Southern Fried (3 page)

spoiled yours, though.” Now it my turn to stare, drilling home

the point. “I mean, you should always finish what you start,

right? Granny always told me that. Nothing worse than a job

half-finished.”

“Nuh uh,” he replied, nearly breathless at what I was implying.

“I mean, by all accounts, I do work for you now, but I, uh, I

couldn’t.”

By all accounts, he was probably right. The thought, not to

mention the close proximity to him, made my dick throb. “Well

then, Zeb, I insist.” I pointed to his shorts, nodding and smiling

as I did so. When he didn’t move, I unbuttoned them for him.

Again he locked eyes with me, followed by another gulp, sweat

glistening off his smooth forehead. Then he stared down, eyeing

my hand as it grabbed a hold of the zipper for a tug, his bush

coming into view, curly, black, trimmed. “Kick your boots off,”

I told him. He did as I asked. They landed with a dull thud off

to the side. Then I pulled down his shorts, his cock springing

out, arcing to the side, the wide head dripping, shimmering in

the light that poured in through the window. He lifted his feet up

and kicked the shorts to the side, as well. My hands then held the

bottom of his t-shirt, which I lifted up in one fluid jerk. He raised

his arms and the shirt came off, leaving him in nothing but his

sweat socks. His taught chest raised and lowered, hard tummy in

sync as he rapidly inhaled and exhaled. “Come on now, be quick

about it,” I told him. “Before Pearl comes on up and finds you

in here.”

Slowly, he gave his dick a stroke, a tug, balls swaying, legs

trembling a bit. “What are you gonna be doing, Trip?” he

squeaked out.

southeRn FRied
11

“Good question,” I replied, reaching for a chair, which I

leaned against the wall, placing it beneath the window. “You

watch Jake down below; I watch you. Seems fair enough. Now,

please put one foot up on the chair, Zeb, face to the glass.”

Again he did as I asked, leg up, hand stroking as he stared

at Jake, who was still busy with the pool, clueless as to our

shenanigans. I stood behind him and crouched down, face to

glorious ass, his cheeks parted a bit, two mounds of alabaster

with a line of fine hair down the crack, balls swaying on the

other side of things. “You ever see Jake like
this
?” I asked, fingers

stroking down his crack. Zeb jumped, but remained in place,

spitting down into his hand now as he jacked away.

“Jake likes the ladies, Trip. Doesn’t give me the time of day.

Better to, uh, to admire him from afar, I suppose.”

I unzipped my fly and whipped out my prick, which was hard

as granite by then, eager for release. I started a nice, easy stroke

on it as I tickled Zeb’s hole, fingers running rings around the soft

halo of hair. “He does give good afar,” I agreed, spitting into

both my hands, lubing up my dick and then his hole.

Zeb pushed out his ass for me. “Yessir, that he does.” He

moaned as a spit-slick finger wormed its way inside of him. Boy

was tight as a drum, too, sucking me in like a Hoover.

“Who knows,” I said, sliding my finger in and up and back,

wiggling around inside of him as the come rose steadily from my

balls. “Maybe some day you’ll get to see the up close and personal

side.”

He groaned at the thought, body trembling as I picked up the

pace on his ass and on my cock, staring up between his legs as he

worked his pole, fist moving lightning fast now. “M… maybe,”

he said, followed by a grunt, and then another, his cock shooting,

thick gobs of spunk that splashed against the wall before dripping

down. My own load flew out a second later, landing on the carpet

beneath the chair, both of us struggling to catch our breaths as

we milked out every last drop, my finger gliding out of his ass as

I stood up.

12 Rob Rosen

He dropped his leg off the chair and turned, dick still steely

stiff and dripping, the sweat making its way down his chest. He

held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Trip,” he said, with a laugh,

the sound like a babbling brook to my ears, like water running

over mossy rocks.

“Pleasure was all mine, Zeb,” I replied, rocking his hand in

mind.

He stared down at our two withering dicks. “Well now, not

all
yours.” He laughed and stared up at me, those eyes of his like

lasers. “You were never gonna tell Pearl on me, were you?”

I leaned in and brushed my lips against his. Then I stuffed my

dick back inside my jeans. “She scares me, too, Zeb,” I said, the

kiss full-on now, his lips soft as down, a rush of tingles sparkling

across my back. “Scares me like the dickens.” I gave his dickens a

grab, and with a final kiss, excused myself. Because he was right

about one thing: if Pearl found us like this, we’d both be dead

meat.

“See you around, Trip,” he said, with a wink and a nod.

I turned again, taking him in, his body compact and perfect,

socks up to his knees, smile dazzling on his endearing face, dick

now dangling. Good enough to eat. Like home cooking. Southern-

style. “Hope so, Zeb,” I said, with a wave as I left the room, head

craning left and right, making sure the coast was clear.

Thankfully, it was. Then I stared up to the ceiling, shrugging,

just in case Granny was watching. “Didn’t you ever hire any ugly

people, Granny?” I whispered, walking back down the hall.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking now. Taking advantage of

a poor, misbegotten youth. Shame on you, Trip Jackson. Shame

on you. But, truth be told, it was no piece of cake growing up

gay in the South. In fact, it was downright scary. Granny, after all,

couldn’t protect me outside the mansion; I had to cover my own

damn tracks most of the time. That is to say, all the time. And

having sex, gay sex, wasn’t in the cards for me back then. Too

risky when everyone knew your business and was all too happy to

blab about it. So, you see, that fling with Zeb was me just finally

southeRn FRied
13

getting a shot at sewing some wild oats. And that was a sewing

room back there, after all. Go figure.

Anyway, no harm, no foul. Just some much needed relief

from what was still yet to come. I had me a dreaded funeral to go

to, you know. And then the reading of the will. And then, well,

I was going to have to play that one by ear. One step at a time, I

figured, one step at a time. And damn if I didn’t have some big

shoes to fill for those steps. Again, orthopedic though they were.

Then, sure enough, I rounded the bend and ran smack into

some more big shoes, easily size twelve. “Jeeves!” I hollered,

frightened like a little bunny rabbit.

“Trip!” he hollered back, hand reaching for his chest. “Make

some noise next time, please; you’re likely to scare a person half

to death.” He stared down at me, menacingly. “And please don’t

call me Jeeves; you know how I hate that.”

I laughed, feeling the teenager in my well up. “All butlers are

called Jeeves, Jeeves.”

“Unless they’re called Walter, Trip,” he said, with a frown,

eyes cast downward. He’d aged poorly. Ten years looked more

like twenty. Then again, ten years in Granny’s hire probably felt

more like fifty. But he was, truth be told, still ruggedly handsome.

“You don’t look like a Walter, Jeeves,” I told him, smart-

mouthed as always. “Besides, even Granny called you Jeeves.”

He sighed and straightened out his vest. “Your grandmother

called me many things, Trip; Jeeves was better than most of them

by far. Still, my checks said Walter, and that was all that mattered.”

He squinted at me, scratching his jowly chin. “You’ve grown.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, which is something people rarely

did around him. “Ten years will do that to a person, Jeeves.

You’re looking well, yourself.” Which wasn’t exactly true. The

compliment was just my southern manners poking on through.

“Pearl’s cooking is keeping you healthy, I see.”

He snickered, which was creepy. “Pearl’s cooking is to be

avoided at all costs, Trip. Doctor’s orders.” He patted his belly,

also creepy. “That woman refuses to cook in anything other than

14 Rob Rosen

lard, the milk is always whole, and butter is astoundingly plentiful.

It’s a miracle your grandmother stayed so thin.” Undeniable, to be

sure. Probably due to her cast-iron will. Plus, she flat out refused

to gain any weight. Hated going clothes shopping. I shuddered at

the very thought. “She was a fine woman, your grandmother,” he

quickly added, more for my benefit, I was sure. The brunt of her

ill-humor generally fell on him, you see.

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I replied, avoiding eye contact. “Thank

you for caring for her all these many years.”

“Thirty, to be exact, sir,” he corrected. “Her will, I’m sure, will

reflect that.” Unavoidably, our eyes met at the word
will
. His gaze

was like ice, the comment leaving me arctic-cold, and rightfully

so. Still, I chose to ignore it, despite its hanging in the air like the

moss hung from the trees outside. Tenaciously, that is.

“I’m sure it will,” I managed, stepping around him and then

past. “Good to see you,” I added, quickly heading in the direction

opposite to his, just like I had done as a child. Age had made him

no less easy to be around. Creepy, as I said. It bears repeating.

He nodded as I went by, barely registering my existence, much

as he did throughout my childhood. He was Granny’s butler,

her chauffeur, not mine, of course. Pearl attended to me when

Granny couldn’t, which was most of the time. And thank the

Lord almighty for that. Granny, after all, had about as much

maternal instinct as a water snake, of which we already had

plenty of in the lake out back.

When he was out of sight, I stopped in place and breathed

again, staring down over the railing into the greeting room. I’d

done this so often as child, watching my grandmother attend to

her various guests. See, Granny stood at the pinnacle of the social

circle, even at her age. Our family name assured that much. And

they always dropped by to pay their respects, our neighbors and

their neighbors in turn, a smile and a wave up at me as I stared

down. I waved back if I liked them. More often than not, I just

slunk into the shadows, where a good little sissy boy belonged.

Pardon my bitterness. Like I said, it wasn’t easy, mansion or no

mansion, butler and chauffeur and cook and pool boy and stable

southeRn FRied
15

boy or not.

Or maid, for that matter.

“Hello, may I help you?” she asked, awakening me from my

reverie, causing me to jump in place.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” I blurted out. “I’m, uh, Trip. Mary Jackson’s

grandson.”

She smiled and nodded. “Betty,” I was told. She was a woman

in her early thirties, if the dim overhead light was any indication,

dressed entirely in black, a feather duster in her hand. Pale white,

stick thin, hair in a tight bun. Granny’s type of maid, to be sure.

“You look like your pictures,” she told me, her features softening

once she realized who I was. “Though I suppose you would,

right?”

I smiled, too, nodding, as well. “Which pictures?” I asked,

aware of only the boyhood ones in my bedroom; and ten years

out I barely looked like that person any longer.

Her smile broadened. She was pretty, in a stiff sort of way.

Then she led me down the hall, up the last remaining flight of

stairs. I knew where we were headed. A feeling of dread suddenly

overcame me. Still, I followed. She opened the ancient oak door,

the sunlight from within temporarily blinding me. We walked

into Granny’s bedroom, the silence nearly deafening, the room

lifeless, missing its sole occupant.

I spotted the pictures in question almost immediately. I walked

inside and over to a low dresser. Six photos in six silver frames,

all of me, most from the last several years, taken on various

vacations and sent to Granny. My heart swelled, a tear ready to

break free. I laughed rather than cried. It was easier that way, all

things considered. “Yep, that’s me, all right.”

She moved in and stood to my side. “Miss Jackson talked of

you often,” she practically whispered, as if we were in a church.

“She was very proud of you.”

“Huh,” I managed. “I was proud of her, too, I suppose. It

wasn’t easy being Mary Jackson. Took a lot of work.” I held up a

frame, the photo of me in England, arms up wide as I stood on

16 Rob Rosen

London Bridge, the Thames gray beneath me. “How long have

you worked here?” I asked. I couldn’t remember Granny ever

mentioning her. Then again, it wasn’t like Granny to talk about

the help, period. Not even Pearl, unless I asked.

She paused, thinking about it. “Five years, I suppose. Best job

I ever had, too.”

I laughed, despite it all. “I’m not about to walk in and fire

anybody, Betty.” Though the thought did suddenly form in my