Page 13 of Abel

The water from the jets spray across my tired limbs, working them over like the hands of a woman. “Oh, I’m overdue for someone’s hands all over me.” Lathering up the soap, I rub it all over my body, making sure not one crevice is untouched.

Shutting off the water and stepping out of the shower, I grab a towel off the hook and wrap it around my waist.

The mirror on the wall comes into view as I lift a hand to wipe off the condensation from the steam that gathered there, looking at my reflection.

Admiring my mustache, I notice a little too much hair there for my liking.

Time to trim it up.

Swiping the clippers from the side drawer, I get to work edging myself up.

Minutes go by before I’m setting the clippers down with a sharpened beard. Picking up my brush, I pass it along my freshlytrimmed face. Whistling, I say to myself, “Damn, I look good.” Gel is next.

Grabbing the tube from the shelf and dropping a dab of it in my hands, I run it through my hair before I pass the comb through it. Making sure my part is straight, I slick the sides down, so that not a single strand is out of place.

Most men don’t care about their looks, luckily I’m not most men.

I need to stick my cock in a warm hole and forget for a while, and the only way to get there faster is to make sure I look fucking good.

It’s been too long. A few days to be exact, but that’s long enough.

Here I go thinking about sex and little Abel is already standing to attention. “Down boy, soon.” I promise before I finish getting ready.

Untucking my towel, I lather my body with cream to make sure my tattoos never lose their color.

I’m covered in tattoos from head to toe and the little pieces of skin you can see, will soon have their share of ink there as well.

Slipping my boxers over my hips, admiring the V that drives the girlies wild and socks, I move to my closet to grab the rest of my outfit which is nothing extraordinary.

Black shirt, black jeans, black leather vest and jacket with my black shades.

Black is my signature color.

Next, I slide my feet inside my black combat boots, swiping my wallet off the dresser, stuffing it into my back pocket with the chain hanging loosely at my side.

More than satisfied with how fucking good I look tonight, I head to the kitchen to make sure Garfield and Lola have enough to eat while I’m gone.

The pantry has always been one of my favorite spots in the house. I hide their food inside because Lord knows those two don’t have the willpower not to eat it all at once. Walking inside to grab both bags of food, I hear their paws scrape across the floor as they race to see who will make it to me first.

“Alright now you two, do not come any closer. I’m going out tonight, so you both need to be on your best behavior.” I say to them as if they understand me.

Garfield is a rescue Cheetoh, I found some years back when I was trying to find myself again. On his deathbed, love and nurturing from his mama, Lola, my Sirius female wolf dog, was all he needed to make a complete turn around.

Garfield hops on top of the island, sashaying over to greet me as I put down his bag of food. “How you doing tonight, big guy?” He answers by placing his head on my shoulder, purring.

I feel Lola circle my legs, saying don’t forget about me.

Bending down, I ruffle the top of her head, and she gives me a satisfied howl in return.

“I’ll leave the tv on, but you two have to be in bed by midnight or else.” If an animal could groan, I’d swear they both just gave me their best impressions of it.

Placing the food back in the pantry, grabbing their water jug from the fridge, I top them off, say my goodbyes, head outside to my bike.

I love the smell of gas and oil that wafts around in the garage as I enter.

I’ve always loved to play around under the hood, hence the fifty-seven Chevy parked off to the side, but lately, I haven’t been out here much.

I’ll have to remedy that soon.

---