and while there, started the company, which was now a monumental success. He’d taken all the credit, of course, but I wasn’t built for the limelight like he was, and loving him like I did, I hadn’t cared, as long as I could be with him. As the company took off, Lambert morphed into a self-made heterosexual shark who climbed over bodies to get to the top, and I went along willingly. Did I mention that I graduated at the top of my class, with him a far third? All that to say, getting Bertie to let me take a few days off, with all that history and knowing him like I did, was complicated and likely a death wish. I was feeling guilty already, and I hated myself for it. But I had to do this. I was too old to let things go on like this anymore, my tension headaches were constant now, and I was creating a hole in my stomach with worry and too much coffee. I would burn out soon if I didn’t get a break, my unrequited feelings be damned. * * * * It was two-thirty in the morning on a Monday and I was being driven home in a company car. I’d just gotten off a conference call with Berlin and I was exhausted. My head was pounding as it did so often lately. I’d decided the best way to apprise Lambert of my plans to go AWOL for a few days should occur as we went over documents when he arrived in the office around seven later this morning. I would slip it into conversation and hope he’d be too absent-minded to notice. Fat chance, that. I entered my loft ten minutes later and was greeted instantly by my baby girl, Bambi Turgelson. She was a Pembroke Welsh Corgi, with a mostly medium brown coat, and a very forgiving nature, considering how little I saw her. I had a daily service take her on walks and give her attention because her human sure as s**t was rarely ever around. She licked my face when I bent over to rub behind her ears. “I’m happy to see you, too, sweetie,” I said in a stupid sing-song voice, which she seemed to appreciate. She barked, I cooed, we bonded. Greeting ritual over, I headed to the bedroom with Bambi at my heels, tail a-wagging. As I undressed—suits were standard attire for me—I told her all about my day as she watched me from one of her favorite spots on the edge of my bed. “You think he’ll have a coronary?” I asked as I stepped out of my briefs. She yawned in response. “Fat lot of help you are,” I groused. Minutes later, I was snuggled under the covers, with Bambi at the foot of the bed, curled into a ball. “Good night, baby girl.” A tiny bark was her only reply before I was dead to the world. * * * * My alarm went off at six. I rushed through a shower, two bran muffins and coffee before I was dressed and out the door after giving Bambi some goodbye love. The coffee didn’t feel that good in my stomach, and my head already hurt something fierce. I probably had an ulcer, which wouldn’t surprise me one bit. I arrived on the top floor of the office building with minutes to spare. I went through my daily ritual of making sure everything Lambert needed was at his fingertips—bless his fussy little tyrannical heart—including messages, coffee and bagel with grape jelly, along with the morning paper and the agenda for his day. At exactly seven o’clock, my boss and former f**k-buddy walked into the office, already on his cell phone, yelling at some poor soul. His face was practically purple with rage. I wondered how come he hadn’t had a heart attack by now. Maybe it was true that the evil ones lived longer? I quietly took his briefcase and left him to finish his call while I strode to my desk and gathered the items I would need for our meeting. I made myself tea for liquid courage, willed my head to stop screaming at me, and then… “Clifford!” Here we go.