Tristan
Tristan was back at University by Sunday afternoon. He spent an hour getting his notes ready for the next day and then a text alerted him that the bus was in and he drove the truck down to the depot to collect Colton and his backpack.
Almost at once Tristan spilled his guts about the conduct of his parents. All along he had craved Colton's judgement on their conduct and on his own, and the issue somehow wasn't real until he had told his friend. Colton said that thought that it was pretty shitty form for no one to have told him about the baby but, he reminded Tristan, perhaps should have phoned his mother more often. Tristan conceded that this might have been true and felt a bit sick.
"Y'dad loves y'all, Tris. He just can't say it. I guess he's a bit old school about the gay stuff. Give him time. He did say he was sorry."
"Not exactly-well, I suppose sort of. Thanks for listening, mate. Hey, how was your weekend?"
Colton told him and by then they were back at Charles C. Selecman House. Tristan turned off the engine and then said, "Happy birthday, Colt!"
"Why thanks, Tris, but it ain't until next Thursday."
"Yeah, I know, but I've got you a little present. It's in the back."
Colt hurried out the door. There was a tarpaulin covering a lumpy object. He hoisted himself up and swept it off.
"A bike!"
"Yeah, just like Parker's."
"Oh my God, thanks Tris!" He stood it up and tried to take it in under the streetlight. "You spend far too much on me and I can never do the same in return."
"Nah, it's nothing. I wanted to get it for you. Cylvah helped me pick it out."
"Does this mean I can't use your truck?"
"Yeah, you can take all your dates on the bike. I'm sure you'll figure a way to screw them on the handlebars."
"This will be so good for m'fittness. It's great for the thighs."
"Your thighs are already fuckin' gorgeous. You can barely get your shorts over them."
"Your head can go between them tonight and I'll flex them."
"Hot!" replied Tristan and laughed as they headed to the lift, wheeling the new bike.
As it was Sunday, the usual crowd gathered at Nonno's for pizza. Tristan took the opportunity to give an update on the house then, whispering to their server, a big, gooey birthday cake appeared.
"Happy Birthday, Colt!" he declared. The others joined in with the usual festivities and jugs of beer landed on the rustic tabletop-Nonno turning a blind eye to such regular customers.
"Shit! Thanks, y'all," gasped Colton.
"We're all together now, so I thought it would be good," explained Tristan. "And there is another important occasion coming up-what's the most important event in the whole year?"
"Colt's birthday!" cried Hollis.
"No."
"Is not Hanukka,' said Rachel.
"Homecoming?" asked Carlos.
"The new season of The Bachelorette?" ventured Colt.
"No, Spring Break of course!"
Everyone cheered, but Colton felt only emptiness in his stomach that reflected the emptiness in his wallet.
"My dad can get us a good price on accommodation in South Beach if we let him know this week. It's not five star or anything-just basic, but Dad said the new owner of the hotel is a man who builds oil pipelines in the Panhandle and who wanted to save a threatened building-its actually a bit of a wreck but it's right on Ocean Drive."
"That sounds great, Tris," said Rachel. "Leesh and I were thinking of Cancun," but if we can all go to Miami it would be a blast."
"One hundred dollars per room per night-that's pretty good, I think."
"Sure is," said Alexinia. "All we'd need is the airfare, unless you want to drive."
"Drive if you like, but we only have seven days and I'd like to make the most of it."
The rest of the meal passed in excited chatter, except for Colton who was quiet, and Tristan was just thinking that life was actually pretty good and he started to put his earlier troubles in to a more favourable perspective. Perhaps this was what it was like to be a real grown up.
Back in the dorm room Tristan broached another subject. He got Colton's attention and he put down his phone.
"I've thought of a way for you to make some easy money, Stud."
"Yeah? Nothing illegal, I hope."
"No, take a look at this." He passed his laptop over and Colton studied the screen.
"You're kidding me? Dudes actually sell their dirty underwear?"
"Yeah, it's a big thing. Look at the prices a worn jock can bring-even socks."
"Shit! What does 'customize' mean?"
"It means the seller will make sure they are stained with piss, cum, skidmarks and sweat-whatever turns the customer on."
"Sick!"
"Maybe, but I like wearing yours!"
"Well, I already knows y'all a sick fuck."
"Don't you think it kind of shows a kind of appreciation-for a hot jock like you I mean."
Colton was lost in thought. "Like respect, maybe?"
Tristan thought this was going a bit too far but said, "Yeah, like that. And girls sell their panties too. I mean, would you ever like to own a pair of some hot girl's knickers?"
"You mean like ____" and here Colton named a model and actress whose fame rested on her appearance in Sports Illustrated.
"Yeah."
"Sure love to sniff her lacy gusset."
"See, it's the same thing."
Colton thought the idea was very 'out there' while Tristan thought the idea was very American-in the worst way-but nevertheless was keen for Colton to consider it. While not exactly prostitution, he viewed it as plumbing the depths of the free enterprise system. Of course, some ruthlessly clever person must have seen a marketing angle (something that Americans extravagantly admired) but it was still selling one's body when you got down to it-the thing desperate people will do when they have nothing else left to sell. But he crushed these thoughts.
"Would chicks buy my stuff?"
"Maybe, but it is probably lonely old men if you want the truth."
"They'd want to get off on m'man smells?"
"Of course. And just knowing that your body has touched the piece of cloth-like a holy relict, but for the porn industry."
The moral implications seemingly settled, the practicalities now surfaced. "How would we do it?"
Tristan liked the assumption of 'we' and was prepared. "Well, we use the website to advertise and we set up an anonymous account under an alias."
"'Hung Cowboy', it has to be." Tristan smiled and nodded
"You pack your underwear in ziplock bags to retain their 'freshness'-although that is hardly the right word- and then post it. We use an online payment service like 'Payer'-not 'Paypal'-they don't allow sex stuff. We take a photograph to authenticate that you have worn the underwear. You can charge extra for hot photos of course. I could photograph you from the neck down."
"See if you can get m'lats in-been working on those." Colton thought some more. "I couldn't risk having it traced back to me, Tris."
"How many people would recognise your body?"
"Hey dude, a heap! But I meant in my bio. I'd have to say I'm a college footballer and stuff."
"Yeah, a nineteen year old quarterback's jock would fetch more than a forty-year old Geography teacher's. But if we post the goods from Dallas or Austin, then there's no way to connect 'Hung Cowboy' to here-there are dozens of colleges with football teams."
"Could we do that?"
"A bit of trouble, but we could take gas out of the profits as well as the purchase of new underwear and the postage of course. It's business. Hey, you've got a boner! I guess you like the idea."
Quite quickly Colton swung into action. He was nothing if not honest and the next day began a journal meticulously recording each piece of underwear and the length of time he had worn it and for which activities-sporting and sexual- that were undertaken. He wore sweaty underwear to bed for the first time and kept asking Tristan to smell it. Tristan selfishly felt that much of Colton's sexuality was now being directed into this commercial venture and a certain spontaneity was now lost.
"Oh no, not your camo briefs; those and the short plaid boxers are my favourites! Please don't sell them," pleaded Tristan as he helped hang the big Texas flag. This last was used as the backdrop in the photographs as it would conceal anything that might otherwise identify Charles C. Selecman House.
Colton had set up a profile on the used underwear site and with Tristan's help they had fun creating a biography: Heavy hung 19 year-old College Footballer. Prolific leaker, big loads. Photo. Will customize.
Then there were the prices: for sweaty tee-shirts, $30; for boxers and briefs Colton asked $50; for jockstraps-that fetishized object-Colton demanded $75. For extra photographs there was a $20 surcharge. Colton thought these prices fair. Generally there would be a photograph of Colton from the neck down, standing against the flag of the Republic and wearing the item. Some photographs showed cum oozing through the mesh of the jock and generally Colton would add an extra load before packing and mailing as a gesture of goodwill and in the hope of repeat custom.
After just a week the response was overwhelming. Customers asked for all sorts of strange things. Colton had to find a pair of boxers he wore as a sixteen year old and, for a girl, ones he had worn on a date. To this last Colton had to reply that he usually went commando on these occasions and then the customer offered $200 for his jeans. Tristan wouldn't let him sell. Colton refused to sell used condoms, but he did not cavil at boxers with discreet skidmarks-although he thought it strange. By the third week he had to go out and buy more garments to wear and soil and he found that he could not fulfil the orders quickly enough. Then someone offered $100 for his cum stained sheets and Tristan's photograph artistically portrayed Colton's torso beneath the covers, tented by an erection.
They made three round trips to the outskirts of Dallas to post the precious ziplock bags to their, no doubt, salivating customers-ten of whom claimed to be female. When it became difficult, Leesha posted some on a weekend at home, little suspecting the nature of her cargo. Colton posted some others from Austin.
In the fifth week Colton received an email asking for a jockstrap he wore to the gym for a week without washing and for a sweaty wifebeater. He was just noting this down in his spiral bound booklet when he glanced further down the email, which came from someone at Southern Baptist University. The correspondent then asked if 'Hung Cowboy' was really Colton Stone. Colton went pale and called Tristan urgently back from the Library.
"Some dude thinks it might be me, man. What should I do?"
"Shit, Colt! I don't know."
"I can't admit it. I'd have to resign from the team."
"Tell him that you're the quarterback for Redeemer Theological College, but you don't want it known, just like he wouldn't want it known that he sniffs jocks."
"It's a lie, Tris, and I don't like lyin' and RTC don't even have a football team. I'll make it the Texas Christian College-in fact I'll just allude to it by sayin' I'm a horny frog-that's their mascot and he should catch on. Y'know, I think we better call a halt."
"Yeah, might be wise. How much did you make?"
Colton consulted his notebook. "Well if this guy pays up and with our cum towel which brought $120, I reckon it's about two thousand, two hundred bucks-that's clear of all the new undies and the new bed sheets and the new toothbrush."
"Toothbrush!"
"Yeah, some sicko wanted my spit-soaked toothbrush."
"Still, that's a lot of money in just five weeks."
"Yeah, Miami will be no trouble now and I've got a bit put by."
"You can always start it up again, when things have cooled off."
Colton nodded and stripped off his plaid boxers and threw himself into bed.
"I like it best when you sleep in the raw, Cowboy," said Tristan.
"Yeah, it's my thang and, well, I reckon there will be a load for y'all rather than for Fedex tonight. You've been goin' hungry and I'm right sorry, Roomy."
Tristan thought he'd better check on the progress of the house, so with a party of friends they walked the short distance to the edge of the campus and crossed William H. Taft Drive to where the residential district began. The trees were bare in Baxter Drive and the neighbouring houses were visible through the branches. Tristan's house was just the second one in on the left and the allotment was now surrounded by a chainlink fence with a padlocked gate. Fortunately Tristan had a key, as the workmen had finished for the day, but the evidence of their activity was all about-there was a portable toilet in the backyard and a shipping container that presumably contained tools and equipment in the front. A huge dumpster occupied the parking bay on the side road. This last was piled high with roofing iron.
It soon became apparent that the iron was from the stable, which was now open to the sky, with its old timber rafters looking rather smart as the result of soda pressure cleaning. The new roofing and insulating paper was still stacked and wrapped and waiting for the men to resume work.
"Wow!" said Carlos. "Your dad's men sure work fast."
"Well, they're used to doing big corporate projects, I suppose. They have a team with several different trades."
"What will the neighbours think?" asked Leesha. It was a good question and until that moment Tristan had not considered his new neighbours. He left the others and went around to the big house on the right, which, like his own, stood on a wide lawn. Marching up to the front door, he rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang for a second time. Tristan was just about to give up when a slight movement at the side of the house caught his eye. An elderly man was trying to put up a storm window and he did not look too steady on the stepladder.
Tristan approached and gave what he hoped was a friendly wave when the man saw him. "Hullo, I'm your new neighbour."
"We don't go t'church and I don't want to pray or read nothin'."
"No, I'm your new neighbour-over there," he said pointing. Evidently the old man was deaf.
"That your place? I thought they was demolishin' it for condos."
"No, I'm just fixing it up-I'm intending to live there."
"What? Speak up, son."
Tristan shouted and eventually the man caught on.
"Bertrum?"
"No, Tristan!" He was tiring, but the man pulled a little notebook and pencil from his pocket. Tristan wrote his name out and added that he was a student and that his friends would also be living there-he hoped the man didn't object.
"You Dutch?"
"No, English!" He wrote that too.
Tristan was glad when Mr Burridge took over. Apparently his wife had just gone into care. Mr Burridge had worked as a maintenance engineer over at the University and had retired in 1995. He and his wife had lived in this house since 1960, having moved from La Grange.
Tristan wrote a bit more biographical information on the pad and Mr Burridge put on his glasses, as his eyesight was not too good, he said. Tristan then climbed the ladder and fixed the window while Mr Burridge talked on. Apparently he was regularly bothered by Mormon missionaries from the church on the corner, however he liked the neighbourhood except for the car parking and traffic when there was a big game, for the stadium was very close. "Can't even get out m'own drive."
He told Tristan that the house had once belonged to the University and that visitors used to stay there. Tristan said he knew that. Then Tristan pointed to the old barn and shouted that that was being made into his bedroom. The old man read his lips and laughed.
"Love football," he said, "but I can't go to no games no more. We was looking good last season, weren't we? Best for quite some time. New quarterback's great-just a kid, o'course."
"Colton Stone!" Tristan shouted.
"Yeah, Carlton Sloan."
"He'd my friend and he'll be living here too!" cried Tristan, writing it down as well as pointing wildly."
"Well, dang me!"
"Wait!" said Tristan and he ran to the hedge that separated the properties and called Colton over.
"He's a fan, Colt. And he'd deaf-the perfect neighbour for us!"
Colton swaggered up to Mr Burridge and began one of those jock conversations that Colton was only too familiar with. Irritatingly, Mr Burridge's hearing seemed to improve when it was the football champion that was doing the talking. Perhaps it was just the Texas accent.
In the end they parted, promising that there would be beer for Mr Burridge when they all moved in and had the big television set up. Mr Burridge, on his part, said that he would enjoy that, now that his wife could no longer supervise him so closely.
Back at the house the group prowled around, each paying particular attention to where he or she would likely be sleeping. Tristan tried to describe the changes that would be made, but found it hard without the plans to hand.
In the dining room he explained how there would be a pass-through, once more, from the kitchen. "Y'mean we just sits here and the grub appears through a hole, like magic?" said Hollis, laughing.
"Well, you won't think it's so funny when it's your turn to cook," said Alexinia.
"Don't y'all cast no nasturtiums on my sausage and grits."
"What are grits?" asked Tristan
"Trust me, you don't want t'know, honey!" replied Alexinia.
Tristan then said that he wanted a big table for general use, like at Nonno's. "I don't want a fancy one, or one where you gotta use coasters for glasses and bottles. I want us to be able to study on it, eat on it and I want it strong enough for Colt to be able to dance on it at parties." They all laughed and imagined the great parties they would be able to have in their own frat house.
"I'll make you one," said Rachel, suddenly.
"You?"
"Yes, me," she replied a trifle crossly. "Dad and me make things at home. He taught me woodwork and he's got this big ass workshop at the back of the garage-every machine possible." They all looked at her, save for Leesha who must have already known her secret. "Don't be so surprised, jock boys, I'm more than just a gorgeous cheerleader. I've built stuff for the Food Bank and the Shelter and places like that. I look smokin' hot in coveralls too." They laughed.
"Well, that's awesome, Rache, but please don't make it expensive or fancy. It's gotta be robust enough for us."
"No problem. I think we'll use MDF-it's not environmentally friendly, but if we seal it well it should be okay, Dad says. He loves a project and it will give us something to do together when I'm home for weekends." She then roughly measured the floor with her feet and made a note of the size on her phone. Tristan then suggested that one end of the long table could be pushed up to the kitchen wall meet the pass-through. "That should seat the nine of us."
Eventually they were in the backyard again. "You know, the barbecue and the paving are not part of the contract with Lone Star. I could offer you guys some labouring work in the summer-girls too I mean."
Hollis seemed interested. "Doin' what, Tris?"
"Well, digging a trench for the gas and electric to the outdoor kitchen. Levelling the ground around here and then laying paving." Tristan swept his arm in a circle."
"You'll pay us?"
"Twenty bucks an hour. Maybe two week's work?"
"Ahh…"
"And free beer."
"I'm in. Colt? De? Parks?
"Yeah, I guess so," said Colton.
Parker was going back to Georgia. Deshawn, however, said he would think about it.
They wandered back in the direction of Charles C. Selecman House, Colton and Tristan lagging behind the others.
"The house will be great, won't it Colt?" said Tristan, excited but wanting reassurance from the person whose opinion he valued most.
"Yeah, I can see some mighty fine times ahead. Y'doin' a great thang, Tris. I couldn't imagine this just six months ago."
"You know, our frat house should have a name. I don't mean a Greek one."
Colton walked on in silence for a minute then said, "There are an awful lot of churches in this neighbourhood. How'd y'feel about callin' it 'Beagle House'?"
"You mean, as in Charles Darwin's ship?"
"Yeah. I've always wanted to call a house o'mine that-although I know it's your house-and a house is a kinda ship, ain't it?"
"It is, and we're all adventurers onboard. What about 'HMS Beagle' to do it properly?"
"If y'all thank so, Roomy. Course the others won't have a clue, but fuck 'em."
"Well, I understand, Colt."
"Yeah, I know and thanks, f'understanding." Colton put his arm around Tristan's shoulder and they were soon back at their dorm, just as it was getting dark.
Thanks for reading. If you have any comments or questions I would love to hear from you. Just send them to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put Tristan in the subject line.