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“You’re certainly in a chipper mood today.” Chatty observations of this nature were rarely articulated by the office’s most uncompromising feminist. Russell had been making a particularly pitiful attempt at whistling the refrain from Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” as he and Mary Ann waited for the elevator.
Russell stopped mid-whistle. “Well, Mary Ann, life is short. It really doesn’t make sense to waste precious time wallowing in negativity.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
Russell quickly realized that if he failed to respond with pitch-perfection, he might very well find himself in hot water. It was clear what Mary Ann was really asking: Are you suggesting that I’m a Debbie Downer or, in plainer, cruder terms, a bitch? Luckily, the opening elevator doors gave him a momentary reprieve to consider a passable reply. Russell took a half-step back, offering a nod to suggest that the lady enter the car first. Mary Ann offered him a pithy sneer for his chivalry, but took him up on it anyway, while assuming the haughty carriage of royal entitlement.
“Wait, wait! Hold that elevator!” Russell pushed the “open-door” button to give Ed time to scoot inside. The presence of a third person, Russell assumed, would insure a change of subject during the ride down to the garage. “Mercy bo-kups,” Ed exclaimed, in deliberately botched French. As the car commenced its descent, Ed took notice of the mindless grin creasing Russell’s mug. “Look’s like somebody’s been enjoyin’ bein’ off the leash!” he teased.
“Not really,” Russell answered, crisply.
“Well, then,” Ed pried, “Pray tell... what’s with the good mood?”
“That’s what Mary Ann was just asking about,” Russell said, unable to hold back a grin. “Right, Mary Ann?” She, however, was pretending to be listening to voicemails on her new, company-issued Nokia phone. The two men traded smirks. It was common knowledge that there was no cell signal in the elevator. “Anyway,” Russell continued. “At the risk of tallying up unhatched chickadees, I’m feelin’ pretty darn good about the stair-lift company.” To the frequent frustration of Ed and others on the sales team, Russell tended to keep the status of pending accounts hush-hush until they were signed, sealed, and filed away. This time, however, he was dangling a carrot purely for the purpose of distracting a chronically indiscreet coworker from whatever other suspicions he might be entertaining.
“Way to kick ass, Bro!” Ed exclaimed, raising his right hand for an expected high five. Purposefully, Russell ignored this juvenile gesture. Still, he took note that Ed did have at least one admirable quality, being as he was, capable of delighting in a teammate feathering his pockets with a big commission.
“Thanks, Bro,” Russell said, putting sarcastic emphasis on the word “Bro” as he shot a sidelong glance toward Mary Ann. She continued fake-listening to her phone, while savoring a private chuckle over Ed’s clownishness.
“You-da-man!” Ed exuded, before finally lowering his still un-slapped palm. Russell’s optimism about this particular sale aside, his grin was really about having received the best possible news about his health status. And, the parts of his male anatomy dangling under that soon-to-be feathered pocket were also living in a kind of gleeful anticipation that Ed couldn’t possibly comprehend. The elevator doors opened at the garage level. “Après vous, Mademoiselle,” Ed said to Mary Ann, sweeping his hand, palm up, toward the exit with exaggerated gallantry.
Mary Ann looked up from her phone, locked eyes with Ed, and muttered a flippant, “Fuck you.”
“That’ll be the day, M’Lady,” Ed joshed, before following her out into the clangy, cavernous, underground garage. As they’d done dozens of times, Ed and Russell proceeded to trudge in the direction of their assigned parking spaces. “That woman hates my fuckin’ guts,” Ed stewed. It baffled Russell how this guy could remain so clueless. Sure, Mary Ann was a tough nut to crack. But at least 90-percent of the blame for this chronic disharmony fell on Ed’s shoulders. After all, you don’t win the hearts and minds of women like Mary Ann by acting as poster boy for every unappealing masculine trait imaginable.
“Yep,” Russell agreed. He was about to change the subject when any chance of verbal communication was drowned out by the rumble of a revving engine reverberating off the cinder block walls, immediately followed by a deafening screech of tires. As Russell suspected, the source of the racket was Mike, at the wheel of his immaculately restored, early-70s-era Dodge Charger. The muscle car pulled up alongside Ed and Russell, matching their pace as the passenger-side window rolled down. Identifying a more sympathetic audience, Ed repeated his complaint to Mike about Mary Ann, who was legging it 10 yards behind, now engaged in actual conversation on her phone.
“I wouldn’t fuck that bitch with your dick!” declared Mike. This jingoistic wisecrack made “Bro” Ed’s day, sending him roiling in peels of belly laughter. Meanwhile, Russell didn’t break stride, nor did he relinquish his grin. He pointed his key remote at his Celica, which responded with a pair of high-pitched Toyota beeps. Nothing could have better signified the stark difference in the world views of two men than the ground-shaking roar of Mike’s Detroit-built V8 next to the timid hum of Russell’s fuel-efficient, four-cylinder Japanese import. “Hey!” Mike addressed Ed. “The bee-otch may think you’re an asshole. But, at least she knows you’re not queer bate like Rusty Boy.” Mike proceeded to underline his offensive punchline by pumping his accelerator like a lion claiming supremacy on the Serengeti. Refusing to give a bully like Mike the pleasure of ruining his good mood, Russell pretended he hadn’t heard the insult. Not getting his desired response, Mike peeled out like a spoiled, zit-cheeked punk on senior skip day.
By now, Mary Ann had caught up. Unlike Russell, she wasn’t feigning deafness. “Oh, God!” she teased, through a sly, off-kilter smile, “tell me it’s not true, Russ!” She added perfect punctuation to this wisecrack by tossing her Prada valise into the boot of her BMW E36. Russell had to squelch the urge to ask Mary Ann the same question she’d posed to him five minutes earlier, as they awaited the elevator... What exactly are you saying? He cringed at the possibility that Mary Ann might possess a super-acute sense of gaydar. Maybe, she’d always harbored suspicions that he was queer and closeted. On the other hand, it seemed altogether uncharacteristic for this woman to care even the tiniest whit about Russell’s sexual orientation, or to waste mental energy pondering the secret sexual preferences of any man, for that matter.
No one would have considered Mary Ann a natural beauty. But she devoted considerable effort and invested substantial resources into optimizing what native appeal she possessed. And she was not above using her sexual allure to gain advantage. Russell chuckled at an ironic realization: Mary Ann’s sardonic quip conjured up memories of schoolyard flirtations, when a girl being mean to a boy (or vice versa) was actually the first sign of a crush. And, although it seemed silly, he would have liked to think that this female juggernaut found him somewhat attractive. The slamming of Mary Ann’s trunk echoed off the concrete walls like a bomb, portending more explosions to come. Because, for better or for worse, Russell Deacon drove out and away from that parking garage and immediately set upon blowing up everything in his life — bit by bit.
≈ ≈ ≈
For some inexplicable reason, the crunching noise of each individual step seemed louder than normal. Except for some bird chirps and a distant airplane, Russell’s leather dress shoes treading the woodland path, stealthily, intentionally, provided the only sound.
Twenty minutes earlier, he’d been motoring along his usual route, harboring every intention of heading directly home. Then, it crossed his mind, with Tess and boys out of town, no one was expecting him. He considered swinging by Boston Market. But dinner could wait. And, in truth, the hunger gurgling in his gut was for something other than roasted chicken. As had occurred countless times before, craving drowned out rationality and impulse seized the wheel. There was little he could do to deny it. The Celica drove itself into the left turn lane, as the clicking of the turn signal sent a suggestive Morse Code message directly to Russell’s groin. Swinging through the intersection, he sensed his tingling genitals siphoning blood away from his other extremities, arming up to answer the call of duty. His heartbeat quickened. His face flushed. And, his bowels stirred.
When Russell’s thoughts began entertaining certain possibilities and there stood a chance those possibilities might soon be manifested, his sphincter muscles would immediately loosen their grip. As the Celica’s tires ground noisily across the gravel parking lot, the necessity of locating a toilet was becoming urgent. An Andy Gump stood a stone’s throw from the jogging trail. Finding the fiberglass out-building occupied was disconcerting. Luckily, the door swung open and out bounded a thin, spikey haired, bleach-blonde fellow, clad in a multicolored tank top and a pair of skimpy, canary-yellow running shorts. “It’s all yours,” he lisped, with a wily grin. Yellow Shorts lingered for a few seconds to check Russell out from head to toe. Although Russell was still dressed in his work clothes, his square attire didn’t inhibit a positive review. “Nice,” Yellow Shorts assessed, before pirouetting to bound, deer-like, in the direction of the trail. The man’s brazenness made Russell blush. Still, he felt flattered that someone found him desirable.
Ten minutes later, there he was, newly purged bowels and all, taking loud, crunchy steps deeper into the woods. The evidence of prior clandestine couplings — cigarette butts, condom wrappers, and wads of tissue — lay strewn here and there, under the larger trees, behind thickets, and between boulders. It always disturbed Russell to witness how thoughtless some men were to leave such detritus on the forest floor. Still, he knew that this particular kind of litter invariably meant that he stood a good chance of coming across guys in the act. Deep-throated laughter wafted through the trees. The source of the merriment was not far away. Russell stopped, like a kid playing statue tag on the grammar-school playground and waited, hoping to get a bead on where the noise was coming from. In the absence of leaf-and-twig-crushing footsteps, he was able to pick out the low, indistinct hum of sporadic chatter. Cautiously, he began guerilla-ninja-ing toward the sound.
He found them on a slope at the edge of the creek. One of the men was standing, head tilted back, eyes closed. The second fellow had his back to Russell, crouched down on his haunches, with his face next to the standing man’s crotch. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to discern what was going on. And, if there had been any question about it, confirmation came when the standing man spoke. “Oh, yeah,” he urged, “suck it. Take it all.” Russell had ferreted out his ideal voyeuristic scenario: A clear view of two guys getting it on, both oblivious to his presence. With his eyes fixed on the action, Russell loosened his belt, unzipped his fly and lowered his trousers and undershorts down past his buttocks. He had always found it unsatisfactory to simply pull out his willy and have at it. Achieving optimum gratification required feeling the outside air on his ass and thighs. He worked up a mouthful of saliva, spit a wad into his palm, and began lubricating his throbbing hard on. Each consecutive stroke assured him that he would soon be contributing a dollop of milky protein nutrient to the forest floor.
Russell’s self-pleasuring was picking up momentum, when a twig under his right foot snapped, prompting the standing man to open his eyes. Immediately recognizing those pale-blue orbs, under that thick mop of ebony hair, Russell’s jaw dropped open. Bryan identified Russell as well. Not appearing to be the slightest bit self-conscious about what, to Russell, seemed a particularly awkward happenstance, Bryan exhibited a broad smile. In contrast, Russell simply stood there, cock in hand, gawking in disbelief. Countless men perused places like this for the purpose of hooking up. Certainly, there had always been a remote chance that a coincidental meeting might take place. But, it had always seemed the longest of longshots that Russell would ever run into someone he knew at the very minute that person was getting his knob gobbled.
Bryan waved a friendly “come on over” gesture, a clear, unambiguous invitation to join in the fun. Russell’s automatic reaction was a subtle shake of his head. Bryan’s return shoulder shrug said, “Whatever, Buddy. Suit yourself.” Then, he closed his blue eyes again and resumed encouraging his partner. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “you love it, don’t you!”
While the serendipity of this situation was unnerving, it was also enormously exhilarating. Russell couldn’t simply retreat, not while sporting a yet-to-be-satisfied, rock-hard erection. He needed to finish before making his escape. Turning to the side to avoid further eye contact with Bryan, Russell was startled to discover someone lurking behind him. As his aroused package came into view, Yellow Shorts cast a lustful gander down at the thing in Russell’s hand and reiterated his earlier assessment: “Nice.” Eyes fixed on the prize, Yellow Shorts reached out, with the clear intention of stroking it. By now, overwhelm had rendered Russell a tad woozy. Only a couple of minutes ago, he’d been on a glide path toward safe, blissful, solo sex. In the interim, he’d been invited into a three-way by his volunteer-assistant Little League coach and a man in the loudest, least-modest jogging shorts on the planet was attempting to grab his junk.
Russell’s reaction was totally instinctual. He slapped the man’s hand away. “Don’t you dare touch it!” he hissed.
“Okay! Okay!” Yellow Shorts blurted. “You don’t have to be a bitch about it.”
Hastily, Russell pulled up his undershorts and pants. Without zipping up or buckling his belt, he set off stomping through the brush toward the path, grasping his trousers to keep them from falling down. Wrinkled shirt tails wafting like ballpark pennants, dress shoes indiscriminately shattering twigs and pulverizing fallen leaves, he charged hurriedly away from the creek-side orgy. Despite his frenzied state, Russell was still very much aroused. He had failed to achieve relief in the shower the night before. This circumstance risked a painful case of blue balls. So, after putting what seemed a safe distance between himself and the others, he ducked behind a large boulder to finish the deed.
Russell’s ejaculation arrived with a moan of such ultimate pleasure, it might well have been audible in the next county. However, he had no more than three seconds to savor the sensation before he detected footsteps approaching on the path. Feeling the presence of another person on the other side of the boulder, Russell held his breath. Panic pressure welled up in his temples and forehead. The wooziness returned. He leaned his shoulder blades against the stone to prevent from toppling over. “Way to get ‘er done, Coach!” Recognizing Bryan’s voice provided momentary relief. Still, standing there in the woods with his private parts still exposed, Russell wasn’t about to trade witticisms. With his entire body still quivering from orgasmic release, the scene seemed so absurd that he had to muffle a chortle.
After what seemed an interminable few seconds, the footsteps resumed and faded into the distance. Russell finally felt free to exhale. That Bryan had demonstrated sufficient discretion to refrain from further invasion into his private self-pleasuring was to be appreciated. Still, with that one dubious compliment — “Way to get ‘er done, Coach!” — Bryan had reminded Russell that, after years of secrecy, someone finally had his number. Then again, Russell had Bryan’s number, too. These two men had just shared a secret so personal, so confidential, and so potentially volatile that it could never be revealed — to anyone else, ever. What they would do about it — or what they chose not to do about it, for that matter — was a question for another day.