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BJ swoons closer to me. His heart hammers against mine, our two hearts beating in sync. He shuts his eyes, and his red lips puff out. They separate slightly, and from my vantage point, they appear dewy, almost as if he’s been running naked through a misty patch of farmland, snagging apples that bloom on luscious trees and taking deep, rich bites.
He wants me to kiss him. My word, this sweet angel wants me to kiss him.
I glance down at my body, then grit my teeth. I’m not saying that I’m insecure, not by a long shot. Still, most boys do end things due to my size. It’s because of my desire for a size difference. They’re afraid I’ll crush them, scared shitless I’ll roll over in bed and smother them, preventing them from breathing.
I smile as I gently pull back. "Tell me when your love of construction began."
THREE
BJ
I thought Bryce was going to kiss me.
Leaning back, I open my eyes, then furrow my brow as I hug Bob tighter.
I won’t be disappointed. I refuse to be. It’s just that, we were getting along so well, and I thought my new Daddy wanted to give me my first kiss.
Wait. Bryce is my new Daddy, right? Crap, I’m getting ahead of myself. He hasn’t actually said that and I don't want to make any assumptions. I’d better wait until he broaches the subject again. The last thing I want to do is push him away by asking to be his boy too soon.
A smile creases my lips. "I’ve liked construction for as long as I can remember."
"I’m listening."
I close my eyes once more, then recall all the wonderful memories I have researching construction sites as a boy. I recall drawings I did, of me on cranes, putting windows in skyscrapers. I dream about blowing old buildings up with dynamite, and watching the bricks and blocks explode everywhere, which really got me going.
"As a boy, I was fascinated by the building process. At the school library, kids teased me because I’d rush to the architecture section, and pull out the books on building. I printed off photos of different cranes and trucks, and even though I barely paid attention in class, you could’ve asked me anything about different construction terms and I would’ve recalled them at once."
Bryce grins. "Smart boy."
A blush seeps into my cheeks. "I have no idea why I enjoyed construction so much. My father was an accountant, and my mother was a schoolteacher who taught Sunday school at our local church. Neither had any experience working with their hands, so it’s not like I grew up around working guys."
Bryce seems to mull this. Bringing his right hand to his chin, he scratches it, almost as if he has thick, long whiskers he’s tugging, almost like Santa, except he doesn’t. A pulse of excitement courses through me when I picture Bryce with facial hair. He’d look wonderful with a beard, no doubt about it.
Just the thought of Bryce with a construction man’s beard makes my wee hard.
I press my head into Bryce’s chest, fighting the growing stick that strains against my traffic cone undies.
"Maybe you had a pivotal experience around a construction site when you were younger. Do you recall any?"
"Gimme a sec. I’m thinking."
I traverse nearly two decades of life as I sift through every single childhood memory that I have. There are Christmases where my father would dress up as Santa Claus, hang our stockings by the chimney and, magically, we’d wake up with gifts. There are summers where I’d frolic in the meadows by my house, a butterfly catcher in hand, giggling as I leapt over wildflowers and pretty daisies. There are other memories yet, such as the time we went to Paris and I got to climb up the Eiffel Tower, and thought to myself: This is nothing like Ratatouille.
Bryce’s palm circles the small of my back. "Take your time."
I lean into his palm, then push out a shaky breath. My wee grows even harder, and I wish I could show it to Bryce.
I’ve wanted to have a Daddy to play with me for such a long time, but it’s never happened. This is my fault: I won't do the naughty with a man who won’t be my full-time protector.
That’s super important to me. The number of times a Daddy has propositioned me has been too many to count, and I always turn them down unless they want a relationship. When they find out the extent to which my construction obsession consumes me, they’re not willing to make me their boy.
I smile. "Now that I think about it, I do have one core memory I overlooked. I was a boy, no more than five. I got off the bus from school, and all at once, I saw that my mother wasn’t waiting for me at the corner like usual. I rushed home, and she told me that she’d just returned from the doughnut shop where she’d purchased an assortment of doughnuts for the hard-working men down the street. They were fixing something at the local park, and I got so excited I nearly passed out."
"What happened next?" Bryce chuckles.
I wriggle in the crook of Bryce’s waist. "She walked me down the block, and I got to carry the doughnuts. We knocked on the door to their trailer, and a working guy came to the door and smiled at me. I was in such shock that they even paid me any attention that I almost passed out. My mother had to grip my arm to keep me standing, and then she took the doughnuts from me. I was supposed to deliver them, but my knees were wobbling so much and my fingers were so shaky that I wouldn’t have been able to do it without spilling. She gave them the treats, and the working guy patted my head. He said: Thank you for the gift. A lot of people overlook the working guys, but not you. You care. Maybe someday when you grow up, you could even be a working guy too."
Bryce can tell I’m getting super excited. He squeezes me tight, refusing to let my body start shaking and wobbling like it did that day all those years ago.
