Sprinkler

Eric watched him the whole way. Last descending steps off the ladder, onto the grass, then to his left and up the two tiers of terraced flower beds, before finally a tall, long step boosted him up onto the wooden deck. Eric watched his approach through the open blinds covering the pair of French doors, and just when the man was about to knock Eric opened the lefthand one, metal jalousies jangling.

"Hi," Eric said. "What's the verdict?"

The roofer glanced off to his left, into the backyard and the lake beyond, then back. A sly grin had formed. "I saw you just now," the man said, rather than answering Eric's question.

"Huh?"

"Before I went up on your roof. Through them windows..."

There were six of them, large, three sets of two, the bottom ones capable of opening. Together they formed a segmented plate-glass view of Eric's jungle of a lakeview backyard. Currently, in middle windows' center, stood a sturdy extension ladder reaching to cathedral ceiling's steep roof.

The grin had broadened. A thick finger dipped, pointing. "You wudn't wearin' them drawstring pants like now, or a shirt. Just...," the grin seemingly maxing out, "... little panties."

Eric's mouth closed. He swallowed.

"Looked cute in 'em," the roofer added. "Cuter 'an my damn wife."

"It was... it's hot," Eric said by way of feeble excuse.

"Tell me about it," said the roofer, resentfully. "Just came down offa your damn roof. Cute," the man added, however, dark eyes drifting down Eric's slender body to the waistline of his pants, and slightly below.

The roofer, Eric decided, was probably in his early forties, Eric's own age give or take a year. However, years--decades--of being on roofs out in the torrid Florida sun, especially in summer, as it was now, had prematurely aged him. His face and neck and muscular arms--the visible parts of him--were darkly tanned and his face was lined with old man's crow's feet and wrinkles. His breath smelled vaguely of stale cigarettes, and there was an open pack in the breast pocket of his sopping-wet teeshirt.

Above the pocket, in a faded, ironic script, it said: Sprinkler's Roofing. This, Eric decided, must be Sprinkler himself.

"It's hot out," Eric heard himself blurt. "You want a cold beer?"

"Love one," the man said, taking a booted step forward. But Eric blocked his path. He pointed to his left, back across his livingroom.

"There's, um, a secluded area on the west side of the house. Privacy fence. Nobody can see in."

Eric continued, after a nervous swallow: "There's a hose there. You can take your wet clothes off...," quickly adding, "if you want, and rinse off. There's a chair, a folding chair, um, beach chair... you can drape your clothes over that if you want so they can, um, dry off. I'll...

"I'll," Eric concluded, "come through the garage and meet you with a towel." Adding, a second to last time, "If you want."

"You be in your little panty?" the roofer wondered.

"If you want."

"I want." And the man reached out and gave Eric's swelling penis a squeeze through two thin layers of clothing, the outer one light grey, cotton. "See you there," he said, turning, preparing to descend.

Eric watched the man for a moment before realizing he was holding his breath. He let it out, audibly, then closed the French door and headed for the upstairs linen closet.

Goddamn, Eric thought as he climbed the carpeted stairs, taking them in twos, I might get a blowjob out of this. Or a fuck. Or both.

The roofer's cock was thick like his fingers, and it pointed straight out--out not up--at Eric, who waited for the man to step up into the garage through the open side door. He was dripping wet. Chilly hose water. He glanced to his right as he began drying himself.

"What's under the covers?"

"Cars."

"Must be expensive."

Eric didn't like talking about his wealth, his minor, mostly inherited wealth, to strangers. "Not so much," he parried.

"Covered up? In a garage?"

"Well I don't drive the little one all that often," he explained. Or rationalized. "And I have cats."

"Cats?"

Eric nodded. "Outdoor, um, cats."

With the man's elevated penis out of the way Eric had an uninhibited view of his balls. They were monsters. One of his the size of both of Eric's, now nested nicely in panty's narrow crotch. With his backside still wet the roofer handed Eric back the towel with one hand while reaching out to fondle him with the other.

"Nice," he repeated, a little breathlessly. "Silk?"

Eric nodded for some reason. "Microfiber."

"My fuckin' wife...," the guy began. "Nuthin but cotton."

Eric started to say something; then stopped. Then dropped the damp towel to the concrete and, without waiting for an invitation, fell to his bare knees on it. He leaned forward and took the man's penis in his mouth. And once his head began to bob, in slow rhythm, reached out and fondled those amazing balls. The sack was thick, and smooth.

"Another thing my wife don't do," the roofer said. And Eric couldn't help but wonder what she thought about her husband's shaved balls.

"Isn't that a gay thing?" he could almost hear an annoying, high-pitched voice saying. With acrimony.

The third, and then the fourth time Eric gagged on the circumcised length, the roofer said, "What about that cold beer? I'm parched."

And Eric pulled back, as the penis in front of him rose up, fully erect now, wiped his mouth on the back of a hand and clumsily got to his feet, steadying hand on the nearer of the two covered cars.

"Let's go inside," he told the naked roofer. And a moment later he was pulling a can of Mich Ultra out of an open 24-pack case. The roofer grinned again as Eric poured the beer into a bulbous wine glass designed for Chardonnay.

"This shit?" said the roofer, accepting the frosted glass. "Tastes like water," he added, after taking a sip.

"Well, it's... cold at least."

"This all you got?"

"Yep. Sorry."

And the overheated roofer downed the glass. Eric got him another.

"Want me to suck you again?" Eric eagerly offered. He too had a hard-on now--in his panty. It slanted off to the left.

"[You] jus' did."

"I mean some more."

"Relax," the man said. "Have a beer."

"Sure." And Eric took down a second wine glass and filled it with 96 calorie light beer. Ultra light. One notch above water.

"You do this a lot?" the naked roofer wondered.

"What?"

"Suck cock?"

Eric swallowed again. Nervously. "Sometimes. Guys come over..."

"You're good at it?"

And Eric looked up. Proudly. "I--"

"Better'n my fuckin' wife." He drained the second glass, as Eric hurried to give him a refill.

"Mind if I...?"

"Hold it," the roofer told him. "Hold it but don't stroke it. Less you want me to shoot it all over your fuckin' floor."

"You, um, premature? I am," Eric hastened to add.

And the roofer made a disgruntled, grunting sound and said, "Ain't had any in over a week. About to burst."

"Your wife?" Eric wondered--though he immediately regretted it.

"What about her?" the roofer's eyes narrowing. Apparently it was OK for him to denigrate his wife, but not others. Not panty-wearing sissy crossdressers like Eric. Customers, that is.

"You felt my balls. They full?"

Eric nodded. Actually all he knew about them was that they were LARGE.

"Fuckin' bitch...," the roofer muttered, about someone. "Well, I got some good news and bad news..."

You want to fuck me? Eric supplied, silently. Shoot your eight or nine day load deep inside me? You're married. Means you gotta be healthy. No condoms...

"Good news is you don't need a whole new roof."

"Good," Eric parroted, with a smile.

"Bad news is we gotta replace a whole section, where the limb fell on it during the storm. I'll send out one o' my men... tomorrow, next day, put a blue tarp over it. Case it rains. Order the tiles... they won't be faded like the ones up there. Won't match 'xactly. Strip the damaged part out, new plywood, new tiles... basic three-man crew. Two days' work once the tiles get here.

"Nother beer, sweetheart?" And Eric let go of the erect penis and hurried to the fridge.

"Whole new roof woulda cost you ten thousand, easy...," beer gurgling into the wine glass. "But this... I figure... five thousand, dependin' on the tiles. They don't come cheap no more."

"That much?" Eric asked.

"Depends," the roofer said, eyeing the erection in the vee-front of Eric's colorfully effeminate panty.

"On what?"

The man took a deep breath before saying, "Well... blowjob right now, since you seem so willin'..."

"I love to suck cock!" Eric said eagerly, right hand again around the man's thickness.

"No shit. Suck my cock now..."

"OK!"

"Easy. Relax," the roofer advised. "Suck me today I knock a hundred off.

"Suck me when I bring the contract over...'nother hundred. You're not shoppin' around are ya?"

"No!"

"Suck me when I bring the boys over...'Nother hundred. Suck my boys off..."

"Three of them?" Eric asked rather enthusiastically.

"Four. Counting me. Nother two hundred..."

"Two?"

A sharp look. "They're illegals. Mexicans. You know the deal these days..."

"Oh," Eric nodded.

"An' I told you: no stroking."

"Sorry," hand gone still.

"And then another hundred when I come back to get the check."

"Credit card?"

A stern look. "Cash only. But I trust ya. What's that add up to?"

"I..."

"So let's say, all in all, I figure... fortyfive hundred plus blowjobs. All around."

The roofer made it sound like drinks on the house. Which in a sense it was.

"OK," Eric hastily agreed, hoping--trying--to sound less eager. But failing.

"Starting today. Here. Now."

And Eric started to kneel. "Sure. I'll..."

"Slow down compadre. Easy. Plus you supply the beer. And not this light shit neither. Modelo."

"Modelo?"

"My Mex boys drink fuckin' Modelo. They drink, you suck."

"OK."

"OK? Deal?"

"Yes! Yes! Deal!"

"So?"

"So?"

"So go to work on me," the roof said. "Ten day load. You swallow?"

"Always," a sinking Eric replied.

And as he once again wrapped his lips around Springer's cock he was trying to add up all the blowjobs this roof repair entailed, while at the same time wondering if this didn't edge him over into, well, prostitution. Hadn't he learned in economics class in college twenty-plus years ago that money could be both active and passive. Active in the sense that someone hands you fifty bucks for doing something for him/her; but passive in the sense that--

Wait. WHAT? Did I just say Springer? Eric wondered.

Springer was a long-forgotten kid Eric had known in the tenth grade. Probably been left back a year. He sat in front of Eric in English class. Righthand-most row. Midway back. The class was pure mayhem, the teacher--female, slender, attractive--in her first year. Completely lost. Outmatched.

Springer's father owned a roofing company, and his errant son was always turning around and telling Eric he was going to drop out. Why go to school? He'd go to work for his old man, learn the trade, and take over the company some day. What the fuck? What good was school to a guy like him?

Springer, as Eric sucked the magisterial cock in front of him, had an obsession with girls' knobby knees. Or rather the lack of them. "How come boys have knobby knees?" he was always complaining. "And girls don't?" It seemed to really upset and confound the future uneducated roofer. Even back then a naive Eric wondered if Eric wasn't, well, gay.

Another thing Springer, a lean, muscular, tanned, tough-looking guy was always proposing was that he and Eric fight. "After school. Let's meet on the corner. See who's tougher."

And Eric, frightened to the soles of his shoes, and already well on his way to being submissive, a sissy, a future pantywaist, a bottom... would argue back, "I already know you're tougher. Why fight?"

"You're chicken."

"No, I..."

"Admit it. I'm gonna kick your ass."

"No, please. I--"

"OK, Eric?" the beleaguered teacher might call out, over the bedlam, saving his body, and soul. "What is the moral of The Scarlet Letter, in your opinion?"

"I'm gonna kick your ass...," turning, forward, showing his slim back.

"Oh motherfucking God!" the roofer, Sprinkler not Springer called out in Eric's kitchen that afternoon, with his first, and greatest, but not last, ejaculation, body lurching as if struck by lightning. "Oh FUCK me...!"

And with that the initial passive money, the discount, had been paid, and swallowed, in full.