by Joe Thomas
Stepping into the back galley, I sat down on the empty jumpseat. Felicia continued reading the same People magazine she pulled out after we originally finished beverage service. I sneered at her but she didn’t notice. I couldn’t wait to watch her drown in the ocean. After being rescued, I’d whimper out to the airline that I did my best to save her but she refused to let go of that fucking magazine.
After a few seconds she looked over, “How’s your Russian? Has he calmed down?”
My initial instinct was to blurt out about the tip and share my new found wealth with her and the other flight attendant working in the front of the airplane. Normally, if we are lucky enough to receive a generous tip, the flight attendant will do something nice for the crew. Purchase cups of coffee in the morning, buy a round of drinks at the hotel bar, or pick up the hotel van tip for the entire crew—pilots included. But I wasn’t sharing a fucking red cent with the bitch. Can you blame me? She refused to pull her eyeballs away from the inside of that magazine throughout the entire flight so I assumed it was only fair that I refused to pull out any cash from my apron. I zipped my mouth up tighter than an overweight flight attendant strapped to a jumpseat. I never felt guilty because I earned that tip. ‘Hard to Handle Ivan’ was truly a handful. A Russian handful who refused to verbally apologize for being a demanding asshole and who’s only way of atoning for his sins was to pay me off.
Fine by me. If every verbally abusive passenger handed me $20, I'd only need to work two trips per month.
Blow Job Confessions
When I was 20 years old I sucked off a Puerto Rican guy named Jesús. I did it just to check off the name Jesús on my cock-sucking resume. What can I say? We are taught to strive towards our goals, and one of mine was to experience Jesus juice directly from the source. I figured if it was good enough for underage boys waking up in Michael Jackson’s bed, it was good enough for me.
Sucking Jesús was stressful. He was 18 and smelled like McDonald’s french fries and Adobo. Not necessarily a bad combination but definitely not on my favorite’s list. There was that and the fact that each time I went down on him his pager vibrated with messages from his girlfriend, Lupita. That shit was annoying. Nobody wants to work that hard and not have full attention on themselves. I wasn’t making arroz con pollo, I was sucking his dick.
Jesús and I hooked up twice. Twice was enough. It felt like each time I had his dick in my mouth, Lupita was standing over me questioning him about her next prenatal appointment. Did I forget to mention she was pregnant? Eighteen, pregnant, and with a baby daddy who liked playing hide the chorizo in Joe’s throat—one of my favorite games, I might add.
Our solo hookup almost didn’t happen. It was 1992 and I was employed as a swing manager for McDonald’s. I was also a virgin. Twenty years old and I had yet to meet a cock other than my own. I knew I liked cock but hadn’t experienced inviting one into my mouth. I had the same reality with a kiwi. You know you’re going to like it even before you try it. Jesús and I worked the late shift along with an older Puerto Rican guy named Sergio, the guy who instigated the hook up.
On boring nights while Jesús, Sergio, and I wore the drive-thru headphones, they talked dirty to me with comments like, “Joe, tu mama la penga?” Or even nastier remarks like, “Fag boy likes the uncut dick.” Truly a human resource department’s worst nightmare. And here you thought McDonald’s employees were simply sharing into their headsets how you wanted your Quarter Pounder cooked. I tried playing off my disgust from their crude comments, but I finally gave in accepting the fact that they were right—I wanted cock. And if I got two for the price of one I’d consider that better than a Kmart blue light special. Why not just throw myself in head first, right? Anyone could suck one dick, but two dicks at the same time? That’s impressive. If there were a dick sucking hole punch card, I’d be that much closer to a free blow job.
Once I played along with their inappropriate broken English conversations, Sergio set the game in motion. Remember The Game of Life? Where you’d spin a wheel and move spaces to start a career? Start college? This was kinda-almost-slightly the same type of game except I called it The Puerto Rican Game of Life; where you flipped a pastele in the air to see who’s dick you sucked first. Don’t quote me, but I believe that version is the highest selling game in Puerto Rico.
Obviously, Sergio concocted bisexual rendezvous in the past. He manipulated our ears with filth to the point Jesús and I were heavily panting while handing Chicken McNuggets out the drive-thru window. The plan was initiated and the three of us decided to meet at McDonald’s at 2 a.m. Once there, we’d drive to Sergio’s apartment while his wife, Isabella, was out of town at a church group mission.
Thank you, Jesús. And the little baby Jesus.
I arrived at 1:55 a.m. and found Jesús already parked behind the restaurant in his beat up car. His car barely functioned but I could have cared less. My mouth was about to be stuffed like a Puerto Rican Big Mac. I pulled up alongside his car singing, “Two all beef pengas, special sauce, and some cheese…” You get the rest. It was about to go down. Correction: I was about to go down.
We sat on the hood of my car waiting for Sergio to arrive. We barely spoke. The fear bubbling off us was apparent. Finally at 2:30 a.m., Sergio called Jesús informing him that Isabella had come home early and the mission was cancelled. I was upset. Jesús was upset. I guarantee his dick was even more upset.
My mouth was devastated.
“What can we do, Joe?” Jesús asked standing beside my car while I stared at the bulge in his pants. He was 18 years old so I assumed even the thought of unzipping his pants made him excited. And he was Puerto Rican. With Puerto Rican men there is no such thing as straight. They all tend to end up bisexual by the end of the night. Asking a Puerto Rican guy if he wants his dick sucked is like asking a fat guy if he wants another piece of pie. The answer is always yes. It doesn’t matter who delivers the slice.
“I really wanted to suck some dick tonight.” I responded without looking at his face. I was dickmatized by his button up jeans, which I was certain held back more skin than a fat lady’s stomach after bypass surgery.
He grabbed his crotch and smiled. That’s all the confirmation I needed. I took the restaurant keys out of my pocket and we walked up to the side door and entered the McDonald’s. Who needed Sergio? Sure, I was hoping for two cocks but this wasn’t the time nor place to be nitpicky. When you are zero cocks and counting, you take the one you have available. I shut off the alarm inside the restaurant; I was terrified. Going to prison wasn’t as frightening as me losing my $6.10 per hour job as a shift manager. What about Irene? And my grandparents? What if the first cock I sucked ended up being in prison? I couldn’t worry about any of that. I had to pop my blow job cherry before I got carted off to prison, and here it was, in the same place I packaged up Happy Meals for children.
Without saying a word we walked behind the counter, through the grill area, and into the back storage room. I opened the walk-in freezer and immediately closed it. What was I thinking? Nobody wants to receive a blow job in a freezer. Eskimos might, but definitely not Puerto Ricans. While I searched for the ideal blow job location, Jesús stood there with his hands in his pockets letting me do all the work. If I ever questioned him being Puerto Rican, I didn’t anymore. Puerto Ricans refuse to work even when they are about to receive head.
I slide a tall bin to the side and found the perfect spot. As if Mary Magdalene herself led me there—from one Jesus hoe to another—I threw him down onto the semi mopped greasy floor and had my way with him. He didn’t stop me, nor did he care. There I was, a manager performing oral sex on one of my employees. Manager of the year? Not quite. Would an unprofessional act like that haunt me for the rest of my life? Who fucking cared. I was in the storage room at McDonald’s sucking dick under a week’s supply of Big Mac buns. I’m not lying. While readjusting my position, I pushed my hair out from my eyes, looked up, and saw a sleeve of buns hanging over my head. At least if I got hungry I’d have
something to snack on; it took Jesús forever to get off the cross.
If I’m confessing about blow jobs, there’s really no reason to stop now. No need for me to be shy. It should come as no shock that I am prone to sucking dick at work. I can’t help it. I clock in and then I cock in. It’s all in a day’s work. The second time I fellated a coworker was while I was employed as a nurse. Yes, pick your jaws up off the floor, I performed oral sex while inside the hospital working an overnight shift. Jesus Christ! I really am the devil. You might think with my own shot of Jesus juice I’d have turned out different—but sadly, it doesn’t work that way.
In 1998 I worked at a medium-sized hospital in Central Florida. One evening, right before I was about to report off, the nurse manager asked me to work a double shift in the Skilled Nursing Unit (SNU). That unit sucked. I hated it. Not because the work was hard but because the low census left me bored out of my fucking mind. Nights on the SNU unit left you searching for something—or someone—to occupy your time. Someone like Diego.
The night I met Diego, the SNU unit was quieter than normal. On really slow nights I’d quickly finish my assessments, hand out medications, and be done. It was that simple. Nothing more, nothing less. It was the rehabilitation unit, not ICU. But that night I was scheduled for a late night admission. While I sat at the nursing station with my legs up on the desk reading a book, I heard the wheels of a stretcher coming down the hall. Standing up to greet Diego and the other orderly, I watched them turn the corner with my new patient. An elderly lady with a bad attitude and a hip replacement. Two things that go together like pilots and alimony.
Diego handed me the patient’s paperwork, grinned awkwardly, and led the stretcher down the hallway to the appropriate room. Grabbing an empty chart folder, I started putting together the patient’s chart. There was no need for me to rush in while the patient care technician took vital signs, got the patient situated, and completed an inventory of her belongings. After they transferred the patient to the bed, Diego and his coworker pushed the stretcher passed the station again but I didn’t pay them any attention. Sitting back down, I started writing in the chart when I heard breathing above me. I looked up jumping, “Oh my God. You scared me.”
“I sorry. I am Diego. What’s up?”
We hired Neanderthals? I had no idea. I wanted to grab a dictionary and slap him across the head with it but I don’t believe that’s the fastest way to learn the English language. He never met an English verb he liked, or understood, that was for sure.
“I am doing well. I’m Joe. How are you?”
“Good. Good. Listen,” he smiled and I noticed some teeth were missing, “I have question.” He looked around to make sure nobody was near. “Want to do movie?”
Do movie? What the fuck did that mean? Was he asking me to go to the movies? How incredibly uncomfortable, especially with the gold wedding band shining from his finger.
“On a date? Are you asking me out on a date?” I laughed at him. He looked absolutely ridiculous standing there with his pock-marked face and wearing a blue surgical cap. His acne was so bad that if NASA lost all communication with the Space Shuttle, the astronauts could have easily mistaken Diego’s face for the runway during an emergency landing.
“Si. Si. Movie?” He smiled again and I looked away. I was working a 16 hour shift and the last thing I needed was his smile imprinted on my memory until the wee hours of the morning.
I smiled and put the patient’s chart under my arm. Fifteen minutes must have passed since the hip replacement arrived, and even if it hadn’t, she needed me more than Diego. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Diego, but thank you. I have to get back to work.” Walking around the nurse’s station, I headed towards the hip’s room never looking back. How long he stood there was anyone’s guess. Thirty seconds? Five minutes? Who knows. Most likely he walked away defeated in tears. I can’t guarantee it, but I am most certainly positive he cried. I’d bet that old lady’s recovered hip—he cried.
He also refused to give up. Three years I had worked in that hospital without ever seeing his face, and now, each time a new patient was brought up to my floor, it was by him and his gap-toothed smile. One night he brought me chocolates, another night a Coke. Soon we were chatting every single night although I barely understood half the words that came out of his mouth. Our late night interactions distracted me from my indifference towards him. Diego was not pretty. He wasn’t handsome, either. He’d have a hard time paying a prostitute for sex, but here he was bringing me treats, hitting on me, and with a wife and kids at home. I soaked it up. But why? What island magic did he sprinkle onto my late night chocolate treats? Was it some Voodoo hocus pocus that gay white men have no control over? The answer had to be hiding in his baggy light blue scrubs. The idea of a monster cock living between his legs intrigued me. Seconds after that thought entered my mind, I promised myself he’d be slapping me silly with it in no time.
During a random Diego encounter outside a patient’s room, he asked me for the 100th time to go out on a date and I finally agreed. He dropped to the floor. That’s the truth. He literally fell to the ground in shock. Exactly like the black lady did when she realized her husband wasn’t numb from the waist down. I don’t blame her. I’d fall to the ground, too. Even at 70 years old bitches need the dick.
“You go with me to movie?”
“Yes. I will.” I started towards another patient’s room, “now I have to get back to work.”
“Wait. I have plan. You call me at home. Tell wife you are hospital. You need me.” He looked around nervously again and pulled a wrinkled napkin from his pocket with his home phone number scribbled on it. He shook with fear. I expected he thought his wife hung out in the dirty linen can sitting next to the nursing station. “You understand?”
I took the number and stuffed it into my front scrub pocket. “Yeah. That’s fine.” I answered losing interest. I had no idea a simple movie date included a conversation with his wife. A wife who probably spoke less English than him. I’d be lying over the phone to some stranger who wouldn’t understanding a thing I was saying. That eased my guilt a little. I excused myself, remembering that I had to give an enema to an old man. That’s always a reality check.
When I spoke to his wife the conversation went well. She answered, “Hola.”
My nerves were shot but I went along with the plan, “Hi. This is Ben from the hospital. We are short staffed tonight and will need Diego to come into the hospital as soon as possible.”
“Hello Joe. Is me, Diego.”
Apparently she handed him the phone the moment I said, “This is Ben.” I had no idea my home-wrecking lie took only three words. I placed the call from the hospital parking lot and within 10 minutes he was pulling up next to my Kia Sportage and sitting in my passenger seat.
“Hi. That was eas—”
His tongue was down my throat before I restarted my car. Did I expect that? Possibly, but is anyone truly prepared for a tongue slapping while attempting to start a car? I struggled getting the car in drive. He paid for our movie tickets but we sucked face for the entire two hours. He whispered things into my ear but hell if I understood. Some words were in English. Some in Spanish. And some I’m pretty sure weren’t real words at all. When I dropped him off at his car, the front of his jeans were wet, and not from spilled popcorn butter. Diego created his own butter and spent the entire car ride persuading me to taste it. The entire experience had gone too far. Slightly flattered and highly grossed out, I declined. Two emotions I had no idea went together.
At work the next night he came up to the nursing station without a patient. “I think I love you.”
“You don’t love me, Diego. You have a wife.”
“I no want you to move to Seattle.” His accent butchered the name of the city, “You stay. Be with me.”
“You have three kids and a wife. I can’t be with you.” I left out the ugly part. No need kicking a homely man when he’s down.
“I be with
you and my wife.”
I laughed out loud, “Diego, I don’t think we should talk anymore. You are married and I am moving to Seattle. This is a bad idea.”
Seemed solid, right? I let him know the deal. Our date was bad. The fact he was married was bad. It would never work. It was over. I instantly missed my late night chocolate and Coke treats but ending this emotional affair was the only answer.
He started shifting from one foot to another. He removed his surgical cap and scratched his matted hair. I waited a second and continued, “Diego, are you listening to me? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Next thing I knew I was on my knees in a conference room with my mouth stuffed fuller than an altar boy at the Vatican. After we were done—which didn’t take long—I was barely able to function for the rest of the night. Did that happen? What was I thinking? Not the fact that I sucked a coworker’s dick, again, but that it was an ugly person’s dick. Was I so desperate for dick that I’d take any dick? What was next? Homeless dick? Transgender dick? Random guy in the back of Walmart dick?
After that dickscapade, I had a few nights off to think about what I had done. My pager went off with Diego’s number but I never replied. He called my house a few times, which reminded me never to give out my home phone number again. When the phone rang, I’d refuse to budge from my bedroom. On one occasion Irene opened my door, “There’s some Puerto Rican guy on the phone who barely speaks any fucking English?”
“It’s probably work. Tell them I’m not here.”
“I don’t think so, Joe. This is the third time he’s called.” She left my room and closed the door.
While working my shifts I avoided him at every turn. If I heard a stretcher coming down the hall, I’d hide in a patient’s room until I knew he was gone. Sometimes I’d hide in an empty room, or in a bathroom, afraid he’d come searching for me. A few times I feared being stabbed to death by a handful of syringes.
