Hey all! Welcome to another round of Free Fiction Friday. This week's story is posting in two parts, so the conclusion will post next Friday, 5/13.
Head out this weekend and enjoy the eye candy and action of Marvel's Civil War if you get a chance. Robert Downey Jr. as Iron Man is always good, and my resident comic-geek spouse has informed me the actual movie is good as well.
That said, enjoy Part 1 of This I Know.
* * * *
The problem with fucking in the men’s
room at Harvey Wallbanger’s wasn’t the tiny little toilet, or the fact that it
had no tank for balancing. It wasn’t the graffiti on the walls, either. The
crude cock and ball drawings, dirty limericks, and “for a good time call” phone
numbers that looked vaguely familiar were actually entertaining. It wasn’t even
the guy I’d taken in there, whose name I couldn’t remember now. Ted? Ned? He
might’ve just said, “Hi, gimme head.” The volume of the dance music in Harvey’s
and my general social malaise made meaningful conversation impossible.
No, the problem with fucking in Harvey
Wallbanger’s men’s room was the smell.
I stood there, perched really, on the tiny
little toilet that had no tank in a stall that was too narrow with walls
covered in familiar graffiti, while Right Said Fred tried his best to slot up
and make some magic happen, and the smell of Mexican food overwhelmed me.
I don’t know if the bulimic twinks who
populated the club’s VIP section finally eliminated the middle man and just
threw their food straight into the toilet, or if some idiot got so stoned he
ordered Loco Louie’s all-natural Mexican eatery to deliver his dinner directly
to the men’s room. But somebody had authentic empanadas and tamales. The spicy
combination of the chorizo and corn masa in the tamales perfumed the air with a
sultry aroma that teased my senses far more effectively than Jed, who was still
mindlessly rutting behind me, clueless.
I inhaled deeply, letting the fantastic
mélange of scents bombard my olfactory nerves. For the first time in my life, I
lost all interest in the sex I was having. My erection fell like a deflated
meringue as my stomach growled. The
sound effect was so loud that Ahmed froze mid-thrust.
“Bra, what the fuck was that?”
“Did you just call me ‘Bra’?" I
slid off his dick and looked at him with utter scorn.
"It's not like I got your
name."
"And that's a good thing." I
didn't even bother wiping the lube off. I yanked my jeans up and exited the
stall, buttoning and zipping as I went.
I ignored the pair of guys doing lines
of anonymous white powder off the sink and followed my nose. It led me through
the men's to the janitor, who leaned against the wall waiting to mop. I stopped
short and stared at him. He was gorgeous.
"You got a problem?" His voice
was heavily accented.
"Tamales."
His chin came up, heavy dark brows furrowing over darker eyes as he shoved off the wall into an upright position.
"Fuck you, mariposo."
"No, you don't understand." I groped for the right words before the hot Mexican janitor beat the fuck out of me. Then his words registered. "Wait. Did you just call me a butterfly?"
"No!"
A string of what I'm sure were negative and derogatory insults spilled from him mouth in a foreign language flood. Now I was hungry, horny, and confused. The four years of high school Spanish I'd taken were so hazy I didn't remember much past being able to ask where the bathroom was and say thank you.
The men's room door opened and a guy in a suit came in. He glanced at the guys doing lines, and then at me and the janitor. He made a face.
"No fucking while you're on the clock, Angel."
 |
| My inspiration for "Angel," Draven Torres. |
The janitor's hands clenched his mop so
tightly I was sure he was going to crack the thing in two. But his eyes and
face reflected perfect blankness. The suit made a quick circuit of the bathroom
and left. The instant the door closed behind him, the janitor glared at me and
growled through clenched teeth.
"Get the fuck out!"
I fled.
I didn't go far, though. That heavenly
aroma faded the moment I got back inside the club, and I felt like I was
starving. Besides that, the janitor was more interesting than
Ted-Ned-Fred-Ahmed-Jed-Zed.
I didn't bother with another too-strong
drink. Instead I waited against a convenient pillar, one eye on the door to the
men's. When the janitor emerged shoving the rolling mop bucket before him like
a plow, I snaked through the writhing bodies of sweaty boys in that direction.
I caught up to him at a door marked Employees
Only. I had to shout to be heard over the din.
"Hey!"
He either didn't hear me or he ignored
me, and walked through the door. Before it could close and separate me from
that holy aroma of goodness and the body it was attached to, I stuck a hand
out, pushed it open, and slipped inside behind him.
"Hey–" I stopped as he
brandished the mop like a weapon. "Whoa! I just wanna talk."
"You can't be in here."
"Who's gonna say anything?"
"My boss."
I inhaled. I couldn’t help it. He
smelled so fucking delicious.
"What's wrong with you?" He
let the mop drop back into the bucket with a plop.
"That's what I wanted to say to
you." Like some high school kid, I blushed. "You smell amazing. Like
tamales and empanadas."
"I work at TJ's before I come
here."
"I've never been there. I've heard
it's good, though." I inhaled again and my stomach growled. A surprised
look spread across his face and he laughed.
"When's the last time you
ate?"
I shrugged.
"You don't remember when you ate
last?"
"Eating isn't a big priority–usually."
His eyes darted nervously to the
door…and then to me. He checked me out like I was a side of beef. My legs went
weak.
"Meet me at the back door in an
hour."
He turned away without waiting for my
answer. We both knew I'd be there.
* * * *
Once again, thanks so much for reading! Comments are, as always, craved and appreciated.
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