by J. M. Snyder
“Oh my God, it’s been so hot this summer,” Spencer whined, tugging on the hem of his T-shirt to stir up a breeze.
“Right? It’s crazy. I’ve been sweating in the dang shower,” Ethan said. “I can put up with it, though, as long as shit doesn’t start catching on fire again this year. The church—my rec center, all that—is up in the hills. Kinda by Mountain Shadows? The trees are like kindling. If I walked across my office in just my socks, the static electricity would burn the whole place down. It’s insane. I can do hot. I just don’t want to have to do, ‘We can rebuild’.”
“For real.”
They sipped at their beers. When their eyes met, they held. Spencer tried to look away, but what in the world would he rather be looking at?
“So how’d you let yourself get roped into this?” Ethan eventually asked.
Spencer shrugged. “Carter’s pretty much my best friend.”
Ethan gave Spencer a blank look, then the penny dropped. “Oh, you mean that drag queen?”
“Yeah.”
Ethan nodded. “Cool. She was fun. No, I meant how’d you wind up going on TV tomorrow?”
So I could record the show when it aired and drool over you anytime I wanted, while accurate, sounded a tad forward—if not downright psycho—so Spencer shrugged. “A guy could do a lot with ten G’s,” he eventually said. “I wanna open up a restaurant, figure something like this could give me a little jumpstart.”
Ethan nodded understanding.
“I love to cook,” Spencer went on. “I love to share food. I love when people take their first bite of one of my ribs or my mac and cheese and they just, Mmmm, like they don’t know what else to say? Folks gotta eat. Good food is what I have to offer, you know? I’d be shitty at sales, and I promise you no church wants me running their day care center, but you better believe I can barbecue.”
“Well, I for one, would way rather eat than be schmoozed by a salesman, so let me just say ‘Thank you.’”
“Well, you’re welcome. And you haven’t even tasted my sauce. You think you’re thanking me now…”
Ethan laughed. “Maybe you can sneak me some tomorrow. I probably shouldn’t get caught on camera in my pop’s T-shirt swooning over your ribs.”
“We’ll figure something out.”
Conversation fizzled for a spell, and Spencer studied his beer. Ethan’s low-hanging stomach filled the space between them, and Spencer’s hands itched to play with it—to gauge its heft, then set it a-jiggle with a swat—but he made the effort not to gawk. When he did look up from his cup, Ethan was smiling, which made not touching him more torturous, which made the beer much more gulpable. He held his cup with both hands and sifted through his brain for something to say that wasn’t God I want to fuck you, Fat Boy.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when he heard the familiar angry-bee buzz of Carter’s little orange Honda moped. Carter had a cute little BMW z4 that Spencer often begged to drive, but the motorized bike was Helena’s preferred mode of fair-weather transport. Now Carter rounded the corner from the Nut House’s parking lot, sidesaddle as always, and zipped up the sidewalk, puttering to pause on the other side of the fence from Spencer and Ethan.
Dressed like a boy, painted like a drag queen, Carter leaned in to kiss Spencer on the cheek. “Thanks for coming tonight. I hope you had fun.” He took a better look at Ethan. “Oh, hey—Church Meat! Imagine my surprise.” He looked back at Spencer. “So you are having fun!” A character of very little compunction, Carter grabbed a handful of Ethan’s stomach and gave it a wobble. “He likes ‘em nice and fat,” he said with a wink. “Lucky you.” He whizzed away with a wave.
Spencer blushed furiously. “He’s an idiot, of course, my friend Carter.”
Ethan stepped closer, pressing his belly against Spencer. “So you don’t like ‘em fat?”
Spencer’s mouth had gone dry again.
“Tell you what,” Ethan said. He pulled Spencer’s right hand away from his cup, guided it under his belly. His stomach was soft and warm, and Spencer’s hand roved the heavy roll of it. “Why don’t you let me sample some of that sauce tonight?”
* * * *
Most of the houses in Colorado Springs, including the one Spencer grew up in, were of the modern, customize-your-countertops, choose-one-of-three-floorplans in our wildlife-sounding subdivision variety. Moose Run, Wolf Pack Woods, Free Pheasant Farms were all laid out in neat rows or elaborate cul-de-sac curlicues of interchangeable beige homes whose residents wore sweatshirts all summer long while the central air whirred away. The house Spencer lived in now, in the heart of downtown, pre-dated both air conditioning and sweltering Colorado summers, relying more on shade trees and strategically placed windows to maximize refreshing cross breezes.
In other words, when he and Ethan climbed the stairs from the back porch to Spencer’s kitchen, it felt like walking into the coal-shoveling hold of a Victorian-era steamship. “Sorry I don’t have air,” he said.
Ethan was red in the face and sweating, but he shook his head, no big deal. “You never needed it until a couple summers ago,” he said. “And even still, it’s only a few days a year. I don’t blame you.”
“Still…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ethan said, wiping at his forehead with the corner of his sleeve. “I was kinda planning on getting sweaty anyway.”
Spencer smiled. Up to now, he had noticed—or at least assumed—a certain expectation that the “chaser,” having caught what he was chasing, would take charge. He was accustomed to having to coddle and cajole, especially the really heavy guys, who often found it difficult to leave a lifetime of body-shaming experience on the floor with their pile of clothes, and he was always on top. But Ethan knew he was sexy, and he acted like he was sexy, which was wildly titillating even as it kept Spencer feeling like he was one or two steps behind. Spencer had the How a Chaser Seduces a Chub script down pat; Ethan hadn’t even glanced at it.
Ethan refused Spencer’s offer of a cool glass of water, but jumped at a Bud Light. “‘Zat the famous sauce?” he asked as Spencer rooted through a half-empty twelve-pack in the fridge.
Indeed, the secret to Spencer’s success sat on the top shelf, where he figured most normal people probably kept their milk or their juice, in two jugs that looked like he’d either gotten them at a moonshine runner’s estate sale or from his friend in Disneyland’s band of backwoods bears; all that was missing was three big X’s scrawled across the front of each one, but both men felt that the Triple-X motif would still manage to work its way into the evening’s entertainment.
“Yup.” Spencer handed Ethan a beer, set one on the counter for himself, and grabbed a smaller, slimmer glass bottle from the refrigerator door before he shut it. “This is left over from Pride,” he said, twisting the yellow plastic lid off. He took Ethan’s hand in his and let a few drops of the speckled orange sludge spill onto the big lug’s finger.
Ethan had his finger in his mouth, and was muttering sounds of approval, when Spencer said, “Of course, it’s better on a piece of meat.”
“I bet it is,” Ethan said. He pulled his finger from his mouth with a pop, then hoisted Spencer up onto his kitchen counter. Spencer’s shorts fell to the floor with the barest tug, and his T-shirt came off over his head with little more ado. Ethan hooked his forefingers in the waistband of Spencer’s tightie-whities and pulled them off, too, pausing to inhale a mighty sniff of sweaty jock before he tossed them over his shoulder. He clambered out of his own clothes, then upended the bottle of sauce over Spencer’s hairy chest, his flat tummy, and his sweaty, fragrant crotch. He pushed Spencer’s knees into his chest and stepped up and set about licking him clean.
Spencer wriggled and giggled. He didn’t fight, mind you, but he was always the top, and now that he was naked and getting licked, he was ready to turn the tables and assume his rightful place. Ethan just laughed. He wrestled Spencer around and pinned him to the counter, his little hairy butt folded for the ta
king. Spencer struggled, but Ethan was two and a half times his size and in charge of his body. “What are you gonna do?” he taunted. “Where you gonna go?”
Spencer was laughing, rock hard at the feel of Ethan’s gut, soft and heavy on top of him. “I usually top,” he said.
“You probably shouldn’t have told me that,” Ethan said. He slathered Spencer’s hole with barbecue sauce and then plunged in after it with his tongue. “Tonight we’re fresh out of your usual,” he said when he surfaced. He carried Spencer easily from the countertop to the kitchen table and drizzled him like he was getting ready to turn him on a spit. Spencer was shocked. He was sticky. His exposed asshole made him feel vulnerable and submissive, which he really wanted to hate, but he was so hard it hurt—he’d never been this excited, and Ethan knew it.
“You like to fuck fat boys, huh?” he teased, flicking at Spencer’s cock. It bounced and bobbed and Spencer gasped with need at every flick. “Show ‘em who’s boss?”
Spencer knew he was only making a fool of himself by nodding, but he couldn’t help it. He did like to fuck fat boys. But he’d never had one turn the tables on him, and he wasn’t hating that, either.
Ethan had found the bottle of olive oil Spencer kept on the counter and rubbed a few carefully dripped drops onto his dick, then rimmed Spencer’s hole with what was left on his forefinger.
“And who’s the boss?” Ethan asked. He hefted his stomach to make way, then slid somewhat unceremoniously into Spencer, who yelped. “Who’s the big, bad top?”
Ethan plunged hard and deep and Spencer’s eyes rolled up into his head when he pushed right through the blunt barrier of pain into a seemingly bottomless pit of pleasure. “Oh. My. God!” Spencer howled.
Ethan grinned. “Close enough,” he said, then he set about banging Spencer in earnest.
They eventually fuck-surfed their way from one flat surface to the next until Spencer was able to wrestle slick, sweaty Ethan onto his bed. He hadn’t realized that the passion for receiving Ethan had awakened had been waiting—somewhat impatiently, judging by the way he gripped Ethan’s meaty flanks and yowled For Christ’s sake, come in me!—inside him, and he’d certainly rejoiced in its discovery, but now they were on his turf. In his house. In his bedroom. Ethan had sucked or slurped most of the barbecue sauce off his torso; it was fat-boy-fucking time, and when Ethan finally presented Spencer with his wide, white, dimpled ass, Spencer gave it a smack. He rubbed gentle, massaging circles on each buttock, periodically pulling back his hand. Maybe he’d replace his hand quietly and keep up the soothing circles, maybe he’d give Ethan’s butt a hard swat—that was for him to know and Ethan to find out, and it wasn’t until he’d elicited a few good yelps of surprise that he dug through his drawer for the lube.
By the time he was inside Ethan, they were both slippery and hot; Spencer’s flat front hit Ethan’s big, billowy backside on every thrust with a sticky wet slap that was nearly as satisfying—Yeah, that’s letting him have it—as the frenzied friction. He liked a big bottom to beg for it, and he knew how sensitive a heavy chest could be—he reached around to knead one of Ethan’s tits and toy with his nipple, but his pec sagged so soft and solid—so perfect—into Spencer’s hand, and Ethan gasped with such stark delight, it finished him. Spencer’s load ripped from him so suddenly he howled like a startled dog, then he collapsed across the broad back of Ethan, who collapsed beneath him onto the bed with a quiet wow.
“What the fuck was that?” Spencer asked through a laugh.
“The best buggering I’ve had in some time,” a panting Ethan managed to croak out. “If your sauce was that good, you’d already be ruling the world. You know, with barbecue.”
* * * *
“Don’t get up.”
Wasn’t planning on it, Spencer thought, wrenching open one eye. What the hell time could it possibly be? Had he fallen asleep or been hit in the head with a baseball bat? He was that disoriented, although he recognized his own room. Someone was kissing him, though. Carter? It’d better not be; he opened the other eye.
“Ethan?”
“I’m gonna go on home,” Ethan said.
“What time is it?” It had been like cuddling up next to a hot water heater, and for a while he wasn’t sure he’d get to sleep at all, but now that Ethan was up, Spencer was learning he liked his bed better with Ethan in it.
“It’s early.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
Ethan chuckled. “It’s not, but it’s early. You should go back to sleep. I’ll see you at the park in a little while.”
The vaguest breeze moved air across Spencer’s back, and he jolted up when it carried a hint of smoke. “Is the house on fire?”
Ethan laughed. “Yeah, it is, but I’m gonna see myself out and leave you sleeping. I’m murdering you so my dad can win a reality TV cook-off, but making it look like an accident. It’s the perfect crime, now go back to sleep.”
“But…”
“I know. I smell it, too. Something got going overnight up in the hills; according to Facebook they don’t know if it was a campfire or a lightning strike. It’s ‘zero per cent contained.’ How’s that for a confidence booster?”
“But…”
“It’s up in the mountains, babe; go back to sleep.”
Spencer fought the urge to lay back down, but it’s not like he was a firefighter. What was he gonna do, fret in front of the TV all morning? He knew that made him a good American, to get out of bed and gobble up fear by the spoonful as served up by the local Fox affiliate, but who did that help? His own television debut was hours away, and Heaven knew he’d need all the beauty sleep he could get before he climbed into that ring. Suddenly Ethan was talking sense.
“All right then, I’ll see you later,” he mumbled, nestling back into bed. “I had fun last night.”
“Me, too. Let’s do it again real soon.”
Spencer smiled into his pillow. “You’re on.”
* * * *
“Wake up, Boss.”
This time Spencer knew it was Carter bouncing at the foot of his bed. He’d been half-awake for half an hour and heard his buddy’s little moped chug up the driveway.
“I’m ready for my close up,” Carter said, turning his head and pursing his lips. “Or did we switch shows? Are you trying to win a sleeping contest?”
Spencer laughed. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to be draggin’ your wagon out of bed so we can go get famous,” Carter said, slapping at Spencer’s feet, his calves, his thighs, his butt.
“What am I paying you for today?” Spencer asked, sitting up half wrapped in the man-damp sheet.
Carter shrugged. “Nothing, as far as I know.”
“I’ll double it if you’ll start loading up the van while I take a shower.”
Carter thought on this. “Is that sauce in your beard?” he asked. Then he leaned in closer. “Is that sauce on your chest?”
Spencer held up a hand. “Please don’t ask me where all I have sauce,” he beseeched his pal.
Carter pantomimed a great gasp. “Did that Church Meat try to eat you?”
“Let’s just say he’s got a hell of an appetite.”
Carter gave Spencer’s sauce-smeared chest a shove. “You pervs!” He tugged at the sheet that struggled to preserve Spencer’s modesty. “You better get in the shower,” he cried. “I’ll start loading the van. Bet you wish you’da thought of that.”
“Where would I be without you?” Spencer smiled gratefully, untangled himself, and padded naked from the room, chuckling at Carter’s scandalization.
“Oh my God, is that sauce in your ass?”
* * * *
Spencer had no idea how he’d run Bone Lickers without Carter, and he was in no hurry to find out. Carter certainly made it a point to flit through life, skipping from man to man like some insatiable butterfly, and he had a new Life’s Ambition—not to mention hair color—about every two weeks, but he was immovable in his devotion to
Spencer. There was no task he would not willingly perform at Spencer’s behest. “Hey, I’m always down to help a buddy out,” he often said, master of the lascivious wink.
Carter was short, and he was skinny—”I’m diminutive, thank you very much, and it drives men wild”—but he was deceptively strong. He had no qualms about lugging heavy pans of meat, or about dragging the trailer across the yard; he was as good on the grill as he was with the customers. Spencer didn’t dilly-dally in the shower, but he knew Carter had things well in hand, and indeed he was still wrapped in a towel running his favorite beeswax balm through his beard when Carter barged into the bathroom.
“Oh my God, that mess is as pretty as it’s going to get,” Carter exclaimed. “It’s a quarter to ten, Claudia’s been texting me from the park for half an hour.”
“Van’s all loaded?”
“It’s a bunch of meat, not a houseful of furniture. Come on, come on; put some shoes on them cold feet and let’s do this.”
“I don’t have cold feet,” Spencer said. He dropped his towel and wriggled into a pair of cargo shorts and put on a red T-shirt that matched Carter’s—and Claudia’s, he presumed; a producer had left it in a little packet on Spencer’s porch Thursday night—but he persisted in not putting on shoes. “This is a good idea, though, right? Did some crazy competitive bug crawl up my ass at Pride, or is this good for the business?”
Carter shrugged. “No such thing as bad publicity. Sure, the instant ten grand would be nice, but even if it’s a disaster, you know people will want you at their party just cuz you were on TV. We’ll be mopping the floor of your restaurant by next summer, no matter what happens.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
“You think Ethan will want to go out again after I smack down his dad on TV?”
“After you beat his dad’s straight meat?”
