Sugaring Ben Read online

  “Are you prepared for the show this weekend?” she asked, crossing her legs, clicking a ballpoint pen.

  The show, as she called it, entailed my invitation to speak at Wassamere College in downtown Pittsburgh, a science school for meteorologists, geologists, and climatologists. WRDR paid for my gas to drive south on Thursday morning and to perform a lecture to Wassamere students. My return trip was scheduled for Sunday afternoon, giving me plenty of time to enjoy the city of Pittsburgh and its three rivers.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be, Natalie.”

  “Did Suzanne send you the details about your hotel room and the time and location of your lecture?”

  Suzanne Cordova prided herself on doing a great job and helping everyone in the newsroom, particularly Natalie. When Natalie barked a command, Suzanne jumped.

  “She did give me everything I need. As usual, she’s on the ball.”

  “Speaking of balls” Natalie said. “You’re wearing a pretty snug pair of dress slacks today. Are they new?”

  I ignored her question. She was right, though. The slacks were brand new and fit like a glove. Skinny was in, and I wasn’t afraid of showcasing my front or back panels to anyone who wanted to see. Maybe that was a slutty way to look at how I dressed, but whatever. Some people liked to be looked at, and I just happened to be one of those individuals.

  To answer her, I said, “Do you have the new business credit card for me to use?”

  “I should make you beg for this, Sand.” She reached inside a leather portfolio that she carried everywhere with her and slid a credit card to me across the table’s surface.

  I looked at the card and saw that it had my name and the WRDR logo on it. I would use the card in Pittsburgh for a bed-and-breakfast stay and two meals on Friday, lunch and dinner. Other than those expenses, the card would stay in my wallet, tucked against my ass; that exact place where I was pretty sure Natalie wanted to tuck herself against.

  “You’re good to go, Mr. Oliver.”

  “I am.”

  “Teach those kids something about the weather.”

  I promised to.

  She ended the meeting.

  Thank God I came out alive, without scratches on my back or bite marks along my neck, leaving me damaged and a spectacle for our coworkers, proof that she was hungry for me, emphatic.

  * * * *

  Not even ten minutes later was my second meeting in the conference room. Kent Karson worked under me and almost made as much as I did. He was tall, flamboyant, and bright and shiny to have around the office. Never had I seen him blue or angry. Bubbly came to mind in describing him, and everyone loved to be around the man.

  He sat beside me next to the windows, unlike Natalie. His blue eyes twinkled from the room’s incandescent light.

  “Confirm with me that I’ll be filling in for you while you’re visiting Pittsburgh.”

  “Confirmed.”

  “And I’ll be doing the weather all weekend?”

  “You’ll do the evening skits of six and eleven. Marion will do the morning and noon slots. It’s not your first rodeo, Kent. We both know that. You know what you’re doing.”

  Kent had worked for WRDR since college and his apprenticeship. The kid was young but good, and I trusted him to represent our department with glowing style. No fears.

  “Will you be back for the parade on Sunday?”

  It was St. Patrick’s Day weekend, which I absolutely loved. “I won’t. I’m not planning to leave the city until late afternoon.”

  “Is Pittsburgh having a parade on Sunday?”

  “The city is. I’m sure I’ll catch it.”

  He pointed to himself and sang, “Jealous. I hear it’s one of the best in the country. Those people know how to drink and have fun.”

  “I can’t promise I’ll drink, but I’ll have fun.”

  Our conversation about my traveling and his responsibilities while I planned on being away abruptly changed when he asked, “May I be frank, Sand?”

  “You’re always frank, Kent. Tell me one time when you haven’t been.”

  He shook his head and laughed. “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can’t. Now tell me what you have to be frank about this time.”

  “Is it true that Ben Cutter, the famous pastry chef, is coming to take a tour of the newsroom?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Are the two of you lovers?”

  I shook my head and laughed. “That’s untrue. It’s just a date. He recommended we do something personal to get know each other.”

  He rubbed his chin, winked at me, and admitted, “Did you hear the rumors about him?”

  Ben was a celebrity, and there were probably a thousand rumors that spread like wildfire about the man, particularly about his baking skills.

  “What rumor?”

  “That he has a big dick. Huge. Nine inches long and two inches thick. Telephone pole size. Rip you apart huge.”

  I loved having Kent on our team for his humor. “You’re joking.”

  “I wouldn’t kid about a guy’s cock, Sand. You should know that about me. People have called Ben’s dick a Bavarian pretzel.”

  “What people?” I sighed and rolled my eyes, but smiled at the same time, knowing that he liked to play with me.

  “Gays at the club I go to. I’ve heard that Ben Cutter has a monster cock.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard wrong and that Ben has an average-sized penis like the rest of us.”

  “Whatever you say. It’s your story.”

  Indeed, it was my story, and I refused to go along with his playful antics.

  Games were fun, but only to a point. I felt it best to end his, and did, including our meeting.

  Chapter 5: Hays Golden (I)

  Sexy hot motherfucker with his ginger-colored hair and rock-hard body. I wanted to do the craziest things with him. Seduce him. Eat him up like his pastries. Down him with some milk. And spread my ejaculate all over his body as if it were hot piping on a cake. I wanted my dick inside him. I wanted his dick inside me. Sometimes when you think of a guy you like so much you get hard and can’t control yourself. That’s exactly what happened to me. I couldn’t control what I was doing around, and to, Ben Cutter. Because I wanted…wanted…wanted him. And I was going to have him, no matter what.

  He was the only man for me. All mine. Every bit of him. Every lick. No one else could have him because I would stop them if they did. Benjamin Cutter belonged to no one except for me. Only me. Hays Golden’s property. Mine. Only mine. I dared anyone to get in the way of our relationship. I knew how to fight, and hard. If anyone had the balls to pick one with me, I’d throw them down. My history proved that. My twin, Hart, knew that. Anyone who just happened to be close to me comprehended my anger and tried not to piss me off. And if any fool chose to get between us, that anger would have spilled out at an unstoppable velocity.

  I played the lust game with Ben Cutter. A flavorful game where he would fuck me, and then I would fuck him, and we would be lovers until the end of the time. The fuck game as I sometimes called it. Two naked men inside one of his kitchens, humping each other. Cock to ass. Ass riding dick. Rough me up. Rough him up. Our twisted game of hot sex in his hot kitchen. Semen burst up and along my spine. Semen splashing him against his neck. A sticky mess created between us. Nothing sweet and charming. Nothing innocent. Fucking could never be considered innocent, at least I thought it couldn’t.

  I followed him. How couldn’t I follow him when Ben made it so easy? Hays Golden on a trip around the world again. This time to Barcelona. Next time to Miami. Once to Perth, Australia, where he baked with kangaroo butter. Brussels. Paris. Liverpool. New York City. San Diego. Seattle. Dallas. Chicago. I followed him everywhere, learning where he was going and how many days he was staying in a particular city. Sometimes, we were on the same flight. Most of the times, we weren’t. That’s the way the cookie crumbled in the fuck game, right?

  I had things that belonged to Ben Cutter. Personal items. Items that I shouldn’t have owned and could have proved that maybe…maybe there was something uncanny about me. A pair of cotton boxer-briefs in a plastic baggie that he wore during a hot summer day. The underwear still smelled of his perspiration. And I had one of his forks that he had used to eat a dinner on a flight we had shared from LAX to Dallas. Granted, the fork was thick white plastic, but I didn’t give a fuck. I kept and loved it as my own, knowing that Ben’s saliva was left as a dried residue on the item. I owned many shirts from the man, too, and other things like socks, a pair of shoes, baking supplies, and half-eaten food, which I had frozen and placed in my freezer to keep for years to come. I owned a baster that belonged to Ben. Watch. Muffin tin. Belt. Mixing bowl. Handkerchief. Pie plate. So many things. All of my belongings were on display within one of my rooms. My Ben Cutter museum. My sanctuary. A place where I could go and enjoy a piece of the pastry chef anytime I wanted.

  How many times did I lie my way into Marshdale Estate, gaining access to Ben’s Colonial via his two security gates? Too many illegal entrances to count. Posing as a delivery man mostly, or a contractor that needed to make repairs on a flat screen, lighting issues, and water problems in one of the upstairs bathrooms. Hid out in the house four hours sometimes even six hours, until dark. Until Ben went to bed and I could watch him sleep. Chest rising. Chest falling. Staring at him as he slept on his back. Hard between my legs. So interested in him. Bare-chested but wearing a pair of boxer-briefs; the same kind that I had kept in a plastic baggie as a keepsake. Watched him sleep for an hour, two hours, until I became tired myself, ready to pass out, and left the Colonial, unseen by his lousy security team. Hays Golden vanishing in the night like some nocturnal animal.

  One time, I stood at his bed, unbuckled my jeans, and pus
hed them down to my knees. I didn’t have to make myself hard because Ben’s rising and falling chest had already caused that to happen. I fingered my balls, kept my breathing at a low audible, and started to jack my dick up and down, up and down, up and down, watching the man sleep, turned on by him. Watched him until I felt a ripple of elation ski up from my hard dick to the back of my throat and…unloaded semen against my bare stomach, draining my cock of its load, splattering the shit against my abs and in my navel, becoming spent and exhausted. More than once did that happen. A few times. My show was over. I wiped my sticky semen on his bedspread with careful strokes so I didn’t wake Ben. Then I tugged up my jeans and headed home, bypassing his napping security crew that night. Home safe. Emptied. What a fun night that was. Fuck, yes, it was.

  I stood by his bed on two other occasions and jacked off after sliding past his incompetent security. Someone had to do those things: one, to prove that the celebrity pastry chef had the worst protection on the planet from a security team; two, stain Ben’s sheets with some fuck butter, which is exactly what I liked to call it. How strange that I didn’t get caught. Nothing could have been more peculiar. Leaving him surprises like that. Pools of fuck butter. Sticky leftovers from my ultimate obsession. Leaving presents for the man of my dreams. A little gift from me to him, which I was pretty sure he discovered every morning, all on his own.

  It all came crashing down around me, though. The phone calls I had made to him. The long e-mails. The letters. The Hallmark cards that I had sent to him. The liquid presents I left on his bedspread. Nothing lasts forever. Nothing at all. Ben caught me at his gym and knew that I had rubbed up against him in the locker room, chest to chest. I almost collapsed my lips against his. I almost could reach between us and feel the dick between his legs. After months of obsessing over him, following him, watching his every move, flying to various cities with him, and staying in the same hotels that he had stayed it, it all came crumbling down around me because of that day at the Muscle Zone. Because he made eye contact with me. Because something strange and unusual jarred inside his head and came to life. Because something clicked inside his mind, exposing me.

  And he whispered, “You. It’s you. You’re the crazy bastard that’s stalking me. The cock who keeps sending me shit and leaving cum on my bed. It’s you.”

  And then the civil lawsuit for stalking was dropped on my lap and a restraining order occurred. A judge proclaimed that I caused repeated acts of stalking and instilled fear regarding Ben Cutter’s safety. Judge Rostermeyer called my behavior a pattern that intended to cause fear, a perfect description of stalking. Rostermeyer ruined all my fun by saying that I was a high risk of serious assault pertaining to Ben. The restraining order was placed against me for five years. Ben had the ability to request a renewal of the restraining order approximately three months before it expired, or he could request for the restraining order to be permanent. Such a decision would be based on my behavior.

  The fuck game was over.

  So sad.

  Fuck Ben Cutter.

  Fuck him.

  Chapter 6: WRDR and Home Life

  I presented the six o’clock weather (temperatures were dropping rather quickly and snow would fall sooner rather than later; better bundle up out there) and had the rest of the evening off. Kent would finish out the day and the final forecast at approximately eleven-twenty. When Ben Cutter arrived on the fourth floor at WRDR, heads spun in his direction. Women and the queers stared at him, including Kent Karson, who swooned. Ben could stop the planet if he wanted to because of his good looks, with or without trying.

  I met Ben at the glass doors near the foyer. A large sign hung on the wall that read WRDR, Radar’s Number One Station. The sign blinked on and off, paused, and then on and off again.

  To my surprise, and probably all of my coworkers’, Ben didn’t shake my hand upon our meeting. Instead, he did a full bear hug on my body, wrapped his arms around my torso, and gave me a squeeze.

  In the process, he grunted and said, “This is going to be a fun evening. I’m glad we can do it together.”

  Seven female coworkers, Kent, and two more gay guys that were doing internships at the station ogled our hug.

  Cynthia Bayer, a sports commentator, whispered, “Oh, my. Man-action is my weakness.”

  When I pulled away from Ben, I said, “Glad you could make it.”

  “Glad to be here. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

  “Trust me, there’s not much to see here. A bunch of desks, gadgets, and boring whatnots.”

  “It’s still interesting to me.”

  Something told me I could show him a rock and he would have been excited, still entertaining those around him.

  * * * *

  The tour couldn’t have been anymore dull if I had planned it that way. I introduced Ben to Emily Tarrington, the evening anchor, three reporters who were at their desks, two social media managers, an on-duty news director, and producers. I showed him a variety of cameras, computers, and the conference room. I also introduced him to the broadcast technician, editor, and audio engineer, a lovely peach of a woman who stood at five-two and became enamored with my guest.

  The tour ended at the employee lounge, a two-room area with many windows, places to sit, a television, and small cafeteria.

  “And this is my favorite feature here at the station,” I told him, leading him to the coffee station within the small cafeteria. “We really wouldn’t know what to do without our java. I believe we’d turn into zombies, grunting at each other, not that we don’t do that already.”

  He laughed and said, “Pour me a brew. And have a cup with me.”

  I was glad to. The machine sat on the counter and reached the ceiling. Buttons lined its front. Regular. Decaf. Water. Latte. Cappuccino. Hot Chocolate. A second row of buttons offered a taster’s choice. French Vanilla. French Roast. Dark Roast. Breakfast Blend. Columbian. Hazelnut. Half/Half. Whole Milk.

  “The company we rent this from changes the flavors sometimes. We have peppermint and pumpkin around the holidays.”

  “I’ll have a dark roast.”

  “That’s my choice.”

  I pressed the appropriate buttons on the machine and created our beverages. Once I passed him his coffee, the tour of the station ended.

  I asked, “Would you like to sit in the lounge?”

  “Sure. Do with me what you will.”

  What I wanted to do with him was inappropriate in public and pornographic. The man was out of my league, though. Above me. In a higher class. He made millions from his syndicated television show, pastry shops around the globe, cookware, and from his cookbooks. I was fortunate to make a hundred grand a year, if the truth be shared. Yes, I could pay my bills and wasn’t starving, but I didn’t drive a Lotus, Jaguar, or Bentley. I didn’t have six residences in the United States, among others scattered in various countries.

  We sat in the lounge across from each other and sipped our coffees. He looked around at the details of the room: lots of glass, Berber carpet, plush seating, clean tables, and one waitperson, a middle-aged woman with a roll of fat around her center and a bubbly smile.

  Eventually, he said, “So this is your life away from life at home.”

  “I’m comfortable here. People seem to like me. WRDR is a great place to work.”

  He laughed. “You sound like a commercial. Does the network pay you to say that?”

  “Not quite, but you’d think.” I wanted to reach out and touch one of his hands, but three coworkers were in the lounge, taking their breaks. Therefore, I kept my hands to myself, stayed polite, and added, “The coffee is a bit strong.”

  “Strong is nice. Like you.”

  “I’m a featherweight,” I said, blushing. “Lifting papers from one side of my desk to the other is pretty much all I do.”

  “You don’t go to the gym?”

  “Sometimes. I should work out more, but lately…I’m too lazy or too busy.”

  He winked at me, grinned, and said, “You’re good just the way you are, Sand.”