July 2, 20—
328 Bretton Way
5:00 P.M.
Denver’s arrangement does not go as planned, Toby learns when arriving at the nutritionist’s Tudor for a tour and instructions while house-sitting. Rather, a white standard envelope is stuck between the Tudor’s screen and storm doors. On its front is Toby’s name in blue ballpoint pen, which he knows is Denver’s scrawl. Inside the envelope are two items, a silver key to the front door to the place, and a beige index card that reads: Toby, had to run to the airport. My plane isn’t leaving at seven, it’s leaving at six. My mistake. Take care. And thanks. DR
Toby makes his way inside the Tudor. The first thing he notes is the thick aroma of a honeysuckle air freshener mixed with Denver’s perspiration. Two kitties bounce into the room—purebred gray Russian Blues named Karen and Valley—and skirt around his ankles. Valley mews and then gets swatted by her sister, Karen. Frankly, Toby can’t tell the pair of felines apart, so he simply picks one to call Valley and the other Karen, randomly.
After petting “the girls” as Denver calls his pussies, Toby looks around the Tudor’s main floor, scoping out its low ceilings, narrow hallways, and tiny rooms. Such rooms consist of a modest living room area to the left, an unused dining room area to the right, and a kitchen in the rear. All are decorated by one of Templeton’s best interior designers, Marshall Patton. And all are tidy, showing no dust, clutter, or broken anything.
Upstairs is just as blah as downstairs. A miniature bathroom sits at the top of twenty-one steps. To the right of the bathroom is Denver’s room, which has baby blue walls, three windows, and a walnut dresser with a high definition Sony television planted on its top. To the left of the dwarf-size bathroom is a second bedroom where guests, which includes Toby, can spend a night or two.
Toby decides not to sleep in the spare room. Instead, he likes to live on the edge sometimes and drops his North Face knapsack on Denver’s bedroom floor, climbs on his bed, and inhales the redhead in a stalking-like manner, becoming numb in Denver’s strong and sweaty scent. Fuck the guest room when he can sleep where Denver sleeps. Since the opportunity for Toby will never occur to fuck the redhead, this is about as close he can get to the man, besides sliding his tongue inside Denver’s tight asshole, which will probably never happen, either.
Denver’s queen-size bed is lush with comfort and not at all a disappointment for Toby. Frankly, it is so unbelievably cozy, it prompts Toby to undress, clear down to his bearish birthday suit, and slip between its summer sheet—a cotton blend that Denver probably purchased from an uppity designing establishment called Nature’s Fine Linens—and mattress cover.
Of course, Toby thinks about masturbating on Denver’s bed, jacking a load of semen on its cheap cotton and two pillows while imagining the redhead’s palms and fingers around his dick, gliding the excess skin on Toby’s erection up and down, getting off. This doesn’t occur, though. Rather, Toby closes his eyes, drifts into sleep, and naps.