Page 21 of Studs Up
It started with the man with sandy hair standing in the middle of the room, naked and smiling at the camera. He was thin, too boney, but attractive, I suppose.
He wasn’t Holden, and that was disappointing.
The man started to suck the anonymous cock, and I, once again, found my cock in my hand. But he wasn’t Holden. Instead, my brain had produced a vibrant and clear hallucination of Holden Monroe dropping to his knees and parting his lips.
I closed my eyes and listened to the moaning as my imagination took control of my arousal. I couldn’t stop an image of Holden on his knees before me, spreading my thighs and licking his lips as he stared at my cock.
I groaned. That was a beautiful fantasy. I opened my eyes and scowled at the mess I made. I didn’t even get to the part where he sucked me.
“Fuck,” I breathed. It was another mess.
I ran my hand through my hair and gasped. What the fuck was happening? How did I get here?
The beer was still cold, and I sat there on my lounger, stared out over the sound, and lost track of the view as my mind began to process every minute of obsession since the first time I saw him on that field all those years ago.
…
My childhood home spent thirty years looking exactly the same, from the weird orange-brown carpet to the brown and cream striped wallpaper that had faded in angles where the sun hit in the afternoon.
Ma didn’t want to change things. She liked her knickknacks and collections. I found the porcelain giant eyed sloth figurines particularly disturbing. But they made her happy, so I didn’t provide my opinion.
In the living room, taut strings were strung from wall to wall near the ceiling. It’s where she cured her candles. She had been making homemade candles since I left for college with absolutely zero explanation as to why this particular hobby was the one for her.
There were hundreds of them, dangling in pairs everywhere. She wouldn’t sell them, burn them, or even give them away. She kept every single one. While she was short enough to avoid their constant battering, I was not.
She was plump and grandmotherly even though she had no biological grandchildren. I was an only child and clearly not a parent. She never pushed or asked or even gave me disapproving looks. She was happy, content, and loving. Instead of her own grandchildren, she adopted the neighborhood kids who frequently came by for cookies and treats.
Three little rats in the living room played handheld video games with thick milk mustaches and cookie crumbs all over the place. They had made a fucking mess.
“Wow,” one of the little boy’s eyes grew wide when he saw me. The recognition was instant.
“Scram,” I said, and they all jumped and ran out without a single protest, letting the door slam shut behind them.
“Ma!” My call was not answered. “Jesus fucking christ.” The candles were hanging in the hall now, and several slapped me in the face as I made my way through the house. The back door was propped open, and I knew exactly where she was.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.
“Oh,” she turned with her sweet smile and waved. “Hello!” My mother was in her sizable garden in an offensively bright muumuu, massive dull green rain boots, and a wide-brim straw hat with a bright pink bow tied on it—a picture of eclectic whimsy.
Bees buzzed all around her as she leaned in her apiary. My mother raised the bees for the wax. The honey was a byproduct, and I was set for life.
Could she simply buy the wax? Yes. Something I had pointed out to her a thousand times. She insisted it was the ‘experience’.
“Ma, you have to wear the suit I bought you,” I called from the porch. I would not set a foot closer to that hive even though it was twenty or so yards away.
“Why would I do that?” She asked.
“They’re fucking bees, Ma.”
She waved a dismissive hand at me before she dived in and pulled out a frame of honey. The bees had opinions because they flew around her like a little angry cloud.
“Oh, there she is,” Ma grinned. “Queen Boudica survived the winter.” She called as though she was announcing victory at war, which actually was appropriate.
Ma had a habit of naming the queens of her hives after the bloodiest queens in history. I had to look some of them up and was pretty happy to know all of them were dead. Women should not be fucked with.
“Put that away before they eat you alive.” The cloud of bees grew thicker, and she moved as though the gods had blessed her with invincibility.
Her laugh was clear as a bell. “They won’t eat me dear. They don’t have teeth.” But she put the frame back and capped the hive before making her way back through the puddles in her garden.
