sss Don

Chapter 2: Accidents Happen-2

To my surprise, low and behold, I immediately decided to forever bow down to the queer gods of a distant heaven. Shock rocked me as I made eye contact with the Hummer’s owner: the sexy and alluring, drop dead gorgeous and Latino television star, sss Don!

Yes, my mouth fell ajar and I thought I would simply drop to the shell-covered parking lot in hopes that Mr. Hot-of-the-Block would lift me up in his hulking arms. Sultry sparks of lust immediately burst from every pore on my body. A wave of excitement rushed through my center and caused the c**k between my legs to instantly go semi-hard. Perspiration lathered my cheeks and forehead. Dizziness swept over me and I felt breathless. My legs started to tremble and I believed my tongue was hanging out of my mouth like a dog’s.

There was my Mr. Prince Charming, the man of my ultimate queer dreams, right before me. A knight in shining armor who was wearing tight shorts the color of the Mojave Desert. A beefcake of a man in his tight T-shirt who I imagined would jack semen out of his nine-inch tube of veined d**k, into my open mouth, feeding me. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Roll-Me-Over-And-f**k-Me-Hard. Mr. Debonair and Marry Me. Mr. I-Love-You. Just what I was waiting to have ram into the rear of my Frontier.

“s**t,” he swore, squinting and studying the damage to my truck: crinkled bumper and side panel, mutilated wheel well, f****d up tail light, and other crucial issues that could skyrocket my insurance rate. sss Don rubbed the back of his right hand across his mouth and added, “What the f**k was I thinking, man?”

My father said that a man who used vulgarities was a man who had a limited vocabulary. My father was dead, though—God love him. In truth, I came across a man who just happened to be sexy as hell and a total turn-on. A potty mouth on a man was a pure sign of masculinity in my opinion; an Alpha male characteristic that would often cause me to drop my summer shorts, spin around, and wiggle my ass for his upright and ready-to-ram-me c**k. Bottom line: the more the potty mouth on a man, the more horny I became.

I kept my work chinos and Pistol Petes up on my hips and consoled him with, “No worries. The damage can be repaired.”

He shook his head with a pissed off look on his adorably handsome face and insisted, “I’m sorry, guy. Really, I am. I misjudged the space between you and the Cube. My bad.”

“Our car insurance companies can handle it. We can switch information and they can do the dirty work.”

Amazon Don nodded, continuing to take in the Frontier’s damage. “I don’t think you can drive it. Your back bumper is kissing your left, rear tire.”

I wondered if it would be too much to ask the Latino stud if he wouldn’t mind kissing my rear. That request was out of the question at the moment, though. Instead, I said, “I have a friend who can tow me for free.”

No lie there. Toby Shant worked in the field for Millbourne and Mosser; one of my straight buddies who wouldn’t mind lending me a hand. He lived a few miles away and could be at Rushdie’s Scuba Gear Underworld in just a few minutes. All was good.

Amazon Don ignored my comment as he bent over in front of the tire, pulled metal and plastic away from its rubber with his bare hands, admired his labor, and grunted in his thick Spanish accent, “I think you can drive it now. The tire doesn’t look punctured.”

Positioned behind him, I studied his jock-sculpted ass and his strong-looking back, and wide shoulders. My gaze took in the man like a glass of iced tea on the hottest day in Barefoot Beach. I was hungry for him and moistened my upper lip with a quick tongue-lick and thought of the nastiest things that he could maybe try out on my naked bottom. I was mannerly, though, and cleared my throat. Then I decided to toy with him a touch and asked, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Mr. Hummer stood and turned around. The man struck me with his pearly white smile and a glint of humility in the corners of his butterscotch-brown eyes. He held out his right paw for me to shake and finally introduced himself, “You probably know me from television. I’m sss Don.”

I gave him a befuddled and weak look that told the Latino beefster that I hadn’t the slightest clue what he was talking about. Then I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, playing with him.

“The kids’ show on WTUR?”

Again, just to tease him, I shook my head. I jacked his hand and replied, “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of sss Don.”

“I do the same thing that Jeff Corwin does, and Jack Hanna.”

I lit up with a polite smile. “I know those guys. Very famous. Very handsome. They like to play with animals.”

He continued to smile at me, although part of him was probably deflated inside because I claimed I didn’t know of his successful kids’ show. He seemed to forget about his career then and said, “I’m Donlito Estar, or sss Don. Nice to meet you.”

“Casper Dasio,” I said, and allowed his strong paw to pump my average one. “A pleasure.”

“Again, Casper, I’m sorry about this.”

“Accidents happen,” I replied, winked at him in a suggestive and unyielding manner, released my hand from his, and retrieved my insurance information to share with the zoologist, knowing in the back of my mind that he wasn’t getting away from me anytime soon.