7:10 p.m.


              At least her arms weren’t folded.  Marc expected Davia to give him all kinds of ‘tude, as she did any of the other times he had something to tell her.

              But he could see that she had been through something.

              “You first,” he said.

              He thought his day had been crazy:  a body had been in her trunk and in a twisted, fantasy movie way, the cops did not arrest her, and all because a random white passenger knew what to say to get her out of even being questioned. To  Marc, nothing sounded stranger.    

              “Now, maybe I’ve watched Get Out too many times and my paranoia is thick,” she said, “but I’m bugging.  I started doing a lot of digging.  I mean, I didn’t even try to make my quota today, and when have you ever known me to stop driving before my ends are right? When is the last time I did that?”

              “Yeah.  Scary.”

              She turned her head to the side and looked at him like she was trying to see my problem, like his problem could be seen on his skin.

              “What is going on Marc? We’ll get back to me later. Start talking about what’s going on with you.”

              To tell her, to even say it felt too generic to him. Marc got sick to his stomach instantly because he didn’t want to feel like those men who came out and had “coming out” stories.  He wanted to feel like it was his business and that he was sharing it because he wanted to, not because he needed to or had to. He felt some tears somewhere deep, but they had to stay there.

              “I been meaning to tell you something for a long time.”

              It must have been a long time that she was waiting for him to tell her. Her arms were folded when he looked up.

              “Exactly how long do you want me to wait sir?”

              One of the tears he’d been pushing down reached his face.

              “I’ve been messing around with dudes.”

              Davia walked over and sat down next to him.

              “One bathroom,” she said.


              “One full bathroom. Five grown assed people. Sometimes a child. Sometimes two. One full bathroom.”

              “What are you talking—did you just hear what I said?”

              “Did you hear what I said?”

              Marc stared at her.

              “Let me try again,” she said. “One full bathroom. Nobody cares where you put your dick or how many times you messed with somebody else’s.  Stop hogging the bathroom. It is not the closet.”

              Somewhere between relieved and shocked, that’s where Marc sat.

              “You knew?”

              “Negro I worked in the entertainment industry at one point. Don’t you think I know what closet behavior looks like? If you had come to me sooner I could have told you to stop doing some of it. Dead giveaway.”

              “You not…bothered?”

              “There was a not-so-dead body naked in my trunk earlier,” she said.  “Do you think I’m currently bothered by your sexuality? You’re my brother. I don’t want to think about you fucking, well, anything really.  Lana is my sister. I don’t want to think about her fucking anything, including that damn Fel. Has anyone seen him, by the way?”

              Marc should his head.

              “Anyway, I’m not judging you,” she said getting up. “I got my pussy ate out in the car. So…”

“Who the fuck did it?” Marc jumped up, angry.

“Boy sit down. Stop trying to protect my cootchie from goodness!  Anyway, I need you to go

back to the hospital and find out who this guy is.”

              “He wasn’t awake,” Marc said, more ashamed about punking out at the hospital than being in the closet. He felt suddenly stupid about trying to come out at all, or trying to hide in. “But I think he was the guy I tried to hook up with.”

              Davia’s eyes widened.  She sat back down. “Go on.”

              March told all, explained the run to the hotel, how he met the guy that would have been a catfish except that he was better looking, how he thought the guy was in the closet and it irritated him because he couldn’t get past it—“That is ironic,” David quipped—and how he heard the guy in an actual closet.  He mentioned that  he ran into the same would-be-catfish guy at the hospital.

              “Did he see you?”

              “No, I don’t think so,” he said.

              “Good. Did you see the guy in the closet? Wait, which hotel was this?”

              “The Salvia.”

              “This might be the same dude. The Salvia is where I picked up my passenger who put the body in my trunk.”

              Marc squinted and started to wonder.

              “Don’t even ask, we don’t have time. Just know that I didn’t know it was happening, okay? The thing is, if any of these dudes find out you’re involved, you could be in deep shit too.  Please, if you love me and value your life, go back in a few hours and see what you can find out about this guy. With any luck he didn’t make it.”

No Bourne, Marvel, Bond or mobster movie made Marc as nervous as this conversation.

“What are you going to do?”

Davia got up to leave.   

“It turns out that Colby, you know, the guy who helped me?  He’s an ‘advisor’ with a client base that includes a few high level politicians.  Don’t ask me how I know. I’m going to do some more asking around to see if I can find out anything about him. Keep our enemies close.”

              “I thought he helped.”

              “That doesn’t mean he always will.”  She got to the door and turned around. “And could you please use a different hook up app? It obviously drowns your battery too much, which is why your ass is always using the bathroom outlet.”



5:15 p.m.

Tejumola didn’t have a lot of time.

              The receptionist at the front desk of the ER had access to the cameras and sent him a text:  “Curtis is on the move.”

              Teju was addicted to a young Mexican guy with thick eyebrows, a long Native American nose, a nice smile and a smooth, hairless, perfectly manicured ass named Juan.  The ass was named Juan. Teju still did not know the guy’s actual name.

              Nor had he ever met him in person.

              But it did not matter.  For the last two weeks, Teju had been calling the boy to watch him do amazing things via Facetime.   Every time Teju had anything to say, the boy would stop.  When he said too much, the boy would begin putting on his clothes.   The thick but solid Nigerian got the hint right away. 

              Because he still lived at home with his extremely Christian family, family currently paying for his medical school residency, Teju could not afford to make any mistakes.  They could not find out that he wanted to eat ass and breed Juan, crimes that would earn him life imprisonment in his home country.

              At work was the only way. And the lab was the only place in the building with a broken surveillance camera and cell phone service (the staff bathrooms in the ER wing were all dead zones).

              Even the receptionist at the ER did not know who he was sexting, that Juan’s ass was addictive even via Facetime.  Teju told her that he was working really hard to get this chick and that she had a weakness for dark dicks.

              “Yours is probably cast iron skillet colored. She’s gonna fall in love,” the receptionist said one day, laughing. “No worries bro, I got you.”

              She sent him text messages regularly.  Curtis was known for taking breaks longer than he should, and going on errands that ran over, which meant bliss for Teju.   The first day, Teju’s learning curve with the rules of silent engagement cost him a lot of time he could have spent cumming, and he never got the chance too.  But every day after, Juan turned him out.

              One day it was “Juan” in the camera, perfectly lit, being finger-fucked by its Latino owner, whip cream as lube.

              The next is was olive oil smeared all over the ass and rubbed on the phone lens to brilliant effect.

              Then there was the time that the boy looked at Teju’s dick, thick as a television remote, and added more fingers.

              Teju had dropped the phone and broken the screen.

              He happily replaced it, thinking that this and more were worth the days of depression he dealt with after all the dead ends and stalling negroes he encountered on Jack’d, the guys who either weren’t interested or apathetic or interested in gym bodies or too high to commit to even sex.  And it was exhausting that a sideview of him in briefs invited so many conversations that he felt rude not answering.

              Hours were spent being polite.

              Today the boy had a coke bottle.  The minute Teju called and turned on the camera, he opened there was the boy, waving into the camera.  He backed up a bit and sat on the sofa, his legs open, Juan staring at the camera. 

              Teju could hardly contain his dick. It hurt as his erection climbed past the band of his underwear.

              The boy put his hands out in question.

              Teju replied by pulling his dick out. There was no time to find a stand for his phone, so he propped it on the stack of samples Curtis had left out.  It didn’t matter to Teju that this was bad procedure—samples and orders should never be left out, even for a moment.  It ordinarily would have bothered him. But not today, while his dick was screaming to cum and stress could go away temporarily. His name Tejumola, “one who looks forward to better days,” had been a curse.

              Teju lay horizontally on the table, his dick even with the phone, and propped his head up to see the boy better. 

              Now the boy was smiling.  He unscrewed the top of the Coke bottle and poured it all over his body, drinking some, licking the tip of the bottle, running the tongue around it.

              Then he took the neck of the bottle into his mouth.  He put two fingers into Juan. His moan filled the bottle.

              Teju imagined his dick in both places at once and stroked.

              He looked at his dick, then at the back of his closed eyelids, then back at the screen.  In it, the Latino boy was putting the tip of the Coke bottle into Juan. Soon the opening was there inside.  He aggressively pulled the labeling off the bottle and moved. With his free hand, the Latino boy grabbed the camera and put it closer to the bottle.

              Slowly, Juan began to drink the neck of the bottle.  He moaned louder.

              Teju stroked with more vigor than ever before, wanting to be bottle. 

              The Latino boy propped his ass higher on the sofa for a better view.  Through the glass, it looked as if Teju Juan’s insides were visible.

              Teju grabbed the rest of his dick with the other hand.  Cum shot up all over him and the table. 

              His orgasm was a full minute, cum continuing to come out endlessly, some in globs, some in spurts. 

              When it was over, Teju ended the call. Guilt set in.  This was terrible behavior. It was inconsiderate and lacked integrity, violating his place of work this way. Unprofessional. 

He realized it had been too long. The guilt pushed him to move faster.  He was cutting it close.  He scurried to wipe of the table with disinfectant, to clean with hot water and soap.  Since he had a second pair of scrubs, he wasn’t worried about the ones he had on. But he needed to get rid of all the cum, any of his sweat from the stress of possibly getting caught, and not meeting his fitness goals by this point.   

Teju scrubbed with as much muscle as he stroked his dick. This was a lab after all.  And he needed to be responsible.  He would feel better soon.

              He got it all and exited moments before Curtis walked in.

              All except the cum that landed on Rafelo Torres’ packet.