[Although presented as told by Burt, this story is fiction. Therefore, all the names and details are invented.]
When the guy who bought the house next door occupied it, I never saw him. Later, I learned he'd moved in by a small u-haul van unloaded in a matter of minutes. Later he had either his red pickup or his sporty red convertible parked in the driveway. The other half of the double garage held his two motorcycles, so the neighbors on the other side told me.
It must be an investment, I figured. What else does a guy want with a four-bedroom house? Unless he was getting married. No sign of that. As for me, I was house sitting for the parents' who were testing out Florida. I was between boyfriends, and trying to write a short story good enough for the New Yorker or the likes. If I could buckle down in a small town without too many distractions, I just might get something done.
He worked odd hours, mostly at night, and I never saw any signs of life during the day. About three-four weeks went by before Brad came over to introduce himself. He saw me one weekend afternoon upon arriving home while I was outside mowing the yard. I cut the power bar to shake hands with him.
Brad was a shy guy who shuffled his feet and never quite looked me in the eye. He did warm up in the conversation, though, when he talked about the search he'd made before buying his house. He'd looked at several in the neighborhood, and thought he'd made the best deal. He was some kind of engineer; I never really understood exactly what or where. But obviously he was smart, frugal, and disciplined. Also uptight.
It was a warm day, but he wore slacks, a long-sleeved, white shirt and tie, and sensible oxfords. He had his sleeves rolled up, though, and I could see he was a hairy guy; the black stuff covered his arms and poked up around the shirt color. He was extremely well groomed but with a dark "five o'clock shadow," and a thick head of hair, barber fresh and sharply parted on the left. A little longer and I think it would start to wave and curl of its own. Thirtyish, maybe. Same as me.
I told him I was watching the parents' house before he asked about any family. Except for his purchase of the house, carrying a conversation proved hard for him. I did find out he'd worked in other states after the navy, that he'd owned houses before, and about the motorcycles. "I don't ride as much as I used to," he said. The distance remained, and I never invited him in, for a drink or anything. I thought, instead, of the story deadlines I'd set myself. Better to stick to business.
When I work on a story, I give in to it, and lose all sense of time and schedule. Generally I go until I burn out, somewhere around the middle of the night. And because I work alone, I don't dress, and often go nude. One night, probably 4 a.m., I could do no more, and decided to knock off. I walked out the lower floor where I roomed and worked and stretched my naked body in the moonlight. The parents didn't allow smoking in the house, and I don't smoke much, but I do to unwind, and so I was out for a few goodnight puffs.
In the dark, you can often hear rustling in the distance, raccoons mostly, and the deer start moving towards dawn. Sometimes the wind rustles the aspen leaves or breezes move other stuff around. Clear nights, you can see the bats zickering by. I heard Brad's car before I saw it; then his car lights flashed into the drive. I doubt he saw me, a level below and somewhat shielded. I stood still and continued dragging on my Marlboro.
Brad stood by his car for awhile and then locked it up before going around to the far side of his house from me, and probably entering from the back porch and kitchen door. I was about finished smoking when a light flickered on and then was out in the upstairs facing bedroom. In the dark he opened the blind and window. I saw the shadow outline of his body framed by the window sashes. Brad undid his tie, pulled out his shirt and stepped out of his pants. That much I could tell, but no real detail. He stood there for about five minutes, and it seemed that he was silently jacking himself. Then he was gone.
I didn't see Brad again for a long time. A couple times I saw signs of other people. One afternoon, a guy parked his pickup in front and went to the front door and knocked a few times. He sort of looked around, then left. Another time, a snazzy sports car was there over the weekend, and I wondered if it was his parents.
I'd forgotten about the previous outdoor episode, when about six weeks later, I pulled another all nighter. Noting that Brad was about due home, I made my way upstairs, and stepped out onto the deck. I lit up and waited. On my third cigarette, I heard the low buzz of Brad's car and held steady when the lights flashed into view at the turn and blanked out at the stop. Brad eased out of his car, stood for a moment, and headed for his disappearing act. Moments later, the same flicker of light and Brad opened his window. Yes, he definitely was whanging himself. I stood directly opposite him and pulled on my own joy stick. Neither of us vocalized or shot. It was just a matter of showing size and staying hard.
One Sunday afternoon, I almost collided with Brad in the supermarket. He looked embarrassed and pretended not to notice me. 'Brad, it's Burt. You do eat, then.' A lame thing to say; I knew he put out garbage, but I never saw him do it.
'You, too.' He was ready to hurry away.
'We should get together sometime. Burgers and beer? But I don't know your schedule.'
'How about breakfast?'
'Sure. When?' I tried not to sound too eager.
'Oh, some day next week. I get off work at 4 a.m. I'll see how I feel.'
'Just come to the downstairs patio. I'll leave the door open. You'll need a flashlight.'
'Thanks for the invite.' And he was gone.
'What does this mean?' I asked myself. The week went by, and I imagined it was Brad's usual avoidance. After I waited for him Monday, I slept the rest of the mornings.
In my dream, I was on a desert island with usual palm trees and sand. From doing nothing, I was taking a siesta in my hammock when I felt something crawling on me like a spider tiptoeing down my sternum to me treasure chest.
I had this anxiety that it was a tarantula ready to sting me right in the vitals. Instead something lifted my cock and started treating it like a Popsicle. Reaching consciousness, I realized I was on the receiving end of a warm, fluid blow job in my own bed.
'Nummy,' he said. It was Brad's voice. I shifted to make room for him, and he crawled between my legs, still licking, sucking and eating me. I felt for him, discovering he'd shed his clothes. His chest and back were covered with hair. I massaged his neck and locked my legs at the ankle over his back.
'Help yourself,' I said. 'Take as much as you want.'
'It's been a long time,' Brad whispered. 'I'm afraid, I really am hungry.'
'Don't apologize. Just dig in.'
He shuffled himself, and I could feel the head of his hose up against my asshole.
'Okay?'
'Okay.' I let myself relax, and he began porking me.
His entry was a bit awkward, but cautious. However his hirsute body, well-muscled arms, and manly scent excited me. That and the thought that for the first time in half a year I was going to be fucked by a hunk who really wanted me.
Brad moved my legs over his shoulders and then way back over my head so that my ass was in prime line for his humpty-dumpty. In that position I couldn't reciprocate by complimentary motion, but every time he swung at me, his full hammer hit me where I live. In five minutes though my ass was burning, my toes were tingling and my balls were throbbing. He kept it up another half-hour during which time I came twice before he ever shot. Talk about your man of iron will.
He fell on me after his final spasm, and I let him sleep until noon when I brought him breakfast in bed. We showered, and I fucked him. We slept, and he fucked me. I woke when he'd gone back to his house. It was a Saturday. I never saw him again.
Later I learned he sold the house, quit his job, and moved on. Nobody I asked knew his name other than Brad, and no one knew where he had worked. Gone, but not forgotten as they say.
The parents returned at the end of the summer. I took my manuscripts, computer, and headed back to Chicago, city of sin.