Dave's Hammer

 

 

I guess I just always had a hard time making life seem normal for appearance sake. I moved into my grandmother's old house when she left to spend her remaining days with Dad out at the farm, and things just sort of headed south from there on out. There was one time when I picked up this dick dancer from the Blue Parrot – I called it the Dead Bird – over on Cedar Springs in Dallas and brought him back to the house to do a little coke. He was one of those guys who seemed a bit repressed, in spite of his occupation. But once we'd done about half a gram, the clothes started coming off and he imprinted on my dick like a baby duck. Now I've never been one to shy away from expanding the boundaries of acceptable behavior in others – I see it as my outreach in some sense, but I always had trouble reining them in during the process.

 

I was up for some fun, and I've never been particularly shy or easily shocked. But there comes a time when I can only shove stuff up a guy's ass for so long before it just gets old. And why is it that every swingin' dick I ever met turned into a class A freak the moment I get them naked and apply the right chemical combination. You don't see me hikin' my leg up in the air and hollerin' for a lamp just ‘cause I did a little too much cocaine. Now do ya?

I brought this guy home and gave him a beer and laid out a few lines while we watched some art film or something, and before you know it he had his face buried in my lap amid protestations of how this is not the way he normally acts. I allowed as how he was welcome to continue, and I didn't judge him either way, and no, this doesn't mean he's gay at all. He had some hateful hot-bubblin' skull for someone who claimed to have so little experience, and he insisted on running the gamut of homosexual endeavor and hikin' his ass up in the air for me to plough in true yeoman fashion. I was intent on denying him nothing in this little "boy's night out", so I put selfish considerations aside and applied myself diligently to my efforts for no short period of time. Lord, he was inexhaustible.

 

After I'd nutted numerous times and was beginning to weary of the whole ordeal, he asked if I had any toys of any kind. He was not ready just yet for a denouement to our activities. I stumbled off to the bathroom and found a shampoo bottle that didn't look to menacing and slipped a rubber over it and began working him that way, periodically letting him take over on his own while I dished us up more coke. It's really hard to maintain your manual dexterity with a razor and straw when you have fingers covered with lotion or cocoa butter. We had quite a bit of trouble with the bottle after a while, because it was too slippery. I feared that we might lose it inside the boy, so I cast about for something more suitable.

 

Just the thing! Across the living room on an end table I spied my roommate's carpenter's hammer. He was spending the night at his girlfriend's and wasn't expected back, though it was a work night. I snatched the tool and slipped another rubber over the handle, presenting it to him with a grin. He had that blank look on his face that signals raw desire in someone as coked up as he was. He hunkered down on his elbows and raised his rump in the air to signal utter compliance with my very worst intentions.

 

I pressed the latex-covered rubber-gripped handle against his little rosebud and watched with dull fascination as this implement normally hefted by my good friend Dave in the practice of his craft served double duty in mine. I was surprised at how little complaint I heard as more and more of the solid American steel engaged his soft tissues and pressed homeward. I was mindful not to continue too far; I didn't want to go on a fishing expedition for a slightly used condom in someone's colon, and I didn't want to be cleaning his afterbirth off of the Dave's hammer either. I got to where I could saw back and forth with one hand and smoke and do lines without missing a beat more or less. But I was tiring of the whole process as he was gaining steam.

 

We worked out an arrangement where he would lie on the sofa on his back with his heels together and his legs bent so that the head of the hammer found support in his feet and he could simply slide back and forth. This freed me up to do nothing once again, which suited my taste. I had to offer him cock periodically, but he would zone out for long enough periods of time that I was relieved of that necessity as well for the most part.

 

I had hardly noticed the graying light around the blinds when a car door slammed outside in the driveway. With little time to spare, I grabbed one of the quilts my grandmother had painstakingly crafted for me and threw it over my companion just as my roommate came in the door. The groans and gasps and cheesy music of the art film gave way to cartoons just as the door opened, and Dave strolled in.

"Hey, Frank, you seen my tools?"

I nonchalantly pointed over at the end table, "I think that's them over there, Dave."

He walked past the sofa and through the hall to his bedroom to change for work, reappearing moments later and advancing to the place where his tool belt lay. My friend the dancer was keeping his movement to a minimum and barely acknowledged Dave's presence. My roommate hardly glanced his way, but he did give me a slight smirk.

"You seen my hammer? It oughta be here with this stuff."

"No, Dave, I don't have a clue. I just noticed that pile a while ago."

He shrugged, "Well, I gotta git. It'll turn up." He opened the door and stepped out into the dawn air and turned toward me again.

"Jesus, Mug, it smells like a tanning salon in here, dude." He shut the door. Moments later the car left the driveway and the quilt flew off the other side of the sofa. The hammer began pumping rhythmically again like a west Texas oil well.

 

It took me forever to get shed of that guy. My assistant from the office came by the house, and I talked to her through the door, telling her I was deathly ill and apologizing for not calling in from my sickbed. Just short of noon my trick d'jour finally wore himself out and cleaned up and got dressed. I took him to the bar and bought him a beer and never saw him again. I washed Dave's hammer as well as I could and set it behind the end table where he found it later that evening. It was at least a week or two before I did anything like that again. I was just that tired of the whole business.