Page 4 of Demo
“You like them apples, asswipe?” she yelled as she swiveled to walk backward a few steps, using both hands to flip the bird, before turning straight ahead again.
I had to cover my laugh so as not to get caught.
After my third observation of this unique creature, when I was serenaded to the worst rendition of The Cure’s “Maybe Someday” out of her beautiful mouth all the way to her car in the far student parking lot, I knew I had to actually meet her.
I could have just approached her, but I didn’t want to come off as a stalker.
Even though I was stalking her.
I was able to coerce Jared to set us up on a “blind” date a few nights later. And those few days in between almost killed me. I dreamt about her—Lyzbeth, I learned her name. I daydreamed about her. I jerked off to her that first night, and then I tried not to do it again because it felt creeper-ish.
Snapping back to the present, I realize these memories have me tugging on my hard dick, just like the old days.
Except this time, I’m ten years older and sleeping on some sort of medieval torture device in my parents’ living room. And whatever joy I could possibly get pales in comparison to the real thing, which—somehow, I will never fully understand how—I had in my possession and let slip from my fingers like a jackass.
But I’ll take whatever I can get these days because it’s hard to breathe without her. Ha! Isn’t that funny? Love and hate make strange bedfellows.
So I keep pulling on my cock, breath ragged, sweat beading up on my skin, picturing my hand in her soft hair, her forehead against mine, her lips parting as she pants in my ear, her soft body beneath me, skin crawling and muscles trembling under my touch, and before I know it I am in full body spasms that vibrate through my limbs for what seems like many minutes, but is likely only seconds.
My hand hurts, my dick throbs, and my heart pounds as I catch my breath.
“E-hem,” I hear a throat clear, and I bounce up from the sleeper sofa.
“Dad! What the fuck?!” I yell, mortified.
“Oh, please. You think I don’t know you’re a grown man who’s got needs? Just make sure you wash those sheets.”
God, just strike me dead right now.“Maybe next time dip out of the room when you see what’s going on? Shit, I feel like I’m sixteen.”
I look up … and up, at my dad. I got my height from him. At over six feet, and someone who has worked in construction his whole adult life, to say Clyde Mitchell is a big guy is an understatement. He has a body that says he’s been hauling brick and beams off trucks for decades and swinging a sledgehammer more often than not. Although his hair is graying, he’s still got a full head of it.
“When you were sixteen and your mother was still around, she had the manners to leave you alone in the bathroom when she knew what you were doing,” he says. “Anyway, we’re grown men now. Ain’t nothing to be embarrassed about. You think I don’t give the old boy a tug every once in a while?”
Right now, God. Right now would be a good time for me to keel over.
“I gotta go … do anything other thanthiswith you right now,” I say as I ball the sheet up in my hands and hold it in front of my wet boxers as I walk past my dad.
Chapter 3
LYZBETH
MontyandImakeour way back to the office after a much less exciting day than yesterday. It’s close to 5 p.m. by the time I pull his car into an on-street parking space in front of ROC Record. It’s a storefront office along a street of bodegas, coffee shops, bars and other eateries located in downtown Rochester.
We just left a presser, and now I have to write up some lame story about how the city is installing more red light cameras at intersections. “I’ll get the names of those officers who did the demo,” I say to Monty as we enter the building. “You got them in the shot, right?”
“Yep,” he replies as he removes his round glasses from his face and uses the tail of his shirt to clean them before replacing them. His expensive camera dangles from a strap hanging along his elbow.
The office is cool compared to the steamy outside, but I know the initial shock will wear off soon. Summertime in New York State can be a hot and sticky mess.
I linger around the front desk where our receptionist, Dee, is on the phone. She isn’t saying anything, which means whoever is on the other end of the line is doing all the talking. I wait patiently for about twelve seconds, but that isn’t any fun.
Dee and I make eye contact, and she rolls her eyeballs into the back of her head and holds the phone out as far as her arm will extend and mouths “stupid prick says his ad is wrong.” She brings the phone back to her mouth and does a “uh huh” and then pushes her arm back out and mouths “dickwad.”
I clasp my hand over my mouth to hide a chuckle.
Dee is my best friend. Her platinum hair is cut in a bouncy shoulder-length bob, with thick, straight bangs. Her skin is tanned, and her nails are painted blue today. She is obnoxious and wears too-snug clothes around her curves. She’s by far the worst person to run the front desk because her customer service skills are non-existent.
I lean my elbows on the counter that Dee sits behind and rest my chin on my folded arms, waiting for her phone call to end. Eventually she lets out a harsh laugh and says, “Yeah. OK, great. Nice talking to you,” and hangs up the phone.
