Jeff & Mike


By Cleety

Because one day Jeff starts spending a little bit TOO MUCH time in the lab. He's down there, like, every day and night for a week, he's not shaving, he's barely eating. He even stops working out! Only says he's "Onto something…", of course, he won't tell me what, and trust me, I wouldn't have understood Word One even if he tried to tell me. His science shit always made my eyes glaze over. But I take him at his word, and I'm excited for him. See, I'm thinking cancer cure…Nobel Prize, that kind of thing! Then one day I find him packing in the bedroom; his eyes are wild, he looks totally eager to get out of there. He says "I'm going away for a while to LA to work on getting a grant for this project." Oh, well…cool then…I say, a little put-off. Why does he seem so eager to get away from me? I was concerned, I didn't even know why. Just a weird vibe.

So I take him to the airport and he goes. "Back soon!" he says, kissing my bicep goodbye, like usual, which reassures me a little. See that was our secret greeting, kissing each other's biceps. Well, not secret, really, 'cause we did it right out in public, like at parties or, like, at our parents' houses for Thanksgiving. Say rather, it was our "trademark". Ha ha!

I mean, there we'd be in this fuckin' MANSION Jeff grew up in outside Philadelphia, on the goddamned Main Line and shit…with Jeff's fuckin' stockbroker DAD and his now THIRD wife, and all Jeff's deadly, straight, pasty, stockbroker brothers hanging out by the fire reading silently and having freakin' EGGNOG, and I'd come in with snow on the shoulders of my P-coat from walking the snowy grounds, and I'd walk over to the sofa by the fireplace and give their gorgeous napping faggot son and brother a kiss on his biceps - just walk right up to him, grab his upper arm encased in that obscenely tight gray cashmere-lycra sweater he's wearing, and lift it to my goateed mouth like a watermelon. Just as he wakes up, I bite into his incredible bubble-biceps, with my tongue lapping against the ever-growing hardness of his drowsy flex, right through the fuzzy knit of cashmere. "Hi honey," we'd say - deliberately nauseating the embarrassed boozing breeders. Heh heh heh…

Or we'd be invited on the boat with my mom and her, like, EIGHTH Cuban boyfriend - and it'd be all hot, so I'd jump in the ocean for a swim - and when Jeff helps me up the ladder onto deck, he grabs my dripping arm, licks his lips while hoisting it to mouth-level, squaring his hips lower like he's gonna limbo under my arm - then smacks his open lips on the salty smoothness of my blood-engorged biceps. "Hey babe," *smack- "ummmm…oh fuck you're so pumped!* smack… How was the swim?" That fuckin' Cuban dude looked like he was gonna puke, I tell ya! Corny as hell, perhaps, but we loved it.

Anyway…I thought his enacting this little ritual of ours meant I had been worrying for no reason. But sad to say, that trip really was the End of Jeff. Gone. My one-of-a-kind gorgeous, brilliant, hyper-jacked muscle worshipping boyfriend went away on a routine research trip and - just never came back.

Fuck - like I need this? •

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