Mitch's Meat

Mitch went out for a work get together, bonding session, surely it wasn’t a Xmas "do" already? Anyway, it was an open bar from early evening until late. And that’s all Mitch does really, booze, and fuck boys. But that is what you are meant to do when you are 22, let’s face it, booze, smoke pot, take drugs and fuck boys. Not that I think Mitch takes drugs. There is a steady stream of boys through his bed. Many a morning, some fresh faced lad has come out into the kitchen in his jocks, his hands over his crotch saying he just wants a glass of water. That is one thing about Mitch’s trade, they are all very polite.

When I say Mitch does booze, you always know when he has a few days off, the beers appear in the fridge, and consequently, he makes many more visits to the kitchen. He often staggers home drunk, happy and bleary-eyed enthusiastically wanting to give the details of his night. He can certainly put it away, but he is a big lad, tall and blond. He’s athletic, but in that post-teenager, getting puffy from too much boozing, athletic kind of way. However, the boy’s seem to like him.

He has a definite hung-over, morning after expression. Blood-shot eyes, somehow his face seems to go out of focus, incoherent, twitching (only slightly, it is no Tourette's situation), not really fully at one with reality.

I was in the kitchen making coffee, when Mitch appears at the kitchen door, squinting at something. He is in his jocks, one hand is inside them massaging half a woody, he has one arm over his chest, he has one eye closed, squinting noticeably.

“What does that say?” He still looks smashed.

I’m sure he is staring at the clock. “8.30.”

“AM?”

“Yes,” I say. “8.30 in the morning.”

“Thank god (I wish people would stop thanking god, when they don’t believe in him, it gives God a false positive in society) I lost my phone and I had no idea what time it is,” he says.

Who would be able not to look down at what his right hand was doing? I know I should. Higher ground! Higher ground! My still, small voice tells me, but I have already looked down before that thought is complete. He has a big dick, it was kind of hard not to miss it, he had a semi, I think is the term, he was rolling it around in his jocks, which were kind of bunched up around it, you know, kind of sweaty, damp clinging. Blond pubes. Good legs.

“I thought it could be 4pm,” he says. He shakes his head and goes back to bed.

He had to be at work at 4pm.

Good luck with the work thing, I think.