Southern Fried

Chapter 1-3

He groaned at the thought, body trembling as I picked up the pace on his ass and on my c**k, staring up between his legs as he worked his pole, fist moving lightning fast now. “M…maybe,” he said, followed by a grunt, and then another, his c**k shooting thick gobs of spunk that splashed against the wall before dripping down. My own load flew out a second later, landing on the carpet beneath the chair, both of us struggling to catch our breaths as we milked out every last drop, my finger gliding out of his ass as I stood up on wobbly legs.

He dropped his foot off the chair and turned, d**k still steely stiff and dripping, the sweat making its way down his chest. He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Trip,” he said with a laugh, the sound like a babbling brook to my ears, like water running over mossy rocks.

“Pleasure was all mine, Zeb,” I replied, rocking his hand in mind.

He stared down at our two withering d***s. “Well now, not all yours.” He laughed and stared up at me, those eyes of his like lasers. “You were never gonna tell Pearl on me, were you?”

I leaned in and brushed my lips against his. Then I stuffed my d**k back inside my jeans. “She scares me, too, Zeb,” I said, the kiss full-on now, his lips soft as down, a rush of tingles sparkling across my back. “Scares me like the dickens.” I gave his dickens a grab, and with a final kiss, excused myself. Because he was right about one thing: if Pearl found us like this, we’d both be dead meat.

“See you around, Trip,” he said with a wink and a nod.

I turned again, taking him in, his body tight and perfect, socks up to his knees, smile dazzling on his endearing face, d**k now dangling. Good enough to eat. Like home cooking. Southern-style. “Hope so, Zeb,” I said with a wave as I left the room, head craning left and right, making sure the coast was clear.

Thankfully, it was. Then I stared up to the ceiling, shrugging, just in case Granny was watching. “Didn’t you ever hire any ugly people, Granny?” I whispered, walking back down the hall.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking now. Taking advantage of a poor, misbegotten hired-hand. Shame on you, Trip Jackson. Shame on you. But, truth be told, it was no piece of cake growing up gay in the South. In fact, it was downright scary. Granny, after all, couldn’t protect me outside the mansion; I had to cover my own damn tracks most of the time. That is to say, all the time. And having s*x, gay s*x, wasn’t in the cards for me back then. Too risky when everyone knew your business and was all too happy to blab about it. So, you see, that fling with Zeb was me just finally getting a shot at sewing some wild oats. And that was a sewing room back there, after all. Go figure.

Anyway, no harm, no foul. Just some much needed relief from what was still yet to come. I had me a dreaded funeral to go to, you know. And then the reading of the will. And then, well, I was going to have to play that one by ear. One step at a time, I figured, one step at a time. And damn if I didn’t have some big shoes to fill for those steps. Again, orthopedic though they were.

Then, sure enough, I rounded the bend and ran smack into some more big shoes, easily size twelve. “Jeeves!” I hollered, frightened like a little bunny rabbit.

“Trip!” he hollered back, hand reaching for his chest. “Make some noise next time, please; you’re likely to scare a person half to death.” He stared down at me menacingly. “And please don’t call me Jeeves; you know how I hate that.”

I laughed, feeling the teenager in my well up. “All butlers are called Jeeves, Jeeves.”

“Unless they’re called Walter, Trip,” he said with a frown, eyes cast downward. He’d aged poorly. Ten years looked more like twenty. Then again, ten years in Granny’s hire probably felt more like fifty. But he was, truth be told, still ruggedly handsome.

“You don’t look like a Walter, Jeeves,” I told him, smart-mouthed as always. “Besides, even Granny called you Jeeves.”

He sighed and straightened out his vest. “Your grandmother called me many things, Trip; Jeeves was better than most of them, by far. Still, my checks said Walter, and that was all that mattered.” He squinted at me, scratching his jowly chin. “You’ve grown.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, which is something people rarely did around him. “Ten years will do that to a person, Jeeves. You’re looking well, yourself.” Which wasn’t exactly true. The compliment was simply my southern manners poking through. “Pearl’s cooking is keeping you healthy, I see.”

He snickered, which was creepy. “Pearl’s cooking is to be avoided at all costs, Trip. Doctor’s orders.” He patted his belly, also creepy. “That woman refuses to cook in anything other than lard, the milk is always whole, and butter is astoundingly plentiful. It’s a miracle your grandmother stayed so thin.” Undeniable, to be sure. Probably due to her cast-iron will. Plus, she flat out refused to gain any weight. Hated going clothes shopping. I shuddered at the very thought. “She was a fine woman, your grandmother,” he quickly added, more for my benefit, I was sure. The brunt of her ill-humor generally fell on him, you see.

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I replied, avoiding eye contact. “Thank you for caring for her all these many years.”

“Thirty, to be exact, sir,” he corrected. “Her will, I’m sure, will reflect that.” Unavoidably, our eyes met at the word will. His gaze was like ice, the comment leaving me arctic-cold, and rightfully so. Still, I chose to ignore it, despite its hanging in the air like the moss hung from the trees outside. Tenaciously, that is.

“I’m sure it will,” I managed, stepping around him and then past. “Good to see you,” I added, quickly heading in the direction opposite to his, just like I had done as a child. Age had made him no less easy to be around. Creepy, as I said. It bears repeating. He nodded as I went by, barely registering my existence, much as he did throughout my childhood. He was Granny’s butler, her chauffeur, not mine, of course. Pearl attended to me when Granny couldn’t, which was most of the time. And thank the Lord almighty for that. Granny, after all, had about as much maternal instinct as a water snake, of which we already had plenty of in the lake out back.

When he was out of sight, I stopped in place and breathed again, staring down over the railing into the greeting room. I’d done this so often as child, watching my grandmother attend to her various guests. See, Granny stood at the pinnacle of the social circle, even at her age. Our family name assured that much. And they always dropped by to pay their respects, our neighbors and their neighbors in turn, a smile and a wave up at me as I stared down. I waved back if I liked them. More often than not, I just slunk into the shadows, where a good little sissy boy belonged. Pardon my bitterness. Like I said, it wasn’t easy, mansion or no mansion, butler and chauffeur and cook and pool boy and stable boy or not.

Or maid, for that matter.

“Hello, may I help you?” she asked, awakening me from my reverie, causing me to jump in place.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” I blurted out. “I’m, uh, Trip. Mary Jackson’s grandson.”

She smiled and nodded. “Betty,” I was told. She was a woman in her early thirties, if the dim overhead light was any indication, dressed entirely in black, a feather duster in her hand. Pale white, stick thin, hair in a tight bun. Granny’s type of maid, to be sure. “You look like your pictures,” she told me, her features softening once she realized who I was. “Though I suppose you would, right?”

I smiled, too, nodding as well. “Which pictures?” I asked, aware of only the boyhood ones in my bedroom—and ten years out, I barely looked like that person, any longer.

Her smile broadened. She was pretty in a stiff sort of way. Then she led me down the hall, up the last remaining flight of stairs. I knew where we were headed. A feeling of dread suddenly overcame me. Still, I followed. She opened the ancient oak door, the sunlight from within temporarily blinding me. We walked into Granny’s bedroom, the silence nearly deafening, the room lifeless, missing its sole occupant.

I spotted the pictures in question almost immediately. I walked inside and over to a low dresser. Six photos in six silver frames, all of me, most from the last several years, taken on various vacations and sent to Granny. My heart swelled, a tear ready to break free. I laughed rather than cried. It was easier that way, all things considered. “Yep, that’s me, alright.”

She moved in and stood to my side. “Miss Jackson talked of you often,” she practically whispered, as if we were in a church. “She was very proud of you.”

“Huh,” I managed. “I was proud of her, too, I suppose. It wasn’t easy being Mary Jackson. Took a lot of work.” I held up a frame, the photo of me in England, arms up wide as I stood on London Bridge, the Thames gray beneath me. “How long have you worked here?” I asked. I couldn’t remember Granny ever mentioning her. Then again, it wasn’t like Granny to talk about the help, period. Not even Pearl, unless I asked.

She paused, thinking about it. “Five years, I suppose. Best job I ever had, too.”

I laughed, despite it all. “I’m not about to walk in and fire anybody, Betty.” Though the thought did suddenly form in my addled head. What would happen to all of them now that Granny was gone?

Her shoulders relaxed and she allowed the briefest of smiles. “No, it’s fine working here, really. I mean, your Granny, she, she could be…”

“Difficult?” And that was putting it nicely.

“Difficult,” she agreed. “Though she treated me well. I’ve not had it easy, you see. And she took me in and gave me a job. Hard to come by good work around these parts, so I was grateful. I mean, I had nothing before this. Less than that.”

My smile made a triumphant return. It was good to hear that Granny was appreciated. I supposed I rarely told her so myself. Chalk it up to the ignorance of youth. In truth, she gave her time and money to so many causes, but mostly she did it on the down-low. In other words, this news from Betty was no surprise. And it made me miss Granny all the more. I wished I had just five more minutes with her to tell her how much I, too, appreciated her. Things could’ve been so different for me when my parents died. As it was, I had a good life, and still do, all thanks to her. “She was a special woman,” I said, reverently.