Page 36 of Big Britches

Booty call.

Just considering the suggestive slang made Pedro blush. The flesh of his face and forearms tingled.

Is that what this is?

Could be. He wasn’t opposed to it. Titus was a handsome man, and a generous portion of Pedro’s initial attraction to him had been physical. He hadn’t been intimate with a man since coming to the States–almost two and a half years now–and the mere thought of sex with Titus reignited his blush.

He’d been drawn to large men early on, as a boy, watching his father’s beloved western reruns on a local Mexican television station–Maverick, Gunsmoke, Bonanza. His favorite was a series called Cheyenne, starring an enormous man named Clint Walker. Walker’s character, Cheyenne Bodie, was ruggedly handsome, at least six-foot-six, and–to Pedro’s early adolescent fascination–went shirtless seemingly every episode. Walker was a cuddly colossus, effortlessly charismatic and sexy.

Titus Shepherd was the modern equivalent.

Maybe it is a booty call.

Heat flared in Pedro, coursing through his frame so pervasively his muscles felt like they were melting.

Fine. No big deal. Just punch the numbers.

He was sitting in his pickup truck outside the gate on Sun Hill Road, just staring at the keypad.

B-T-2-3. Remember?

He remembered. He also remembered that Titus said his sex life had ended when his wife had become ill. That meant he and Pedro had both been celibate for over two years. He’d recognized desire in Titus’s eyes, much the way he’d seen the urge in potential tricks back on Holbox. But something about Titus was different, something beyond the physical allure that made Pedro quiver.

Don’t even think about it. You just met.

To add seasoning to an already confusing stew, the song Tonight, from West Side Story, had been playing on a loop in his head ever since agreeing to this date—an earworm, at first enjoyable, but now, as he sat in front of the imposing gate, it grew louder and more intrusive. The softer Tony and Maria duet was gone, replaced by the clash of the larger full-cast quintet, foreshadowing danger and the tragic conclusion of the story.

Drama much?

This seesaw of emotion was familiar, a result of his tendency to overthink things—as Barb had suggested. His mother was obsessive-compulsive, mildly, but enough so that Pedro had researched the disorder, discovering it was genetic and that they likely shared symptoms. Neither had been officially diagnosed, but self-medicated in their own ways. His mother had coped by learning to sew at an early age. Making clothing for family and friends was meditative for her. Pedro preferred gardening. Nothing soothed his addled mind more than being outdoors.

He’d felt a similar calm with Titus earlier, hand in hand, his soft grip tentative, yet reassuring. Even his baritone voice was soothing, the lazy drawl of his native tongue punctuated with a smile or the twinkle of an eye. He recalled the sweet way Titus had spoken with Tucker and Shelly, and how thrilled they were at the promise of pool play.

Pedro could relate. He wanted to spend more time with Titus, too.

His mind continued to drift—He remembered Titus walking away, wet and dripping, the round globes of his rear supplely swaying beneath the towel, and the curved indentation between.

Stop it. You need to focus.

He rolled the window down for some air, but like the song from West Side Story, Titus, too, lingered in his mind… his square jaw, his cleft chin, his wide, sculpted frame, chiseled with curves and recesses, his thick legs, calves, and thighs, and his hourglass waist which tapered oh-so briefly before expanding again toward a massive back and shoulders.

That is not what I meant by focus.

Pedro punched the code on the keypad.

Football. He didn’t know that much about American football… only that it was like a religion to some, especially college football in the south.

The gate opened slowly, and while he waited, Pedro imagined the glare of stadium lights, heard the staccato punch of brass and percussion, and saw Big T running out on the field in his jersey numbered twenty-three. He knew exactly how the scene would play–from the movie Rudy more than anything–the lights, the cheerleaders, the crowd roaring for the hometown hero.

The gate was fully open now, and he drove his little Dodge Ram 50 through, bearing right again, as Roz had instructed earlier in the day. Titus had left the second gate open for him and Pedro rolled up to the guest house, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment, listening to the soft ticking as it cooled.

Twilight was nearly gone, and fireflies were flashing as he opened the door and stepped out into the warm night.

There was music coming from the pool area, a soft instrumental jazz. Nice. As Pedro walked that way, he marveled at how thick the air was with humidity and how comforting its weighty tangibility felt, like being embraced by an invisible deity, protected.

When he stepped onto the pool decking, Titus was in the water nearby, his arms on the concrete lip, face in hands. He was smiling.

“Hello there. I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”