Piano Man

This was weird but Frank could be like that. Instead of having Barry pick him up outside the penitentiary discharge zone, where there was parking, Frank instructed him to wait for him on some side street three blocks west of the joint. Barry had Google mapped it. It was a shitty neighborhood—they don't build federal pens next to decent ones—and Barry felt a little uncomfortable. He'd parked in front of a vacant lot just off the main east-west drag.

It was a nice day, warm but dry, and Barry would have liked to stand outside and soak in some rays but he didn't want to appear too conspicuous. Or get mugged. In fact he wondered what he'd say if a cop pulled up and asked why he was loitering there. His brand-new shiny truck, a gift from Marie—cash—would say a lot. But there was a for sale sign planted in the trash-strewn lot and Barry decided he'd tell the cop he was waiting for a real estate agent to show. Aside from the fact that Barry was white, who wouldn't believe that?

Frank was twenty minutes late and Barry whiled away the time listening to soft jazz and visualizing Marie's body from this morning. Marie had put on a little weight of late but Barry liked it: she was...voluptuous. Lots to squeeze and hold onto, especially in the hips. Marie was Frank's wife, and Frank had been in the joint for just shy of four years now. It was supposed to be longer but his big-shot mob lawyer had got him released early, though on parole and with lots of restrictions.

Marie had called it their farewell fuck and in honor of that had let Barry do what he was always after her to let him do: fuck her anally. It was great! For Barry anyway. It's so much more erotic that way and an asshole, a rectum, is so much tighter and smoother than a pussy. Barry had even eaten her out back there, and then masked the sweet, persistent odor with a few cups of black coffee. No wonder he was so jittery!

Marie had called it their farewell fuck but Barry knew that wasn't going to hold. They'd been fucking like rabbits for the better part of four years now and you don't just kick an addiction like that. Occasional lovers' quarrels aside, they still had the hots for each other big time. The difference was Frank would now be around and they'd have to be discreet. As in doing it at Barry's little bungalow rather than Marie and Frank's mansion. And no more spending nights or weekends together. Those days were over.

A guy was approaching from the east. He was thickset, wore a baseball cap and shades, and carried a cheap vinyl bag that appeared to be mostly empty. Deflated. It did not look like Frank, though the sight of another out-of-place white guy made Barry sit up straight. Then he saw how the guy walked—splay-footed and almost floppy-like, like that actor Steven Seagal—and Barry realized it was Frank after all. He sure had put on weight in the joint.

Barry got out and crossed his slender arms and leaned against the back of his FJ Cruiser and smiled in greeting at his old friend. But all Frank said was, "New truck?"

A little taken aback, Barry said yeah.

"On a piano tuner's salary?" Barry tuned pianos for a living. But he also rebuilt them and sold reconditioned ones and new pianos now, he explained. Business is good.

"Looks like it. Get me the fuck out of here."

It was weird again but Frank had Barry take a circuitous route back to the highway. Frank telling him to turn here and take the next right and speed up and go straight as if they were trying to lose a tail and as if Frank had been studying maps of the shitty little place in the middle of a desert nowhere for months now. Who knows, maybe he had.

The road home was not an interstate but a four-laner with a contrastingly fatal high speed limit and occasional yellow-flashing traffic lights. Years ago Frank and Barry had gotten very drunk in Barry's garage-turned-piano-workshop and Barry had sucked Frank off; given him a BJ. It was all very confusing and the two had never mentioned it again. But as he drove his Toyota Barry couldn't help wondering if the silent, brooding Frank was sitting there thinking, This is the asshole who sucked my cock that time. Barry also wondered if guys had sucked Frank's cock in prison. Probably. You do what you gotta do to get by Frank had told him once, about the joint.

Barry tried to make conversation but Frank didn't bite. For a guy who'd just gained his freedom Frank sure didn't seem too happy about it. Glum's the word; disgruntled. Is it me? Barry wondered, recalling the one-off blowjob again.

For instance. Barry told Frank he'd finally earned his black belt. And all Frank could visualize was a big wide black leather belt. The kind you doubled over and beat guys with. Beat their submissive naked asses red. Karate, Barry explained, pronouncing it ka-rah-TEY. "I'm taking Jujitsu now," Barry went on, "but I'm nowhere near black belt level yet." If Frank was listening he didn't let on. Instead he pointed, through the windshield.

About thirty minutes into what would have been a two-hour drive Frank pointed at a bar on the righthand side of the road and said, "Pull in there."

"You want me to...?"

"Pull in. I want a cold beer."

"But Marie's home making lunch for you. Your favorite: chicken parm."

Frank looked over at Barry through his shades. "How do you know?"

"Cause she told me."

"When? This morning when you got out of bed?"

"No! When I told her you were..." Barry started over: "When I told her you had asked me to pick you up. She said—"

"Are you stopping or what?"

Barry was hunched over the wheel, peering out the top of his FJ Cruiser's flat windshield. "Christ, Frank, it's a gay bar. See the flag out front?"

"Right up your alley then."

"Huh?"

"I don't give a shit if it's a bar for fucking aliens from fucking outer space. Pull in. I haven't had a cold beer in four years. Park out front."

"Here? It's all handicapped places."

"It's noon on a fuckin' Sunday and the place is empty. Who gives a shit? Just park it."

"Chill, Frank. Jesus."

"I'll Jesus you," it sounded like Frank said as he climbed out of the tall Cruiser.

Barry thought it a little strange that Frank brought his prison-issue bag in with him. Also that Frank left his cap and his shades on even in the bar's relative darkness. Frank steered them to a wooden booth in a back corner and before Barry sat said, "Don't wait for a waiter. Go up and get us a pitcher and two cold mugs. Ice-cold, y'hear?"

"What kind of beer, Frank?"

"I don't give a fuck. Draft beer. Light. I'm starting a diet."

"Sure." And Frank watched his rail-skinny so-called friend hurry away toward the distant bar where a grand total of two old fucks sat three stools apart sipping beers of their own. This place is a dive, Frank thought. Which just goes to show you can't stereotype people. You can but you can't, y'know? Even gay bars can be total fucking—

"Why're you looking at me, asshole?" Frank said to his smoldering self. The bar's fifth and final patron, a big guy, was sitting alone at a table just off the bar. He'd looked up at Barry hurrying past with the pitcher and mugs then off to his right, at Frank. A smirk. A glance. One glance too many. Frank wanted to kill the fucker.

"Hey Barry?" Frank said, a mug of cold beer seemingly having softened him a little moments later. He poured himself a second. "You're good with your hands. You build shit. Look around and tell me if you think this shithole has security cameras."

"Why?"

"Look around."

"Just did. I don't see any."

"Don't most bars have security cameras in 'em?"

Barry shrugged. He wasn't a big drinker. Too little meat on his bones. Went straight to his head. And his bladder. "I wouldn't know, Frank. I guess so."

"Look around."

"I did. Why?"

"Cause I've been out of the joint an hour, I'm on parole and I ain't supposed to be hanging out in bars?"

"Oh." Then why did you have me stop at one? Barry wanted to ask. But didn't. All that coffee this morning and now this beer on top of it...

There was a glossy poster behind the bar showing a muscled guy in a G-string with the front pouch pulled down and his big balls sticking out above it and his erection arcing up toward his smile. It was a beautiful cock, Barry had to admit. Big smooth balls and a beautiful, thick, veiny seven-incher. He was envious, or something. The beer was going to Barry's head. Replacing the blood that was beginning to stir his own lesser cock. Barry wondered: did the poster image he couldn't shake from his mind while sitting across from Frank make him—

"Go get us a refill," Frank said, after a belch. Barry snapped to:

"Did you have breakfast this morning?"

Frank looked at him through his shades. "What're you my mother?"

"No, I..."

"Why, did my wife make you breakfast this morning?"

"Marie?"

"No, my other wife."

"No!"

"Then cut the crap and go get us another pitcher. And two new cold mugs. Hop to it."

"OK but I gotta take a leak first. I'll take the pitcher with me and—"

"Go take a leak," Frank said semi-patiently, as if to a child. "Then come back. Then go to the bar and get us a pitcher."

"But that way I gotta make two trips."

"Your leg broken or something? You disabled? No wonder you parked in the handicapped zone." Frank smiled, finally: "Go take a lease, asshole," meaning leak.

"Be right back," Barry said, sliding out of the booth. He was relieved. His old friend was smiling. Barry smiled back.

"Don't count on it," Frank muttered into his last sip of shit beer.

Three guys stood up. One, two, three. First Barry, of course.

Then the big guy seated at the table who went about 6'3" 245. Built like an NFL linebacker. And had he ever made it to college he might have ended up one. It was this guy, after standing up and tugging at his pants, who followed Barry into the john.

Frank was the last to stand. Him and his government-issue bullshit bag full of nothing. Which he carried with him out the bar's front door wondering, Was that a picture of a nude guy with a hard-on behind the fucking bar? Jesus!

Frank walked through empty parking lot's gravel to the building's rear where a black limo sat idling. Frank rapping knuckles on the Lincoln's trunk lid as he made his way around to the passenger side. He'd been needing to take a whiz for a good five minutes now, holding it in, enlarged prostate, and after tossing his bag in the back seat he turned his back to the door, unzipped and let it fly. Got some on his hands but, fuck it, he was in a hurry.

As soon as the door slammed Frank shouted up at the driver: "Get me the fuck outta here!"

Marie was at the stove, the chicken parm in one of her precious cast-iron skillets ready for the oven. That was her secret. First she cooked the chicken on the stovetop in gravy then, laced heavy with parmesan, she baked it in the oven until the cheese bubbled and browned. It was to die for. In it went, 400 degrees. Then a sip of Campari on ice, gone watery by now.

Then the doorbell rang. What the...?

Marie looked down at herself. Tried to make her abdomen go flat with a futile downward push of the hands. Too much bread and cheese, too much wine. She was putting on weight, lately. God forbid there was any other reason for it...

For the dreaded occasion Marie had donned her absolute sluttiest mall outfit: stretch blouse with plunging neckline; short-shorts, both top and bottom canary yellow with white trim; bare legs, knobby knees; high-heel sandals, cork-filled, a style that went out two years ago, but...; yesterday's pedicure. I look hot, Marie thought about herself. I owe the asshole that much I guess, after four years.

The doorbell confused her however. Barry had a key, Frank had a key. But wait. Frank wouldn't have carried off his keys to prison with him now, would he? And Barry...Well god knows Barry couldn't use his key to Frank's house in front of fucking Frank. Her husband would kill him. The chiming door suddenly made sense. And did she remember to set the timer on her iPhone? Twenty minutes' oven time for the baked parm?

Marie wore a matching white push-up bra and panty under her diaphanous yellow, courtesy of Victoria's Secret and Frank's credit card. It seemed to make sense, the white. Black would show through. On a couple of occasions while in the joint Frank had asked her to send him a pair of her panties. Why?

So I can feel close to you, babe.

Marie blew air. What the fuck was that all about? A boudoir shot from the calendar she'd had made for him one Christmas years back, and a pair of her panties. Lace, please. The pic she got; but the panties? Say what? Who knows what they get up to in prison, Marie thought. She just hoped it wasn't as weird and perverse as in her wildest dreams.

Marie looked through the spyhole. Her husband was standing there alone, looking fat. A limo sat in there driveway. Limo? Marie unbolted the door.

"Where's Barry?"

Frank still had his shades on. He stared. Glared, though it was hard to tell. "Four years and the first thing you have to say to me is where's fucking Barry?"

"No! He was...I mean...I thought he was picking you up."

Frank had brushed past. Not even an ass squeeze on the way in.

"News to me."

"What? No! He told he'd talked to you and you'd asked him to..."

Frank had ripped off his shades. They were aviator style, mirror lenses. He had bags under his eyes. Dark. Looked old beyond his middle age. "I cancelled."

"Huh?"

"I told him to forget it. Too much to ask. I'd have my limo pick me up. Do I get a welcome home kiss or we gotta yak some more about your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"No? What smells so good?"

"I made chicken parm, your favorite. But I'm worried about—"

"What's that shit in your hair, Brylcreem?"

"It's gel, Frank."

"I'll give you some gel. Come 'ere."

They hugged, awkwardly. Kissed. Awkwardly. Albeit on the lips.

Frank grabbed his wife's ass. It was bigger than he remembered. He kneaded the ample flesh, both hands. He reached down her deep crack. Reached to the underside, squeezing her through hem and panty. His free hand rose to Marie's breasts. C-cups verging on D. One then the other.

"Let's fuck," Frank said. Marie turning her head to the side, evading:

"Frank, I got lunch in the oven."

"Is that all you got in your oven, babe?" squeezing her from the front this time. Panty's vee. "It'll keep. Let's go upstairs and fuck."

"Later, Frank."

"Why, you still gotta change the sheets?"

Marie pulled back. Tried to, her red lipstick smeared. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Frank's hands, his thick paws...Christ! He was a one-man grope machine. It's like necking with an octopus, Marie thought. "Let's do it, right now. Four years, babe. I need it. Now!"

"I was gonna say...Let's have a drink first, but...you already smell like a brewery."

"A couple of beers in the limo," he claimed. "That a crime?"

"That isn't. But...Will you slow down?"

"Since when you go slow, babe? Not your style."

Marie broke away, finally. Blew air. Pushed gelled hair back from her forehead, a low widow's peak. Southern Italy. "A drink first please?"

"Fine. Get yourself a drink. And me a beer. Then we'll go upstairs. I been thinkin' about this moment for weeks."

"What?" from the fridge, bending for beer. Before rising to the freezer door, thick vodka. "The one when you grope the shit out of me?"

"No, babe. The one where I take you upstairs and fuck you up the ass."

Marie, on elbows and knees, wondered what was up with men these days. Everybody wanted it up the ass! Unlike Barry this morning Frank wasn't even on the bed with her. He was standing on the laminate floor, behind her, his widespread knees between the cork-filled heels Marie hadn't bothered to remove. Frank's thick but shortish cock—the opposite of Barry's long, slender one—inside her, today's well-exercised asshole sliding up and down its adumbrated length as Frank, hands gripping Marie's hip flesh so hard she was sure it would leave marks, slamming her ample bottom against his more-than-ample belly fat. A prison addition.

"This is how we do it in the joint," Frank laughed. In between huffing and puffing.

"Frank, that's way too much TMI."

"I'm kidding, babe. This the way you and Barry do it?"

Silence. Then:

"Although if you're not kidding me, Frank, you should put on a condom."

"This the way you and Barry do it?" he repeated.

"No. This is the way me and pool boy do it."

Frank's motion faltered; his rhythm. He laughed. Slapped Marie's right butt cheek. Hard. "You're a riot, babe! What a slut! Just like old times!"

"No, seriously. About the condom? Before you cum?"

"Who said I'm about to cum?"

"I said before you cum. I know you, Frank, and—"

Despite the distance—the walls, the floor, cathedral ceiling's hollow space...the buzzing doorbell filled the bedroom, stung their conjoined flesh like a downed power line. It rang again. Zap!...Zap-zap! Zaaaaaaaaaap!

"What the...?"

Frank had gone still. Or rather Marie, under her husband's hand propulsion, had. Frank was ejaculating inside her. She could feel it. In the stillness. The...fucker!

Zaaaaaaaap!

"Who is that?"

"No idea. Your driver? Are you cumming in me, Frank?"

"If it's my driver I'll kill him. No. Yeah—I'm done."

"Goddamn it Frank!" Did he realize, have the slightest inkling, he'd just followed Barry's lead? Sloppy seconds? Was Barry's sperm intermingled with his own on the cock going limp he'd just pulled out of Marie's well-worn ass? The doorbell persisted.

"Who is it?"

Marie was off the bed pulling her panties up. Then her yellow skirt. "Am I down there, Frank? Do I have X-ray vision? How should I know?"

"You go first," pulling up underwear and slacks in one shot. Fuck his dirty dick. "If it's a cop...I'm not here. If he don't got a warrant, don't let him in. Understand?"

"Oh great, Frank," at the bedroom door. "You're back not fifteen minutes and I already gotta deal with this...bullshit?"

"Go, go...," he waved. Sperm or lube or...something on his insertion hand. Disgusting! "I'm not here!"

Frank hid, half-knelt, on the lower end of the staircase as Marie, after a spyhole glance, opened the front door. Heard her say, shout "Barry!" even before the lock unbolted. Frank clenching a hand and driving it downward even as his knees buckled him further. "Fuck!"

The improbable Barry, meanwhile, had burst in head-down. He looked a wreck. His button-down shirt in tatters, a sleeve missing. Something streaking the front of his pants. Dried blood? More blood: a wicked cut on his cheek? Marie forgot herself:

"Baby, what happened to you?"

Barry turned back, straightened. "Ask your asshole husband. Where is he? Were you in on this?"

"On what? What happened to you?"

Barry's breath caught up with him, a bit. "Your fucking husband happened to me! He has me pick him up near the prison..."

"You picked him up?"

Barry nodded. While, hidden, Frank still crouched. The front door still stood open and Marie with a wild look in her eyes. Her chicken parm—had she remembered to turn the oven down?

Barry nodded, swallowed. "I picked the asshole up. He says...Oh, let's stop for a beer. A gay bar."

"A gay—"

"Ten minutes later he tries to have one of his goons kill me in the bathroom!"

"Why were you in the bathroom with him?"

"To take a piss!"

"I don't understand. Why were you in the bathroom with this...gay guy?"

"He wasn't gay! I don't know. Frank sent him in to kill me!"

"Well what happened?"

"I kicked the shit out of him. Kah-rah-TEY. Plus some Jujitsu thrown in. I'm standing at the urinal, he comes up behind me says... 'Piano wire for the piano tuner.' Now how the fuck could he know what I did for a living unless—"

"Frank, get out here!"

"Where is he?"