Page 19 of The Trailer Park Twink
“I didn’t say you were.” He turns the blunt around until the red-hot cherry is facing his mouth. Opening his mouth, he places it between his lips, then approaches, cupping both sides of my face until we’re nose to nose. Mouth to mouth. My lips part, welcoming him readily, and he doesn’t stop until the endof the blunt is in my mouth. Then he blows, filling my lungs with his air, providing me sustenance and heavy amounts of THC. When he stops blowing, he slowly slips back, but I’m feeling a little warm inside, so I’m not ready for that. I lean closer until our lips touch, sucking in more smoke.
When we pull apart, I blow a plume of skunk-scented smoke into the air until it’s floating near the ceiling. I’m a little too nervous to look at Dallas after essentially kissing him, so I look around the room. The only eyes on us belong to Bubba. He gives me a knowing nod, like this is something he’s expected all along. I mean, with the way Daddy calls me on his lunch break every day, it probably is. Then there’s the fact he’s got my picture hanging on the outside of his work locker. I see it any time I come to have lunch with him, which—admittedly—has only happened once, and I left within minutes, because it’s just so damn hot in the shop. I don’t know how Daddy stands it. I hate that those are the conditions he’s forced to work in. He’s such a sweet man, he deserves a comfortable desk and a fully functional air conditioner.
Once Johnny’s tattoo is done, he hops up and rushes to the full-length mirror, craning his neck back to see his newest artwork. A grin splits the guy’s face, and for a straight guy whose body literally screams “POWER BOTTOM!” he looks like he has no regrets.
“He likes getting pegged,” Dallas whispers into my ear, because apparently, he can read my goddamn mind now. “You should see the tattoo on his stomach. Hey! Johnny. Show my boy your plug.”
Johnny turns to face us, his eyes droopy like he’s wasted out of his mind. On his abdomen, he’s got a black cone-looking object, and there’s something written next to it, but my vision’s a little blurry, so I pull away from Dallas and walk across the living room until I’m close enough to see.
Right next to the cone, in thick, blocky letters, are the words:I’m not gay, but my butt plug is.
Okay, I have to give this man credit where credit is due. Unless he randomly starts spouting off homophobic rhetoric, I believe I may have found my new favorite person at this party. He’s cute enough, I guess. I still only have eyes for Daddy, but I don’t mind drinking in the sight of this guy. He’s got a super-prominent sixpack, and a long, dark brown treasure trail that, if it was not for being in love with Daddy, I might have liked to comb my fingers through.
“Little bro?” Clint calls out. I look over my shoulder in time to see him pat the bar, inviting me over. Alright. I guess I’m really doing this. Dallas has his eyes on me, and he nudges his head toward the counter.
“Dear God. Is that my nickname now? You’re D-Bag and I’m Little Bro?” It’s not the worst nickname I’ve ever heard,but it’s just so . . . heterosexual. “Maybe I can get them to call me Sis.”
“All aboard,” Clint calls out, tapping the bar again. When I make it to the counter, Dallas grabs me by the waist and hoists me up. He guides me around until I’m lying on my stomach. There’s a stool in front of me, and Dallas must notice I’m scared, because he points at it and nods, his eyes locked on mine. “I’m gonna be right here the whole time. I ain’t going nowhere, Aussie.” He combs his fingers through my hair, scratching my scalp. “And if it’s too much, you don’t have to go through with it. You can stop at any time.”
I nod, then stare down at the fake marble countertop, biting my lip to brace for what’s coming. I grip the edge of the bar and hold on for dear life as Clint hooks his finger into the band of my underwear and tugs.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Dallas barks. “Get your hands off him.”
“Chill. He said he wants it right above his ass. I can’t very well give the guy a tattoo if his pants are still on.” He must be waiting for Dallas to agree, because the second he nods, Clint continues tugging until half my ass is exposed. Daddy licks his lips. I wiggle a little from nervousness, making Clint sigh. “You’re gonna have to be still, bro. I can’t do this if you’re moving.”
The tattoo gun hums as it comes to life, then Daddy’s face is right in front of me. “You’ve got this. It’s gonna hurt, but it won’t hurt for long. Alright?” His breath against my face makes my whole body shiver. I open my mouth to assure him—and maybe even to insist I’m not an infant in need of nursemaiding. Before I can get a word out, a sharp pain stabs at my thigh, making me jolt, but it isn’t the tattoo gun. Clint just spanked me.
“Lie still,” he hisses.
“If you ever touch him again, I’m dragging your sorry ass outside and beating you to a goddamn pulp. Hands off his ass. I ain’t gonna say it again.”
I look over my shoulder, gaping at Clint. “You spanked me?”
He shrugs, not bothered by Dallas’ threat. “I did, and if you keep squirming, you’ll get another one.” He holds the tattoo gun up for me to see and shakes it for emphasis. “This here is my art. I ain’t letting you ruin a Clint Clementine original work of art because you can’t be still.”
“Sorry,” I insist. “I’ll try to be still.”
Clint shrugs. “Or not. Honestly, you’ve got a nice ass, so it ain’t like I’m gonna object to slapping it again. Still, I’d like this to look halfway decent, so try your best, little bro.”
The gun roars to life again, and sharp pain pierces my lower back, making me sob, “Dallas!” I don’t move though. I listen toClint’s instructions like a good boy, because that’s what Daddy expects.
“Are you okay, baby?” Dallas asks, brushing the hair from my eyes.
“Hurts. Dallas, it hurts so bad,” I cry, biting my lip to stop myself from sobbing. My skin stings even more the lower he goes until I’m frantically yelling, “Daddy!” at the top of my lungs. My face goes red with shame when I realize I’ve just shouted the word out loud for the whole room to hear. Oh, fuck. He’s going to hate me, isn’t he? He’s going to leave me here to be brutally assaulted during a vicious gay bashing. He’ll let me bleed out after these behemoths pummel the last of my life from my body.
The needle drags down my hip, feeling like someone’s slowly cutting strips into my skin. I slam my eyes shut to block out the pain, but it doesn’t help. Then I feel him. Daddy. His hand on mine. Our foreheads touching.
“I’m right here, baby. Daddy’s got you. You’re going to be fine. I promise.”
I look up at him with teary eyes. “You didn’t tell me it was going to hurt so bad.” I sniffle, and for once, I’m not doing it as a means to lure Daddy into my lusty headspace. I do it because my ass feels like it’s on fire, and only Dallas can make it better. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get a word out, Clint drives the needle in deeper. “Dallas!”
“Cut that out!” he barks, and for a second, I’m worried he’s yelling at me. He’s not, though. He’s glaring past me at Clint. “Don’t fuckin’ hurt my boy again.”
“It’s a tattoo gun,” Clint deadpans. “I’m literally dragging a giant needle-stabber across his ass. It’s gonna hurt.” Clint pats my ass. “Still, I’m sorry if I was a little rough with you, bro. I’ll try to be more careful.”
“Stop squeezing his ass,” Dallas growls.
Clint snorts a laugh and shakes his head. “Jealous?”
