Fuck Buddy (31 page)

“It’s huge,” I said.

“I fucking knew it,” she said as she held her hand in the air.

I slapped my hand against hers and grinned. “How’d you know?”

“I can tell. How he walks, how he carries himself,” she said.

I nodded my head as if I knew what she was talking about even though I had no clue.

“So, why’d you move here from San Diego?” I asked.

“Got tired of being used as a punching bag,” she said.

“Broke up with the ex?” I asked.

“Not so much. Left when he got tossed in jail,” she said.

I nodded my head. “I left mine six months ago.”

“Left your what?” she asked.

“My boyfriend beat me up too. I left him,” I said.

“Fuck yes,” she said as she held her hand in the air again.

I slapped her hand. “Fuck yes,” I repeated.

“What brought you here?” I asked as I pointed to the floor.

“Oh here? Like Wichita?” she asked.

I nodded my head. “Yeah, here.”

“My mother. I was living in California with my father through high school. So, I just stayed there. My mother lives here, so I said ‘good bye, asshole’, and here I am,” she said.

“Well, I’m glad you’re away from him,” I said.

“I’ll use you as my inspiration. Maybe in six months I’ll be getting some of that big Kansas cock, just like you,” she said.

“Maybe so,” I said.

I turned toward the door as the buzzer sounded. Blake walked in carrying two bags. I glanced down at his crotch. There was an obvious bulge in the center of his jeans. It looked like he was sneaking a pickle in with the lunch he carried. I took a step back and watched him walk into the shop. With each step, his left hip swayed backward slightly and his shoulder followed. It was something, until Stevie had mentioned it, that I had yet to notice.

He had a certain element of swagger to his walk. She was right. Blake had a big cock and he knew it.

And so did I.

Somehow I needed to convince him to let me have it.

BLAKE

My life had been a series of ups and downs, never staying in one place for very long. I did realize I played a huge part in the peaks and valleys in which my mind resided, but maintaining an even keel was difficult for me, and even though I realized it was difficult for everyone else on earth, it was apparent it wasn’t
equally
difficult.

I was different.

I had always been different.

I found comfort in Riley; what she offered me mentally, physically, and emotionally was unlike anything I had previously received as the result of human contact. Keeping her in my life would require consistency on my part, and being constant or living an unchanging life had never been strengths I possessed.

Confused on how to proceed with life, but desperately wanting my time with her to continue, the answer came to me at an AA meeting. Or, at least what I believed to be the answer. Steps two, three, and four were exactly what I needed to apply to my life. I felt if I adhered to the principles of the program, progress was certain.

There was no way millions of converted drunks could be wrong.

“Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” This was easy for me. I had been trying to restore myself to sanity for some time, and had been rather unsuccessful. In fact, my way of doing things landed me in the very meetings I was using to attempt to correct my life. For me to believe God or a resemblance of God might be able to make changes for the better in me and my life was simple. I knew I couldn’t, so to believe he could wasn’t a stretch at all.

“Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God
as we
understood Him.
” If I wanted the previous step to work for me, believing this step could be skipped or cast aside was impossible. I had never been a person to pray, go to church, or even discuss God, but I was now convinced my lack of contact with him just might have contributed to the emotional roller coaster my life had become.

“Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” After discussing the steps with an old timer, he explained the importance of performing this step. If I stepped out of myself and stood as a critical examiner of who Blake West was from a moral standpoint, I was disappointed with him. This step allowed me to become aware of the changes I needed to make in me to become the person I deeply desired to be.

But first things should always come first, so I prayed for the ability to have eyes that could see, ears that could hear, and a mind that was able to discern right from wrong.

I was now proceeding with life listening more, talking less, and at least attempting to be a man with a moral compass. As much as I admired Riley and her simple way of living life, I decided to follow her lead. I expected if I did, my life would become a mirror image of hers.

Or so I hoped.

“The food was fantastic,” I said as I leaned away from the table.

“Thank you,” Riley’s mother said. “I can’t take complete credit, Riley helped out.”

“Well, to whoever was in involved, it was fabulous,” I said.

They looked at each other and shared a moment of infectious pride. Riley’s mother wasn’t at all what I expected her to be. I envisioned a slightly overweight housewife wearing an apron covered in flour and handprints, having her hair pinned in neat little sections - always one step away from finishing it. Through the house she would run, trying desperately to have the meal prepared in time, later apologizing for her appearance as we ate.

From twenty feet away, she could pass for Riley. Sitting side by side, they could easily pass for sisters who were ten years apart in age. She shared Riley’s lips, eyes, facial structure, and body. And, although I wasn’t sexually attracted to Riley’s mother, noticing she also shared Riley’s little round ass was painfully obvious.

“So, what made you decide to become a tattoo artist?” her mother asked.

I stared down at my forearm and recalled my first tattoo. The piece was on my chest; something I intended to hide from everyone but felt I desperately needed to make my life complete. A traditional tattoo - a dagger through a skull - represented bravery to me. Receiving the tattoo was a huge step, something I wanted to do for a long time but had always found a reason not to get. One day when the time was right I went into a tattoo parlor, tossed the money on the counter, and let the artist proceed at will.

The remaining tattoos were like everything else in my life, the result of an addict feeding his addictions. I didn’t regret any of them, as I felt the combination of all of my artwork in some way, shape, or form depicted who I was - or at least who I was at the time I received them.

In all honesty, the tattoos changed me. Receiving each one allowed me to release something from within myself I had spent a lifetime either subconsciously protecting, or attempting to rid myself of.

But.

It was the artist that made each and every one of them possible.

I shifted my eyes from my forearm to Riley’s mother and did my best to explain myself. “Tattooing in the United States started in the 1800’s, and the first tattoo parlor opened in New York City in 1870. A German immigrant who had spent his time in the states tattooing Civil War soldiers finally decided to open a shop offering his service to anyone willing to spend the money to get a tattoo. In 1891, a man invented the electric tattoo machine, and tattooing really took off.”

I opened my arms wide and leaned toward the table. “Tattoos have become a way for people to represent bravery, receive perceived protection, or in remembrance of an event or person. For many, myself included, they’re an outlet - but they are always permanent, and they’re only as good as the man who applies them; the artist. I had always been a great artist and took tremendous pride in my work, so I decided to offer the service of changing the lives of people one tattoo at a time. I believe the quality of my work is second to no one. The sad thing is most people won’t even realize it until a decade or two has passed, and their brother’s, sister’s, or friend’s tattoos are awful looking while theirs are still as good as day one. So, I don’t know, I think I started because I wanted to make a difference in people’s lives.”

I leaned back in my chair and waited for the arguments to start.

“That’s an admirable reason. I’ve always wanted one, but was afraid it would hurt too much. Does it hurt?” she asked.

“It does. Anyone who says it doesn’t is lying. It’s the price you pay in addition to the price you pay. A tattoo is a huge commitment, and the pain is part of the commitment, I suppose,” I said.

“I’ll wait until I’m ready,” she said.

Riley turned toward her mother and widened her eyes slightly. “I didn’t know you wanted a tattoo.”

“I’ve always wanted one. Well, not always, but for a long time,” she responded.

“Of what?” Riley asked.

“That’s just it,” her mother said. “I don’t know.”

“So, you’ve never been married, and you don’t have any children?” she asked.

I pursed my lips and shook my head from side-to-side. “No ma’am. No ex-wives, no kids.”

“And no family. I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. I’ve got Riley, she’s family enough,” I said.

I turned toward Riley and smiled. She smiled in return. She looked even more beautiful than normal, I guessed as the result of being filled with the pride from having me meet her mother. Regardless of the reason, she was beautiful beyond compare.

In the past, I had likened a beautiful woman to a beautiful tattoo; something that took care and imagination to develop, yet required constant maintenance to prolong the elegance.

Riley was an exception. She was beautiful without preparation or maintenance.

“I’m going to get the sweets,” Riley said as she stood from her seat.

I pushed myself from the table and stood. “Let me help.”

“No, I’ll get it. You can sit and talk,” she said as she turned away.

Riley disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone with her mother. For whatever reason, being alone with her caused me to be slightly uncomfortable. I had no reason, and although I wasn’t sure, I suspected being around Riley’s mother caused me to understand I didn’t have a mother, at least not one that was alive.

She leaned forward and studied me for a short time, making me even more nervous. After what seemed like an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than ten seconds, she sighed lightly.

“So, your name is Blake, you don’t have kids, you’ve never been married, and you’re nice to my daughter, at least from what she says. You have manners, you’re well spoken, and you have your own business. In my mind, Riley hit a home run. Have you always lived here?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am,” I responded.

“If I may ask, what’s your last name?” she asked.

“West,” I said.

“Blake West?” she asked.

I nodded my head. “Yes ma’am.”

She shifted her eyes to the side and sat quietly as she appeared to become lost in thought. As I sat nervously waiting for her to continue, she didn’t. After a moment, Riley came into the room carrying a platter with coffee and slices of cake.

“Tiramisu, your favorite,” she said as she held the platter in front of me.

I reached for a cup of coffee and a slice of cake. “My favorite?”

“No,” she said. “Hers.”

“Riley, I’m sorry,” her mother said as she stood. “Blake, my apologies. I’m going to have to go to my room. I’m afraid my stomach has gone sick, like bad sick.”

“Mom, are you okay?” Riley asked.

Her mother shook her head. She appeared totally different than she had all night. Instead of the cheerful woman who we had shared dinner with, her face appeared vacant and lost.

“I’m sorry Riley. I’m afraid I’m going to be sick,” she said as she raised her hand to her mouth.

“Blake,” she said as she turned to face me. “It was a pleasure.”

I stood from my seat and nodded my head. “Thank you, Ma’am. Likewise.”

“I’m sorry, mom,” Riley said.

Her mother nodded, forced herself to smile, turned and walked away. In a few steps she disappeared down the hallway which led into the living area of the house.

“That’s sad. I was having fun. What happened?” Riley asked.

“I was too. I don’t know. We were talking and she seemed to fade away or something. Does she do that?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” she asked as she lowered the platter to the table.

As she sat down, I continued. “I don’t know. She told me she thought you hit a home run in finding me then she asked me my last name. I answered her and she looked like she was trying to think of something else to ask, and she just faded off. Like her eyes got glazed over and glassy and she didn’t say anything else. Then you walked in.”

“Huh. No, she doesn’t do anything like that. Maybe it was the chicken or something. I thought it was cooked all the way through. Do you feel okay?” she asked.

I raised my cup of coffee. “I’m good.”

She tilted her head toward the cup. “Black, just like you like it.”

“Thanks,” I said as I took a sip of the much needed coffee.

“Wow. Well, that sucks,” she said as she tilted her head toward the hallway.

“Yeah, bad deal,” I said as I sipped the coffee.

We sat and ate the three pieces of cake, sharing the third piece. The differences in doing what we were doing and what I was accustomed to doing were drastic. Sitting in the shop eating a sandwich left over from lunch at ten o’clock at night was my typical dinner a month before I met Riley, and now I was eating tiramisu with a fork and drinking coffee from an ornate porcelain cup.

I glanced at her and grinned, truly grateful for her allowing me into her life.

“Let me clean this up and we’ll go back to my room,” she said as she stood from her seat.

“Your room? You don’t live here,” I said.

She scrunched her nose and stared. “I used to. When I left my room didn’t disappear.”

“Oh,” I said as I stood.

Together we carried the dishes to the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, and cleaned the countertops and the dining room table. After everything was back to the way it was long before our arrival, she held her hand to the side and shifted her eyes in my direction.

I encompassed her hand in mine as I followed her out of the kitchen and along the same hallway her mother had disappeared down. The last door on the left was open, revealing a perfectly preserved bedroom from when I expected Riley left immediately following high school.

“It’s bright,” I said as I peered through the door.

She tugged against my arm. “Come on.”

After she pulled my arm straight, I shuffled behind her and into the room. The bed was covered in a pale yellow comforter and decorated with no less than a dozen pillows - all a different shade of yellow or blue. Two of the walls were painted light grey, and the other two were painted a complimentary blue-grey.

Although it certainly wouldn’t have been my choice of colors, it looked like she had hired someone to decorate it. For a normal person to choose the colors of all of the accessories in the room and have them match as well as they did would have been impossible.