Fuck Buddy

by Scott Hildreth

  I glanced down at the legs of the table, knowing she would not like my response, but fully realizing I couldn’t lie to her.

  “No,” I responded.

  “Riley Jaye,” she gasped.

  “Mom, he didn’t have one…”

  She glared at me. “Not again. I’m not losing you to a motorcycle accident because you weren’t sensible enough to wear a helmet.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Promise me,” she said.

  “I promise,” I whined.

  “Okay. Now, tell me everything you know about him.”

  “Everything?” I grinned.

  “Everything but the bulge,” she said with a laugh.

  “Well, he’s tall, but not like tall. Maybe six foot-ish. And he’s got a little beard thing going on some of the time. You know, a few day’s growth. He’s covered in tattoos; all up and down his arms, hands, knuckles, and even one kind of on his neck, but not like all up on it. But he doesn’t look like a thug, he’s really cute, mom. He, uhhm, he always looks serious, like he’s thinking. He squints his eyes a lot, and when he’s doing it, I can tell he’s thinking,” I paused for a moment and lifted my cup of coffee to my mouth.

  I took a drink of the lukewarm coffee, winced at the temperature, and continued.

  “He owns his own tattoo shop, and he has a guy who works for him, Tyler, and the guy’s a complete dick. He doesn’t drink and he doesn’t use drugs, but he smokes,” I said.

  “Pot?” she asked.

  “No. Cigarettes,” I responded.

  “He rides a motorcycle, and I think he said he doesn’t even have a car. It seems like he told me that,” I said.

  “Well, that’s kind of strange,” she said.

  “Oh, and his eyes. They’re like brown and green at the same time. Like equal amounts of each, it’s crazy,” I said.

  “Hazel,” she said.

  “I know, Mother. But not like just hazel, they’re crazel,” I said.

  She scrunched her nose and stared. “Crazel?”

  “Yeah, crazy hazel,” I said with a laugh.

  “It’s nice seeing you happy again. And I see you’re wearing your glasses. That’s a change,” she said.

  “Well, Stephen hated them. Blake freaking loves ‘em. So, I’m wearing them again,” I said.

  I didn’t bother going into detail about my eye being scratched severely, and the eye doctor saying I may never be able to wear contacts for any length of time again. My mother despised Stephen’s treatment of me, and another reminder of his violent nature would not do either of us any good. I was over him, he was leaving me alone, and forgetting him was best for both of us.

  “I like them, too,” she said.

  “He’s just really reserved and kind of like nervous all the time, it’s cute,” I said.

  “Parents? Does he have a good relationship with his parents?” she asked.

  I gazed down at the table for a moment, glanced upward, and shrugged my shoulders.

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t mentioned them.”

  “Well, I hope if you two end up seeing each other that he’s nice to you,” she said.

  “I think we are seeing each other,” I said with a nod of my head.

  “You think so?” she asked as she stood from her seat.

  And, although Blake and I hadn’t discussed it, in my mind we were.

  “Yes,” I said.

  And I hoped he believed the same.

  BLAKE

  As pleasing everyone would never happen, pleasing myself became priority. I determined if I pleased myself, pleasing those around me was easy. Their pleasure came from being exposed to me and seeing me genuinely happy. I found a good mood and a smile to be contagious, more so than even malaria, but much more enjoyable.

  There were times truly pleasing myself required sacrificing others. Realizing when those sacrifices needed to be made and recognizing the people who were best suited to be tossed from my life was crucial to my success.

  And, at this juncture in my life, my success was the only thing I was concerned with.

  I screwed the last screw in the frame and took a few steps back. The sign was perfect, and added to the stand-offish nature I always wanted to possess in the shop. As I placed the cordless drill in the box and clasped it closed, I heard the back door open and slam shut.

  “What’s with slamming the door?” I asked as I peered over the partition.

  “Musta been the wind,” Tyler mumbled.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “What’re you doing up there?” he asked.

  “Posting a new sign,” I said as I took one last glance at the sign.

  “Raising prices?” he asked as he unlocked his box.

  “Nope, prices are fine. Just clarifying the rules,” I responded.

  “What rules?” he asked.

  “Shop rules,” I said.

  “Huh,” he murmured as he turned my direction.

  He sauntered to the front of the shop, stepped behind me, and read the sign out loud in a light whisper.

  BLURRED LINES

  NO use of cellphones beyond this partition

  NO children

  NO one under 18 beyond this partition

  NO I won’t use your sketch or stencil

  NO checks, trading, or bartering

  NO food in the shop

  NO tattoo without a valid ID

  NO drunks

  NObody here cares how cheap your last tattoo was

  NO crying, whining, or bitching

  YES tipping makes it hurt less

  “No checks, trading, or bartering, huh?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Starting when?” he asked.

  “Starting,” I paused and glanced at my watch. “About ten minutes ago.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? Jesus, Blake. Well, good thing Candee Diamond is under the old set of rules,” he said as he walked around me.

  I began to walk toward my work station. “Old rules no longer apply,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Good thing we already worked out the bartering, and she won’t be using a check. If she fucks me again, it’ll only be because she liked the cock,” he said.

  “No sex in the shop,” I said.

  “Didn’t see that on the sign, bro,” he said as he sat down.

  “Don’t need to write it on the sign,” I said.

  He swiveled his stool around to face me. “No sex?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Applies to you too, right?” he asked.

  I nodded my head.

  He laughed, turned his stool halfway around, and whistled a long shrill whistle.

  “We’ll see how long that lasts with Riley coming in and out of this motherfucker like a junkie at a methadone clinic,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “You heard me,” he said.

  I shook my head, decided to keep my mouth shut, and dropped the drill into the bottom drawer of my box. As I pushed the drawer closed, he turned his stool around again.

  “You go see her the other day? When you got mad and left?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t mad, but yeah, I did,” I said.

  “You fuck her?” he asked.

  He was beginning to irritate me. Knowing my best countermeasure was to keep from losing my temper, I picked up the cling wrap and began wrapping my chair.

  “Sure didn’t,” I responded.

  “She suck your dick?” he asked.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “She give you a hand job?” he asked.

  “No, and who the fuck gets a hand job once they’re over the age of fourteen anyway?”

  “All types of people. Ever heard of a happy ending?” he asked.

  I didn’t respond.

  “You kiss her?” he asked.

  I nodded my head as I continued to wrap the chair in the sheets of transparent plastic.

  “So you kissed her and she didn’t d
o anything?” he asked.

  “I didn’t say that. But what she did or didn’t do is none of your business,” I responded.

  “Since fucking when do you keep things from me, Dude? I fucking swear. So what happened? You kissed and that’s it? What are you, twelve?” he asked.

  “Fuck you,” I responded.

  “No, fuck you. She yanked your rod, didn’t she?”

  I shook my head, tore off the last section of plastic wrap, and pressed it into the leather.

  “Nope,” I said as I tossed the carton of wrap in the drawer of my box.

  “She sucked that motherfucker, I know she did. She’s got those DSLs. I bet that bitch can suck a marble through a straw,” he said.

  I stood, turned to face him, and raised my index finger in the air. “That’s enough.”

  “She sucked that dick. I knew it,” he said.

  I continued to glare.

  “Did she swallow?” he asked.

  I bit my bottom lip and attempted to keep my temper at bay. After a moment, he continued.

  “Fuck, yes. Gotta love a bitch that swallows,” he said.

  “She didn’t swallow,” I said through my teeth.

  “Oh? A spitter, huh? Where’d she spit it? Did she run to the bathroom, or take her time and sit with it in her mouth for a while before she dipped out on ya?”

  “She just touched it,” I said.

  “She played with the cum? Fuck, Dude, that’s hot. Like with the tip of her finger, or her tongue?”

  “She touched my junk. Through my jeans,” I said.

  “Wait? What? She touched it? Like a through the jeans rub and tug?” he asked.

  I nodded my head.

  “Oh hell no. Not since eighth grade. That’s unacceptable. Wait till I see this bitch. I’m going to give her a proper instruction manual on what to do and not to do with a grown man’s cock. I knew that little bitch was a youngster, but holy fuckballs. That’s unacceptable,” he said.

  “You’re not going to say a word to her,” I said.

  “Don’t bet on it,” he said over his shoulder as he frantically pulled open the drawers to his box.

  “Here we go, pen and paper ready. I’m going to draw stick figures to keep it from being too graphic. What should I name it? You know, the title?” he asked.

  “Name what?” I asked as I began to walk in his direction.

  “Her instruction manual.” he responded.

  “If you say one word to her about this…”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Free country.”

  I stepped behind him, craned my neck over his shoulder, and glanced down at his note pad. A standing stick figure with an erect stick dick stood over a stick woman on her knees with her head impaled on his cock. The cock was all the way to her stick throat, depicted on the paper as a dashed line once it entered her “O” shaped mouth.

  “Give me that,” I said as I reached for the pad.

  He yanked the pad to the side, jumped from his stool, and ran to the front of the shop.

  “No way, Dude. She needs to learn the proper way to handle a man’s junk. A through the pants rub and tug is reserved for middle school. You’ll thank me later,” he said.

  The thought of Tyler doing anything to jeopardize my relationship with Riley was unacceptable. Riley was good for me, and I suspected I could also be good for her. Together, we would be nothing but goodness. I looked so forward to the next time I was able to see her, and I would be damned if Tyler’s insensitive sense of humor was going to come into play in our next meeting.

  Enough was enough.

  “Give it to me,” I demanded.

  He shook his head.

  “You’re fired,” I said.

  “Fired? You can’t fire me, you need me,” he screeched.

  “You’re…”

  “Fired…”

  “Dude…” he whined.

  “Seriously, I’m tired of the bullshit. Get your shit and get out now,” I said as I pointed toward the door.

  “Here, take it,” he said as he extended his arm.

  The pad dangled loosely from his fingers.

  “Get out,” I bellowed.

  With wide eyes and a shaking lower lip, he stood and stared. I turned toward his work station, opened the drawers to his box, and shoved everything that belonged to him in the box. I grabbed the handle on the end of the box and drug it across the concrete floor and to the front door.

  “Last chance to part as friends,” I said as I pointed to his box.

  “Dude, don’t…”

  I pushed the door open, shoved his box onto the side walk, and released the door. As the door swung closed, he stood with his mouth agape and stared at his box.

  “You’re serious,” he said under his breath.

  “Dead serious,” I responded.

  He lowered his shoulders and began to walk toward the rear of the shop.

  “I’ll give you about sixty seconds to turn around and get out of here, or I’m calling the cops,” I said.

  “The fucking cops? It’s like that?” he asked.

  “It is now,” I responded.

  “I can’t believe you let a chick get between us,” he said.

  “Out,” I said as I pointed toward the door.

  And, without incident, he turned and walked out the door.

  Although I realized there would be times when I missed Tyler, for me to make progress with Riley and have our relationship be healthy, safe, and without the constant pressures associated with sex, Tyler needed to go.

  I turned away and walked toward my work station, feeling emptier than I expected. I glanced over my shoulder, and although his box remained on the sidewalk in front of the shop, he was nowhere to be seen.

  As I gazed down at the cellophane wrapped chair, I realized I didn’t have an appointment booked for the morning, and had wrapped the chair out of nothing more than habit. While I considered unwrapping it, The Weeks began to play over the sound system. One of my favorite tracks, Hold It Kid, was a difficult one for me to listen to, but enjoyable nonetheless. As I became immersed in the song and slowly began to slip into a somber mood, the buzzer from the front door startled me.

  A guy wearing a leather MC vest came through the door, glanced around, and gazed down at the sign I had added earlier.

  “Nice sign,” he said.

  “Appreciate it,” I said as I walked toward the partition. “What can I help you with?”

  “Tool box out on the side walk in front of the door, you leave that there? Someone’ll steal it for sure as soon as the sun goes down,” he said as he tossed his head toward the door.

  “No, fired a guy a bit ago. It’s his. He’ll be back to get it at some point, I’m sure,” I said.

  “Alright. Well, I need a piece touched up, and want a couple small pieces. One of the fellas came in here the other day, maybe a week or so ago, and had you do some work on his prison tats. You covered a few of them up for him. He recommended you, said you didn’t have a shop minimum. Most of the other shops along here won’t do a small piece,” he said.

  “Big guy, covered in prison tats, did a five-year state bit on a gun charge. He went by…” I paused and thought of his name, which was quite unique.

  “He went by Corn Dog. Good dude,” I said with a nod.

  “What do you need touched up?” I asked.

  He pulled up his shirt sleeve and pointed to a tattoo on his bicep. Cursive script spelled the phrase The Devil Looks After His Own, but a few of the letters had worn over the years and were showing their age.

  “I can touch that up and make it look new. No changes?” I asked.

  “No changes,” he said flatly.

  “What’s the new work?” I asked.

  “Want a couple of knuckle tats,” he said.

  “I’ll be honest with you. Knuckle tats are a bitch. I’ll do my best, but I can’t guarantee it won’t blow out. Anyone who gives you a guarantee is a fucking liar. I’ll guarantee anything else, and I’ll
do my best with them, but there’s a risk,” I said.

  “Alright. I want a skull on this finger,” he said as he extended the middle finger of his right hand.

  He lowered his hand and turned the middle finger of his left hand up. “And an “A” on this one in Old English script.”

  “Sounds easy enough. How’s seventy-five for everything sound?” I asked.

  “Sounds like you’re a reasonable man,” he said.

  “When do you want to do it?” I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “When do you have time?”

  “Now? It’ll take forty-five minutes on the arm, and fifteen on the knuckles.”

  “Sounds good. Name’s Slice,” he said as he extended his right hand.

  “Blake,” I said.

  I reached over the counter and shook his hand. He was a rough looking man with a strong jawline, a few day’s growth of beard, and a powerful chest. He looked like the man the director would choose to portray a biker in a Hollywood movie about a biker because he looked the part and did so very well. I pulled a waiver from the drawer, grabbed a pen, and placed them on the countertop in front of me.

  “Formality,” I said as I pushed the piece of paper across the counter.

  “Understood,” he said as he reached for the pen.

  After a moment he slid the sheet and pen over the counter and crossed his arms.

  “You alright with taking your shirt off? We could roll it up, but I’d hate to have it come down on piece we’re reworking. Maybe just go without it, but you could wear the vest for the rest of the day,” I said.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Long as a few scars don’t bother you.”

  “Never have, don’t know why they would now,” I responded.

  “Where do you want me?” he asked.

  “Follow me,” I said.

  As he walked beside me, he removed his vest, pulled off his tee shirt, and tossed it on the end of the chair. As he began to slip his arms through the arm holes in the vest, I turned to face him. His entire back was covered in scars, some of which were a foot long. He looked like he’d been cut intentionally by someone who wasn’t too fond of him.

  As with all bikers I had met, he’d come by his club name honestly. As I turned the other direction, he snapped the buttons on his vest and turned around.

  “Just have a seat and we’ll get started,” I said as I sat on my stool.