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“You just plain suck.” Charle Lexington stared at his ex, and the bitch he’d cheated on him with… and the friend of the bitch he had cheated with’s best friend, whom he was also fucking.Now would be a good time to let the floor open up and swallow him whole.
“Maybe if you learned to do that a bit better, I wouldn’t have to go and find Andy and Candy.”
Instead of opening his mouth and letting the asshole have it with both barrels, Charle rolled his eyes, crossed his arms over his Iron Man Pony T-shirt, and silently imagined the worst happening to his ex.
Then something, a strange awareness in him, poked him hard in the self-esteem. He couldn’t let the spray tanned asshole get away with embarrassing him like this. He was better than that wannabe Dr. Dre any three hundred sixty four and three-fourths days of the year. He wanted war? He was going to get it.
“Well, if you had something a little bit bigger than a thumb to practice on, maybe I’d be better,” he mused aloud, giving Dick a bright smile that showed all of his surgically corrected teeth. “I’m not saying you have a small dick, but when the whole thing fits in my mouth and can’t even reach the middle of my tongue… well…” He let his words trail off as he grinned at his ex-Dick. “You’re the only Richard I know who wants to be called Dick. Overcompensating much?”
“Bitch,” Dick growled, rising to his feet in an attempt to be intimidating, but it was kind of hard to be intimidating when you had to wear lifts in your classic throwback Adidas to reach the coveted six-foot height… a height that guaranteed that not too many people would notice his receding hairline.
Except Charle was six-feet three inches in his bare feet. Sometimes life was good.
“Yes, I am,” Charle purred. “I learned it from watching you.”
“Like anyone else would want you,” Dick growled as the twins twittered from behind their hands, their matching neon nails making glowing trails that threatened to give him a headache in the low light of the venue.
The Stage was a small studio/auditorium that catered to the elite in the rock world. Everyone from the Stones to the Who, from Prince to Snoop Dogg had played private gigs there. Usually the invitees received an email on the same day as the event, inviting them to come and take place in the making of history. Established bands used the venues to announce tours, introduce their hottest new discoveries, showcase new or replacement talents, or to just kick back and jam without the complications of stage make-up, rock personas, and screaming groupies to get in the way of the fun. Tonight Abadon had taken the stage to announce the last leg of their American tour and that they would be taking a small hiatus afterwards to create a new sound.
Charle had gotten his email late, as he was out interviewing the latest stripper- turned-female-rap-sensation, and didn’t get to check his emails on his phone until his three hours were up with Miss Thang.
She was surprisingly intelligent and forthright about her career goals, her past, and what she intended for the future. She also demanded his full attention as she strutted around the basement studio of her new house, complete with stripper pole, while they talked politics and fashion.
He had raced to get to The Stage and had missed the performance and announcement by minutes. But that was okay. He could still interview those who were invited, pick up a press packet, and watch The Other, Abadon’s warm-up band, perform. The Other was a small alternative rap band, kind of like Twenty One Pilots, that was gaining quite the name for itself. The members were entertaining as hell to watch on stage. They kind of made the audience feel like they were part of one big joke instead of condescending to them. Charle didn’t think that Dick would be here or, with misplaced sarcasm and snark, he would intercept Charle on his way to find a seat.
“Oh, a lot of people want me, Dick,” he snickered, while trying to control the inner bullshit meter that was ringing quite loudly in his head. “It’s hard to be so sexy.”
Charle had been dateless and even worse, sexless since he discovered Dick fucking the twins in the backseat of his car years ago. His ’69 Pontiac Firebird was his baby and to have it so defiled by that fool in the velour sweat suit sitting there…
He mourned the abuse of his car far more than he mourned the explosion of their relationship. He did have fun marching up to his studio apartment and activating his LoJack, reporting that his car was the victim of a break-in, which it technically was. He had never given Dick the keys or permission to even breathe on his car, let alone set his cheap materialistic ass inside of it.
Dick had not been amused when the police showed up and arrested him for breaking and entering, public nudity, lewd behavior, and engaging in sexual acts in public. Charle got to play shocked lover who had no idea that his boyfriend of three years had broken into his car and was cheating on him.
The officers, who were very sympathetic even if subtly grossed out, were all too happy to arrest Dick and talk to Charle about pressing charges. No, Dick didn’t live with him. He did not have permission to be at Charle’s apartment or in his car. He was a reporter who had been covering Aerosmith all week and had only moments before arrived at his home. See? There was his plane ticket and photographs of him and Steven Tyler at breakfast that morning. They all agreed that it was a passive-aggressive way to break up and from the way Dick was cursing at him, it could turn violent. Tall, thin Charle would be no match for his thicker, angry ex in a fight, so maybe he should go upstairs and let another nice officer take his statement and see about a restraining order.
Charle did that before he took his car to get deloused and detailed.
Dick’s shocked face would have been almost comedic if it wasn’t so tragic as a trio of officers cuffed and stuffed him in the back of a police car with just his long T-shirt covering his modesty while the twins were taken away in a second car with a lesser charge of accessory to breaking and entering and public lewd behavior.
Ever since then, he had been singing Pink’s You and Your Hand Tonight to himself. Then there was his Bob… Battery Operated Boyfriends were the best. They didn’t cheat on you or defile your most prized possession, and when you were done with them, you cleaned them off and threw them in a drawer.
Now he was kind of regretting that as he really didn’t have a final comeback for Dick or the ability to lie worth a damn.
“You couldn’t get laid if you bend over, spread your cheeks, and tattoo cum dump around your asshole. You are pathetic, Charle, a pathetic sad, lonely old man in a twig of a body.”
Charle could respond in kind or he could be mature, walk away, ignore Dick, and try to enjoy the music that was coming.
And there was the third option, throwing a punch.
Charle decided to throw a damn punch. The drink that Dick spilled all over him and his companions was just a bonus as far as he was concerned.
In the midst of the squealing and bodies flying around — the twins — and blood gushing from noses — well, one nose that belonged to Dick — Charle ducked down and slipped away in the darkness of the gathering crowd.
No one in their right mind would think that prim and proper Charle Lexington would throw a punch much less get into any conflict. Charle was considered a good guy, nonconfrontational, maybe even sweet and innocent, definitely not one to start trouble. Security moved right past him and he ducked into a quiet dark room, hoping to find a place to chill out while Dick ether settled down or left. The rich producer had already taken a beating in the papers after his arrest and the reasons for it were made public and even though years had passed, he couldn’t afford another scandal, especially one involving a so prim and proper, upstanding gay black man like his poor cuckolded ex.
He had no idea the room was occupied until the first moaned complaint reached his ears.
* * *
“If you’re going to fuck me, then fucking fuck me hard!”