SHY BOYS ARE EASY

[Niles]

I'd washed my truck, put on a clean T-shirt to look at a job in the Heights. A well-kept midcentury modern house, wide windows overlooking a long lawn. Blooming daylilies lined the drive. I parked behind an Audi sports coupe, found a pen, tucked it in my notebook, got out.

 

A young woman in a Cornell hoodie, running shorts answered the door.

 

I said hi, I'm Niles?

 

She laughed. You seem unsure. Are you trying a new name?

 

I laughed too. On the phone she'd sounded older. She was slight, blonde, lovely, assured. She looked maybe twenty-five. She said a friend had recommended me. I asked who, but her phone rang. She held up one finger: Wait.

 

I stepped away,  looked at nearby plantings. Immaculately weeded flowerbeds, double-ground mulch,  neatly edged. When she'd finished talking, she beckoned: This way.

 

Behind the house we walked along an overgrown privet hedge.

 

I want this gone, she said. What would you charge?

 

I'd paced off the hedge's length. I gave her a price.

 

She raised an eyebrow. Really. That's your best?

 

I said yes, miss. I can do it this weekend, if you like.

 

Of course, you'll remove stumps, roots, dispose of all debris?

 

I said of course, miss.

 

She smiled. Her teeth were white and perfect.

 

Why do you call me that?

 

My face felt hot.

 

I was taught to respect women, miss.   

 

She seemed interested. By whom? Your mother?

 

I shook my head.

 

She  laughed. You're blushing. Who taught you your place, then?

 

Your place.

 

I wanted to say it started on the school bus. Older girls teasing, ***ing a shy boy. How they noosed me to a seatback with my hoodie string. Left me struggling to free myself as the bus emptied.

 

Next morning, they pulled my hoodie off, stuffed me in it backwards, put my hood up. I could see nothing. They tied me to the seatback again, did what they liked. 

 

You can't tell those stories anymore. Even if you were the kid they happened to.

 

Even if, years later, you're okay with how they shaped you. How embarrassment, *** excite you, now.

 

-Answer me, she said sharply.

 

I said sorry, miss. I was a young lad. Hard to remember, exactly.

 

Bullshit.

 

She stepped close, laid a firm hand on my chest, studied my face.  

 

Your heart's pounding. -Look at me, Niles. Do I frighten you?

 

I met her stare. Her eyes were green, intent. I cleared my throat. Yes, miss. A little.

 

Only a little? Are you always this shy? Even at your age?

 

Mostly around beautiful women, I said. Miss.

 

She laughed, shook her head. Shy boys are easy, she said. Aren't you.

 

Yes, miss.

 

Her hand slipped under my T-shirt, found my nipple. I flinched.

 

Your bid is much too high, she said. And really, aren't you too old for this sort of work? -Oh, don't look so hurt. Go home, masturbate. You'll be fine.

 

Deliberately then, looking in my eyes, drawing out the word: Loser.

 

I stared at her. She rolled my nipple between her thumb and forefinger, ground it between her nails. I groaned.  

 

She laughed again, released me, stepped back. Well, this was fun, wasn't it?

 

My heart was still hammering, my penis throbbing. 

 

-Yes, miss. If you should change your mind, or there's anything else I can-

 

I won't. She made a small dismissive gesture. Go on. Shoo.

 

Yes, miss, I said. Thank you.

 

On the way home, I replayed her voicemail three times before I made myself delete it. I saved her number, but I never saw her again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[MsWheel]

I like your story. Thank you, Niles. 

[Niles]

On 2/19/2023 at 1:57 AM, MsWheel said:

I like your story. Thank you, Niles. 

I'm sorry I didn't see your comment earlier. Glad you enjoyed, thank you!