Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 3

Jacked off, hit the water, picked at my scab. The one on my leg, dolt. Remember? Jacked off again, this time with my happy blue venti-sized dildo. Imagining what it would've been like to have Tomás's log jammed up my ass.
    Day of rest and masturbation.
    Blondie blew me in the tool shed on Tuesday, jacked off on my thigh, and then drove off into the sunset. Or towards Chicago, anyway, which was where I gathered he hailed from. I didn't turn him down, but was baffled by his interest, because damn, all these sweet Latino asses around, soft and hard, pretty and macho. Why'd he want the same flavor he could get in the Midwest? No accounting.
    The rest of the week came up dry. That was okay. I felt sort of—knackered. Wondered if I was coming down with something.
    Okay. Here's the thing. You know where this story is going. I sure fucking didn't. So when I walked into the resort bar on Thursday to find Tomás chatting up Lettie, I did a double-take.
    He leaned into the bar while she sprayed and wiped counters, giving her this white-toothed grin, one foot propped up on the lower brass rail. Have I mentioned he wears boots? Cowboy boots. Damn, I wanted to kneel at his feet and lick them clean.
    But here, Lettie was looking all flushed and flattered and it pissed me off, because I don't mind being an easy lay—fuck it, that's what I am, right? In it for the fun, and who the hell cares where else the dude sticks his wick, but I hate watching girls get all—
    "You." Lettie shot me a glare, cutting off that train of thought. She eyed her watch. But I wasn't late; I always skidded in a minute before ten. "Get out of here." She flicked her wrist. "Y llevate este pícaro contigo."
    While I still stood there stupidly, trying to parse her words (something about taking Tomás away), Tomás moved towards me, grinning, canary feathers sticking from his teeth. He took my arm and started to lead me out the door.
    "Wha—?"
    "I'm taking you to lunch."
    "I have to work—"
    "No, you don't. Your boss just gave you the day off."
    I looked over my shoulder. She shooed me away. "Ándale," she mouthed.
    So I went.
    I changed out of my uniform, then joined Tomás where he waited, basking in the sun, and we walked into the center of town. I'd found my best pants and a button-down, because hey, this was Tomás, right? Suave, urbane, all those words I never got a chance to use. I reckoned on ceviche in dainty cups, washed down with flutes of champagne.
    He brought me to a run-down taquería.
    So much for my vegetarian Buddhist. A plate of carne guisada con tortillas de maíz, salsa, y frijoles arrived and we chowed down, dripping grease and guac all over the table. Washed it down with canned iced tea. Damned good.
    We ordered instant coffee afterwards, because that is the only way to get the full Baja dining experience. Tomás excused himself for the bathroom, and I watched the slow turn of the ceiling fan while he was gone. Still surprised, I tried to figure what had made him show up again. Which—part of me was glad. The part that wanted his dick. But the other part...I knew I had to explain things to him. I was so not what he was looking for. Not a toy, not loyal, no kind of investment.
    We'd joked about his trustworthiness. What irony.
    He returned as two cups of boiled water and a jar of Nescafé showed up. We talked. He asked about me. No big secrets, there. High-profile lawyer for a daddy, grooming me for his firm. Packed me off to Stanford. I excelled. Then crumbled. Straight A's throughout until a year from a law degree, then spent the fall of '10 on a surfboard. Daddy'd been able to ignore the fact his son was a faggot, but this...he cut me off in an instant. Hell, I had a younger brother, he said. Save the money for him. Never mind that there was a middle sister, as well. Smarter than either of us boys. Yeah. He's that kind of prick.
    "I'm good here," I finished. "I don't need money. I sock some away for eventual retirement—I'm not stupid. But if I can live this side of poor the rest of my life, I reckon I'll be fine." I figured I was giving him a message—what you're selling, I don't want.
    But Tomás only smirked and repeated, "Reckon." Yeah. I talk funny.
    Didn't get a whole lot out of him. He wasn't being cagey, just, the way he asked, the way he listened, it had me running at the mouth. What I knew of him at this point was precious fucking little. He ate meat, had a big dick and fantastic hands.
    We walked along the beach