Friday is my Hell Day. I do three days’ worth of work on Friday so I can enjoy my weekend unhindered by office obligations. That might seem counterintuitive to the modern work ethic, but screw it. As Jack Torrance in “The Shining” typed over and over, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”
And I am not a dull boy.
The Friday marathon usually keeps me at the office into the evening, sometimes as late as 8 o’clock. By that time I’m ready to go home, crash on the couch, call up Netflix and stuff my face with empty carbs. Sleep soon follows. Oh, for the days when Friday nights meant hanging out in clubs with friends and partying until the wee hours. Now that I’m 39 that mattress starts looking better and better around 10 o’clock.
I’m a passable cook but after a 12-hour workday I don’t want to spend another hour in the kitchen. Sometimes I’ve got something in the freezer that looks good, but often I’ll treat myself by picking up on the way home. I try not to do that too often. At my age the weight piles on faster than it goes away, and restaurant food tends to be full of salt and fattening.
But this Friday night I was too tired to do even that. Work had been a bitch – malfunctioning computer systems, people not doing what they were hired to do, that sort of thing – and my brain had turned into a block of ice. All I wanted was to eat and fall asleep. Tomorrow I’d be off. I had all day to let my brain thaw.
So when I walked through my front door I tossed my keys and wallet onto the cabinet, took out my phone and called the number of the pizza place that was on a business card-sized magnetized sticker attached to the front of the refrigerator. I ended up ordering a large with jalapenos and black olives – I know, weird. Most people want pepperoni or sausage on their pizzas, or some kind of “protein” as they say on The Food Network. I’m by no means a vegan but at least I can pretend that my pizzas aren’t as lethal in terms of cholesterol.
I got out of my work clothes and was putting on a pair of cargos when the doorbell rang. “Shit,” I muttered. “Who the hell is delivering my pizza? The Flash?” I hadn’t even gotten my shirt or track shoes on. But an anticipatory stomach growl sent me toward the front door, wallet in hand.
I opened it to find a young guy standing there holding a thermal bag. He didn’t look a day over 16 and I was surprised a pizza place would employ a driver so young, or that a kid that age would take on a pizza-delivering job. He was about 5-foot 9, maybe 135 pounds, with coarse blond hair that hung toward his eyebrows and covered the tops of his ears. He wasn’t skinny but lean, his torso narrowing at the waist and widening to accompany his hips. I checked out his basket and saw a hint of something there – nothing huge or outlandish, but definitely something I wouldn’t mind seeing in the flesh. He was wearing a company polo, tan cargos and tennis shoes. I noticed his legs were hairy – I like that in a guy. Fuck all those pussies who shave their crotches and legs. I want some hair where there’s supposed to be goddamned hair. I don’t want to feel like I’m fucking a 12-year-old.
“Sir?” I heard, and realized I’d been staring, and he’d been speaking, and I hadn’t noticed it at all. “You ordered a large with black olives and jalapenos?”
His voice had that just-broken rasp to it. The kid was definitely no older than 16.
“No,” I joked. “I ordered jalapenos and black olives.”
He frowned and looked at the receipt taped to the box. Then, his face lit up as he finally realized I was pulling his leg. “Oh, gotcha. I’m kinda slow at the end of my shift.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” I said. “Come on in while I get you some money.”
He stepped inside the door and followed me to the kitchen. I started looking for my wallet and couldn’t find it, until I realized I was holding it in my damn hand. “Talk about slow,” I laughed.
But it wasn’t “slow” that had caused me to forget, but “hard,” as in the cock now lengthening and stiffening in my shorts. Because sometime over the past 30 seconds I had decided this kid was eminently fuckable and that if I failed to get into his pants my life would be sadly diminished.
Jesus, what was I thinking? I could never do that to a 16-year-old. I shook my head, disappointed in myself and at the same time disgusted with my sense of propriety. Sometimes I could be my own worst enemy.
He smiled and put the bag down on the cabinet, unzipping it and removing the cardboard box containing my pizza. “I do that sometimes with my sunglasses,” he said. “I’ll be looking all over the place for them and they’re on my head.”
I bet he looked incredibly sexy, sunglasses sitting atop that blond mop, the arms tucked behind his ears. A part of my brain devoted itself to composing a mental image of him behind the wheel of a convertible, sunglasses sparkling in the light, hair flying, shirtless, driving down a beach road, passersby staring in envy at a gorgeous young man who held the world in the palm of his hand with his good looks.
My loins quietly ached.
I grabbed a 20 from my wallet. The pizza cost $12.95. I told him to keep the change – he was that beautiful. It was going to be hard, eating a pizza when what I really wanted to eat was walking out the door.
He thanked me and turned to leave. Almost in a panic I spoke up, “Before you go, can I ask you a question?”
He turned and said, “Sure. What?”
“How old are you?”
He smiled knowingly. “I get that a lot. I’m 18, but everybody thinks I’m 15. Apparently I have a baby face.”
My heart skipped a beat, in a good way. Eighteen years old. One major obstacle down. Only one more to go.
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