Purple Contacts

In mid-July, Melissa announced that she was leaving for Florida for a while. This made me very happy. I’d recently started working at a nearby Kookaburra Canyon.  It was a job I’d loved when I lived in Cranberry Lake.  And since I couldn’t stand the crap corporate restaurant I’d been working at when I met Melissa, I was overjoyed at the prospect of returning to work at a KC.

Among the typical college student servers, and the housewives whose children had gone off to colleges, was the hottest man I’d ever laid my eyes on, rested my eyes on, desperately wanted my eyes to fall into a coma on.  David.

I’d been working at KC for a week when David turned 21.  I served him his first legal drink.  I was the first man to get him drunk, but, though I thought about it, not the first one to takeadvantage of his drunkenness.  I was the first person to notice when he started using color  contacts.  “Are your eyes...I mean...your eyes look...purple?  Aren’t they usually...brown?”

“How do you know what color his eyes are?  You checking him out?”  Asked Becky.

I didn’t like Becky.

“Either that, or I’ve noticed that Brazilian men with deeply tanned skins and brown hair all tend to have brown eyes.”

Becky glowered at me.  “Racist.”  This from the bitchy former stripper who once cooked  a huge catering order of chicken on the same stove top she’d used to cook bacon for the cheeseburgers, and said “I want to see a big old Jew take a big bite out of this fucken chicken.  Send that fucken Jewbag straight to Hell.”  And, yea, she’d laughed after she’d said it, and then, on seeing my  horrified expression, “I was just kidding, Adam.”  I heard that’s how Eva Braun got started.

Yes, I’d noticed his eyes.  There were quite a few other features, I’d noticed, too.  I was busy  noticing one part that, in French, rhymes with carrier, when I bumped into a server who wasrearranging the bread oven.  I pulled him back, so he wouldn’t get burned, when Becky then rammed into me, full force.  This was a sandwich I did not want to be the meat in.

“Were you...were you checking me out?”  David asked.  We were on the T.  His shift had ended about an hour before mine, but he’d sat at the bar, apparently waiting for my shift to end.

“Yea.”

“Oh.”

And then silence. 

And then, “Want to come over and take advantage of your new found liquor buying abilities?”

He nodded.  Adorably.

While we hadn’t had anything like sex during the next three months, there’d been quite a bit of cuddling, and out makeage.  But when I told him that Melissa was headed to Florida for at least a couple weeks, he said he wanted to come spend the nights for a while.

He claimed to be too drunk for any debauchery during the first night that he stayed over, but the next morning, he’d must have sobered up a bit, as I awoke to something on my penis that felt strangely like a tongue.  More normally as a tongue, actually.  And then there were hands, and flesh, and lips, and all the other fun stuff, and then condoms, and then moaning.  Loud, wow, moaning.  This went on for about twenty minutes.  When we were done we heard applause.

Uhoh.

David hopped off the bed, threw on his pants, and peeked through the venetian blinds.  “Fuck.”  yes, we had.  “Look.”

Outside, three also hot Brazilian looking guys were sitting on chaise lounges, pointed at my   bedroom window.   Apparently, they were house painting when they heard our, uh, performance, and decided to take a break.

“I’ve...I’ve got to go.”  David said, throwing on his hoodie, and some sunglasses.  “I’m….I’m sorry.”