Sex + Love

October 22, 2012

What is this Love? Part 9: The Clean-Up

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Written by: Kyle
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This is a fictional boymance/mystery series exclusive to The Gaily, from contributor Kyle Vaughn Roerick. Catch up with parts 1-8 here.

This time, whispering was no longer an option.

The noise that came out of my gut, my chest, and eventually out of my mouth echoed throughout Pablo’s apartment. The next thing I felt was the hardwood floor against my cheek as I landed with a thud. When I came to, Ricky was standing over the body that I was at least two meters away from. I must have jumped pretty far. Groggily, I came to my feet.

Ricky wasn’t whimpering anymore. He seemed agitated and was fidgeting quite a bit. It was then that I noticed the book end in his left hand. The same book end he had used before.

“He’s still alive,” I heard him say.

At least that is what I thought I had heard.

“He’s still alive,” he repeated. I had heard the last one fairly clearly. My heart sank. But before I could say or do a thing, I saw the bookend rise and come crashing down on Pablo’s face, this time for the final time. Blood spattered across Ricky’s body. He turned to me. His face speckled with red.

“Let’s get rid of this,” he said with an almost sinister and sickening demeanor. I was scared. I think I peed myself a bit.

What was this? Why was I even here? Who the fuck is this guy in front of me?! I had little time with my thoughts, Ricky had started to drag Pablo’s body towards the centre of the room. What was left of his face reminded me of hamburger meat. I leaned to the side of the table, braced myself, and threw-up everything inside of me.

Ricky had found large plastic bags in the garage, which he laid down in the room and rolled the body on to. Cleaning supplies were brought out as well and we started to scrub and disinfect everything. Moving back and forth with my arms, the blood and soap mixed into a light pink froth. It foamed out of the sides of my gloves, through the sponge, and finally, the smell entered my nostrils. We disposed of the bloodied water into the bathtub down the hall. We, of course, had no idea what we were doing, but we just needed to get something done. Anything.

A few hours passed and we had pretty much cleaned everything on the first floor. I reminded Ricky of the dripping noise I initially heard when I entered the apartment. I suggested that there was a basement or something downstairs that we should check out and clean up if there was any trace of the blood. He agreed and started to lead the way, almost as if he knew exactly where to go. We soon arrived at a door across the hall from the bathroom we were dumping the water. I guess I had been so focused on the clean up I never noticed the door across the hall with the combination lock on it. The same door Ricky had led us to. The door that must have led to something downstairs. Ricky started screwing around with the lock until it opened with a click!

“How do you know the combination?” I said. “Wait, more importantly, what the fuck is down there that that dude needs a fucking combo lock to protect?!”

Ricky didn’t say anything. He just opened the door and started to descend down the wooden stairs.

It was dark, so I pulled out my cell phone to get some light. As I did, Ricky looked back and caught the background image out of the corner of his eye. It was a photo of me and him on the beach just outside of Denman.

We had gone for the day just to escape the city and have a picnic on the beach. It was probably one of the best days of my life. It was earlier on in our “relationship” and definitely before all the crazy and, well, killing people happened. We had loaded up his mom’s convertible (post-divorce purchase) and headed down towards Denman. I remember the day so vividly: it was fucking hot, so Ricky didn’t have a shirt on. I drove, and needless to say, he was damn distracting. He had darker skin, but he still insisted on lubing up with that Hawaiian tropic tanning shit. Whatever. It made every muscle glisten in the sun. Thank god for the top-down; the cool breeze made it so his nipples were erect the entire time. I have a thing for nipples.

As we were driving down Highway 34, he noticed my cock was hard. I guess, while driving, I was in a constant state of “OMG I want to pull over and let you have your fucking way with me right on the hood of your mom’s car!” He leaned over and put his hand on my crotch. I swerved into the other lane but quickly returned to where I started from.

“Jesus, don’t even think about it!” I said. “Do you want me to crash the car?!”

I guess he wasn’t listening to me, or he didn’t care much for what I had to say about our safety, because I felt the small vibrations of my zipper opening the fly of my jeans. Goosebumps covered my body and I felt a slight tingling at the back of my neck. He pulled out my cock and lowered himself onto it. His lips were warm as was his mouth. I was feeling dizzy and tried my best to concentrate on the road.

When he introduced his hand I had to pull off the highway. Luckily there was an off ramp, and since we were in buttfuck nowhere, we weren’t concerned about anyone around. Not that Ricky cared at all. He was totally into that voyeur/exhibitionist shit. I, on the other hand was scared shitless of intruding eyes.

He leaned me up against a thick tree nearby. Our bodies hidden from the highway, but in plain view of the cattle in the field adjacent. He kissed me hard. My head flung back and snapped the bark of the tree. It hurt a bit, but I didn’t care. He tasted so good. Salty sweet. He went back down on me. My hands gripping his hair. I was so close. I kept pulling away, but each time he would grab my bare ass and thrust me deeper into him. It wasn’t much longer before I gave in and released.

Ricky and I finally made it to the beach. It was incredible, and virtually deserted. We spent the day reading, drinking wine, and chatting. It was simple, but so was all my time with Ricky. He wasn’t complicated and things were easy. The water was fucking cold, but we managed to make it in once or twice, using the hot sun to warm us up again, and occasionally, our own bodies. It was right before we were leaving for the day that I took that photo.

“You shouldn’t need that much longer,” Ricky said as we descended further down the stairs.

“I think there is a light switch here somewhere.” I could hear his hands palming the sides of the walls desperately looking for a switch. I bonked my head on something.

“Fuck!”

“What is it?” he said.

“Just my head, I hit it on…”, and then Ricky found the switch. The lights came on. Bright lights. My eyes took time to adjust, but when they did, I saw, perhaps, the reason there was a padlock on the door. Apparently, Pablo grew a lot of pot in his basement. I mean, a lot. This wasn’t recreational. This was full on supply to dealer operations. Rows and rows of hydroponic plants were growing.

Part 10 coming soon!



About the Author

Kyle
Kyle
|Contributor & Photographer| MA in cultural and political communications. Currently live in Montreal with my boyfriend and his cat, Shakira. Writer, #hashtagabuser, slow food advocate, culinary master, avid photographer, hopeless romantic, handsome pants, part-time lumberjack, occasional super hero, determined professional, master of witt, and self proclaimed food and wine junkie.




 
 

 
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One Comment


  1. I love the mystery and drama, but am so glad we are back to the hot stuff too!



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