5. Gut-Kick

Kent got back to Jamie's mother's house as night was falling. He rang the front doorbell but Jamie was already there to let him in, "Hey, mister." Kent came in, then Jamie stepped out on the porch and reached for the key in his mother's hiding place, an upper ledge which mostly hid it from herself; anyone 6 feet or taller could see it. "You need your own key." He handed it to him and shut the door.

"Thanks. You sure do look like jail-bait. Nice boots." Jamie was wearing Wranglers, a red cotton and Lycra T-shirt and his boots, the silver ones he wore to the Slough. He also had on his glasses, the first time Kent had seen him wearing them.

Kent was still in his denim and black riders and the same black satin Redbirds jacket, but this time there was something decidedly different; his pants legs were tucked into his boots, and the jeans emphasized his big crotch. Jamie felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach, Kent was so sexy-dangerous.

Kent held him and kissed him. Jamie said, "You smell like horse."

"Mom and me went ridin'. I'll take a shower in a minute."

"Good idea. That baby powder thing only goes so far," Jamie grinned.

Kent saw greenery and candles on the dinner table and said, "Hey, you started decoratin' for Christmas."

"Um, no actually, that's an Advent wreath. I'll explain at dinner."

"Looks like Christmas. What's for supper?"

"Already?"

"Man, it's after five o'clock."

"I hadn't even thought about getting started this soon. I wanted to wait till you got back."

"Man, when do you eat supper, anyway?"

"I don't. I eat dinner at 8 p.m."

"Oh man, we got some major talkin' to do here. I can't wait till 8, I'd starve to death."

"When do you eat?"

"Six, noon, five and eight. The last is just my midnight snack."

"Eight isn't midnight."

"We gotta compromise, baby. Let's talk after my shower. Is there anything you can throw together to tide me over? Or should we go out?"

"Well, yes, I can adapt. Lord, he wants dinner at five o'clock."

"One other issue. Do you mind sittin' over on the couch for a sec?"

So Jamie sat on the couch looking up at him.

Kent tried to say this gently. "You married a cop last night, Jamie. That's probably not how you were thinkin' of it, but it's what you did, and there's some things you need to know, that you probably ain't prepared for."

Jamie got very quiet. "Okay. Like what?"

"I never go out in public without my duty weapon. I always carry, Jamie, always. But I've been shielding that from you, 'cause I know you hate guns. So up to now I always kept my weapon in the truck every time I came here. I didn't like it, but I did it."

"Now you're bringing a gun into my mother's house?"

"I did last night, too. No way I couldn't. When I'm sleepin' with you, a gun don't do me no good outside."

Jamie frowned, seriously troubled at this. He was terrified of guns, especially ones in the house. Kent said, "So I got a plan. Breathe for me, I want you to relax." Jamie breathed. "You see this drawer right here?" He pointed to the little console table under the oval mirror, next to the front door. "I never seen you use this drawer."

Jamie looked at it. "Right, I'm never in there."

"So for now, that's my drawer, okay? And you don't go into my drawer."

Jamie glanced away and nodded, "You need your own space anyway."

"A place for my keys, my weapon, my wallet, my general stuff. This here's my drawer."

"Right. I won't go in there."

"I don't give a shit if you're into my keys or my wallet, there ain't nothin' you can't have. But this here's my drawer. I'm gonna take my jacket off now, my holster and my weapon. You don't gotta look if you don't want to. You can go in the other room."

Jamie seriously considered it. Then he said, "But I married a cop. I have to be ready and okay with how you live."

"Yeah, without any preparation or trainin'. Y'know, girlfriends or boyfriends, when they're first meetin' a cop, they're not livin' together yet. The officer has a chance to let 'em know a few things, what it means to get involved with a law enforcement officer. Sometimes we date people, they're into it; sometimes they don't like it and quit goin' out with us. Anyway we can ease 'em into it before we start livin' together. You and me, we're kinda different. You always knew what I do for a living, but we were never together till last night. So I didn't do anything to get you ready. But now, I assume we're livin' together."

"We are. I support what you do, Kent."

"You sayin' you don't mind watching me do this? I'm going to take my jacket off, unstrap my shoulder holster and put my weapon in my drawer. The one that you don't never get into."

"Okay, go ahead. One time's all I'll watch, though. Thank you for the consideration you're giving me."

Kent took his jacket off, showing Jamie what he looked like in the shoulder holster, laying the jacket on the back of a chair, pulling out the drawer, checking his weapon and placing it in the drawer, followed by the holster. He also put his wallet in, removed a few of Thelma's items that she kept there—old golf scorecards, mostly—inserting the door key onto his keyring and placing his keys inside the drawer. Then he turned to face him.

Jamie said, "Well, I'm glad you told me. And believe me I'm never going near that drawer."

"Good boy. I'm sorry, baby, but it's got to be done."

"Anything else?"

"You wanna go out for supper? Or we could order a pizza."

"I actually do have a plan for tonight. Do you mind if we break a rule just for once?"

"No, what rule?"

"No alcohol two nights in a row."

"That's a real good rule. I approve of that."

"I think so too."

"So why alcohol tonight?"

"Italian red wine is much the best drink with my spaghetti. Though it's only an approximation of my sauce. I'm hoping I can get it mostly right because I know what it should taste like, the proper balance of seasonings."

"Okay. I'm sure it'll be great."

"It takes 90 minutes, but I can put the antipasto together quickly. I boiled the eggs already and made the dressing."

"Okay, babe. I'll hit the shower. Or you need one too? Did you work out this afternoon?"

"No, I never work out on Sundays, it's my day of rest."

"What did you do today?"

"I sat and read the Sunday Times like a normal person," Jamie smiled.

"You got your readin' glasses on. You look real cute in 'em."

"These aren't for reading, Kent, I'm near-sighted as a bat. On Sundays I rest my eyes from the contacts all week."

"I like that you're so well-organized," Kent said, starting to unbutton his denim shirt.

"Lord," Jamie said, off the couch and heading for the kitchen. "Don't show me any skin when I've got antipasto to make."


* * *


Kent emerged from the shower wrapped in a towel. "Do I happen to have any other clean clothes here?" He was carrying his dirty denims and socks.

"Yes," Jamie said. "I'm sorry, I forgot all about them. There's a whole basket of clean clothes. I haven't ironed anything yet though." Kent's uniforms, which he wore about half the time, had to be ironed, and Jamie had gotten into a little habit of ironing for him, since he didn't have anything else constructive to do. If doing Kent's laundry meant he had more time to spend with him, Jamie didn't mind doing it. He took the dirty clothes and headed to the family room, where appliances were concealed behind accordion doors.

But now that they were living together, Jamie didn't want to feel like a domestic servant. It reminded him of taking care of Rick, who was functionally helpless. Kent was going to have to learn to cook and carry his own weight at home. I am not your mother.

"No problem. Thanks for doin' my laundry."

Jamie put the basket of clean clothes on a dining room chair. "I thought we'd have antipasto at the kitchen table. It's all ready."

"Great. That was quick." Kent went through the laundry, found everything he needed, and headed for the bedroom to get dressed. He could have done it in the dining room but he didn't want to show more skin, he wanted to eat.

Soon he came to the kitchen in a blue flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, Levi's and cowboy boots up to his knees. The table was all set, an attractive platter, two salad plates, forks, ice water. "Wow, look at this, willya. It's real pretty, man."

"Have a seat."

"Which one's mine these days?"

"Same as breakfast, I think, next to the wall." That used to be Jamie's mother's place. It was easier for Jamie to function in the kitchen when he was closer to the fridge and stove.

"What all have we got here?"

Jamie pointed, "Artichoke hearts, pepperoni, cucumber, provolone cheese, a couple of anchovies but I've got more, cherry tomatoes, ripe olives, pickled beets, boiled eggs, and of course the lettuces are edible too." He scattered his vinegrette over everything. "You don't have to eat anything you don't like, I just took a chance with this stuff."

"I'll try everything. I thought you hated beets."

"Oh no, I love beets. Just not in a power drink."

"Should we pray first?" Kent held out his hands.

Jamie tried not to look askance. "I'll hold your hand any other time, but please not during prayer. Maybe someday but not just yet." So Kent withdrew and Jamie said, "For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful."

"Amen," Kent said. "Short and sweet. Same prayer they said in the movie 'Oliver.'"

"Is it? English traditional." Jamie used the serving fork to put some artichokes on his plate as Kent reached his fingers for pepperoni and olives. "Oh good, you like olives."

"The black ones, yeah. Not the green ones so much, with those nasty red things inside."

Jamie giggled, "I hate pimientos." He used the serving spoon for egg wedges and tomatoes. They filled up their plates.

"Mmm," Kent said. "Good dressing."

"Thank you."

"You made it yourself?"

"I always make salad dressings. Fresher, better-tasting, no preservatives, much cheaper."

"Wow. What's the name of these things again?" He held up a fork of something.

"Artichokes. Do you like them?"

"Well, kinda, yeah, they're better than I thought they'd be. They look a little funny but they've got a good flavor."

"These are from a jar. Fresh artichokes are wonderful."

Thus they began to talk about food, learning things about each other as they ate. Jamie said, "You're on a farmer's schedule."

"Yeah. I'm a farmboy," Kent chuckled. "What schedule are you on?"

"City time, I guess. Normally 8, 12, 4 and 8."

"Well, we're both eatin' four times a day, that's a start. You don't get breakfast till 8 a.m.? Why so late?"

"I'm not due in to work until 10."

"How long are you there?"

"Till 6 or 6:30, unless there's a meeting at night."

"Why such crazy hours?"

"I can't get Gay people on the phone before 10, there's no point in trying. Non-Gay people are tied up first thing in the morning, and I never leave messages for them to ignore. When do you go to work?"

"Eight to 4:30 usually, but I can set my own hours."

"So how do you get fed by 5?"

"I stop at Burger Bootie on the way home."

"Burger Bootie?"

"The fast food joint next to the post. I call it that 'cause when I first got here, there was always a trooper or two over there on their booties when they shoulda been out on patrol. It's an old supervisory technique, discipline by humor with a side dose of shame."

"Ah. Well, it's creative. Please don't eat fast food, Kent."

"Never?"

"Why would you want to?"

"Well, without no one to cook for me or teach me, what else was I gonna do?"

"I can see that. Do you make your own breakfast?"

"Not too often. I'm no good with eggs, Jamie."

"What about cereal?"

"Never think of it. I pretty much eat eggs every day."

"Good Lord. Do you know how high eggs are in cholesterol?"

"No. But I work out every day."

"You'd have to. And cholesterol will still coat every artery you've got. Where do you go for breakfast?"

"There's a good breakfast joint on the East Side. If I don't got time, I stop at the Bootie for a go order."

"Of eggs."

"Heck yeah. Farmers eat eggs."

"You don't farm, and even farmers know better now. Okay, no trauma. What if you were to switch the size of your meals at 5 and 8? Your snack at 5 and dinner at 8?"

"I'd be goin' to bed with a full stomach."

"When do you go to bed?"

"About 9."

"Lord. Kent, I can't get dinner ready by 5."

"Why not?"

"It takes too long to prepare."

"Openin' a few cans takes that long?"

"The only canned goods I use are tomatoes when they're out of season. Do you think dinner consists of a can of peas?"

"No. But how do you make anything, then?"

"By hand, with the freshest ingredients I can get."

"Did you and Rick eat like this?"

"Sure. We worked the same schedule."

"How long does it take you to make supper that way?"

"An hour's pretty average; sometimes less, sometimes a lot more. That's why I can't have dinner ready at 5, it would ruin my afternoon. Once I'm working again I won't be home, and even if I were, there's still work to do. But I can plan ahead and have a good appetizer ready by 5."

"Somethin' like this? Or a puny glass of tomato juice?"

"Nachos sometimes? Maybe wings or potato skins. Fruit, cheese and hot breadsticks. Simple after-work food, Kent. A good snack, fresh-made. Not elaborate like dinner."

"Dinner's elaborate with you?"

"Look at the antipasto. You're eating tonight's first course right now."

"Dang," Kent said, reaching for more. "This is pretty good." He bit into a slice of anchovy. "Hey, fishy. Anchovies are fishes?"

"Yes," Jamie smiled. "What do you think?"

"He ain't too bad with the other stuff here. Kinda salty. Bet he goes good with a cherry tomato, though."

"Great. Everything should complement the others."

"I love boiled eggs. You said I only get four a day and only on Sundays."

"This is an exception, it's Birthday Week. Boiled eggs go with an antipasto."

"Cheese is good too. This is a hell of an appetizer."

"You want to try my schedule for awhile and see how it goes?"

"Somethin' like this wasn't too much trouble?"

"No, Kent. It's nothing but a salad really."

"Well, I'm willing to try it and see. This is good stuff, and there's enough of it to tide me over."

"Thank you. You might like your snack earlier. A schedule like this lets you relax after work like you should. Otherwise at 5 p.m. you're in my kitchen working again."

"I hear ya. I'll try it. Maybe it'll even be better."


* * *


When dinner was ready Jamie called Kent to the dining room, where they sat before the food was brought. "Today is the first day of Advent," Jamie said, "the season of preparation before Christmas. Do you know about this already?"

"No, man, never heard of it."

"It lasts for four Sundays, sometimes a few days longer, and our wreath has four candles, one per week.

"Here's what I like to do during Advent. Every night at dinner, just before we eat, we light the first candle, read a psalm and the prayer of the day. The second Sunday, we light two candles, and so on. What the candles help us do is to mark the passage of time until Christmas gets here."

"Nice," Kent smiled. "The pine smells real good."

"If you will light the nearest white candle, I will read the Psalm." So Kent did that as Jamie read Psalm 111, "He gives food to those who fear him." The Collect of Advent 1 prayed that they "cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light."

Afterward Kent said, "Makes ya feel peaceful, huh."

Jamie got up, kissed the top of Kent's head and brought in a platter of steaming vermicelli topped with meat sauce, plus a bowl of cheese with a spoon. Kent blinked, expecting individual plates from the kitchen. Jamie said, "My preference is to serve family-style. Shall I?"

"Please."

Jamie tossed the pasta and sauce and filled Kent's plate, then his own. "Do try the cheese."

"I don't like grated cheese that much."

"Do try the cheese."

So Kent did. "Hey, it's melting."

"I love parmesan, but this is mozzarella."

"Cool."


* * *


After dinner Kent said, "That was damn good spaghetti, Jamie. Even without no garlic bread."

"I came pretty close with the sauce; not quite the same, but close. I actually liked the Italian seasoning mix Mom bought, it adds some nice flavors."

"I really loved sprinkling mozzarella on top instead of parmesan. It was like pizza without the crust that way. Where the noodles were the crust."

"Talk to me about this wine."

"I've never had red wine before, except for Riunite."

"Which is barely wine at all."

"So I ain't used to dry red wine. But I agree, it goes good with your meal here. Seems like the one adds to the other."

"Wait till you taste a good substantial French red with a thick juicy steak. I know some great combinations."

"What's for dessert?"

Jamie stopped in mid-motion and repeated, "Dessert."

"Yeah. You didn't plan no dessert?"

"No, actually, I seldom eat it."

"No problem. How 'bout some ice cream then?"

"Um, I don't have any."

"No ice cream? How can you not have ice cream? Or are you just out?"

"No, um, I seldom eat it."

Kent was completely nonplused. "Cookies maybe? A few cookies'll be great."

"Sorry, no cookies."

"You don't got cookies either? What kind of a house don't have ice cream or cookies or anything?"

"Um, mine?"

"Serious, you don't eat any sweets at all?"

"How do you think I stay looking like this, Kent? Eating chocolate cake?"

Kent sighed, "I don't s'pose I should even ask if you got any canned peaches lyin' around."

Jamie snapped his fingers, "Aha! Homemade dessert, 30 minutes."

"Really?"

"If I can remember the recipe, which is a big if. Meanwhile, a cup of after-dinner tea?"

"Don't mind if I do."

"Please help me clear the table." This was training too; Jamie was not his chef AND his waiter. "Just pile things by the sink while I check on dessert ingredients."

Jamie rummaged around in the cupboards above the stove, pulling out countless little-used spices, but he couldn't reach the very back of the top shelf. He went to get his mother's little step-stool, but when he turned around, Kent was covering his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

"What?" Jamie demanded. "Don't say a fucking word."

"Hee hee hee, I'm just lovin' it, that's all." Kent laughed some more.

"I can't help it if you're abnormally tall," Jamie muttered, setting his 9-inch stool next to the stove.

"Stop, get that thing outta here. Tell me what you're lookin' for."

Resentfully Jamie growled, "Baking powder. In a little white can."

Kent scanned the top shelf and plucked it right out. "You mean this, little boy?" He held it high over Jamie's head.

"Give me that!" Jamie jumped up and grabbed it and looked for an expiration date; the stuff died five years ago. "This may not work, it's expired. I can try it, but no guarantees."

Kent chuckled, "Need any help findin' the peaches?"

"Fuck you, Kessler. Do you want dessert or not?"

"Hmm, guess I should make sure the dinner table's all spiffy."

"Do that," Jamie scowled.

He found a mixing bowl underneath the counter and a baking dish. He turned on the oven, first to 350º, then he changed it to 400º. He was operating on memory, which meant he was clueless. He cut off half a stick of margarine, threw it in the baking dish and set it in the oven.

He opened a big can of sliced peaches and found his mother's flour and sugar canisters, the ones he grew up with, yellow and black and white, made of steel, very '60s. He tried to remember the right proportions; he knew they were equal, and decided on 3/4 of a cup each. Dumped those in the bowl. Measured a teaspoon of baking powder and threw that in; then sprinkled on a little more in case that would compensate for the expiration date. It was "triple-acting" baking powder from Terre Haute, Indiana; maybe it would still work with one or two actions. He got out milk, measured a half cup and decided he would remember what the consistency of the batter should be even if he didn't remember the right amount. It made a fairly thin, sweet batter. He added most of the milk, not all, and stirred. Soon he dumped in the rest and stirred again. It looked okay.

He frowned, then hauled out an old Betty Crocker cookbook circa 1970. Turned to the pastry section, scanned a few recipes. His impulse proved correct; he added a nickel's worth of salt to the batter and stirred. He checked his baking dish, where the margarine was bubbling. He pulled out the dish, dumped the peaches on the butter and the batter on top. He set his timer to… how long? Twenty minutes, he decided, then check. Maybe it was 30. Maybe he'd just ruined a can of peaches.

A half hour later he pulled out the most beautiful peach cobbler Kent had ever seen.

When it cooled enough to eat, Jamie stuck some birthday candles in it and had him make a wish. Kent leaned back and drawled, "Lemme see, what'll I wish for? How about a real good blowjob tonight?"

He blew out all the candles as Jamie's face turned bright red.


* * *


For the next couple of hours they sat nearby but not together, Kent in a blue recliner in the family room, watching Sunday Night Football on TV, and Jamie a few feet away at the kitchen table, visible through the wide Spanish-style arches, surrounded by stacks of old cookbooks. He wrote things down, and every now and then he'd ask about a food preference. But that was it, and Kent realized he'd never been with Jamie so quietly before. It felt strange at first, he was so used to them chattering non-stop.

They were learning to be at home together, doing different things. Jamie loved football, but not when there was meal planning to do.

He asked, "What do you typically have for lunch?"

"Depends on my duty that day."

Jamie waited for more but didn't get it. "And the way it varies is what?"

"If I'm on the road or not. I know all the best lunch places in these counties, Jamie."

"Do you always eat out?"

"No. If I'm on paperwork or supervision, I'm at the Bootie. Usually bring it back to my desk."

"Three times a day you eat at that place?"

"Well, I guess I never thought about it."

"Is there any schedule you follow for lunch, or does it vary every day?"

"Well, it varies, but… what are you askin'?"

"Is it ever suitable that you bring your lunch from home?"

"Well, yes. Like brown-bag it?"

"We can get something nicer to carry it in. Do you have a microwave and refrigerator at the post?"

"Both. Really, home-cooked food?"

"It helps use up ingredients and leftovers. Given that something may come up, can you tell me a day or two in advance?"

"Yeah. I can even eat in my car if it's cold food, that'd save some money."

"I really try not to waste food. When I buy celery, I have two or three plans for it, plus a backup. At least I will when I get my recipe cards back. But it gets tricky for just two people, trying to avoid leftovers and still using everything up."

"It'd be real nice if you'd put together some lunches for me."

"A cold sandwich, an apple, a bowl of soup you can zap; I'd know you were eating well that way."

Kent was silent, feeling cared for. He watched his lover study the cookbooks. "Are you always like this?"

Jamie looked up. "Like what?"

"I don't know, thinkin' of me I guess."

"Sunday night is good for meal planning. On days I send you lunch, will you bring back the utensils?"

"I s'pose. Not just throw away some styrofoam?"

"Oh no, that stuff's terrible for the environment. Reusables are much better, but you've got to bring them home."

"I might forget a time or two, till I get in the habit."

"That's not a problem, as long as they make it home eventually."

"You'd have to buy a bunch of plastic forks."

"No," Jamie smiled. "Not for my man, and not for the environment. Real plates, real forks. Reusable containers I can toss in the dishwasher. Cheap stuff to eat with, but real dishes. I've got most of what we need at home." Kent shot him a look and Jamie corrected, "In Ohio."

"Better. This here's home, Jamie. You belong to me."

Jamie wasn't going to fight that on a Sunday night.

Another long silence ensued, till finally Jamie said, "These books are mostly worthless, but I've come up with a plan."

"Wanna tell me about it?"

"It's changeable, but this will do for now. Mondays: El Casa Méxicana."

"Yeah! I love Mexican. And Dominican, Jamie. And Puerto Rican, reminds me of all my Latin teammates."

"Fried plantains," Jamie made a note.

"Oh yeah, gimme some."

"Tuesdays: Pappy's Home Cookin'. Notice I'm not saying which of us is Pappy."

"Hey, I love home cookin'. Goodness, am I glad I found you."

"Wednesdays: The Emperor's Happy Family. That's Chinese and pan-Asian."

"Cool."

"Thursdays: Café Europa. Modern Euro cuisine, which can be from anywhere."

"I'm likin' this, baby."

"Saturdays: La Trattoria Italiana. Although we ate there tonight on a Sunday. Could I get a drumroll, please?" Kent tapped his index fingers on the side table. "And on Sundays: Le Bistro Parisienne."

"Kssh," Kent hit an imaginary cymbal. "French?"

"However did you guess?"

"I ain't never ate French food."

"It's for Sundays because it's the best in the world."

"You left out Fridays, though."

"Ah, zee keetchen ees closed, fermé de vendredi."

"I go hungry Friday night?"

"We have a date every Friday night. Or did you forget?"

"Nah, I didn't forget. Heck no, not me. We got a date?"

"Every Friday night, no sloughing it off because we're tired and lazy and we could get a pizza. Plus we have a procedure: where we go is a surprise."

"Then how do we know where we're goin'?"

"One of us knows, but the other one doesn't. This Friday coming, you decide where we go and what we do. Maybe it will be dinner and a movie; I won't know, will I? I'll just know we're going out. The next Friday, maybe I'll take you to a fish fry and hoedown; or maybe to the restaurant on top of the John Hancock Building in Chicago; or maybe we'll have dinner at Purdue and go bowling in the Union Building. The host will suggest what kind of clothes to wear, but that will be our only clue."

Kent chuckled, "Got me an imaginative boy."

"Not to say it couldn't last all weekend, depending on the trip; the cook deserves his nights off. Maybe in summertime we'll take a hot-air balloon ride and end with a picnic under the stars; or go whitewater rafting in West Virginia, or a weekend on Broadway."

Kent remembered something. "Or we can go to Hickory Grove and grill us some fish."

"Where is Hickory Grove?"

"Kessler Farms. Mom wants you to come for supper this Wednesday."

"She does? You told her already?"

"She does and I did. She can't wait to meet you, Jamie."

"Was she okay, then?"

"She was great. I didn't believe it at first, 'cause she kept me waitin' and didn't say nothin', but once we got to talkin', she was fantastic. Oh, Jamie, please say you'll come."

"Well, of course. Wow, Kent, that's great. Will there be other people there? Did she mention any food?"

"Just her, for pot roast. It's so good."

"Pot roast," Jamie smiled. "Home cooking."

"She's the greatest cook. Beef so tender it'll fall off the bone."

"I'll have to see how she does it."

"I should call her."

"Well, do it, then. Wow, I get to meet your mother."

"Does that phone reach this far?"

Jamie handed over the phone, then finished cleaning up the kitchen. He didn't eavesdrop on Kent's conversation with his mother, but he smiled at the tone of it.


* * *


Later they watched some football, and before it got too late Kent said, "Sure wish my boy was sittin' on my lap right now."

Jamie smiled and happily sat with him. They tried various positions in the wide recliner, but they couldn't quite sit hip to hip, and Jamie on top of Kent wasn't that great either after awhile, so Jamie took off his glasses, set them on the table and sat on his lap crossways, leaning his head on Kent's shoulder. Kent kissed him and said, "I believe what we need is a loveseat. Don't know if they make 'em in recliners, but that would be ideal."

"It would," Jamie smiled.

"Let's go furniture shoppin' this week, baby."

"I've got loveseats… in Ohio."

"Don't do us no good here. Let's just go out to Furniture Row and see what we can find. I'm really curious about loveseat recliners."

"Okay. Are they open at night?"

"Dunno. We can call."

"Okay."

"I want us to sit close sometimes."

"So do I."

"Thank you for my supper tonight."

"You're welcome."

"Red wine and mozzarella on spaghetti. Why didn't anybody else ever think of that?"

"I love parmesan too, though."

"Depends on what we got in the fridge, maybe."

"That's the spirit, slugger."

"Should we plan on goin' grocery shopping tomorrow?"

"After appetizers, yeah. We can buy fresh and bring it home and make it."

"This has been one hell of a birthday."

"I love you, Kent."

Kent kissed him, "You're my baby boy." Jamie smiled and snuggled into his shoulder. Kent rubbed Jamie's thigh and said in a low voice, "I liked the candle-lighting tonight too."

"I'm glad."

"Reminds me of last night."

"Yes."

"Y'know, somethin' else would remind me of last night. And be different, too." They closed their eyes and kept kissing. "Gimme what I want tonight, baby. I got somethin' for ya. Somethin' you need."

"Thank you for last night." They opened their eyes. "I loved it, Kent."

"Mmm. I got what you need, boy."

"I know you do, Daddy."

"It's real important tonight, boy. I'm gonna train you to my cock."

"Oh," Jamie sighed, anticipating.

Kent turned off the TV. "I'm gonna pick you up in a minute. I'm gonna carry you to the bedroom and tell you to strip naked. You're gonna follow step-by-step instructions."

"If I do good, do I get another certificate?"

Kent chuckled, "This trainin's gonna take awhile. But I can see there might be different levels of competency, so you work at it, there might be certificates. But majorin' in it's gonna take you all four years."

"At U of C I was summa cum laude."

"Well, you'll get plenty of cum along the way, if you study real hard, and show me you're a good boy."

Jamie breathed deeply. "Show me how to make the team, Coach. Teach me all the plays."

"You're gonna have to practice real hard, boy. Two-a-days sometimes. I want you on the varsity, but you gotta practice hard and do exactly what I say. You gonna do that?"

"Yes, Coach."

"Come on, then." Kent reached under Jamie's knees, stood up and carried him to the bedroom, where life would start.

He set him gently on the floor, then said, "Strip, then put on your jock from last night."

"You autographed it."

"Damn right. You're gonna keep that jock for the rest of your life, boy."

"Damn right," Jamie said, pulling off his shirt, reaching down to pull off his boots.

Kent adjusted the lighting and took off his shirt. Again he stood by the mirrored closet doors.

When Jamie was naked and jocked, Kent said, "Come here." Jamie came, Kent held him by the back of the neck and pushed him all the way down, past his knees and onto all fours. And he just held him there, giving him an eyeful of his cowboy boots.

Jamie swallowed and Kent pushed him down further. "Kiss 'em, then take these boots offa me."

Jamie gasped, kissed each one once, then started to pull them off. He set them behind him.

"Training position," Kent ordered, and Jamie got back on all fours. Kent stepped back and started taking off his jeans. He was wearing jockey shorts tonight. "Did you see this cock last night? The one I'm trainin' you to now?"

"Not really. But I sure felt it."

"So this'll be your first good look. That's great, babe. You're gonna get a real good look. But don't do nothin' till I say."

"Okay."

Kent turned around with his back toward Jamie and pulled off his shorts. Jamie got a very nice view of his muscled, hairy ass. "Follow my orders, boy."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't do nothin' till I tell ya, then do exactly as I say."

Jamie nodded.

Then slowly Kent turned and let him see. Jamie's mouth slowly fell open, his eyes got big, his head leaned down, he breathed through his mouth.

"Just look"—as if Jamie could keep from staring.

The sight of that cock was like a kick in the gut. It hurt, the way learning of terrible news is painful.

"Stay here. I'll be right back." Kent stepped past him and disappeared.

Jamie stared into the void of his own most fearful emotions.

Soon Kent was back with two glasses of water and the kitchen towel, which he laid on Thelma's nightstand. He drank, then held the back of Jamie's head and gave him a drink.

Jamie wondered what terribleness was to come.

Kent's cock was beautiful; long, very thick, uncut.

It wasn't the biggest there ever was, the internet's full of pictures of monsters; this wasn't one. But it was the most beautiful cock Jamie had ever seen, a great big mouthful.

But still, the pain just got worse.

It wasn't because of the cock itself, but what was tattooed above the thick black pubes.

"Whatcha lookin' at, boy? Read it out to me, what does it say?"

One word, just four black inch-high letters. But panic-inducing.

Jamie swallowed. He couldn't pronounce it, he was afraid. He wanted to say it, but he was terrified.

Kent leaned down, pulled his head up by the hair and demanded, "What does it say?"

And he didn't let go.

Jamie looked back down at it and finally murmured: "OBEY."

Kent stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at him. "Not once, but ten thousand times."

Jamie gasped; whatever was going to become of him?

What are you going to do to me?++

© 2009 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.