by Layla Wolfe
“You think you’re good?” I snarled, the tips of our noses practically touching. “Prove it to me. Show me how fucking good of a cocksucker you are.”
The corners of Ormond’s mouth curled up. “I am that good. Gladly, Sir.”
As he fell to his knees, I slapped my hands to the brick wall behind me. Prematurely I started urging him on in the filthiest of speech. I was so raring to go, so fixated on getting a world-class blow job, that I urged him on in the nastiest lingo. I knew how it amped up men’s performance.
“That’s it. Take my fucking meat in your fucking fist. That’s right—oh God, you’re fucking good. You know you want it, Ormond. You know you’ve been dying to do a crotch dive right between my legs ever since you first saw me doing CPR on that girl. You want to suck up my power, my authority. You want to feel my virility sliding down your hungry gullet. You want to—ah!”
I lost control for the briefest of seconds. Ormond’s fingers worked like a sushi chef’s blurring blades as he whipped apart my metal company belt buckle. Before I knew it, my cock was out in the cool air, pulsating and hot. It actually trembled as Ormond admired it, not touching it yet. Then I realized the fine tremor ran up the backs of my own thighs, and it was desire that drove me. Desire, pure and simple, the likes of which I hadn’t known for a year. Years, maybe. Something about this Spanish costumer to the stars pinged every corpuscle in my being, setting me on fire.
And my desire put me in the weaker position, actually. The guy might be on his knees subserviently in front of me, his mouth drooling to eat my penis, but my sheer need for him weakened me. I’d noticed that over the years. The more I craved a boy, the weaker I became. It was only when I could care less what they did, like tonight in the club with the boy band member, that I became puffed with domination.
“Do it, gay boy,” I snarled. In times like this, I liked to pretend I wasn’t a gay boy, too. I liked to pretend that I was at the most bi, and just happened to be in an alley because, well, men like blow jobs, don’t they? So snarling insults at him gave me the appearance of having the upper hand, of being in control. “Suck my big rod down your throat. Lick it and suck it until I spurt a load in your hungry mouth. Smoke my dick, you big fairy. That’s what you like, isn’t it? That’s what you live fo—”
I had to swallow my own cries when Ormond Tangier hoovered my erection down his gullet. My eyeballs rolled into their sockets as Ormond Tangier ate my meat. Elif air ab dinikh, that pendejo was born to suck. He was a blow job artist. Part of the appeal of his talent was in his enthusiasm. I gripped a handful of his beautifully coiffed, soft-as-air hair as he pistoned his head up and down my pole. Within a few short seconds, I was on the verge of coming. It wouldn’t do to let this ambulance chaser know how hot he made me, so I tried to hold off on it.
I panted. Shallow breathing always seemed to hold off an impending crisis. But the flood of exquisite desire still surged up the length of my prick. My balls twitched like an angry cat’s tail as Ormond worked his tongue in intricate, squiggly patterns up and down my cock. I found myself tilting my hips to give him a better angle, my hips and thighs trembling with the weakness of desire. I tried thinking of splattered brains, disembodied limbs, even entrails splashed like sausage ropes over the sand, but nothing, and I mean nothing, could slow down that motherfucking cocksucker.
Surrendering to the sheer bliss, I didn’t notice until later I had slid a foot down the wall. My dick throbbed with utter ecstasy inside the swirling, howling tempest of Ormond Tangier’s talented mouth. I vaguely remember muttering, “Elif air ab dinikh.” A thousand dicks in your religion. It was the ultimate insult, the ultimate thing you could say to someone you wanted desperately to condemn. Only people who had great power over you would need an insult that strong to drive them away.
At length I gasped, “Okay, boy, okay, boy. Back, back.” Pressing my palm to his forehead, I detached the incubus incarnate. He sat back on his heels with the smile of the cat that ate the canary, watching me stuff my cock like a thick rubber hose back into my jeans.
He even licked his chops, as though he wanted to get every drop of jizz from his lips. Wiping his face with his hand, he then spiked it through his luscious locks, like it was hair gel. “Abso-fucking-lutely delicious. You said you’re in the army?”
“Didn’t say any such thing,” I muttered, back to my old gruff, monosyllabic self. Navajos weren’t one for florid talk, contrary to our portrayal as writers of great flowery poetry. It was probably thanks to my Anglo half, the Riker half, that I communicated with anyone at all. “I work for the military. But that’s top secret and classified.” It was. It really was. It wouldn’t even do in the public sector to run around telling random people I worked for such-and-such a military contractor, a company on par with Blackwater.
“Oo, I’ll bet it is.” Ormond got to his feet, buff beneath his leather jacket. It only just then sank into my feeble brain that he’d mentioned something about forming a new motorcycle club. Turk had just started one. What were the odds of two new MCs in Lake Havasu? “Look, will you be in town awhile? I’d like to see you again.”
As much as I’d like another piston job like the one I’d just received, I had to bow out. And not so gracefully. I had a job to do, and no model-perfect guy who could suck the chrome off a tailpipe would stand in my way. That was one of my good qualities. I wasn’t such a sucker for sex I’d blow off work just to get it. I had self-control.
“Not long enough,” I said, already sauntering back to my ride. It was then I noticed another bike parked maybe three slots away from mine. A Dyna Super Glide with a low profile seat and a V-Twin motor. I gathered a lot of respect for him in that moment, but I knew I couldn’t keep on dallying with him. As good of a cocksucker as he was, it just wasn’t in the cards.
One of the EMTs was striding our way, so I quickly jammed my brain bucket onto my head and turned the engine key. I didn’t want a lot of this “What’s your name in case we have any questions” shit. But I’d forgotten one thing.
“Here’s your whiskey.” Ormond practically had to yell over the engine’s rumble and the fact that I was already wearing my lid. “It’d be nice if I could see you around sometime.”
I tucked the flat bottle into an inner jacket pocket. “Sure, see you around,” I said half-heartedly before backing the hell out of there.
Hugely conflicting emotions yanked me back and forth, and I even started going the wrong way up the street. That’s how turned around I was. I’d started out that morning in Pure and Easy, leaving on an errand for a motorcycle club, and I’d somehow wound up covered in blood having my dick munched in an alley by a 7-11.
Damn, but what a dick-munching. Ormond Tangier, of Hollywood makeup fame, had a vacuum that could suck the sperm through a rubber. I did want me some more of that. But my mission would keep me occupied 24/7, and there was no point in drawing unwanted attention to the club or our activities by being caught in an uncompromising position. If I was going to be getting up on anyone, it would be club sweetbutts. Ford had told me that Turk had finally come out of the closet—praise to thee on highest, it was about fucking time. Everyone from shit to Shinola knew Turk had been as gay as a daffodil for years now. He seemed to be the only one in the dark about it, and had been pleasantly surprised at everyone’s lack of reaction when he’d told them.
So the new club, The Bent Zealots, was a predominantly gay club. While eager to see the men who comprised it and its workings, I wasn’t exactly eager to pull a Turk and come out. In my line of business, you might as well hang a target on your back. So there must be female club sweetbutts, just like with any other club. Girls who just liked hanging around biker clubs, girls who liked gay men—maybe girls who were tired of being grabbed like a piece of property, as in all the straight MCs.
I was playing it close to the vest for now. Our main goal was to find these fucking Diné—Navajo—assholes who were playing goon for those fucking Hellfires. They were my brothers, my fellow Diné
outlaws. We’d probably all grown up drinking Aqua Net hairspray and Garden Deluxe wine, all grown up in housing projects or hogans with no electricity with the only door facing the rising sun. I could reason with them. Hell, if The Bent Zealots wanted to reclaim their backyard, what better way than to pay the Diné goons a better wage than the Hellfires were? It was a certainty the Hellfires were burning them with poverty level wages.
When I got back to the motel, I didn’t get very far in my email to my daughter. Of course I showered thoroughly first. At my job I was tested bimonthly for AIDS among a whole slew of other tropical cancers and plagues. And when I humped men, in addition to using condoms I took the anti-HIV prophylaxis, just to be doubly sure I was clean. Seeing as how half my job involved swimming in an ocean of sweat and other bodily fluids, I valued cleanliness.
Not being used to Arizona’s early winter weather, I wrapped myself in a blanket and pecked away on the little notebook keyboard while drinking the whiskey. I think this is how far I got:
Sheena, it has come to my attention that you might be using street drugs, namely, meth. I am sure you don’t need a lecture, seeing as how it was the biggest factor that contributed to your mother’s death.
Well, if I wasn’t lecturing, what was I doing? Shits and giggles? I tried again.
But you do know that a woman in your condition should not be putting man-made chemicals into her body.
She knew that. Did she not watch TV, did she not see billboards? Had she not witnessed her own mother collapsing under the weight of her own addiction?
Ultimately, I left it unsent, unwritten. In fact, I next found myself waking up, still sitting in the chair, around four AM. I stood and hurled my body onto the bed without unwrapping myself from the blanket, like a mummy in a casket.
I slept the sleep of the dead.
CHAPTER FOUR
ORMOND
“All right, we’re not all here yet, but I’m going to start.” Turk banged his gavel to call chapel to order. “Our special guest isn’t here yet, and Dr. Moog was called into surgery.”
“He’s missed the past three chapels due to surgeries,” groused Rover Florkowski, a grumpy sort of guy. Rover just never seemed to see the good in anyone, probably because he’d spent the majority of his adult life in lockup. A pizza-faced, handsome but surly fellow with a giant handlebar mustache, Ormond wasn’t sure if he was a recovering addict, or a functional one.
“Well,” said Turk, “we can hardly deny him his right to practice his livelihood, when he’s actually out there saving lives.”
Rover persisted. “You said club business always comes before business-business. You never let me out of church if I’ve got some car to detail, like I did today. I have a cherry sixty-eight Mustang—”
“Car detailing isn’t heart surgery,” said Dipstick Hunziger.
“So you’re saying my job isn’t as important as Thymus’?” asked Rover. “Isn’t this supposed to be a democracy? All men are created equal?”
Twinkletoes sat up straighter. “Yes! Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness! Those are our unalienable rights.” He was always one to cheerlead for the downtrodden.
“That sounds more like Communism,” quipped Hobie Cleminshaw, a roly-poly jovial fellow who always had an opinion on everything. “No one job is held more important than the other. That’s hardly capitalism. Didn’t Slushy tell us our club was founded on the principles of capitalism? Otherwise, where is our incentive to make money on the side, like we’ve been doing?”
Turk put his palms flat on the table. “Look, we’re not here to fucking discuss the Declaration of Independence. We’re here to hash out the incident that’s been on everyone’s fucking minds since it happened—the heist of almost all of our weed, and what we’re going to fucking do about it. If it becomes known we’re just these sitting ducks who let any baby gangster off the street jack our product, they’re going to start riding up on us at random moments, just for the fun of it, shaking us down for spare change. I’ve fucking seen it happen, over in The Bare Bones. Not one member or their family escaped the cartel’s wrath for a few months there. We need to push back, to show these fuckers we mean business. To that end, Twinkletoes here has an announcement.”
Things had been a lot more cohesive since the carpenters had finished their chapel. The club was really coming together as one unit, although there was still a lot of infighting and immature bitching going on. The pot heist had really given them a common goal, and once Turk made the announcement of Twinkletoes’ discovery, everyone shut the fuck up and pricked up their ears.
The mousy, watery-eyed former Prospect started in a strong voice. “Something intriguing came through my search filter late last night.” Twinkletoes was their IT guy who could always be relied on to place a GPS tracker on someone or dig up blackmail dirt. He looked impudently at each man at the table. “Evidently, someone was moronic enough to post some of our weed for sale on—get this—Instagram.”
Every last man burst out in disbelieving guffaws. Lips farts were made, men sputtered incoherently, and they swore.
“Twatwaffles!”
“Epic asshats.”
“Major ass munchers.”
That last was from Ormond himself. He’d seen some idiotic things in his time, but this one was classic. He also had the first question.
“How’d you know it was ours?”
“Easy. It was still in the jar with our logo label on it. Clear as day, Herbal Legends, Young Man Blue, only they fucking whited out the price and like doubled it.”
This was really cause for a major hilarious celebration. Men slapped the table and held their stomachs as they doubled over laughing. Tears actually came to Ormond’s eyes as he wheezed,
“Classic, man. Abso-fucking-lutely classic!”
Ormond was mid-guffaw when the church’s door opened and a new face entered. He nearly choked on his laugh when he recognized the hawk’s nose and fierce, flashing eyes of that half-breed from last night, the military man. What the fuck? Every muscle in Ormond’s face froze in panic, his eyes so wide they went instantly dry.
I just blew that guy in a fucking alley, and now he’s walking across the floor of my chapel. I ate that guy’s load, and now he’s invading my inner sanctum. Ormond’s brain struggled to put two and two together. It just wasn’t adding up.
Until Turk stood, grabbed the guy’s hand, and clapped him on the back in a thug hug. Something was coming back to Ormond. “Special guest,” Turk had said…
Men were still laughing uproariously and drying their eyes on their forearms when Turk quieted them down. “Guys, this is Anson Dineyazzie, an old friend of the club’s. He’s from the northeast Rez, from Fort Defiance. He’s a hired gun with a private intelligence contractor, working mostly in Afghanistan these days. He’s on leave, so I knew we could use his expertise.”
The hired gun grinned. Ormond could tell he didn’t grin very often. “Although from what Twinkletoes here tells me, it doesn’t really take a private security analyst to find these dipwads.”
Everyone laughed, still on the tail end of that tear over the morons posting their logo on Instagram. Clapping Anson on the back, Turk bade him to sit, saying, “Let Twinkletoes finish the story. It gets even better.”
“Right,” said Twinkletoes. His eyes glittered as though he’d been blasted with a handful of stars. He was in his element now—discovering things through technology. “Hold onto your fucking horses. Because the fucking photographs they posted had their GPS location embedded in them. Sure, they came from a mobile phone. But good enough for me to tell it came from a tower located ten miles south of Parker, on the Colorado River Rez.”
Rover shot to his feet. “All right, that’s fucking it! If you won’t let me detail my Mustang, you’re going to let me take a little ride down to the Rez and bang some tee-pee creeper heads around.”
Half-rising from his chair, Turk bellowed, “No! See, Rover, this is exactly why we don’t use you for jobs like this. Yo
u run off all half-cocked”—of course some clowns had to chuckle when Turk said “half-cocked”—“like some trigger-happy loose cannon, and then we’ve got an even worse mess on our hands.”
“Worse mess on our hands,” whispered Dipstick, barely able to contain his mirth.
Ormond sympathized with Turk. An Anglo like Rover couldn’t just go storming into the Rez and beat the shit out of some random Indians. They needed to send men with tact, diplomacy, the ability to keep their rod in their pants. He piped up. “I think the point Turk’s trying to make is, this is why he’s got Mr. Dineyazzie on board. Am I right, Turk?”
Turk nodded. “Right. Lock’s still out of town, and not to make any racist statement or anything, but let’s face it, being half-Navajo gives Anson an advantage. He’s experienced in Rez life. He knows how to talk to these guys. And, if the shit hits the fan, he’ll know how to limit the collateral damage, the blowback. We need his muscle.”
Turk turned to Anson, clearly expecting him to pick up the ball and run with it. But it appeared that Anson had finally noticed Ormond. The stunned, blank look on his face told Ormond that he hadn’t realized who Ormond was until just now. Last night, he’d probably assumed Ormond was some kind of holster sniffer, some guy who followed the police scanner out of some deep unhappiness. Some sort of miserable nightstick polisher who had nothing better to do than literally follow ambulances around.
Okay, those descriptions may have been accurate. But Ormond could tell that when Anson had plunged his shaft down his throat, he hadn’t known he was a member of the MC he was about to do a job with. Did that change things? Was Anson still in the closet? Ormond had to play this carefully. That blowjob had been a scorcher. Never had Ormond been so desperately hungry for the meat of a man’s cock. And he had been a pretty starving artist in his time. He had munched away like there was no tomorrow, gratified by how swiftly Anson had unloaded down his gullet. He had gulped every mouthful of that tangy jizz, every swallow bringing them closer in their cell structures, closer in his yin to Anson’s yang.
