One Tall Drink

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This is a work of pure fiction intended for adult readers of legal adult age, at least 18 years-old and in some jurisdictions 21 and older. Anyone younger should leave now. My stories involve sex in various forms between consenting persons and should not be construed as a guideline for living anyone's everyday life.

One Tall Drink

By

Greylock Writer

The sign at the entrance to Bleeker proclaimed it "America's Friendliest Little Town" but I knew better. I had been back in town more than four years, knew just about every one of Bleeker's five hundred citizens, and couldn't claim a friend among them.

Sure, some folks acted friendly. What could you expect? I owned the only damn bar in town. But they gave me a wide berth. I was suspicious after all. I had moved to Houston when I turned eighteen and lived a wild life for most of a decade, the townsfolk believed, until my dad got sick, Hurricane Harvey struck and it was convenient to return home. At least a dozen people told me I was so lucky I had someplace so welcoming to go to when my home was destroyed after the bayou drainage system overflowed and much of Houston was flooded as we got 37 inches of rain in four days. Lucky, my ass, I thought. And convenient as hell.

Still, I was grateful that I reconciled with my dad, Big Sam, while I helped out in The Hideout. But within two years, Big Sam Bennett wasted away and then was gone. The awe and love I'd felt for dad returned and I thanked my stars that Big Sam came to accept me, Zach Bennett, in that eighteen months of terrible decline. Big Sam shriveled to a living dry shell but still worked in the dark, smoky bar until just five days before he was taken in his sleep.

For a week, Bleeker was without its bar, the heart of local social life. Then I reopened. I had been so busy with his dad's illness that I hadn't thought about what else to do. My place in the Big Easy had been torn down and hauled away. My piddly insurance check barely covered the cost of the demolition.

But the grumbling was loud and immediate when I set down a new rule: No Smoking in The Hideout. Hell, I knew my dad had never smoked. Yet, Big Sam died of lung cancer anyway. So, I was determined that second-hand smoke wasn't going to get me. Lots of other things, maybe, but not smoke.

I lost a lot of business and good will at first, but the informal boycott was broken when the sheriff brought in his deputies for a Super Bowl party. Almost all the other regulars drifted back within a couple weeks. I was grateful and thanked the handsome sheriff. All I got in return was a cranky, "No alternative, boy. You the only goddamn game in town. But don't shit in your crib a second time. Folks here got memories goin' back before time began. Long before your diaper needed changing."

But I was damn sure not going to fall to the level of Bleeker. I was going to lift it up. God help me, it was going to be better. And, damn it, they would thank me. They would.

If I put in a massive effort so maybe that "friendliest" moniker might yet come true. Still, Bleeker never had been a place where everyone loved one another. It won its title in the 1950s when old Mayor Wilkins got a brainstorm and convinced everyone in tow kids included to smile mindlessly while shaking hands with each other. The overhead shot of a whole town's upturned heads with smiles glinting in the sun in a crazy handshake looked like a giant daisy chain. But it won over the editor of the magazine sponsoring the search for brotherly love. I think the falsity of our nickname helped lead to the demise of that damned magazine a few years later.

I often slipped into the living quarters tacked onto the bar and look at myself in the mirror. Sandy hair, full and trimmed. A frame more than six-two and filled out with muscles defined no longer by workouts at the gym but by hefting boxes of booze. And deep green eyes which once looked for romance and now scanned my bar for trouble. How long can this go on? I wondered. I left here so I wouldn't be alone. Now, I'm more apart from my community-my so-called hometown- than ever before. Should I chuck it in?

Things stumbled along. I was wary. Customers were circumspect. But they came. They didn't like me all that much. Glasses were often raised to Big Sam, but never to me. I didn't give a shit. I made enough to survive. Thank God costs were low in this part of the country. Things were OK as long as nothing unusual happened.

But, one day, a cloudy humid and sticky May afternoon, a big black sedan screeched into the parking lot about an hour before The Hideout was about to open. What now? I thought as I went to unlatch the door.

A tall man with jet black hair came in without knocking. He slipped off his aviator sunglasses and looked around carefully without going beyond the entrance. He held a clipboard and a small leather case along his hip. "Sam around?" he asked. His eyes took in everything.

"Not today," I answered, not wanting to give too much away. I eyed the intruder carefully. He was real tall, two or three inches taller than I, the biggest guy in Bleeker. But the stranger didn't seem so big because he inhabited his space carefully, like he didn't want to intrude on anyone else's space. Finally, the eyes, brown and deep, returned to fix on me.

"Well, we may need him," he said. "Time for the inspection."

I looked at him blankly. What the hell was he talking about? Bleeker's government wasn't organized enough to perform an official inspection. Then I realized that this guy must be an outsider or he'd know about what happened to Big Sam. I stood with my arms crossed. Not intending to, I was blocking access to the bar.

Finally, the guy got it and extended a hand. "Jake Matthews," he said. "Regional inspector for the ABC." His dim smile went up to about 40 watts.

"Yeah," I responded. "So?"

"The ABC," Jake repeated. "The Alcohol and Beverage Commission. You have heard of us?"

His head spun. Then it clicked. "Oh, man, yes!" I said. "Sorry. It's just, I thought, maybe, you scheduled appointments. Let me know when you were coming."

"Pretty stupid inspection if we did that," Jake Matthews sneered. "You'd cover up anything you didn't want us to see."

"And what wouldn't I want you to see?" I asked. My innocence was real.

"You shittin' me?" His smile had dimmed.

"No," I said genuinely. "I don't intentionally do anything wrong."

"Oh," he said with a low, menacing laugh. "Intentions."

I was frustrated, "I run a straight place here."

"Do you really," he glowered. "Man, I didn't fall off a turnip truck this morning. Reused bottles. Cheap liquor slipped into an expensive bottle. Watered stock. The kinds of conditions that might be unsafe, or..... illegal. Substances that shouldn't be in here. At all. Or folks that shouldn't be in here, too, like minors." He stopped as if waiting for a response. "You got to be clean to continue." There was another pause. "Or, don't you know that?"

For a while, much too long a time to be friendly, they stood glaring at one another. "Look," Jake said at last. "This isn't meant to be confrontational. But if that's what you want, well, I'm ready for anything. Any fucking thing you want to take or dish out."

Anything? I thought about that as he looked at this big stud threatening my business. It was unlikely he was ready for anything. I was certain my place was on the level. But a glimmer of doubt crept in. I still had a lot of stock which rarely sold, the more expensive bottles of liquor, cognacs and other speciality drinks which were at the bar or in the liquor cabinets when I'd arrived back home to help out. Were they all kosher? Had Big Sam fiddled the stock? I wasn't entirely sure.

My intruder for that's how I thought of Jake Matthews started by walking the perimeter of The Hideout, poking into corners, checking under tables and looking everywhere something could be hidden or out of sight. Then he moved to the crescent shaped bar itself, moving stools, examining the space under the customer side of the counter both by touch and by sight. He even knew about some weird little storage hideaways I didn't know existed. Were they the namesakes for my bar?

What did he hope to find? I wondered. It's not like there was marijuana growing in some corner or something illegal taped under the counter. I thought the inspection was all about the beverages, not the spit and shine of the joint.

"Looks OK," Jake said. "But you do have a couple loose floorboards over by your big screen."

"I'll get right on it," I replied. "Should I hammer them down now or stick with you as you check the stock?"

"Better stay close," Jake said in another of his patented low-wattage smiles. "I may need you for something."

"At your service," I said, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with this guy.

Jake didn't respond. He just swivelled behind the bar and started peering at all the open bottles. He lifted bottles one by one, held them up to the track lighting over the bar and removed their pour spouts to sniff their contents. He proceeded through every bottle without reacting. Every ten bottles or so he made a quick notation on his clipboard. Was he an inspector or a bloodhound?

The process drove me crazy. I wanted to offer help or make objections something but knew I should just shut up. I felt in jeopardy and more than a little like I was being violated in some way. I just didn't understand how exactly.

When Jake stretched to check out the overhead cabinets, I caught a whiff of his scent and almost tumbled into him. It was a strong, clean but manly odor that brought back old memories long repressed. I felt woozy.

"Anything wrong?" the inspector asked. "Maybe I'm hitting a little too close to home."

"This IS home," I said, struggling to get the words out. "I live at the back."

"Thought this was Sam's place," Jake said.

"He passed away. I'm his son, Zach Bennett."

For the first time genuine emotion showed on Jake's face. "Man, I'm really sorry. Sam was a hell of a man. But I haven't been by in a while cause they rotate us through different districts all over the state."

"Happened more than three years ago," I explained.

"So why you still here in this shithole town?" Jake sneered. "Not that it's really all that bad."

"Not enough reason to leave," I shrugged. "And I thought I could make friends again."

Finished with the overhead cabinets, Jake scrambled down to inspect the bottom storage. "And?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Guys I knew growing up had all left."

"Just like you did, huh?"

"Yeah, just like I did."

They fell silent as Jake poked into the low shelves. He splayed out in the small space to reach all the way back. He fished out a small flashlight which he beamed to the far corners.

I bit my lip as I watched his long legs wiggle. He had huge feet and his big shoes scraped and pushed him along like flippers on a swimmer.

Then I noticed how tight the inspector's jeans were. Tight enough, I realized, to reveal Jake wasn't wearing any underwear. Then, I thought, maybe a thong? But that thought was a little too weird. Not on this guy. Better no underwear at all. Then I told myself to come to my senses. Yet my gaze was fixed on the muscled hardness of Jake's very manly butt.

I broke out in a heavy sweat. When he clambered back up, I demanded, "What the hell are you looking for?"

He smiled a perfect shit-eating grin. "Whatever I can find." He licked his lips. "Whatever the fuck I can find." Then he turned to make notes on his clipboard.

And I resumed my hungry scan of his perfect ass. Then I caught him looking sideways into the mirror, watching me drool over his body. I felt condemned to one of the lower rings of hell.

After retrieving his leather case, Jake opened it and went back to the bar shelves. He consulted notes as he carefully dribbled various types of booze into shiny glass vials from the case. He filled the last two vials with samples from the draft beer taps. I was confident that most everything was copasetic. But at least two of the samples were for things I'd never poured. One was some damn 25-year-old single malt Scotch. The other was a gold-hued liquor in a corkscrew shaped bottle I'd never even noticed. Was there some horrible possibility that this strange bottle had been planted by someone, Jake or an accomplice who'd been here on some recent visit?

It was hard to even look at him without anger rising hard and fast. Then, Jake slipped behind me. Something hard brushed against my butt, lingering the slightest instant and I knew it wasn't Jake's flashlight. Holding his breath, I looked over to the end of the bar where Jake stopped with a small smiling dancing on his face.

Then Jake carefully strapped the vials back into place and zipped up the leather case. He shook my hand, nodded and headed for the door without a word.

"Hey, man, when do I hear back from you?"

"Soon, Zach. Real soon," he said as another crooked smile traced his lips.

As he scooted out the door, I went to the window and watched. Jake trotted back to his car like an excited colt. What did he find? Was I going to be closed down? I could see a broad grin on his damn face as he slipped behind the wheel of his shiny state car. "Bastard," I muttered, then went to clean up the bar and get The Hideout ready for guests. But I never hated this damn town more, Bleeker seemed bleaker than ever.

My dreams made me restless, uncertain, anxious over the next week. In them Jake was trying to smother me. His methods were varied and many. He poured liquor into a funnel and let it gush into my throat. He held my throat hard and it excited me. Or he kneeled over me and gradually edged forward until his body covered my face and stopped my breathing. I woke feverish and gasping. And, I was very scared that he would show up soon.

But a second week went by and then a third without Jake's return. My anxiety turned to disappointment. I almost called the number on the business card he'd left but knew I should just wait out any bad news.

I must have been back on the residence side when he finally pulled up because I didn't hear him park. I was unlocking the door when it suddenly pushed in. I stepped back. As Jake walked through the door sun blazed behind him. He was an ominous shadow entering to fill my space, seize my life.

The test kit was under his right arm again. There was that wicked smirk. Again. "Got your results," he said low, soft. His voice hinted at reassurance.

He handed me a report. Before I could read it, he asked if I had a cigarette. There was a pack on the bar someone had left the night before when I reminded him that The Hideout was now smokeless. I offered it to him and he deftly pulled one out. I struck a match and he lit the cigarette. I didn't dare tell him that my place was "no Smoking only.

He inhaled. "Thanks," he said. I watched him draw in and savor the acrid smoke. Smoke curled out in a wide cone as he exhaled. Jake shook his head, smiled and spoke. "Damn, I'd forgotten how seductive that is. Man, a couple puffs and I feel high."

He drew in another puff, then let it escape. "Damn," he laughed. "I can't believe this shit is still legal."

"You only do things that are legal?" I asked. My eyes fixed on his. What kind of response would I get?

"Try to," he said simply. " Course that covers a lot of territory."

"A whole lot," I agreed, then I opened up the report. It looked about fifty pages long. Detailed as shit. What had there been to say? I couldn't believe he found that much in my little dive.

"Want the bottom line?" he asked. My head bobbed a yes. "First, the vodka was OK. But the rum seemed contaminated by molasses and water." My stomach shriveled. "That single-malt wasn't the premium Scotch it was supposed to be, but some low-quality stuff with burnt caramel added. The Patron tasted like hell but we couldn't identify it. Might not have been tequila at all. Your beer hell all your beer is cheap it all tasted like horse piss but was legit. As for the premises...."

He was going on but I couldn't hear him for the rumbling in my head. I was devastated. How could this be happening? Then, I saw that grin spreading. Damn, it was getting wider and wider. I still couldn't listen to what he was saying. He was enjoying ruining me. What a fucking bastard!

Finally, he just stopped and looked at me. He laughed and I just hated him. "Hey, man," Jake said. "Look at your bar calendar!" I searched for today: Wednesday, April 1! "Jesus, Jake, I'm sorry as hell. Didn't mean to scare your ass off and have you shit those painted-on jeans, but you been punk'd!"

As much as I wanted to go at him, I held back, started breathing again and let out a small laugh. "Fucking bastard," I told him. "This ain't play time. This is my fuckin' living!"

"Probably deserve that," he said. He came closer. "Things look good in here. You obviously work like hell.

"Listen, I still got a couple other beer joints to screw with in the county," he added. "Take a glance at the report and I'll swing back by to tell you what else I found. For real. OK?"

I agreed. Jake winked and was gone again. I pulled a barstool to a window and opened up the document. There was nothing bad in the report. Comments ranged from adequate to exemplary. I was pretty emotional by the time I finished. Even Jake's rotten April Fool's joke seemed funnier and I started feeling better, even whistling from time to time in a way I hadn't done in years. But the afternoon still was dragging by.

As the sun went down the parking lot filled up. The state car had to slide in a space out under a tree at the edge of the gravel lot. Jake walked to the door figuring what he should say that the public could hear. He entered and glanced around for me but there was no sign of me as I was watching from the residence through a two-way mirror disguised as beer advertising. I had a sound system that let me listen in on conversations at the bar if I a need to. Tonight I did.

Jake approached the middle-aged blonde in a cowboy hat who was tending bar. She'd scoped him out and spoke before he could.

"You the state man?" Jake nodded his head. "I'm Lucy his standby gal."

"Nice to meet you, Lucy," Jake said extending his hand. She ignored the gesture.

"You got the boy real worried."

"He ain't no boy no more. AndI'm gonna make him feel real good. "

"Do that. He's right through that door," Lucy nodded indicating the door by the bar which went to my living quarters. "Don't bother knocking, though. His mama put so much soundproofing

tween the house and the bar that we could shoot a cannon and he'd never know."

She reached under the bar and pressed a button. "You're buzzed in. Make it right with him," she warned.

"We'll be cool," he said as he disappeared through the opening.

"We'll see bout that," Lucy muttered as she drew a stout for one of the local boys.

The lights were low. In fact, Jake could see I'd set a table with tall candles. It was set fancy. Promising, Jake thought even as he had a small knot of doubt. But he didn't see me at first. I was in a chair in a corner, thumbing through the report again.

I walked toward him, my hands folded behind my back to keep them from fidgeting. He turned toward me.

"Ready for the followup?" I asked. He looked puzzled. "Your additional findings?"

"Oh, my findings!" He sounded more than a little nervous." I found out we're a lot alike. Work too hard, play too little and avoid our lives, our real ones. We serve others and forget to serve ourselves." He paused. "Want more?"

"Depends? What you got?"

"Zach, I'll give you whatever you want." He stopped, perhaps uncertain. "Ain't it time?"

"Hey, I'm the one on the hook here," I told him. "My future's in your hands."

"Man, I hope so," he said with more assurance than he'd shown. Then, quickly, quietly but surely, he pulled my arms from around my back and draped them around his. "Don't like one- way streets much," he said. Then, his head came forward and he pressed his lips on mine. I resisted only a moment, then pressed back. His tongue came out looking for mine. I took his in, tasting the hint of tobacco he'd smoked earlier, but more, something deeper and sweeter. Our kiss went on a long time, especially for relative strangers. We broke, looked into each other's eyes and kissed again with even more passion if that were possible.

I broke the kiss to take a breath. And I knew he might need to reconsider what was happening. "You ever kissed a man before?" I asked.

"Kissed my daddy good-bye in his coffin. That count?"

"Don't think so," I told Jake.

"Then I better make up for lost time," he said.

"You sure?"

"I wasn't til I saw you again this afternoon. Then I wanted to lock your door and tear your clothes right off."

"But you didn't."

"I had to work, Zach. Lust is great, you know? But I keep my commitments."

"A man of honor."

"I'd like to think so," Jake said. "But what the hell is all this talk about."

He pulled he close to him again, then started to unbutton my shirt. I replied in kind and we tossed the shirts on the sofa. He fumbled with my belt. "It's tricky," I told him. By the time I loosened it, he was already shucking his own jeans. I followed suit. Tonight he was wearing tighty whities and so was I. Eyeing each other we grinned as yanked them down together. Then we drew closer and held each other, our lips meeting, our hearts pounding, our erections tangling.

Jake groaned and I understood. I felt fully alive for the first time since I'd returned home. I didn't even stop to worry if the feeling could continue. I was running on instinct and emotion. The animal in me was taking over and I could feel the same in Jake.

"Let's try to take this slow," I said. I pulled him close with my right hand while my left played with the ruffle of his dark hair. "Slow as we can."

"Don't think I can," he whispered. "This is pure excitement for me now. I'm already way too fired up."

We nuzzled, cheek to cheek, and I relished the soft scour of Jake's evening stubble as he pulled me to him by my waist. I used my hands to gently massage his back. Little hiccups of pleasure rose in his throat and jumped out. "Oh. Um. Yeah. Man! Nice." It went on and we cooled just a bit. The ardor was still there but the edge was taken off.

Jake's lips started nibbling my neck just below my chin. Gradually he turned me so he was kissing the back of my neck. Jake trailed kisses down my back in gentle slurps and nibbles until he reached the base of my spine. I rotated back to him and his mouth nipped up at one plum- colored nipple and then my other. I stood with my head tilted up, my mouth open, enjoying wet kisses in places from Jake in places he'd seldom made kisses before.

As he moved relentlessly toward the musky intersection of my legs, I gave a warning. "Be careful," I said hoarsely. "I might pop before even I know it."

"Hope not," he said, looking up to find me staring down. "Not until you slide that big hard pole of yours down this very willing throat."

With that he licked around my my quivering cock, down through my dense dark bush to the heavy sac between my wavering legs. He sucked in one of my cum-filled nuts, then the other. "Yum," he said hoarsely, taking a short breath. He savored the mixture of my sweat and excitement. All I could offer was "Oooohhh" as he opened wide and swept both wet balls inside. My hands held onto his shoulders to help steady myself as he took increasing pleasure in giving me pleasure.

He kissed around my groin in swift thrusts, first one side and then the other. Finally, his lips dove onto my hard cock, his tongue pushing back its hood and sweeping over the head, into my dribbling slit and along my glans. Jake's soft swipes got more and more insistent. I was barely able to stand and my voice was a low, rough, quaking growl.

"Do it, Jake. Suck my dick," I sputtered. "You're gonna get it. Man, I'm almost there."

Suddenly, he took my whole hard shaft down his throat. He seemed as excited as he was. His mouth slid up and down my throbbing pole. My balls drew up close. I was tried to pull him off.

"Have you ever tasted spunk?" I demanded urgently. "If not tell me now."

"Never," he said quickly. "What's your problem. Shoot that cum into my mouth."

"I want to do it, too," I cried. "Let me suck you, too." But Jake would not stop. I would have my chance. And soon. But now He needed my cum gushing down his throat. It was a new pleasure he had gone without way too long. So, he was selfish and sucked and tongued my steely manhood as the pleasure rippled, then exploded.

"I'm cumming, Jake," I cried. "I'm cumming, baby." And the spurts came long and hard. I trembled and leaned into him. My spasms diminished and were gone. I bent down to him. I shook my head in wondrous disbelief.

"You are an animal," I said when I was able to speak. "I never had a blow job like that."

"How many others ever came from a virgin cocksucker?," Jake smiled and kissed me. I tasted just a hint of my residual jizz. "From that ropey river you let loose, I'd say you've been saving up a while."

"Probably longer than you have," I admitted as we walked to my bed and laid down. "Out here it's hard to stay pretty active," I explained as he touseled my hair. "So I stay pretty unsatisfied."

"With a great dick like sport you should never be unsatisfied." he gave me a sassy grin. "In fact, man, I can't believe you never let a local guy blow you before."

"And I can't believe that was your first time doing it," I said, nuzzling his neck with tiny kisses.

"Well," Jake said. "I have had lots of practice in the receiving mode. But now it seems like I'm developing a fondness for new experiences," With that, he kicked his legs up over his head. "Let's see what we can improvise with that."

His hairless hole winked at me pulsing a welcoming invitation. It was time to put my wet and willing mouth to work and see just how many new experiences Jake could take in one night. And he might just show me a new trick or two. A man can hope, can't he?

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