don't ask

Nothing pulls you out of the desperate shadows of drunken longing like a sweaty naked man pounding on your window. I had just begun setting into a bottle of Wild Turkey, washing away the stains of the most recent one night stand that didn’t love me back, that had vanished where I could not follow into the sunlight and afternoon breezes of her smiling swing set companions to play at businesswoman and productive member of society when the Ghost of Christmas Ugly showed up fucked as hell, bare to his hairy ass and desperate for admission into what was scheduled to be a solo flight to the depths of nowhere.

God fuckshit damnit, Ronnie, I’ll let you in. Quit with the racket already. I have neighbors that don’t need to see me letting a naked assclown into my home. They have a bad enough impression already. I, with pangs of silence and a most infantile separation anxiety, broke from my bottle, got up and opened the door. He hurried past glancing back worriedly as if someone was looking for him or maybe that he had been followed from some clandestine dead drop by communist sleeper agents, yet still was surprisingly conscientious enough not to allow his overexposed flesh to defile mine.

Not looking at his cock or feeling any repressed need to compare, I grabbed one of Q’s bathrobes from his room and tossed it over, Q wasn’t around, he wouldn’t notice and I sure as balls didn’t care. He picked it up from the rumpled heap that hadn’t even remotely been on target and quickly struggled into the ill-fitting flannel with a somewhat baffled expression of relief and resignation. Now fully dressed for the occasion, he grabbed a beer from the fridge, handed one over to me. We chugged in momentary silence, oh blissful sweet oblivion coming on so softly, but not yet, but not yet. I set my empty down and got back to business of drowning myself in the juices of despoiled corn. He tossed his towards the trash, missed, grabbed another and joined me on the couch.

“What’s on?”

“Conan.”

“Sweet.”