A Cuddly Toy Page 6

  Again, I had to elbow the geologist. “Go. Take it.”

  “Take it,” urged Twinkletoes. “I have to stand in line like every other motherfucker. Oh, not you, Dezba,” he said to a wheelchair-bound girl. “Just these biker motherfuckers taking up all this space.”

  “Thank you,” said Fremont, instantly spooning on some salsa he surely didn’t know would melt his fillings, it was so hot.

  “You been to the tailings pile?” asked Harte.

  Fremont looked blank. “Excuse me? Oh, which tailings pile?”

  Harte bit off his words angrily. “The one with the excavators and bulldozers crawling all over.”

  “Yes,” said Twinkletoes, sucking lamb juice from his thumb. “That’s where the Navajo practice their construction trades. They move earth from one pile to the other.”

  “Well,” said Harte, “there’s so much yellow powder it comes out of the tailpipes of the equipment. And those workers don’t use masks or respirators.”

  What a cagey bastard Harte was.

  And I loved him all the more for it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FREMONT

  I used to consider myself completely whole.

  I had a wife who nearly gave us a child. Once we were settled in Colorado, both working for U-238, we figured it was time. We closed on a home on almost an acre in Aurora. We had no idea what to do with four bedrooms and two fireplaces, so we reckoned at least one kid would fill the space. We fucked in our jack-and-jill bath, as they called it. We fucked on both of the dual staircases. We fucked in the three-car garage.

  We were in seventh heaven. We worked for a high-powered global company with the ability to sway politicians. Sure, we were both gone a lot, overseas even. Kelly was a geologist who worked in labs, sometimes in Russia, Italy, or Brazil. I was strictly a field guy who loved the great outdoors. But we were at home in Aurora often enough for Kelly to conceive. Suddenly I got religion. Her uterus became something bigger than both of us combined. My love for her mutated into a belief in something higher, purer.

  These were all God-given parts of me. The house, job, wife, soon-to-be-born child. They all made up the whole of who I was. Nothing was missing.

  Until Kelly walked into our bedroom and got a good eyeful of her beloved husband, ass submissively in the air, reddened from being spanked, plunging another man’s cock-ringed dick down his throat.

  Shortly thereafter, Kelly miscarried.

  Or did she?

  Who would want a child with a loathsome man like me? I was kidding God when I thought I was whole. There was another part of myself I’d been denying, hiding like a cancerous mole.

  That incident wasn’t just a one-off. There were other, more sordid encounters I’d gone out of my way to experience. I’d been fantasizing about men since overwhelming hormones first surged through me, changing everything about my body, mind, and spirit. Suddenly, sports magazines took on a whole new level of significance. Boys in locker rooms, corny to say, weren’t just friends whipping each other with towels. And older men, mostly men in power—cops, doctors, military men—became forbidden symbols of intense sexuality for me. A visit to the doctor for a sprained ankle became an exercise in secrecy as I knew I’d have to bind my burgeoning cock beforehand with an Ace bandage, so no one would notice my erection and report it to my mother. The doctor could be old, mottled, balding, it didn’t matter. He was a doctor. And his fingers were touching my skin.

  The guy Kelly caught me with was dressed like a cop. We must’ve looked like an insanely ridiculous version of one-third of the Village People.

  My first actual encounter occurred in a cop station, of all things. It was almost as though I’d gone out of my way to get arrested for drunk and disorderly during a college prank with my friends. One policeman, it must’ve been the bad cop, not the good cop, whisked me away to a windowless, greasy room to get me to testify against my friends for breaking a ceiling fan or some such shit.

  His methods were, shall we say, quite persuasive.

  Now here I was in a southwest desert. Surrounded by men in uniform. Men in uniform who enjoyed the fuck out of sucking each other’s dicks.

  I knew gay men weren’t all promiscuous jizzmongers. They were about as debauched as straights. But just the idea that a few of these virile, inked men might have been boning each other a few hours ago, well. I was particularly drawn to Harte Saxonberg. Yeah, you’d think it would be the doctor, right? But even in a white coat, elven pierced gopher-like men weren’t my bag.

  No, Harte and I had a passion for rocks in common. His father up in Pure and Easy had taught him the science of geology and had eased him into the biker world, apparently. He got into the passenger seat of my sedate rental car while a few other guys revved the engines of their Harleys. A wave of leathery, musky sweat filled my car when the big man squished himself into the compact seat, shaking his shaggy head, his ginger ringlets falling around his shoulders like a 70s rock singer.

  I knew Harte was committed to the incredibly built Bond Blackburn, but the close proximity of such a brawny male had my nipples stiffening even before I turned the key in the ignition.

  I said, “We’ll need hand-held radiation scanners, air samplers—”

  “Portable generators,” Harte added.

  “—and other fancy crap if we really want to get a feel for how broad the problem is. Holy shit,” I said, without thinking.

  Because in addition to the several leather-clad men joining us on the expedition, Father Moloney was hopping onto a Harley.

  No, I fucking mean it. The good pastor, in his flowing black ecumenical garb, was straddling the saddle of a, well, I didn’t know the make, but it was a big black machine, just as big as the ones Turk, Ogden, Twinkletoes and Haven straddled. We all moved into a slo-mo formation out of the church parking lot. We made a strange caravan, my little car sandwiched between the roaring bikes, followed by a couple of broken-down Navajo pickup trucks.

  But the strangest thing of all was the salt-and-pepper priest, his noble profile, his mouth set in stone, yanking up his vestments to tuck them under his thigh as he powered off onto the potholed highway. And yeah, he even wore shades, Oakleys, the brand of the biker. With his cassock sleeves rolled to the elbow and his samurai pictures blazing clear and incongruous in the desert light, he was more at home with the Bent Zealots than his fellow clergymen.

  “Uh,” I said, brilliantly, “does he often do that?”

  “Who?”

  By examining Harte’s face, I could see he truly had no idea who I meant.

  “Father Moloney. Does he often join you on, ah, runs?”

  “What? Oh, yeah, all the time. He had a Harley before he even came here. I think he’s got some kind of dark background. Not sure really. Now, one of these tailings piles near the construction training site, the topping cracked and wore away—”

  “Dark background? Like, something drove him to become a priest?”

  Harte chuckled. “Well, doesn’t every priest probably have a drive of some kind? Running to or from something? But you’re right. Father Moloney is an interesting character. Came to New York City from Ireland when he was a kid. I think he counseled drug addicts before joining the Catholic church. He found Catholicism to be too harsh, so switched to Episcopalian.”

  I had no clue about the differences. Hell, I rarely even attended temple myself anymore. Kelly was vaguely Christian, that was all I knew. We had agreed to teach our child about both religions. “Oh, I’m sure he’s right. Catholicism is on its way out, or so I keep hearing. Way too much dogma and hypocrisy.”

  “Exactly.” Harte seemed particularly intent on that one word. Exactly. He put a lot of oomph into it, so I said,

  “I can see he’s a priest who doesn’t follow dictates. Likes to be on his own. His own man.”

  “Exactly. I know he worked at Standing Rock rez in North Dakota with the Sioux before coming here. Sounds way more glamorous, right? Well, leave it up to Father Moloney to choose the u
nglamorous option.” Harte snorted. “Man. It doesn’t get much more unglamorous than here.”

  We were at the training site within ten minutes. Surrounded by virile bikers, some with thighs clad in leather chaps, and here I was. I only had eyes for the delectable priest. Leave it the fuck up to me. There was some twisted part of my soul that I hadn’t accounted for when I’d decided to get married and have kids. I brushed it off by reasoning that the bikers were all paired up and off limits—except for the palsied Twinkletoes, who appeared to be straight—but then why did I go for the most forbidden, off-limits man in the entire Sonoran Desert? I knew I had a masochistic streak . . .

  Maybe it was good I was gravitating toward the off-limits. It meant nothing would ever come of it. I certainly didn’t need any more trouble, not after Kelly had gone blathering to some co-workers about the scene she’d stumbled onto in our bedroom. In the most mortifying incident of my entire career—life, really—I had people giving me copious amounts of side-eye when I walked through the corporate hallways. Worst, I’d been given a tongue-lashing by Oswald Avery himself. He claimed he “didn’t care what I did on my own time,” but “inquiring tongues were wagging” and he “didn’t need any sort of depraved and queer rumors going around about his company.” It was “bad optics.”

  In fact, it was my image that was being tainted, not his, but that didn’t matter to Avery. Everything always came back to him. The world revolved around him, everyone was talking about him, and if they weren’t praising him, they were nasty degenerates, more than likely Democrats or socialists, or socialistic Democrats.

  The next week, I’d gotten this crap assignment, so you had to wonder. Avery was flexing his muscle, showing what he could do if crossed. Send you to Siberia. I’d actually heard of a mining engineer being sent to Siberia after he was seen wearing a dress and wig at a nightclub. The message was clear: U-238 owned you, down to what you did in your off-hours. Maybe especially that.

  When I got out of my car I didn’t go straight to the training bulldozers parked like Tonka toys on the piles. Like a lovestruck teen, I went straight to the potent priest, like someone else would get there first. He hadn’t even worn a helmet like some of them had, so he just speared his fingers through his hair, spiking it with sweat. He spread his black skirts around his legs and was just unrolling his sleeves when I approached like a puppy dog.

  What was I thinking? Father Noel Moloney was probably straight, or probably asexual, as priests were supposed to be. I definitely needed to go into Quartzsite and find a gay bar, or at least sign onto Grindr like I had a couple of times, timidly, only once drunkenly getting farther than a few swipes.

  “You cut quite a figure out there,” I said, like a dolt.

  The father grinned, and it seemed almost salacious. “Surprised? There are many sides to this man of the cloth,” he teased.

  That drove me crazy. Maybe that’s why I suddenly blurted, “Why’d you switch from Catholicism? Too restrictive?”

  He seemed surprised at my sudden question, but willing to talk. “Basically. That and they don’t allow the clergy to marry.”

  My throat was suddenly dry. I couldn’t swallow. “Oh? You wanted to marry?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  I shrugged, my hands dug deep into my jeans pockets. “It can be okay . . . for some people. Maybe just not for me.”

  Father Moloney took a manly swig from his metal water bottle and swished the water around in his mouth, washing out the dust. Without even looking at the guy, he handed the bottle to some shuffling old Diné who’d approached with his hand out.

  “Besides,” said the priest, “the Romans don’t allow rawny ponces like me, married or not.”

  He stalked off, leaving me with my mouth open. Rawny ponce? I thought I knew a “ponce” as a queer in the British slang dialect. But what was “rawny”? I instantly whipped out my phone and googled with one hand, meandering around the back of a stockpile.

  And, of course, I had no bars.

  “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I muttered, shaking the phone around.

  And jumped out of my boots when someone touched my arm.

  I twirled around, crouching in a defensive position, hands held out in claws.

  It was only that shuffling Navajo who had drank from Moloney’s bottle.

  “Friend,” he said, squinting from beneath his ten-gallon hat. He was what they call an “older gentleman,” although maybe his prune-like face had only become wizened from aging in the sun for decades. His glossy black tie, American flag patch, and star-studded shirt collar told me he was an official of some sort. Oh. The silver star pinned to his shirt pocket was emblazoned with his name: Leroy Sinquah, Colorado River Indian Tribes, and Sheriff.

  I gathered myself, embarrassed I’d reacted as though being caught fondling myself. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’d like to tell you about leetso.”

  I nodded. “The yellow dirt.”

  He nodded too. He steered me around the back of the pile, away from the others. “Back before the war, every family lived off half a sack of flour. A tidbit of coffee, and maybe some goat jerky.”

  “I know. They did what they had to do. They mined leetso.”

  Leroy Sinquah gestured grandly. The pile now cast its shadow on us. It was like we were entering a vast amusement park canyon, the pile on one side, the sheer rock face on the other. “This pillar was left when miners blasted around it. This vast Salomé Valley gave up two million dollars in uranium ore to the people of America. But of course, once they dropped the bombs on Japan, mining jobs here vanished.”

  I knew all of that, but the sheriff seemed to have some intention. He wanted to help his people. “Right. Some people moved to Blythe and kept mining. Some moved to Poston or Quartzsite. Some melted into the atmosphere.”

  Sheriff Sinquah paused, nodding fiercely. “Melted into the atmosphere, very good way of putting it. In these tailing piles were caches of rusty cans, charred campfire rings—bilagáanas had chopped down all the trees as far as the eye could see. The sandy siftings were ideal for making cement for house foundations and stucco walls. Once more, Salomé Valley came alive. People used yellow rocks to make patios, bread ovens. I myself planted an apricot orchard to help feed the people.”

  “Oh yes?” Leroy’s hand on my hip was making me nervous for some reason. He kept squeezing me for emphasis.

  “I planted melon, and corn, and squash.” With each emphatic fruit or vegetable, his hand drifted downward. For a guy who hadn’t been touched by another human being in a year, my cells reacted. A delicious chill shivered its way up my spine, like a tempting and destructive worm. My crossed arms didn’t encourage him or deny him.

  He was going for my cock, and I wasn’t stopping him.

  He continued, “My farm had an irrigation system from God. Rain drained through the yellow rubble, and I shared everything with other families. I gave uranium rocks to friends who built impervious fences with them.”

  I nodded, my eyes level with his. I wanted to see where he went with this. “I am hoping someone can remedy that situation.”

  “I am, too. We all are. In fact, Mr. Zuckerman, we are all hoping that person is you.”

  His hand made a definite foray into my crotch. His fingers sought and squeezed until they found my erect penis, nestled against my hipbone. When he clutched my dick, his eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses slid shut. I didn’t move a muscle, but my prick did the talking.

  It was hard. Every squeeze of his rheumy old fingers sent an overwhelming thrill through my ballsac. My nipples tightened, and my asshole clenched.

  And he was a cop.

  “Ah,” he sighed. “You are young and vibrant. Eager to be pleasured by one who needs help. Will you help us, Mr. Zuckerman?”

  “We’ll see,” I muttered, and he fell to his knees.

  “Ah!” he cried, nuzzling his face against my hard-on. Both of his hands squeezed and explored now
. One gripped my jeans-clad dick so tightly the outline of the corona was plain to see underneath the fabric. I looked down as though watching a porn flick, amazed and astounded at the virility of this stud who was about to be sucked. “You are robust and vigorous, Mr. Zuckerman. If anyone can help us, it is you.”

  And his fingers scrabbled at my belt buckle. I might’ve even helped him.

  Next thing I knew, my dick was in the air. I was plunging it so hard down the eager sheriff’s throat I practically lost my balance. I gripped his shoulders as though I received blowjobs every day and knew how to dominate powerful men. Oh yes, I knew how to tempt and tease men with authority because I was such an object of desire!

  Thing is, Sheriff Sinquah made me feel desirable. He was so bereft, so horny, so pathetic, really. Halfway through, I realized I should not have taken advantage of his weak desire for cock. I was promising something I couldn’t deliver, just because I wanted to shoot my load down a cop’s throat. I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve said, “Hey, this is wrong,” or whatever it is men say halfway through the best blowjob of their life.

  Instead, I held onto the vertical rock slab with one hand and gripped his shoulder with the other, and I rocked my hips in and out of his greedy mouth. It was a fucking lost cause, with his experienced tongue lapping away, his deep-throating of my long dick, his teeth eliciting thrills that sent me over the top.

  It didn’t take long. The whole episode didn’t last long enough for me to say “hey. Stop.” That’s my story, anyway, and I’m sticking to it. Within seconds, I was flooding that horny cop’s mouth with my seed, nearly passing out from the sudden deluge of rapture that swept through me. My toes curled, my balls were hard boulders, my asshole clutched at nothing as though receiving a big cock.

  For that’s what I really craved . . .

  “Ah! “Ah!” “Ah!”

  Who the hell was making those sounds? Was that me? I gasped for air, I guess, as I relied more and more on the granite wall to hold me up. Yes, I was slithering down the wall as my hips pumped surge after surge of jizz into the mouth I now realized was partially toothless.