Key West

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Big Dick

His butt was getting numb. Squirming around for relief had become an impossible endeavor. It had been hours since he left Miami in the bed of that rickety, vibrating pick-up truck. Brad’s legs ached and he desperately needed to stretch and walk around. Twisting around to look forward through the cab windows only frustrated him more. “Shit! I can’t even see the next island.” In despair, Brad drooped his shoulders and tugged on the edges of the white sailor’s cap, pulling it tighter on his head. Damn, I look like Gilligan with this silly thing on, he thought, but he knew it was keeping his face and neck from getting sunburnt. I hate that I’m going to miss Miami Vice on TV tonight. I hate when they do those two-parters – to be continued. I hate that. Those smugglers are holding Tubbs hostage and Sonny has to rescue him. It’s going to be a great episode and I have to miss it. Here I am in the back of this old truck thinking about a TV show, but that’s better than the other shit rattling around in my head. The heat from the tropical sun was relentless. With all of the fishing gear stowed around him in the bed of that truck, there was barely enough room for Brad to sit. But sit was all he could do. Sit and think about what an idiot he had been. And hope that a fresh start would change his life. A white Chevy Camaro passed the ancient Dodge truck he was riding in. Brad watched as it sped by. He thought maybe it was a 1978. It made him think of the beloved 1978 Trans Am he had just sold. Fifteen hundred dollars. I sold it too cheap. Yeah, it was high mileage but I had babied that thing. It was in great shape.  A seam in the causeway made the rickety pick-up jump. It rattled so much, Brad wondered if it would fall completely apart. That would be all I need, for this old truck to break down on this stretch of causeway. I can’t even see land ahead. This bridge seems like it wraps around the ocean. He hated sitting with his back to the truck cab the entire trip, but there was not an alternative. Twisting his body again, he tried to look forward. The old Cuban’s grandson was staring at him with his snotty nose plastered to the back window. Brad realized that only a quarter-inch of glass had separated the back of Brad’s head from that boogery nose. Oh that’s a pleasant sight,  Brad teased himself. He shook his head. That’s getting pretty bad when I’m getting facetious with my own inner thoughts. The old Cuban tossed a beer can out the driver’s side window. It clanged and bounced along the highway behind them. He reached down and pulled another Old Milwaukee can from a styrofoam cooler on the seat between him and his grandson. The can looked wet, cold from the ice it was packed in. God in heaven, what I’d give for one of those cold beers.  Brad turned back around. Why torture himself? Even a glass of water would be great right now. If I only had some music or something to read. Brad was tormented. I wouldn’t have to think about that bitch. But think about her he did… “Damn, man? You’re not marrying that stripper are you?” Brad remembered his best friend’s words. “Fuck her for two weeks, dude. A fuck fling, she’s a stripper! Two weeks then move on.” I got so god-dammed mad at him. Brad punched his fist into the palm of his hand. That fucker was right. “He was fucking god-dammed right!” Brad shouted as loud as he could. The memory was painful. He hadn’t seen any of the signs. Too stupid to, he thought. In love. Love? What the fuck is that? Love! Fuck that shit! They had flown to Vegas – got married and honeymooned at the Flamingo Hilton casino. All of this just weeks after he had inherited a small fortune from his aunt. How did the girl know about that? That’s what she’d been after all along. Three months later she was gone and so was Brad’s entire bank account – the entire inheritance. She was last seen at the airport with her old boyfriend, a small time fence and part-time pimp. And quite a wretch he was. He was too tan, leathery, and he hadn’t even reached thirty. He had a gold tooth, gold chains, wore his hair in a mullet and no one had ever seen him wearing anything other than a tank top. Guadalajara. That was their destination – one-way tickets. There was no telling where they went from there. bursa escort Brad didn’t even know if the bitch could speak Spanish. She did have a Margarita tattooed on her ass, though. And damn, she had a great ass. She really knew how to flaunt it in the gentleman’s club. She had been the most popular dancer there. Perfect, natural D-cup tits usually don’t come with a stomach that small and thighs that firm. Her big hair was teased up in the newest style that had hit the 80’s like a rage. She looked like a dream – like a centerfold – a Penthouse Pet. And the way she could fuck? And suck! Yes, she was blonde. But was she really? A little too blonde to be real. Oh well, I’ve known lots of bottle blondes. She could make a guy lose his mind. She sure made me lose my mind. Without any warning, not even the slightest hint that Brad could think of, she was gone. That bitch took everything of value she could pack. My watches, my class ring, my camera, even the pre-Civil War gold coin my grandfather had given me. That bitch! And of course, the bitch emptied my checking and savings account of the money my aunt had left me. She had been my last living relative. Man, my aunt was a great lady. Goddammit, it all sucks. “Whoa!” Brad sat up quickly. “A tree!” They had just passed a palm tree on the side of the causeway. Brad spun around to look forward. Greenery. Yes, excitement overwhelmed him. Land at last! Brad knew it wouldn’t be much longer and he could get out of the bed of the rusty old pick-up, stretch his legs, and pee. His bladder felt like it would bust. He was thirsty too. A weird sensation, he thought. I’m thirsty as hell and dying to piss. First some fishing trawlers appeared on the horizon beyond the narrow island, but as it began to widen, small houses appeared along the side of the highway. Eventually they appeared more frequently. I have to pee so bad. Brad’s bladder more than hurt. It throbbed. The numbness in his legs was aching, and his butt, well, it had passed numb miles back and was now tingling rather painfully. The truck rolled on, past a couple of trailer parks, ramshackle houses, and rough looking bars. Another bridge, but not near as long as the others and finally Brad saw the sign ahead Key West, Florida – City Limit. His heart leaped for joy. Eventually, the old truck stopped in what must have been the center of the island. It seemed like all the buildings on both sides of the road and down both ends of the street were bars. The pickup door squeaked loudly as the old Cuban pushed it open. “Estemos aquí,” he yelled. As the old man and his snot-nosed grandson walked across the street to a bar, Brad pulled himself up on his feet. His legs felt wobbly for several seconds. Once his legs were steadied, Brad slid his pack on his back, gripped the side of the cab and vaulted himself over onto the street. Brad went straight for the bar in front of him. A large sign adorned the front above the awning: Sloppy Joe’s. Taped on the door, an advertisement in the form of a handwritten sheet of paper, read, Bartender Wanted. Pushing the door open, Brad walked in. A scant crowd, he thought. There were a few people sitting at tables, three were sitting at the bar. “Bathroom?” yelled Brad toward a bartender wiping some spilled beer on the counter. The bartender pointed his thumb to the right and nodded his head in that direction. Brad walked that way and found the men’s room. Nothing at first. Having held his bladder for so long, Brad strained mightily before the flood opened up. When it did, damn! It seemed like the stream of piss might cut a hole through the grungy ceramic wall urinal. He peed so long that he was getting impatient to stop. Feeling somewhat refreshed after washing up and splashing his face at the sink, Brad slung his pack over his shoulder and stepped out into the bar. “Y’all still need a bartender?” “Is the sign still on the door?” The sun tanned bartender never looked up from polishing shooter glasses. “Well, I’m a bartender and I need a job.” Brad leaned onto the bar in front of him. “Experience?” “Three years in Atlanta,” Brad wiped his face, “Place called Tattletales.” The bartender held a glass up to the light to inspect it. “That place bursa escort bayan in the Motley Crue song?” “Yep, that’s it.” Brad looked at the bartender for a reaction. “You have a criminal record?” Brad cleared his throat. “Battery and use of fighting words in Cordele, Georgia.” Brad sighed. “Spent a week in jail and paid a three hundred dollar fine.” “Did you start the fight?” The bartender still hadn’t looked directly at Brad. “Yeah, I did. Some guy called a lady I was talking to, a whore,” said Brad, “I called him a son-of-a-bitch and broke his nose.” The bartender smirked. “Turned out he was the husband of the lady I was talkin’ to.” A big grin spread over the bartender’s face. He turned toward Brad and looked him in the eye. “Tomorrow, be here at eleven a.m. I presume you can make Bloody Marys. The lunch crowd down here likes Bloody Marys.” “You got it, eleven sharp. I’ll be here.” Brad grinned and straightened up. “By the way, what’s your name?” The bartender grabbed a glass from the rack over the bar and poured it full of water then slid it across the bar to Brad. “I’m Travis,” he answered as he reached out and shook Brad’s hand. “And your name is?” “Brad,” he answered, “Brad Lambert.” “Okay, Brad Lambert, you do good tomorrow and you got yourself a job.” Turning up the glass, Brad’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down as he poured the water down his throat in one long gulp. The empty glass clinked against the bar surface as he sat it down. “Yes sir,” answered Brad. He hesitated and asked, “Travis, do you know anywhere I can get a room for cheap?” The bartender thumbed over his shoulder to his right. “Four blocks straight down this road and you’ll see a blue house, cedar shake siding, white trim, pebble roof and a pink door. There’s a sign out front that says scooters and bicycles for rent.” Travis leaned over the bar toward Bob. “The place belongs to Lydia, she’s my aunt. She has a room available.” “Great!” Brad perked up, “Thanks, Travis.” “I live next door,” Travis raised his eyebrows and gave Brad a stern look, “so you be real nice to my aunt.” “Cool, and I will be,” Brad nodded and turned toward the door. “See ya tomorrow at eleven.” The house was unmistakable, just as Travis had described it, blue cedar shakes, white trim and a pink door. A couple of old, dinged up motor scooters were leaned up against the front porch. Next to them, an eclectic assortment of bicycles. Brad counted six of them. A hand painted sign above the front steps advertised “Scooters and bicycles for rent”. Announcing Brad’s arrival as he stepped up onto the porch were several dogs, all sizes and breeds. They came running around the corner of the house barking loudly and circling his feet. Brad couldn’t move any closer to the front door as a very large dog, a mastiff of some sort, wouldn’t let him move any further. Suddenly a girl appeared at the screen door and pushed it open. Brad was immediately mesmerized by her. He quickly noticed her long, straight, silky red hair. Her big blue eyes were the color of the ocean. She was almost as tall as he was and her body was lean but curvy. The long, pale blue sundress she wore was cut low enough to expose firm breasts, a little larger than average. “Scat from here!” she commanded the dogs. “Brutus, you be nice, now move and sit.” The large dog, his tail wagging quickly, moved out of the way slightly. “I said sit, Brutus!” The girl waved her finger at the dog. The big brown mastiff obediently sat, his tongue hanging out and his big eyes giving off a puppy dog look that showed the red haired beauty was his master. All of the smaller dogs were by then sitting dutifully behind and to the sides of Brutus, all with wagging tails brushing the ground behind them. Brad broke into a big smile. “I’m looking for Travis’s Aunt Lydia.” “That’s me.” “Oh,” Brad was obviously startled, “but Travis is like forty or some…” “Yeah, I’m just twenty-six,” a very charming smile filled her face. “I am Travis’s aunt, I was a late in life accident. Travis’s dad is my oldest brother.” “I see,” said Brad. Oh my god! This girl is a knockout! “I have seven older brothers and my cousins are more like brothers and sisters to me.” “Well that makes sense,” escort bursa Brad interjected. “No sisters?” “No, but some cousins close to my age.” “That’s good.” “So are you needing to rent a bike or scooter?” asked Lydia “No,” said Brad. “Travis said you had a room to rent.” Brad could tell that Lydia was inspecting him closely with her blue eyes. “You’re not on the lam are you – not a serial killer or anything” “No,” Brad answered, “I’m a decent enough guy, I think.” A brief silence hung in the air as Lydia squinted, her eyes focusing on his face. What is she doing? “Yes, you are,” Lydia said confidently. Brad tweaked an eyebrow. How would she know that when she just met me? “I’m Brad by the way,” “Come in, Brad.” Lydia held the screen door open. Brad stepped inside. The wood plank floors squeaked as he followed her to the kitchen. Lydia gestured to the old 1950’s style dinette table and chairs. “Sit down.” Brad pulled a chair out and sat, placing his elbows on the table and then nervously removing them when he remembered his manners. She’ll think I’m trash or something. Some drifter that just showed up. “You don’t have to be formal around me.” Lydia pulled the chair out on the side next to Brad and sat. Placing her right elbow firmly on the table, she propped her chin in the palm of her hand and looked Brad in the eyes. “So, what’s your story?” Brad exhaled deeply. “It’s kind of embarrassing.” “We all have embarrassing stories,” Lydia said. Her gaze showed keen interest. “Well, I grew up in Atlanta and worked the last three years as a bartender – oh, Travis is giving me a shot at a job.” “Great.” Lydia’s gaze was unwavering. “I’m sure you’ll get it.” “Huh? Oh, yes, I hope so.” “Go on,” she said. “The place was a – uh, um, gentleman’s club.” “A strip joint,” Lydia interrupted. “Yeah.” Brad’s shaky voice sounded nervous. “Anyhow, I got involved with a dancer and, well, uh, very stupidly, I married her.” “Are you still married to her?” Lydia inquired without altering her gaze. “No, I’m not,” Brad exhaled again. “We were married three months. I had no idea anything was wrong – different. Then one night I worked while she was off, I came home after and she wasn’t there. All of her things were gone and anything of mine that was valuable. Just gone.” “Oh,” Lydia said raising an eyebrow. “Found out the next day that my checking and savings accounts were emptied. She was last seen at the airport with her ex-boyfriend, a real sleaze. They’d bought oneway tickets to Guadalajara. I don’t know where they went from there.” “That’s awful.” “The worst part is that just before I got involved with her, I had inherited almost a hundred thousand dollars from my aunt, and a house, which I had sold. All that was gone – overnight – just gone.” This girl thinks I’m a stupid fool. Why would she give the room to a gullible fool? “So, in her absence, I had to run a legal ad in the newspaper announcing I was divorcing her to get the divorce,” Brad’s voice trailed off. “All very humiliating.” “Don’t be humiliated,” Lydia said reassuringly. “You are not a fool.” Whoa, why did she say that, how did she know… “Maybe a little naive, Brad. You’re very trusting and kind hearted.” “What?” It seemed like she was reading his mind. “How do…” “Brad,” she interrupted, “I know things – I can tell what someone is like as soon as I meet them.” “How?” She’s freaking me out a little. “Each person has an outer glow.” Leaning toward Brad and clasping his hand firmly between her two hands, Lydia continued. “I can see your light and I know what kind of person you are.” “Whoa – you mean like ESP?” Brad was dumbfounded. “Or like in those Carlos Castaneda books?” “Something like that,” Lydia answered. I can’t believe this. “You’re finding this hard to believe.” “Uh – umm,“ stuttered an astonished Brad, “it’s different. I mean I haven’t ever encountered anything like this.” Lydia smiled. Brad found her smile very reassuring. “Get your pack and I’ll show you to your room.” Lydia stood up and walked toward the hallway. Brad picked his pack up off the floor and followed. “It’s fifty dollars, by the way.” “Fifty dollars?” “Your room,” answered Lydia. “It’s fifty dollars a week.” “Oh – okay.” She opened a door and gestured inside. Brad walked in and dropped his pack. Browsing the room, he saw a small, bunk sized bed, a plain dark wood dresser with a mirror mounted on the wall above it and a small rough-hewn table next to the bed as a night stand.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Yayımlayan

Bir cevap yazın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir