Preacher's Son

Preacher's Son Chapter 9

Author's Note:

Friends, I know it has been months, but I am only just emerging from a truly deep depression and a brief stay at a place where they don't allow phones or computers. It has certainly done me good: good enough to write again. I am working on the 10th installment of the novel, and I think I will wrap things up by chapter XII or so. If you've still hung on, please know that I greatly appreciate your patience and your affection for this silly little romance. I hope to be more regular with installments. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. And I'm sorry.

. As ever, I am at agospelpipe@yahoo.com. Your constructive criticism (and mean stuff too) and lovely compliments are ever welcome.

And if you can, please consider donating here for the upkeep of this marvelous archive.

**Preacher's Son IX.
**By: Alistair H. Gospelpipe IV.

Eli, in all his wisdom, had decided that the first thing he'd show me in his hometown was his old gym.

"Yup, it ain't much, but this is it."

"It ain't much" was right. The equipment wasn't new, but the wear and tear told you that it was all well used. Well loved, even. I enjoyed how perfectly mismatched everything was: dumbbell pairs in different colors, some machines newer than others...the longer I explored, the more I could imagine this place teeming with guys (Eli being the hottest, no question) who'd built a community around lifting, spotting, the light bullying of almost-friends. It dawned on me that this place was simultaneously "ain't much" and a whole lot to so many.

"I like it, actually," I said. "Mainly because I'm imagining you lifting, grunting, glistening with sweat, blood vessels blood-vesseling..."

His smile was as beatific as the sun.

"What am I gon' do with you?"

I garlanded his neck with my arms.

"I can think of oh-so-many things, Rev. Dr. Remington, that you could do to me."

"Oh, yeah?"

His lips met mine as his hands groped my ass. Mr. Darcy in the streets, Mr. Wickham in a public gym we'd infiltrated afterhours because Eli was beloved by the owner. His lips were pressed against my neck now, and I groaned in pleasure, my nails digging into his back.

"You drive me crazy, boy..."

"Your accent...ugh...really comes out...oh...when you're horny!" I panted.

"Fuckin' smartmouth..."

Damn that (exasperated) smile.

"I'm about to put said mouth to good use..." I said sinking down to my knees.

"In a public place? Dag, I dunno, this is my gym, man..."

"You fucked me in a cave."

"Dagwood..."

"A cave."

"Fair enough."

He unbuckled his belt and his trousers gathered around his feet. I reached for my prize which was getting fatter by the second, barely contained in those briefs.

And there it was: sevenish-inches of Neapolitan bliss. I hate that ice-cream, but this dick...

He hissed as I took him in my mouth. I felt him harden some more as I rolled my tongue around his manhood.

I looked up at him, and he grinned.

"Goddamn, baby, you look so hot with my cock in your mouth."

I hummed my agreement causing him to moan.

"Wait..." he said pulling his cock out of my mouth.

"Stick out your tongue," he commanded, slapping his hard spit-slicked member against his palms. I did as I was told, knowing full well what was coming next. Sure enough, he slapped his dick against my tongue a few times. It's the stupidest thing and I don't know why us guys do it, but there was something about the weight of his cock, the heat of it that felt right. Maybe I was so into him because what would have felt humiliating with anyone else felt safe with him.

According to my research on fellating a man, the wetter the better. This was not going to be a problem. I relished the taste of him: the heady scent of sweat with notes of citrus presumably from his shower gel and the salt of the precum dribbling from the head of his cock...Neapolitan ice cream could never!

"Baby, go slower, go slower..." Eli said between moans.

I stretched forward to swallow him completely, all the way down to the base of his cock. My mouth's return journey was made very, very slowly.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

Clearly Eli approved.

He grabbed his cock and began to jerk off the moment I released it from the furnace of my mouth.

"I wanna cum..." he declared with urgency. "I wanna cum all over that pretty face of yours."

"No." I said taking his hard, hot cock in my hand. I ran my tongue around the head eliciting another lusty groan from my man.

For the next quarter of an hour, I tormented this guy, this big guy who'd left me spellbound, by deep-throating him, teasing him with my tongue, guzzling his balls. Eli loved that last bit. I suppose it's true, playing with a guy's balls during a blowjob is obviously an underrated move.

"Let me cum, Dag..." Eli was practically writhing.

I spat in my hand, and began to jerk him off.

"No," he said pushing my hands away. "Stay where you are."

I heard my name meld into a mighty groan as a hot jet of his seed hit my cheek. And then another. I shut my eyes and just in time because the final shot coated my forehead. I could feel it drip down my chin and onto the gym floor.

"Here." Eli handed me a wipe.

"Oh, Jesus, this is Lysol!"

"That's all we have, gotta wipe down the equipment after using it..."

I could open my eyes now. Eli had more of those Lysol wipes for me: a good idea given the sheer volume of his nut.

"You shot a lot!" I remarked as I continued to clean up.

"Whose fault is that? You fuckin' edged me for a year..."

"That sounds like a complaint, but you're smiling."

"That's what you do to me, Dagwood."

And just like that, I was disarmed.

****************

Resilience was a strange, beautiful city where the brown brick roads studded with centuries-old houses with pointed arches and ornate windows would lead you to more familiar asphalt. One street had clusters of brownstones interlaced with cafes, bars, bookstores and...who knows what else. Maybe I should take St. Vitus more seriously if it meant moving to a secret cultural hub of sorts. It seemed like the tourists and yuppies hadn't found it yet.

"Why did you take me to the gym?"

Eli was walking me back to St. Vitus where Violet and I had a suite in their guest house. I don't even want to know what Daddy paid for this.

"I spent a lot of time at that gym. You wanted to know about me before you, dint'cha?"

"Thank you for taking me."

"Thank you for blowin' me."

I smacked him lightly on the arm while yearning to hold his hand.

My reverie of imagining us walking down these streets hand in hand was broken by my phone buzzing in a text.

Hi, where are you? I'm all unpacked. Eli's friend and Clarence are both here and it is a lot, Dagwood. A LOT.

"Eli's...friend?"

"What?"

"Oh, Violet texted. She's going crazy with only Clarence and "Eli's friend" for company. Who's your friend?"

"Oh, Jesus..." Eli sighed. "Harry fuckin' Hard-on. I told him I was gonna to see you at the guest house."

"Not sure why Violet's complaining, I thought he sounded fun, frankly."

"He's a good guy, but he's kinda...a lot."

"How far are we from the guest house?

****************

St. Vitus an ensemble of palatial buildings in stone. Some, as Clarence told us, were remnants of a fortress which served as a template for everything else. Each "battlement" was shared between a few academic departments and their "keep" was the student union. Evidently, Resilience was a walled city at one point in its history. This is some town, y'all...

The guest-houses, however, were in jarring contrast to the ancient splendor of St. Vitus. Somewhat removed from the school buildings but very visible indeed was a high rise with a yuppie air about it. It came equipped with exposed brick walls, an Amazon Hub, a cappuccino machine and a seltzer dispenser in the club house, a pool...Our suite was, ostensibly, a spacious two-bedroom apartment with an excellent view of St. Vitus and beyond. I don't even want to know what Daddy paid for this.

The door was answered by a frazzled Violet gripping a glass of orange juice.

"Hey, Vi—"

"That boy has been hitting on me and playing grab-ass with poor Clarence, Eli. I just..."

She thrust the glass at me.

"I found vodka!"

Eli shook his head and went inside.

"Since when do you drink?"

"I'll make myself a Paloma from time to time. It's a post-Mama Violet Quiet Time ritual."

"IS THAT HIM?" A handsome Asian man raced towards me and enveloped me in a hug. The famous Harry Hard-on: with how sharp that boy's jawline was, it was obvious that he didn't break hearts—oh, no; he surgically bisected them.

"Hi, Harry..." I said, weakly patting his muscular back.

"He's cute, dude!" Harry yelled back into the apartment at Eli. "I guess you're not a starter boyfriend because those don't have to be all that interesting, you know? You're interesting. I can tell."

And with that, he raced back into the living room, and I was finally allowed to enter the apartment.

"Oh, hello, cousin Dagwood!"

"Clarence!" I gave him a hug. "How were classes?"

"Oh, alright, I suppose," he said absently. "Can we talk? Privately?"

I had never seen Clarence this serious.

"Um, sure."

Violet was just leaving the kitchen, a full glass of (hopefully only) orange juice in her hand, as Clarence and I approached.

"Cousin Violet, is that—"

"Mind your business."

"They didn't remove the alcohol from the mini-bar, I think." Clarence explained sheepishly.

"I'll deal with that later, I promise, but what did you want to talk about?"

"What is going on with Cousin Violet?"

"She's mean!" Clarence took a beat. "Well, meaner."

"We've been having some...issues." I sighed.

"Is she homophobic since you're gay and all?"

"I'm not...Clarence...wait, did Violet tell you?"

"Oh, no. Harry. But I always sort of knew."

I suppose I should be madder at Harry for outing me to my cousin who could, for all I knew, broadcast this to the entire family or go on some areligious tirade of his own. But wait, what did he mean...

"You always knew?"

"You always acted like you were better than us, you speak all fancy, and you have bougie taste, so "gay" was one of my theories."

"Clarence!"

"I still love you, though." He said timidly. "You're family."

"That's...sweet. Uh. Sorry. Thank you, Clarence: I love you, too."

"Okay, but is Cousin Violet homophobic?"

"No, pal," I sighed. "She's Dag-phobic."

"That sucks," Clarence placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "Especially since neither of you seem to have other friends."

****************

I wanted to tell Clarence that "gay" seemed a bit too final, I guess. Or, I don't know, there were days when I felt most aligned with that word—gay—and there were others when I wanted a wider berth, more choices. If sexuality were health insurance, I'd be a PPO guy. I remember finally asking Eli if he was bisexual, and he shrugged and said that he was eighteen: valid, I guess.

There was little time to think about any of that because Harry had plans for us to go to a gay bar.

"It's wild, you guys," he said distributing fake IDs. "The guy who runs the place owes Hiram several favors, so we'll get in, at least."

The picture on my ID was so washed out that it looked like me, were I a sickly Victorian child.

"My date of birth on this makes me around 30, Harry. Do I look 30 to you?"

"You look like a 30 who eats kale chips, goes to spin and had daddy buy him Juvederm for his 29th, babes."

"Juvederm," I mumbled. "If the bouncer asks why I look like jailbait, I shall say "Juvederm." Good. I don't know what it is, but I'll look it up at some point...Juvederm...hmmm..."

"Dagwood," Eli smiled, "I'm thinkin' the bouncer won't quiz you..."

"Will you look at that, Dagwood?" Violet chimed in. "My name on this ID: Vilma Flintstobe, which is just so clever. Stobe. And I'm 26. For once, we're not twins or saddled together, Dagwood. Refreshing, isn't it?"

I wasn't going to touch whatever that was, but it hurt.

"What time do we want to get there?" Eli asked. "Harry?"

"Like, 10?"

"Cool if Dag and I meet you there?"

Violet, leaving her orange juice(?) behind, left the room.

****************

Eli and I were back on the road.

"You okay, Dag?"

"Not particularly," I said. "A part of me wanted to put on a fake happy voice and lie to you, but I feel just fine telling you the truth."

"Well!" Eli put his arms around my shoulders. "I'm thinkin' this place I'm takin' you to will cheer you right up!"

I had to concede that he was absolutely right when we found in a tiny bookstore. Richardson's Print Shop was all brick, wood, natural light and that smell...you know the one...the one somewhere along the spectrum of petrichor and coffee?

"What's this?" I asked stupidly, walking around marveling at how much space that deceptively small storefront hid.

Eli was beaming. "Anthony? HEY, ANTHONY!"

"Why, Eli Remington! Will wonders never cease?" A reedy and slightly disheveled man in his thirties said descending the stairs. "And who is this?"

"Dagwood King; he's a friend."

"A friend?" Anthony wagged his eyebrows.

"A friend." I had never seen Eli smile this much.

"Your store is beautiful!" I gushed, and how could I not? There was something transportive about it. But, most of all, it felt safe, you know?

"Consider it your store, young Master King!" Anthony said. "Your...friend is one of my favorite customers...not that we're allowed to have favorites!"

"So tell me," I said as we wandered through the store. "Why did you bring me here?"

"I used to come here to read," Eli explained. "Daddy didn't like no "worldly" books in the house. Anthony said I was his favourite customer, but I didn't buy a goddamn thing. Anthony, he just let me hang out and read."

"The more I get to know you, Eli Remington, the more I..."

"The more you what?"

"Hey, look!" I said. "It's your guy!"

I slipped past him to reach for a thin volume labelled Tennyson on the bookshelf in front of me. When I turned around, Eli had me cornered, pressed up against that very bookshelf.

"The more you what?"

"Tennyson probably has the answer!" I flipped through the book to land on a random page, and, well...
"Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd:
I strove against the stream and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more."

"At a touch I yield, huh?" Eli whispered, tracing a path along my jawline down to my throat, re-rousing a deep pang of yearning. For him. "How's that?"

"N-n-not...that, fuck, all y-you g-g-got?"

He chuckled before he pressed his lips against my jugular and proceeded to advance lower.

"Eli..." I couldn't breathe. The heat of his lips, the fragrance of the books around us.

He unbuttoned the top of my shirt as he made for my clavicle, and, God forgive me, I couldn't help it: I moaned. It was a low quiet moan, but I could have sworn it echoed. Amazing. That's what I look for in a bookstore: acoustics.

"I yield!" I gasped. "I yield, I yield..."

"Easy!" Eli Remington declared cockily before his lips met mine. We kissed with a voraciousness more heightened than before: maybe it was the slightly vampiric vibe of the events of the very recent past. My hands traced the muscles dancing in his back, admiring the width of his lats—seriously, how can someone be this perfect? And, of course, my hand slowly caressed his cock which was rapidly growing along his left thigh.

"So you dress to the left?" I whispered.

"Shut up; we're kissin'"

"GENTLEMEN!" Anthony called from...somewhere. Truly such magnificent acoustics. "Our shelves are too old to shoulder the weight of such...vigorous friendship!"

"We'll finish this later," Eli smirked. "Just you wait."

I kissed him again before we made our way to the front of the store.

"Alright, Anthony!" Eli said, fist-bumping his friend. "I'll come in before headin' back to Wolf's Holler: need some more "worldly" books to tide me over."

"Junkie." Anthony smiled.

You know, if you went by stereotypes, there was no earthly reason for these men to have been friends. But, then again, looking back over the past few months, what exactly has subscribed to a template or aped a stereotype? I'm sure there's a lesson in here somewhere...

"Oh, shit!" I cried noticing that I was holding onto Tennyson even though we'd exited the store.

"Sorry for shoplifting!" I said to Anthony, having darted back inside to return the book.

"Oh, I insist you keep it, Mr. Dagwood," Anthony smiled. "You read so beautifully."

****************

"Where to now?" I asked Eli.

"Coffee," he said taking my hand in his. "There's this place nearby where I used to study. Or try to, anyway..."

"REMINGTON? Fuckin' DAGWOOD? ARE YOU FAGS HOLDING HANDS?"

Eli carefully let go of my hand.

"You seein' things, Dreyfuss?" Eli laughed at the figure approaching us. "Need someone to hold your hand? Just ask, bro..."

What do you call a guy who is, apparently, handsome but abhorrent nonetheless? Kinda like how there's always a whiff of shit lingering under that miasma of Febreeze you encounter in a bathroom that has just survived the worst 15 minutes of its existence? That's Drew Dreyfuss. I think Daddy and the elder Mr. Dreyfuss get along fine: there's been a rumor that his sister is a lesbian, but I think that that's part of the protocols put in place to "other" anyone who chooses the East Coast over the South. Hell, maybe even the West Coast? I don't know anyone who left Wolf's Holler for California, though.

"Whatever," Drew mumbled. "What are you two doing here?"

"Oh, I was just asking Eli the same thing!" I practically trilled. "Isn't it funny? How funny to run into two classmates from home!"

"Yeah, fuckin' hilarious." Drew smirked.

"This is my hometown," Eli declared, still keeping things light. "What the fuck are *you* doing here?"

"Lookin' at St. Vitus, man..." Drew rolled his eyes.

"Oh, ME TOO!" Great going, Dagwood. "My cousin goes here, so...haha!"

"Thought you were going to Harvard or something, Daggy boy."

This fucking guy and that horrible nickname...

"Boston? Me?" Another big laugh. "Can you imagine?"

"Totally."

This FUCKING guy,

"Well, it was...um...well, I saw you both and, um, I should go. Coffee. Thank you. Bye."

NAILED IT.

****************

I did manage to make it to what was probably the café that Eli had in mind. These people had taken an old mansion and converted it into a café: there was mismatched furniture on the patio and in the different rooms of the house. I hated it. Try-hard bullshit. Or, ugh, I dunno. Maybe I was being unfair because of how upset I was.

"Is it really lavender?" I asked the barista. "The lavender latte?"

"Kinda," he winked. "But, hey, don't get that. You're not a lavender latte guy, I can tell: let me make you something, something that gets you, ya know?"

That was rather presumptuous of—I peered over at his nametag—Trevor. Of course, it's Trevor.

"Really?" I asked drily. "You've figured out who I am in 10 seconds of meeting me?"

"That's the Earl Grey," he noted. "You have a bite to you. But I'd also add some rose because you're..."

"Trevor," I interrupted him. "Can you please make me the lavender latte?"

He held up his hands. "You got it, boss."

I suppose having a good-looking stranger who knew his way around coffee drinks flirting with me would be flattering, but I was so SO tired. Fucking soul-crushed.

"It's on the house, cutie," Trevor smiled brightly, sliding the drink over. "Enjoy!"

I crisply placed a tenner on the counter.

"Why don't you flirt with that poor boy over there who is looking over at you with a heartbreaking degree of thirst?"

The "poor boy" in question blushed so deep he looked burgundy for two seconds.

"Hey, man, I'm sorry, I..." Trevor began.

I walked away, towards what was maybe a bedroom once but was the Genessee Tea Room today and slumped into a leather chair. Damn that Drew Dreyfuss! Damn him! Damn him for reminding me that these days I had with Eli were pure illusion. You know how in horror movies there's that trope of a hand bursting forth from the ground to grab onto your leg and pull you down to hell? Drew was that hand. So, yeah, I was suddenly very, very tired. I'd been lying so much already, and the thought of a whole year (and maybe more) of subterfuge to placate the stubbornness of a town that couldn't let go of its established order of things, hierarchies...

Do you know Romans 3:4_? God forbid: yea, let God be true, but every man a liar; as it is written, That thou mightest be justified in thy sayings, and mightest overcome when thou art judged._

This verse that assures you of God's faithfulness to you despite your own shortcomings. The preacher man may think of this differently (I'm 100% sure of it), but, to me, this verse says that God looks at things on a case-by-case basis, and that He might just understand why I'm lying and scheming, and generally being an asshole. I said understand, mind you, not forgive. Do you want to hear some real blasphemy, though? Maybe God won't hold these lies against me because I'm not sinning against Him, just against the inane rules that man has made.

"Hey."
I looked up to see Eli standing before me looking worried.

"You okay?"

"I am now."