On Archimedes Street (29 page)

Frenchy was now rutting for all he was worth, and slapping Dutch around the ears. “Stupid oaf! Big galoot! Arrogant asshole!”

Dutch’s throat was taking a beating, and he began to notice. “Time out, you little cocky—” He licked the length of the cock. “—bantam rooster.” Frenchy was still slapping at his head.

“And how about how shitty I was to you when you got sick.”

Frenchy stilled. He looked down to meet Dutch’s gaze.

“No, I never resented. I never expected….”

Frenchy held Dutch’s gaze, which grew serious. He walked them over to a chaise longue, slid Frenchy’s legs off his shoulders, lifted him by his armpits, and lay down on his back with Frenchy on top. His nose was just above Frenchy’s navel.

“Grab my hands. Lock your elbows,” he whispered.

And then Frenchy was flying above Dutch. He didn’t know how—he didn’t want to distract himself from the sensations—but Dutch was somehow
bench-pressing
his whole body with the strength of his arms and thighs, lifting Frenchy out of his mouth as he extended his arms and raised his knees and taking him back in on the release. Frenchy started to participate, bending his elbows a little as Dutch took him in, and doing push-ups against Dutch’s hands on the upswing.

He was weightless, floating, his cock dipping in and out of wet, swirling warmth. He clenched his eyes. He clenched his butt.

“Shitshitshitshitshit….” a constant, whispered mantra. Nothing had ever felt this way before. He was lost in his own nerve endings. It felt so good that he didn’t even register the orgasm sneaking up on him, his body’s desperation to erupt. But Dutch could apparently tell somehow, because he let Frenchy down all the way, so his cock was completely buried, and worked his throat muscles. When he began to shoot, Dutch raised him up a little and tensed his arms and knees, keeping Frenchy suspended, then swirled his tongue. It felt as if his cum were being licked out of his dick rather than jetting out of it. He shuddered as Dutch swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed again—
How could those tight little nuts hold so much?—
and tongued the last drop out of him. When he started to detumesce, Dutch gently brought him down, laid him out, and took his own dick out of his pants. He humped Frenchy’s hard thigh, once, twice, three times, and then Dutch was shooting all over him.

“That was….” Frenchy was gasping. The feel of Dutch’s cock and the warmth of his cum on his skin added to the sensation.

After a few moments, Dutch responded, “Yeah, pretty hot, eh?” He was stroking Frenchy’s flank. “Little hung donkey. Little bantam rooster. Toppy little twerp. Gave you a first time you’ll never forget, did I?”

“You know you did.” Frenchy whapped him. “Asshole. You smell good,” he added shyly. He meant the heady smell of recent intercourse, new to him, but he didn’t say that.

“Now for that picture, while your cock is still plumped up but not obscenely hard. But…. We can’t have you all drenched in spunk. You might give Rip Van Winkle a coronary.” Dutch licked up the evidence of his pleasure. Frenchy was shocked. Then he posed Frenchy, moving his arms, torso, and legs this way and that until he was satisfied. “Perfect. Wanton.
Louche.
” He picked up the smartphone. Click. Click. He showed Frenchy the photos. Frenchy reddened.

“I look pretty depraved. You do too, with your monster cock sticking out your pants like that.”

Dutch scrunched his cock back in and frowned at his jeans. After wiping his hands on the seat of his pants, he took the smartphone back from Frenchy and swiped through the pics again. “You’ll have that bald senior citizen creaming into his wood shavings.”

“He’s only fourteen years older than me. And I
like
thinning hair. I think it’s hot. Manly.”

“Whatever.” Dutch waited a beat. “But Frenchy, I want you to think about something.” When Frenchy said nothing, Dutch continued cautiously. “I remember your dad. How well do you remember him?”

“Very clearly.”

“Well….”

“Yes?”

“Don’t take this wrong, French. But your Manny reminds me of your dad. Same gold hair on his arms. Same skin tone. Same height and build. Not too much younger than your dad was when he died. You see where I’m going here?”

“Yes.”

They were silent again. Frenchy broke the silence with a question.

“Are you going to tell Flip?”

Dutch sighed heavily. “I have to. We’re supposed to be exclusive. We were each other’s first.”

“Get
out
. You’re shitting me! I thought you were getting it everywhere.” Then he realized. “So that makes me your second.” He waited a bit. “Are you sorry we did it?”

“No.”

“Neither am I.”

They grinned at each other. “Hey, French. How do you get rid of unwanted pubic hair?”

Frenchy arched an eyebrow, and Dutch mimed exaggerated spitting gestures and noises.

“Oh,
groan
. Idiot.”

Dutch winked. “Good luck with your geriatric Romeo, luscious boy cream.”

“Dutch? This feels good. It feels good to have a gay friend you can talk to, joke with.”

“Not to mention force-feed.” Dutch made the spitting noises again and pantomimed the plucking of hair from his tongue.

Frenchy snickered. “Galoot.”

“Haw. Donkey pubes.”

“Poltroon.” They began to laugh.

“Bantam.” More laughter.

“
Droit de seigneur
bozo.” They were hiccupping now.

“
Droit de
bozo first juice boy cream.” At this they were practically rolling on the floor. It seemed they couldn’t stop.

Even at dinner that night, Achille and Say-Say looked at them quizzically as they periodically erupted in giggles and guffaws. “Bozo!” said Frenchy. “Donkey!” said Dutch. And then more laughter at the Abbott table.

But Achille had noticed their disappearance into the garçonnière and the state of his son’s jeans despite Dutch’s efforts to make them presentable by swabbing them with a damp washcloth. It was a lot of information to process.
Dutch, gay? Can’t be.
But on the other hand…. An alliance with the Saint-Paixes. His politician’s antennae were quivering.

Dutch and Frenchy. Could it be?

Chapter 40

I
T
WAS
not only the snapshot of Frenchy but also the details in the background that shocked and concerned him. Clearly he was not starving. The transformation was beyond belief. He knew, vaguely, that there was such a thing as Photoshop, and that it could be used to alter photographs. Was that what was going on here? Surely he could not be so utterly transformed.

The setting of the photograph was another thing altogether. Manny knew his furniture and his millwork. The chaise Frenchy reclined on was French, from the Directoire or Consulat period, and not a reproduction. The baseboard visible to one side of the chaise was over two feet in height and certainly hand-milled. Early nineteenth century. He made the inferences: The room had to have at least twenty-foot ceilings for the baseboard to be in scale. The style was classical revival, too new and too grand for the French Quarter. Almost certainly the Garden District. How had Frenchy wound up in this pose, in that setting? He was being kept by some rich older man—it was the only logical explanation. This knowledge twisted in his gut. All that innocence, all that potential, gone, wasted.

But perhaps not irrevocably. He had to do everything in his power to get Frenchy back on the right track again. In a way, he felt culpable. If he’d given in to him in the first place, Frenchy would not be in this very dangerous position. He tried to reconstruct the chain of events that had landed Frenchy on that chaise. Loitering on some French Quarter corner, being picked up by some debauched, paunchy New Orleans socialite—who most probably belonged to all the elite carnival krewes and doubtless had a wife and children hidden away at home. But that didn’t explain the muscles. It just didn’t make any sense.

The envelope containing the photo—marked
private
and
confidential
—didn’t offer many clues. It contained the photo, a copy of Frenchy’s birth certificate with the date of birth circled in red, and a sticky note with a telephone number, no area code. So—a local number. He’d waited several days, trying to work up the courage to call. He felt no more courageous now than he had yesterday or the day before. But he couldn’t keep putting it off.

He picked up the phone.

“D
UTCH
! D
UTCH
!”
Frenchy was on his cell. “He called!”

“Well, of course he called, bantam chickadee donkey-dick. Who wouldn’t after such an alluring inducement? What did he say?”

“Not much, really. He sounded kinda strange and formal.”

“Maybe he’s not into soft porn—oh, wait. Semihard porn, now that I recollect.”

“Huh! I know for a fact that he’s into it.”

“Cheese and rice. Ugh. TMI. Bald, and on top of that, a dirty old man. You have rotten taste, First Juice.”

“Brrrffffttt.” Frenchy gave him his best raspberry.

“So what happens now?”

“He wants to meet. Saturday at the farmers’ market in Gretna. At that coffee shop.”

“The Coffee Grinder Café? Stop by and see us before or afterward.”

“Maybe before. I have plans for afterward.”

“Hmph!”

“Dutch. Have you told Flip?”

“No, not yet. Trying to find the right moment, when he won’t get too pissed.”

“Let me know when you do. It’s going to be hard to face him. He was far nicer to me than you ever were, and here I go poaching on his territory. Tell him that it will never happen again. Tell him why you did it.”

“And why was that, First Juice?”

“Heaven forbid that you should show any trace of fellow feeling or altruism. So
not
Dutch!”

“Too true, too true.”

“So I’ll say it. Thanks. It was an incredible first time. And it feels good to have a little experience under my belt. Makes me less nervous.”

“Frenchy, with this guy? Watch yourself.”

“I will.”

H
E
HADN
’
T
let Flip in since that first time, so Dutch figured that a good time to tell Flip was at one in the afternoon on Friday, while Flip’s semen was still seeping out of him onto the sheet. He figured wrong.

“You did
what
?”
Why did this hurt so much?

“Look, it just happened, okay? It’s never gonna happen again.”

“Oh. It just
happened
, I see. Maybe like going to the corner store and just
happening
to rob it at gunpoint? Or maybe it was an
accident
. You tripped, and you opened your mouth in surprise. And your open mouth just
happened
to fall onto Frenchy, who just
happened
at that very second to be naked, fully hard, and about to shoot.”

Dutch found this hilarious, and even though he knew he shouldn’t laugh, he couldn’t help himself. “Haw! Haw! Haw! Looky here. It can riposte with the best of them, when it’s hot under the collar.”

“Tell me just one thing. Did you swallow it?”

“Why on earth does that matter?”

“Well,
did
you?”

Dutch dropped his eyes from Flip’s gaze. “W-e-l-l-l…. Yeah.”

It was immediately apparent that this had been the wrong time to be truthful. Flip grabbed his chinos from where he’d discarded them by the bed and pulled them savagely onto his legs, grabbed a tee, and shoved his bare feet into his loafers. In thirty seconds, he was dressed and headed for the door. He swept up his keys and wallet from the front table.

“Don’t go. Hear me out. I can explain.”

But Flip already had his hand on the doorknob.

“At least wash your dick off before you go. Hygiene, Flabbott, hygiene.”

Slam!

Chapter 41

M
ANNY
STEPPED
into Hair by Claire (“Men Welcome, too!”) a little sheepishly. The woman under the hair dryer and the other with little strips of aluminum foil all over her head looked up at him with curiosity. He usually went to the barbershop on Seneca Street, but he thought he’d give Claire a try. He wanted to look his best when he met Frenchy tomorrow at the Coffee Grinder Café.

Claire had had her eye on Manny for some years now. A real nice-looking man, with a son who could use a mother. It was Amy’s turn to take the next walk-in, but Claire smoothly claimed proprietor’s privilege.

“Well, hi there, Manny.” She couldn’t wait to get her hands on this man. She’d give him a shampoo so sensual his toes would be curling. Too bad he had to wear a smock that would hide his nether regions. “It’s about time you treated yourself to a good haircut. You’ll leave here looking and feeling ten years younger.”

“Yeah, well. I have an important appointment tomorrow. Want to make a good impression.”

“
Oh
?” Claire said, a little sharply. If he was going on a date, maybe she could manage to botch this haircut up.

Shit!
He’d said too much. Everyone would be sure to spot him and Frenchy over their coffee date at the farmers’ market. And telling Claire anything was as good as putting it on a billboard in the center of town.

“Yes, I’m being considered for a major restoration job in the Garden District. I wanna look professional and prosperous.”

“Ooooh. The
Gar
den District.”

“Yeah. I’m meeting up with Frenchy—remember him?”

“The skinny kid who used to help you out at the shop?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Need some help with a job like this. We’re gonna talk terms”—
Where did this ability to invent so glibly come from?
—“and then head over to meet with the foreman. Course, all the finish work won’t happen for a while.” Then he shut up, refusing to give Claire any more gossip fodder.

He shut up during the X-rated shampoo that had him blushing for Claire. She was practically panting and rubbing her breasts on his cheek. He shut up during the “feathering” she insisted would give his hair more body and volume. And now he was silent as she considered his bald spot.