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"Jesus Christ, boy, what are you trying to do? Make me lose my load?" ~ #NormanDimond
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~ from SUICIDE RIDE: THE PLATINUM MAN ~
As it was turning out, this curious kid was activating all two of Norman Dimond’s major erogenous zones, both sexual and professional. Kindling like Hanukah candles, they lit the wicked embers of his eyes.
Perhaps this godly Johnny Gellis really did have talent. If his songwriting style and skills were as sparkling and original as his syntax, then he very well could BE a goose gestating a golden egg. And for Dimond, this laid a riddle on top of an enigma. He had to figure this fellow out.
But for the first time in a long time, he was genuinely at a loss as to how to proceed. One thing was for sure: if the two of them were ever going to get anywhere, he would have to do the steering. If not exactly a wreck, Gellis, who was wandering all over the map, appeared incapable of navigating a straight line.
So, firmly, decisively, Dimond took the wheel.
He snorted. “Well, turkey or not, it’s all the same. No matter how you slice it, it’s still meat. Like the commercial says: it’s what’s for dinner. Beefcake. Studsteak. Meatballpie—whatever you care to call it. Speaking of which: you look like you got a freezer FULL, down there, boy. God DAMN.”
Dimond could not stop inspecting his … neck.
Gellis gave him his pocket full of wry. “You say the cutest things.” Undaunted, he eyed him. “And I s’pose you’d like to thaw it?”
Dimond gloated. “Damn straight.”
But the smart aleck let it dangle. Reaching inside his back pocket, he asked, flippantly, “Mind if I smoke?”
Without waiting for his host’s permission, he shook one of his Lucky Strikes into the palm of his hand before putting the pack down on Dimond’s desk. His Bic he had left behind on purpose.
“Got a light?” he husked, his stick gunning out of his smoking-hot lips.
From behind his pressed Italian silk screen, Dimond was starting to sweat. Fuck, he thought: he would BE a Lucky smoker …
And in point of fact, those Luckies made him wonder if he wasn't the one about to get lucky. Were they a sign, he dared trust, a prurient portent, a heavenly harbinger, of things to come?
From his desk drawer, he whipped out his non-isobutane cigar lighter, the one reserved exclusively for igniting his Cohiba Robusto Torpedos. Striking it, he watched, entranced, as Gellis brought his cigarette to the flame, his utterly and illicitly luscious Antinous lips still attached and his haughty, high-browed head hubristically cocked to one side.
“Fuck,” Dimond whispered, aflush with the heat of the flame and of his own breath, as his passion steamed out of him.
Just before pulling out, Gellis looked him straight in the eyes, squinting—and for an instant, it seemed almost as if he were going to kiss him …
But then the kid must have thought better of the impulse, or else Dimond had sorely erred, because right away he drove his tacky, saran-wrapped butt back down into the gleefully sighing cushion.
“Jesus Christ, boy, what are you trying to do—make me lose my load?”
And in fact, he was—losing it—just a little at the time: drop by sticky drop, it was dripping out of him like sap from a pine tree.
◆◆◆◆◆
Hitch your Ride with Johnny Gellis and Norman Dimond here.
SUICIDE RIDE: The Platinum Man
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UK Link: http://amzn.to/1erRHQZ
SUICIDE RIDE: The Fix
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"If this series is not steamy enough for you, steamy does not exist! SUICIDE RIDE makes 'Fifty Shades of Grey' seem like 'Fifty Shades of Dull!' " ~ Carolyn Giddens, author of "The Fields of the Fatherless" (2015)
"PHENOMENAL! LIKE NOTHING I'VE READ BEFORE: GRITTY, RAW, CRUDE, CRASS, AND IN YOUR FACE!" ~ Robyn Roze, author of "Chain of Title"
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