Olivier
Olivier Boudreau sat on the deck watching the sea gulls hover over the swirling waters where the ropes cut through it. He could picture what was below, the four nets stretched out, their tickler chains making the shrimp jump up from the bottom, then large nets scooping them up, filling the bags. He heard Dan Le talking to his father and turned to see the small, framed man looking up at his father. Dan had immigrated from Vietnam twenty-one years ago, where he made his way to Bayou La Batre to earn a living doing the only thing he knew how; fishing.
Olivier wondered if there wasn’t something else Dan Le could have done, for anything would have seemed better than operating a fishing boat. But he was only twelve, and the only son of a fisherman stuck for twelve hours or more on a trawler out in the Gulf of Mexico. He often daydreamed of an easier life. Only school gave him a break from it.
His only job was sorting the catch into different buckets for storing below deck, otherwise he just sat and stared out at the flat horizon, nothing but water for as far as the eye could see. It gave him time to think, to create fantasies of an alternate life, one fun and full of adventure. Or to think about entering middle school in the fall, now a seventh grader. At twelve, he no longer felt like a little kid. His birthday was in April, and he remembered how he was late for his own party, his father having kept him out too long, more concerned with the catch than whether his only son got to celebrate a birthday. To his father, it was a distraction from fishing, a hindrance. For Olivier, it made him wonder if his father only cared about him as a free laborer on the boat.
The sun beat down him, and he smeared more sunblock on his exposed arms. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, something he had seen older boys wearing, and he wanted to feel older. And he wanted them to notice him. He didn’t understand why, but he knew it was important to be noticed from time to time. To shield his eyes from the sun’s glare off the water, he pulled the wide-brimmed hat lower on his head.
The sound of the two diesel engines struggling to pull the nets let them know the bags were filling with shrimp and fish. Crab, flounder, small fish that fed along the bottom, and jellyfish would be mixed in with the shrimp despite the devices that let fish escape. It made sorting worse, and Olivier dreaded it when his father would tell Dan Le to pull up the nets as he slowed the boat to a stop.
Looking to the north, he stared at the same flat horizon of water and sky, knowing it wasn’t that far until the barrier islands would come into view, and once past them, the coastline of southern Alabama. Cutting into the coastline were the bayous. Bayou Sullivan, Bayou Como, Bayou Coden, and the one that gave his hometown its name, Bayou la Batre. To the west there would be Little Bay, then Point Aux Pins. Of course, to the east was the wide opening to Mobile Bay.
He thought of home, what it meant to him, living in town where his father worked for Buchanan Shrimp Co. and his mother was a cashier at the grocery store. Their home was a small single-story house. It wasn’t like the newer ones, those that replaced homes destroyed by hurricanes, the last one Katrina when he had been five. Their home had survived, but others on Lottie Avenue were not so lucky. But he wondered about the luck of it, how those destroyed were replaced by houses on stilts, with nicer decks and porches. His home seemed squat and dilapidated and sad with its faded and peeling paint and patched shingled roof.
Then he thought about what sixth grade had been like, how he began to feel different from the other boys. He didn’t care about their games. Baseball bored him to death and football scared him, afraid of getting hurt with the boys rough and tumble attitude to their play. He knew he looked no different from most of the others. Just a skinny boy with dark brown hair and green eyes from his mother, and a tanned skin tone from his father. But he felt different. Whereas the other boys were starting to talk about girls, picking on them in a manner his mother said was foolish flirting by boys that didn’t know better. He liked some of the girls, two were his best friends, but to think of flirting with them was something that didn’t make sense to him. He wasn’t interested in flirting with them.
Those thoughts came when he looked at some of the other boys. Jules, the tallest boy in his class; Wyatt, the only boy with blonde hair; Jerome, one of the black boys who had the nicest smile and friendliest personality, despite the way some of the boys treated him; Anthony, who was his mirrored opposite and best friend; and there was Nathan, the prettiest boy in his class who had blue eyes and wavy brown hair.
Olivier considered them while watching a sea gull dive to the surface trying to snatch up a small fish. He thought about their physical bodies, how it made him feel to look at them. To be drawn toward them. He knew what it meant. He had heard the boys talk of it, making fun of one of the other boys, calling him faggot and fairy and cocksucker. He tried to picture the sexual aspects of the derogatory comments, slurs that were meant to make a boy feel different, not a part of the group. Olivier didn’t understand how such slurs could hurt so much, but he knew if there was a boy in their class those slurs applied to it was him.
He rested an arm on the gunwale then his chin on the arm. It made him more acute to the motions of the boat, how it rocked with the waves, the steady rhythm comforting in its familiarity. He tried not to think of it anymore, but boredom and idleness gave too much opportunity, and he thought of other boys. Those at the fish house, hosing down the floors and carrying buckets of ice, biceps straining with their effort. He thought of the older boys he saw around town, some riding bicycles on weekends, or down on the bayou horsing around. Then he thought of that boy he saw in the grocery store. It was just before his birthday, and he was with his mom as she shopped for groceries. The shopping cart was half full and they were about halfway across the store, when they passed an older woman with a boy in tow. The boy was older, looked thirteen or fourteen, and very tall, taller than the woman Olivier assumed was his grandmother. As they passed, the boy stared back. Where Olivier looked with curiosity, this boy stared back with disdain, like Olivier was invading his space by looking at him.
Despite the threatening stare, Olivier didn’t turn away from the boy, knowing the boy wouldn’t dare strike out since the adults were with them. He looked into the brown eyes, the thin eyebrows, the thin lips set firm against him, then he took the boy’s face as a whole, finding it pleasing, attractive, wondering what it would be like to be friends with him.
“Dan let’s get the nets up,” Olivier’s father called out as he idled down the engines. “Olivier! Wake up and get ready,” he added with a tone of disappointment that Olivier wasn’t already on his feet waiting for the nets to be emptied on deck.
The school corridor was crowded once again, first period over and second about to begin. It was all so new to Olivier, the changing of rooms for different subjects, and he rushed down the corridor to his next class, English with Ms. Henderson, wondering how he would ever keep up. Ms. Henderson taught English for the seventh and eighth grade with one special studies class for the ninth grade, therefore her room was near the center of the main building. Olivier saw how the corridor had not just his classmates and some eighth graders, there were ninth graders too. He looked at the older boys, some now fourteen. They looked so mature, with a couple of boys even growing facial hair. He tried not to stare at them by watching where he was walking looking at the pattern of the tile flooring. But he would hear a male voice and look up to see what the boy looked like. He was nearing the door to his English class when he saw him. The boy from the grocery store. He looked older with hair cut close to the scalp and the arms visible with just a T-shirt, he saw the biceps had started to develop a masculine shape, and he imagined them holding him in a tight embrace.
The boy looked at him, eyes squinting with curiosity. One of the other boys said something to him, and he just as quickly turned away as they passed.
Olivier knew the elementary school had been no environment to meet boys in other grades since they didn’t change classes. But now that he was in middle school, the opportunity afforded itself, and over the coming weeks, he saw that boy nearly every day. Saw the hair grow out, then cut into a more fashionable manner, short on the sides and long on top. He saw the boy fill out, grow taller. He saw him with an arm in a sling, then sometime later, the sling gone and the arm good as new.
And just before Thanksgiving break, he learned the boy’s name, overhearing a teacher call out to him in the corridor. Marcel Theriot, the teacher nearly yelled to get the boy’s attention, and Olivier saw him turn in recognition.
Marcel
Marcel wasn’t really listening to his friends as they strolled down the corridor going to their next class. One was talking about Susan, a girl they liked. The other was making commentary about the attraction, saying she was overstated. Marcel heard a word or two, some phrase about Susan or the perceived attraction, while he was more focused on the boys, he saw coming toward them. He knew most and therefore knew how they would respond if they knew how he looked at them. He would be bullied, ostracized, made to feel different in a manner that was scary.
But that fear didn’t stop him from looking. The quick glance, or a nod of acknowledgment of a friend that he found desirable, looking them up and down, or pretending to look beyond them. At fourteen, he would soon be getting his learner’s permit that allowed him to drive with one of his parents. He felt like a man, not a kid, never more so than when horny, his cock rock hard.
As he neared his next class, he saw some of the seventh graders coming toward him. Just little boys in his eyes, only twelve years in age. A few might have just turned twelve, which made them seem even more like little kids. Then he saw one walking alone, eyes cast down most of the time, only looking up on occasion. There was something about the boy. Like most of the boys in the area, he had brown hair, but it was darker, almost black in color and he had a natural skin tone. Marcel admitted the kid was cute, but he didn’t think of it further, but he couldn’t stop looking at him, for there was something familiar about him.
As they neared, Marcel tried to place the boy, put a name to the face, but nothing came to mind. Maybe he had seen him before.
“Marcel, what do you think about Lisa?” asked one of his friends, and he turned to them as they passed the kid.
Before the end of the day, he would see the kid two more times, once during lunch and another after fifth period, going into the library as he headed to his last class. The kid would be just a curiosity, someone he had seen before but where and when he would not remember.
Over the school year Marcel would see the kid often, two or three times a day, until he became part of the environment. Just another student in seventh grade. Still a kid to his way of thinking.
Come June, he graduated the ninth grade, destined for the tenth grade and the move to the high school north of town. He was excited to be going where the boys were older, sixteen or seventeen, boys that were becoming men, needing to shave and bodies developing real muscles.
He knew he would never act upon his desires. He’d look, glance at the naked bodies in P.E., watch his teammates run, exercise, and tackle each other roughly during football practice, and going down the corridor, sitting in class, or in the cafeteria, he would look at the boys that attracted him the most. And he would think of it. The touching of another, kissing them, and getting naked with them then trying those things he had seen online.
He just knew he had to wait, graduate from high school and everything would be different. It had to be different, for to continue as things were was unbearable.
“Marcel, you got your cap and gown?” asked Jackson.
Marcel looked across the dining table, the noise of lunchtime a white noise in the background, seeing Jackson, his best friend staring back. Of his closest friends, Jackson was one he tried not to think of it. Their friendship meant too much to him, and the idea of ruining it with a confession was too much to consider.
“Yeah, I got it this morning during first period.”
“Three weeks, and we’re out of here!”
“Yeah…out of here,” Marcel replied, trying to control his own excitement.
It had been the longest fucking year. One class after the next, then exams, papers to write, presentations to give, and the worst horror, the play he had to do for English. To get up and pretend to be another character was too much. He pretended to be someone else every day. He didn’t want to be acting as another person in some lame play. But he had done it, not well, but well enough to pass.
“Oliver, over here,” someone called out.
Marcel looked up to see it was Renee, one of Olivier’s best friends. The other two, Helen and Anthony sat opposite her at a table nearby. He turned toward the doorway coming from the kitchen service line and saw Olivier coming into the dining room, tray in hand. As he did often, he surveyed the younger boy; gave measure of his physical aspects. About five foot ten, lean build, one fifty if he had to guess, with dark brown hair, and he knew from their passing often in the corridor between third and fourth period, green eyes. Vividly green with a stare that had unnerved him.
The guy was a kid, just a tenth grader, but he saw the difference from when he had seen him back in middle school, just another seventh grader, skinny and naïve. Now he looked more mature, the body changing on its way to becoming a man’s body.
He watched Olivier going to his friend’s table, the casual stride of someone comfortable in their own skin, or at least it appeared so. As Olivier came by his table, he saw the eyes cut over, look back at him with a brief glance, and he stared back, made eye contact, wondering if the guy could be gay. He tried to imagine it, then berated himself for it. Olivier was only sixteen, and he would soon be eighteen. For a moment, he considered the two years not that much. Not really, and knew once out of school, it would be nothing. His parents were three years apart, and he never gave that a thought.
Joseph strolled out of the service line, and he watched him as he did often. Joseph had the surfer boy imagine going on, with dyed blonde hair, a shell necklace around his neck, and the floral pattern shirt over khaki shorts. He was too skinny but still, he had to admit the guy was attractive. When Joseph passed his table, his eyes fell back on Olivier sitting with his friends. Of all the boys in the school, it was Olivier Boudreau that made him consider it the most. He just didn’t understand why that had to be the case.
Olivier
It was the last day of school, then there would be summer break. He looked around the room at the excitement of the others, especially the girls, for only a few of them had to work, and if they did it was not nearly as laborious as the jobs the boys had to do. He dreaded the summer with the long days on that trawler with his father berating him or raving against one thing or another. Dan Le would be there, smiling wearily, not saying anything. Dan Le couldn’t respond to Mr. Boudreau’s rants about immigrants, the government, and how people could not live like they should, for he feared losing his job. Olivier knew Dan Le came from a more impoverished life, something his father could never understand.
He looked out the window and saw some of the seniors were leaving already. He watched them with envy, laughing and joking around, in celebration of their graduation. Their perceived freedom from the structured routine of school. He had two more years. It seemed so far away; he couldn’t imagine it.
“Hey, Marcel, catch!”
Olivier saw it was that Jackson boy, and a football left his hand, sailed in a spinning arch through the air into the waiting hands of Marcel Theriot. Marcel Theriot, a receiver for the football team, and some position on the baseball team, was one of the jocks. One of the popular boys, and Olivier watched him throw the ball back to Jackson, knowing why it was so. Marcel was tall, six foot two and weighed 178 pounds, or at least that was what the football program had printed last fall. He looked at the familiar figure, one he had crossed paths nearly every day during the last school year. Brown hair and dark brown eyes and a patchy beard that he had tried to grow back in winter. He could hear the voice, a gravely husky deep tone that made him look for Marcel every time he heard it.
There were so many boys in his grade and in the two above that captured his eye. Boys that were attractive, with nice builds that made him think of it. But it was Marcel Theriot that made him think of it in detail. Of touching, then doing things he dared not consider while sitting in class.
It was all just a fantasy, something he would not act upon, afraid of the repercussions when Marcel told him he wasn’t gay. Then called him out as gay, ostracizing him, bullying him, and it scared him, for he knew it would be worse than his father’s belligerence about his work on the trawler.
Marcel was a senior, leaving the school for the last time as a student, and for the next two years, Olivier knew his worst temptation would not be there. It made him feel some sense of relief.
Olivier marched across the stage and took his diploma, flipped the tassel to the other side, and moved toward the steps to go back to his seat. As he walked across the shiny gym floor, he saw his parents sitting up in the bleachers, his mother beaming with pride and his father sitting stoic with a sullen expression. Olivier knew his father thought the ceremony was a waste of time, something that took him off his boat, and in the coming days Olivier knew he would pay for it, this thing his father considered a distraction. He would be forced to work longer hours, spend hours out in the gulf, then working back at the dock, cleaning the boat, and preparing for the next day.
How long could he endure being under his father’s thumb?
It was a question he had asked himself a lot over the last two years, and now that graduation was nearly over and he made his way to this seat, he glanced up at his father knowing the answer he had avoided until now. Not long, not long at all.
It was July the Fourth. A national holiday, one where the nation celebrated its founding. A patriotic holiday and one Olivier thought he could talk his father into celebrating. He gave him the patriotic speech, how it was important to observe it and what it meant. But his father had scoffed, as he did at all of Olivier’s suggestions, then told him they needed to work, and that he was just being lazy, acting like a pampered little boy, then suggested once again it was Olivier’s mother’s fault, he was the way he was. Olivier knew the insinuation but dared not voice it.
They were motoring back into the bayou when fireworks were being set off over the town. A rocket would rise into the air and explode, then another, and another, until the sky was lit by them. The diesel engines were barely above an idle as they eased up the bayou with Olivier at the stern, sitting on the deck leaning back watching the fireworks as his anger increased. There had been little in the nets when they brought them up, but his father refused to cut the day short and save on fuel. Instead, they had to put the nets out over and over, dragging them along the bottom for hours, only to bring up a small catch. As his father brought the boat up to the dock, Dan Le jumped over the side with rope in hand to tie them off. He climbed to his feet and followed Dan Le onto the dock. He looked back at his father, seeing how the man busied himself, not looking up to meet his eye.
“Dad.”
No response.
“Dad. I quit. Find someone else to go out with you,” Olivier exclaimed, then started down the dock.
“What do you mean, you quit. You can’t quit. I raised you and-“
“I’ll get my stuff and be out of your house within the hour,” Olivier replied, not sure where he would go, but knew another moment under his father’s roof would been unbearable. He headed down the dock, his father’s voice rising in volume, then suddenly it stopped, and he expected his father to come running up behind him. Any minute he expected a hand to grab his shoulder, but as he stepped off the dock he thought of the look on Dan Le’s face as he passed him, one that acknowledged what had never been said between them. Dan Le knew the situation and could not possibly be surprised by what was happening.
Olivier got into his old truck; something he had managed to talk his father into helping him buy and headed home to pack his things. The old truck, a 78 Ford with rust coming through on the fenders and a bent tailgate, idled rough at the traffic lights and struggled to start when cold, but it had been reliable in getting him to the dock and around town.
He rushed home, wanting to be in and out before his father got home. He rushed through the back door, not bothering to take off his shoes.
“I can have dinner ready in about twenty minutes,” his mother called out from the family room where she was watching television while waiting for them to return.
“I’m not staying.”
“What do you mean, you’re not staying?”
Olivier stopped despite being anxious to get on his way and he looked at her feeling like he could cry. He saw the recognition, an understanding of what was happening even if she didn’t know the details.
“What happened?”
“Nothing…just the usual bullshit. He kept us out there all day despite the small catches. He was determined to make me stay out there all day because I asked him to let me go with my friends to Mobile to watch the fireworks.”
“You know that isn’t true.”
“It isn’t? You sure about that? Because why else would he keep us out there all day until now when we weren’t catching shit,” Olivier replied hearing how his voice was getting shrill with his anger.
“Olivier? What are you planning on doing?”
“I don’t know, but it is not going out on that boat with him again.”
He saw his mother sigh, shoulders slouch, then the familiar look away when she didn’t know how to respond.
“I’m going to pack up some things and get out of here. I’ll come back later to get the rest.”
She nodded, then made her way into the kitchen to start dinner. When Olivier came back through the kitchen carrying a duffel bag and the old suitcase that had belonged to his aunt, he didn’t stop to say anything, thinking they could talk later when his father wouldn’t walk in at any minute.
Easing down the street, looking in the rearview mirror for his father’s truck, he pulled out his old cellphone and called Anthony.
“Hey, what’s up?” Anthony answered.
“Are you in Mobile?”
“Yes. We just finished watching the fireworks.”
“You heading back?”
“We’re going to grab something to eat then head back. Why?”
“Can I crash at your place tonight?”
“Oh no, what happened.”
“Just the same old shit. So, can I stay at your place tonight?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m going to grab something to eat then head over, but you don’t have to rush home. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. But Olivier, I’ll be home soon.”
Olivier wasted no time in finding a job. He knew most of the people in the fishing industry, and by the day’s end he had a job at the Gulf Waters Seafood Company, working in the market. Then he went in search of a place to live, knowing he would use most of the money in his account to do a lease. His father had reluctantly begun to pay him, but it came to less than minimum wage, and he had to scrimp and save, not going out with friends to eat or a movie and putting off repairs to his truck to build up enough for his leaving home. He had been planning it for some time but had hoped to make his move in the fall. But he couldn’t handle another day of it.
It was halfway to Grand Bay on 188 where he found a mobile home for rent. It was just past the dollar store on a side street, sitting out in the open sun of a grass lot. It was old, the siding stained green and brown, and the yard had grown up. The owner told him if he cut the grass himself, he would cut thirty dollars off each month’s rent. Olivier knew the man was taking advantage of him, for it would need cutting two or three times a month and no one would do it that cheap. But he knew where to get a used mower, and it would be thirty dollars less for rent, so he agreed.
Olivier handed over a check and in return got a set of keys.
Fall arrived on the Gulf Coast in its usual manner. Drier and temperatures slowly cooling and within a month the leaves would quickly turn brown and fall from the trees leaving the pine to green the horizon. For Olivier, it meant an increase in demand for seafood, including oysters and flounder with the approaching holidays. The seafood market was getting busier, and he worked hard all day, carrying ice buckets, washing down floors, rolling in fresh stock, and helping clean fish, de-head shrimp, and shuck oysters. He left each day with a trip through a drive-thru for dinner then home to eat, shower, watch a little television before crashing into bed.
With him working different shifts, different days of the week, he had little time for meeting up with his friends, nor did he attempt to meet some guy, made easier to do since he didn’t have internet. There was the option of driving up to Mobile to go to one of the gay bars but that seemed to be more effort than it was worth. He doubted he would act on his desires if he did go. In the end, he lay in bed each night feeling lonely.
On Friday afternoon, after an early shift, Olivier was driving home slowly, windows down, enjoying the cooler temperatures that arrived overnight. He turned left to stay on 188, heading northwest and home. He motored along, looking at the familiar scenery. The cemetery on the right, one of many seafood retailers on the left, this one specializing in oysters, until he was passing mostly houses and mobile homes. He was slowing down for his turn when he realized how badly he needed to eat something, not having had lunch. He remembered the burger joint north of I-10 in Grand Bay and speed up. The old truck shuddered, hesitated to accelerate making him worry, then revved up and accelerated down the road.
His hunger sated, Olivier headed home, driving down Grand Bay Wilmer Road until passing under the interstate where the road became Alabama’s Coastal Connection. He was approaching the intersection with 90 where he would have to turn left, then right to stay on the road, and the truck began to sputter, then went dead. He coasted into the parking lot of the drugstore on the corner, pulling into the spaces by the entry drive.
“Fuck,” Olivier uttered as he sat staring straight ahead without perceiving anything before him. All he could think about was his rotten luck, and how he seemed to being punished for splurging for a late lunch at a restaurant. He climbed out and raised the hood, knowing how hopeless it would be, for he was no mechanic. He had been raised to fish. He had not even worked on the boat when the engine would have an issue, for his father or Dan Le did all the repairs.
Staring at the motor as it ticked with cooling down, he remembered there was an automotive shop about three tenths of a mile down 90. He couldn’t remember the name of it, so he lowered the hood and headed to the drugstore to see if someone inside would know.
“It’s Franklin Auto Repair,” a customer replied after overhearing Olivier’s question to the cashier.
Olivier turned to the man, one in his sixties, and thanked him, then headed for the entry doors pulling out his cellphone.
“Franklin Auto Repair,” a male voice answered.
“Yes, I’m up at the drugstore parking lot, broke down. Can you tow my truck to your shop and look at it?”
“Just a minute,” the man answered, then Olivier heard him call out to someone in the room. “Can you go tow a truck back here? It’s just up the road at the drugstore?”
Olivier couldn’t hear the reply, but the man came back on the phone telling him a tow truck would be there in a few minutes.
Olivier had just checked to make sure he had latched the hood properly and got seated behind the wheel when the tow truck pulled into the parking lot. The door swung open, and the driver climbed down.
“Shit,” Olivier uttered in disbelief, for strolling toward him was that boy from school, the one that had been two years ahead of him. Marcel Theriot, the guy he had fantasized about until his dick had been nearly raw. He looked at how Marcel had changed his appearance, gone back to short hair, a cut close to the scalp, and there were earrings in each ear, sliver hoops, and on the bicep of the right arm, exposed by the sleeveless plaid shirt, a tattoo. Olivier considered how he looked different from when he had been in high school. Then he looked at the way the dull gray work pants fit, loose fitting, revealing nothing within.
“What’s wrong with…your…truck,” Marcel asked, stammering when Olivier looked up at him. “I know you.”
“I was behind you in school.”
“Two years back, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re the Boudreau boy.”
At first Olivier bristled at being called a boy, then he realized Marcel meant nothing by it. “Yeah, Olivier. You’re Marcel Theriot.”
Marcel stared at him for too long and he wondered if Marcel would refuse to tow his truck. “You going to tow me back to your shop?”
“Yeah…yes, let me pull up behind you and get you loaded up.”
With the truck loaded on the flat bed, Olivier climbed into the cab with Marcel. The interior was a cluttered mess, cans and cups strewn in the footwell and the dash covered in paperwork. Marcel hadn’t said much while getting the truck on the flat bed, and as they pulled way, he was still silent. At the intersection, while waiting for traffic to pass, Marcel finally spoke to Olivier.
“You finished school last June, right?”
“Yep.”
“Are you working on your father’s boat?”
“Nope.”
“No? Seriously? I thought-“
“My father is tough to deal with, or that is the case for me. He never yelled at or berated Dan Le, but he constantly…” Olivier let his voice trail off for the memory of being on the boat with his father surfaced vividly, taking his breath away.
“What are you doing?”
“Gulf Waters, working in the market. Have you been working at Franklin’s very long?”
“I got hired by John about three months after graduation. I had been at the grocery store, bagging groceries for shit pay.”
“You like working on cars?”
Marcel pulled out and headed down 90 toward the repair shop. “Yes, I do.”
As Marcel unloaded his truck, Olivier stood in the small office area of the shop watching him while listening to John Franklin.
“We’re pretty busy but I’ll see if Marcel can look at it before day’s end. Can you leave it with us over the weekend?”
“If I need to leave it, I can. But can I wait and see what is wrong with it?”
“Sure, not a problem.”
Olivier took a seat and watched Marcel set his truck on the ground, then headed into the shop. For an hour the truck sat there. He watched his watch, from ten after four until five forty-five, only fifteen minutes left in the day, worrying he would have to leave without knowing what to expect. He had not called anyone to come pick him up and knew he would probably end up out front waiting into the night. When he was about to give up and call Anthony or Renee to come pick him up, he saw Marcel come out of the shop heading toward his truck. Marcel got the truck to start, but it ran rough, the exhaust heavy with smoke. With a jerky start the truck was pulled into the shop.
John Franklin came from the back room wiping his hands, easing down in the old office chair behind the counter. “Marcel has got you truck into the shop and will see what’s going on.”
“Can I go into the shop?” asked Olivier, expecting to be told no, for most shops considered it a liability issue. John looked up, smiled, then nodded his head toward the door behind him.
“Sure, go on back. Just don’t get in anyone’s way and don’t get under any of the vehicles.”
Olivier went through the door seeing it was a stockroom with a small counter set up as a break area. A microwave oven, a coffee maker, and a box of candy on the honor system sat on it. He slipped through the room, out a side door into the shop. In the first bay a middle-aged man was working on a Buick. In the next bay, a Jeep was on the lift with the wheels off, but no one was working on it. In the last bay sat his truck, hood up. Marcel was pacing in front of it using a cellphone. As he drew near, he heard the conversation.
“…yes, a 78 Ford…F-150. That’s right, the in-line six. Looking for the oxygen sensor and an ignition coil. Yeah, that’s right. You got them in stock?”
Olivier watched how Marcel paced, moving back and forth while waiting. The long arms, each grimy with grease up to the middle of the forearm, then he looked at the face, and how the eyes would glance over to him, then look away. “I see, so you have the sensor but not the ignition coil. When can you…really? You’ll have it tomorrow…yes…Franklin Auto Repair. Marcel Theriot. T-h-e-r-i-o-t.”
Marcel ended the call and slipped his phone into a front pocket. Then he took out a hand towel and began to wipe his hands. “Your truck is a bit of mess.”
“I know. Maintenance hasn’t been in the budget.”
“You need an oxygen sensor and an ignition coil. And a change of spark plugs if you want it run right.”
“How much?”
“The sensor is less than twenty and I think the coil is about thirty or thirty-five dollars, but I’m not sure. Plugs and wires will be about seventy or eighty bucks. Then there is the labor charge.”
Olivier sighed, heavily. It wasn’t as much as he feared but the more Marcel talked the more it was going to cost. Then there was the issue of one part not in his stockroom, that it would need to be purchased from one of the parts stores.
“And one part is not in stock, so I have to leave it all weekend.”
“Is there someone who can pick you up?”
“Yes. I’ve not called them yet. I guess I held open the hope of it getting repaired.”
Olivier saw the look, one amused then with a look back at the exposed engine a look of concern. He waited, wondering what bad news Marcel would lay on him next.
“Let me call around and see if one of the other parts stores has it,” said Marcel.
As Marcel made the call, Olivier paced alongside his truck. Every time he got to the rear and turned, seeing the hood up, he grimaced at his misfortune. Then he would look at Marcel. The tall muscular body, the way he carried himself, and his voice, deep and husky, one so masculine he couldn’t imagine Marcel ever being willing. There was no way there could ever be something between them, not even casual sex.
He saw Marcel end the call and slip the cellphone into a pocket.
“The store near 90 has it. Let me finish up with that Jeep, and I’ll go get it…and if you’re willing to wait around, I’ll do it after work.”
After work? Olivier was surprised Marcel would work late for him. He stared back waiting for Marcel to say he was joking, that his offer was a prank, but he saw the seriousness, then the questioning stared back.
“Yes…yes, if you would do that, I’d be so grateful.”
Marcel
Marcel leaned over the front of the old truck, removing another spark plug. Each one had been shocking in their wear. Melted back from overheating, he wondered how the truck ran at all. As he worked, he saw from the corner of his eye Olivier pacing back and forth, then sitting for short periods of time on the stool by the workbench. He was still surprised to find him in the shop. The boy that had been two years behind him in school, the one that he had caught staring at him time and time again, passing in the corridor, in the cafeteria, or on rare occasions, passing each other in town.
Since his graduation, he had only seen Olivier a few times, and never close enough to see how he had matured. But he saw him now, anxious, and nervous, he assumed due to his truck being broken down. But there were moments when Olivier’s stare seemed to be about something else, and he thought of it. His own attraction to the guy he once considered just a kid. He had noted the physical aspects as soon as Olivier had come up to him. A bit under six feet, lean build, nice tan skin tone, shaggy hair in need of a cut, and the eyes, green like gemstones, lustrous, full of depth. He had wondered, still wondered, about the body inside the loose, ill-fitting clothes. Was it as skinny as it seemed, or would it have some muscular definition, like a swimmer or someone who ran track. He remembered Willis from high school, who had been on the swim team. A body that was tall, lean, but muscular, full of stamina. He looked over at Olivier and wondered if he had a similar body.
Marcel tried to stay focused on the task at hand, installing the sensor, the coil, then one plug after the next. A shadow fell across the front of the truck, and he glanced around to see Olivier standing close. It was the first time Olivier had dared to get so close.
“I’m sorry to make you work late on a Friday night.”
The voice had been so low, he barely heard it, and he looked around to see the sincerity being expressed.
“It’s okay. It’s not like I have any plans.”
“You don’t?” Olivier replied.
Marcel heard the surprise, how Olivier couldn’t believe he didn’t have plans on a Friday night.
“No, afraid not. I’m almost done, just need to get the wires installed and make sure it runs right.”
“Okay,” Olivier replied, starting to back away.
“You don’t have to move away. You can watch…I don’t mind,” Marcel blurted out. He heard how it sounded to his own ears, this desire for Olivier to stay close. To let him sense his presence, even if it meant nothing. He wondered if Olivier heard it, this want to have him near.
As he turned back to the engine, new wire in hand, he saw the shadow return and felt Olivier’s presence next to him. He had the back four wires installed and shifted his position to get to the next. He bumped into Olivier, just a slight touch, but it radiated through him.
“Sorry,” said Olivier, stepping over.
“It’s okay,” he replied, as he gave thought to it. Of wondering if Olivier might be willing. Would be someone who was like him. He had been living day to day, working at the shop, paying his bills, catching up with a friend on occasion, but most nights just watching television or playing on his old computer, reading posts on a mechanical problem he had encountered, then scrolling through the website for guys looking to hook up, seeing who was close by. He had been tempted to respond, but always held back, instead opening a porn site where he could at least take away the horniness.
Last wire installed; Marcel leaned on the radiator looking at his work. He saw the shadow shift, move closer, and he decided to risk it, to see if Olivier was willing. It made him breathless, and his heart raced, but he was so desperate to try. He would turn to him, pretending to be going to the rolling toolbox behind him and bump into him. He would stay close to see how he responded. It was lame, foolish, but it was all he could think of doing.
He stood straight, picked up the socket wrench, and turned toward Olivier. He stepped into him, chests bumping together, and he was aware of their differences in height, how Olivier had to look up for them to see into each other’s eyes. He held the contact, looking down at Olivier.
“I was going to put this away,” he uttered in a low voice, breathless, barely audible even to his own ears. But he didn’t pull away. He leaned into Olivier some more, felt the body against his own. Physical, spreading a warmth through his own.
“You’re really cute, you know that?”
He expressed it. Said it aloud. He saw the shocked expression. How Olivier started to reply, mouth coming open, then closing, leaving him wondering, afraid he had gone too far. But Olivier didn’t pull back, and he took it as a sign. A kind of reply, even if Olivier couldn’t say the words, and he leaned down and kissed him.
Olivier
Olivier pushed Marcel back, his old fears overriding any desire for what was happening. He stepped back, stumbling and bumping into the rolling toolbox.
“I can’t…we shouldn’t…shouldn’t…” he was stammering as he got his balance.
Marcel stood before him, not moving, a face of shock, or was it panic. He turned and ran toward the nearest door, one that opened to the rear of the shop. He raced out into the gravel yard, cars and trucks parked around the perimeter and to the left, the tow truck just inside a gate. He ran into the middle of it and stopped gasping for breath. He looked back at the slowly closing door, squeaking on its hinges. Marcel wasn’t pursuing him, and he struggled with his emotions. He was glad to get away from him, but then he realized he was more disappointed Marcel had not given pursuit. He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. It seemed such a long time, an eternity, but he finally slowed his breathing and realized he had fucked it up. Blown his opportunity. Marcel had been willing, and he had run.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he uttered to himself. He looked back at the door wondering what Marcel was doing. He pictured the tall muscular body, then how it had been against him, face to face, then he relived the kiss. The touch of Marcel’s lips to his own. He held his head down, grimaced, then wondered if he could get a second chance. Could he fix it. Make everything right. He stood straight and headed back.
Inside the shop, he saw Marcel closing a drawer on the toolbox. The hood was still up on the truck, but everything was put away. Marcel was finished and if he chose, he could pay him and leave. But he didn’t want to leave, not like this, an opportunity lost if he didn’t do something to correct it. He had read stories online about guys in this situation and how some sucked it up and admitted in some way to their own willingness. The problem for him was saying how he felt. He didn’t think he could do it. He had never admitted to anyone how he truly felt and didn’t think he could do it now without fucking it up. He moved across the shop, wondering how he was going to let Marcel know he had liked it, the kiss, and the press of body against body. How could he admit he fucked it up, running when he should have returned the kiss or reached out and…
He moved to his truck unable to face Marcel. He sensed him watching him, waiting for him to say something. He had seen the nervous expression, face almost pale with fear. Standing at the passenger fender he looked into the engine compartment and for a brief moment saw the new wires, then he turned back to Marcel who stood a few feet away near the workbench wiping his hands, looking nervous. He tried to find his voice, make the right words come out. He looked at Marcel wishing there was a way for him to read his mind, to know how he wanted it, and it had been a mistake for him to run. With his eyes locked on Marcel, he undid his jeans, the button then the zipper. He felt them loosen, and he pushed them down along with his boxers. He bared his ass toward Marcel and felt his freed cock stir. He felt his sac hang loose. He felt the exposure of his ass, then he noticed the eyes staring back. Marcel looked surprised, then he smiled, looking pleased.
“I’m sorry I ran. It’s just…I’ve never…I want to but…”
“I know,” Marcel replied, making his way toward him.
Olivier watched Marcel slowly approach, unzipping the coveralls, tugging arms free, then working off each boot, hopping on one foot then the other. The coveralls were dropped to the ankles and Marcel stepped out of them leaving him in just boxers. Olivier wanted him to remove them too and smiled despite his nervousness when Marcel pushed them down, then stepped out of them, fully naked. He smiled despite his nervousness with Marcel completely exposed to his eyes. The tall muscular body with such definition. The cock that hung heavy over its sac. The smoothness of the skin. Then he turned and faced the engine, waiting.
A hand touched his ass, rubbed over each cheek. Then both hands were touching him, rubbing over his naked ass, and when they moved around his waist, Marcel pressed against his ass. Bare skin against his ass as hands manipulated his cock, tugging on it, stroking it, making it grow erect. Then one hand stroked it while the other tugged on his sac until he was shivering with the pleasure/pain of it. It was physical, sexually charged, then it became intimate as lips kissed the back of his neck, moved around to the right side, up to his ear, kissing around it, then nipping the lobe and tugging on it.
“You won’t run away again, will you?” Marcel whispered into his ear.
“No…” Olivier replied. “I shouldn’t have run the first time,” he admitted as the hands let go of his cock and sac and worked the buttons free on his shirt.
The shirt came open and hands moved over his chest, stomach, then back up to his hardening nipples. Marcel pinched and twisted the right one, then the left, making him moan and shudder and push back to the growing erection pressing against his ass. Marcel pulled back and Olivier felt the tug on his shirt, and he held his arms down letting it slide off his shoulders, down each arm, and off. Marcel tossed it carelessly to the floor and guided him to turn around.
They kissed. Tentatively at first, then with greater and greater passion. Olivier reached up and touched Marcel. Moved his fingers over the firm flesh, feeling the contours of muscle and bone, until he was feeling his fingers rake through pubic hair then touching hard cock. He slipped them round the thick cock and stroked it. He ran his fingers over the head making Marcel moan into his mouth and push the cock through his fingers. He pushed Marcel back a step and slid down the side of the truck until squatting before him, cock right in his face. He held it at the base, the thick shaft filling his hand as he stared at the flared head. He squeezed it and watched a clear drop pool at the slit, then he leaned forward and licked it off. The odd sweetness hit his tastebuds and he wanted more, and he slipped his lips over the head then pushed forward.
With the taste of Marcel’s first load in his mouth, Olivier lowered the tailgate and laid his chest down on the fluted bed, the surface hard and dirty. His cock was pushed down by the edge of the tailgate, then his feet were pushed apart by Marcel. Reaching back, he spread his ass, fingers digging into each cheek as he waited for Marcel to take their sex further.
Cock touched his ass, raked across each cheek, then touched his tight opening. He inhaled deeply, waiting for Marcel to penetrate him.
“Will you really let me?” Marcel asked while pushing against his tightness.
“Yes. Do it…put it in me,” he replied while pushing back against the cock.
He banged his head on the bed of the truck while crying out. He shuddered and moaned, consumed by the pain/pleasure of Marcel’s penetration, then the fullness of it. Hands held his narrow waist as cock pushed deeper and deeper. His own cock flexed with his arousal.
Marcel began to fuck, to work cock inside him, and he moved his hands to the edge of the tailgate, holding tight to prevent his sliding forward with Marcel’s harder and harder thrusts inward. The truck rocked on its old suspension, then began to squeak as hips smacked against his ass and cock pummeled his insides.
The cock pulled out leaving him feeling empty, ready to beg Marcel to put it back inside him. Instead, Marcel was manhandling him to move.
“Come on, Olivier, get on your back,” said Marcel.
Olivier felt his exposure like never before. He held his legs up and spread apart knowing Marcel could see everything about his sex. His hard cock, tightening sac, and spread ass. Marcel moved up and he felt the cock touch him then sink into his depths. A hand pushed his T-shirt up until tight under the arms and chest and stomach exposed. Then the hand slipped fingers through the neck opening and used it like a reign, holding him in place as Marcel resumed their fuck.
The motion of the truck, the pace of their fuck, and how cock pushed into his depths made him so aroused his cock drooled onto his stomach. He looked up at Marcel, the tall muscular body glistening wetly in the dim lights. He looked at how it moved, with the flexing abdomen muscles. He lay his head back and closed his eyes focusing on the feel of cock moving inside him with such a furious pace he couldn’t discern the push inward versus the tug outward. He only knew how it felt, how it increased his arousal. So Alive. So masculine, with the physical nature of their fuck.
Marcel shoved into his depths, jammed hips against his ass while pushing his legs down until thighs pressed tightly to his chest. He was nearly breathless as Marcel seemed to gain a second wind, renewing the pace of their fuck.
“Goddamn it…take me,” Marcel grunted as the truck squeaked louder and rocked in rhythm to their fuck.
Then Marcel shoved inward all the way and cried out, shaking and jerking with his second release.
Olivier sat up, legs dangling from the tailgate as Marcel sucked his cock. He leaned back on his hands and watched Marcel go down on it, then slide lips up to the head. He felt the tongue swirl around the head, torturous with its ministrations, then the lips slide down all the way. In no time at all, he was trying to pump his hips upward as the mouth locked around the head of his cock. He shivered, then jerked, as his cock exploded in Marcel’s mouth, spurting wad after wad until finally spent.
For weeks Olivier and Marcel got together. Evenings at a restaurant in Grand Bay, Irvington, Tillmans Corner, or in Mobile, weekends at the mobile home out on 188, or a Sunday on Dauphin Island. And each night in Olivier’s mobile home, the cheap bed banging into the thin wall long into the night.
Olivier wondered about their relationship, trying to give a name to it. Was he Marcel’s boyfriend? Were they dating? Or was their sneaking around and nights spent together just a sexually based arrangement. Did Marcel even like him or was he just the only guy found willing. But every time he wanted to ask Marcel; he couldn’t bring voice to the words. His fears and insecurities choked the words out of him. In those moments he swore Marcel looked the way he felt.
Then they got into an argument.
They had taken a chance and gone to the seafood place in the middle of Bayou La Batre for dinner on a Wednesday night. They were both tired from a long day at their jobs, especially Olivier who had worked late, thus Marcel coming down from Grand Bay to meet him. With their food ordered and drinks in front of them, they looked up to see Marcel’s parents come into the restaurant.
An awkward introduction, the move to a large table followed by a long uncomfortable conservation with Marcel and Olivier skirting the nature of their relationship. When dinner was finished, the two of them in the parking lot watching Marcel’s parents drive away, Olivier asked Marcel what he meant by maybe calling Lisa, a woman Marcel’s mother was pushing him to call for a date. It escalated, the deflection from being honest with each other until they were angry, and each drove away thinking they were over.
Then for the rest of the week, each one went home to an empty place, the silence magnifying their sense of being alone.
Sunday started hot, humid, the sky clouding up. By noon, the thunderstorms moved in from the southwest, with wave after wave of heavy rains and lightning, thunderous and rumbling. By five o’clock, the worst of the storms were to the northeast and drizzling rain continued, keeping the ground puddled and ditches flowing.
Olivier lay on his sofa, head on a pillow propped against the arm and feet propped on the opposite arm. The television was dark because nothing of interest was on. Instead, he lay lost in thought about Marcel. He picked up his cellphone, then put it back down on the coffee table. He would look over at it trying to will it to ring. He was lonely and missed Marcel. Missed him in ways he couldn’t admit, and when he considered how the week had ended with them not talking, he felt near tears.
He lay on the sofa until the room grew dark with nighttime arriving silently, only the occasional pelting of loud drops of rain on the roof breaking it. Headlights swept the windows momentarily illuminating the room, then everything returned to the darkness of night. Climbing to his feet, he wondered who could be visiting him, at first thinking it would be his mother bringing food again. Then he wondered, hoped even, that maybe it would be Marcel.
Moving toward the door, he could hear someone rush up the steps then a hard knock, a fist striking the metal door three times in rapid succession.
“Olivier, please let me in,” called out Marcel.
He opened the door, and the wind and rain blew in then Marcel rushed inside grabbing him into a hard embrace.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” said Marcel.
“I thought you were mad at me,” Olivier replied, wrapping his arms around him.
Clothes lay scattered on the floor from the living room to the bedroom at the end of the narrow corridor. On the bed, Olivier lay on his back, knees up, cock buried in Marcel’s mouth. He moaned and grunted and pushed upward into that suctioning mouth. A hand rubbed over his chest, down his stomach, then around his cock where fingers circled his tightening sac. As the mouth moved on his cock, the hand tugged on his sac. He shuddered and moaned and pushed upward.
The hand let go of his sac then trailed down until touching his tight opening. A rubbing up and down, then a circular movement centering on it. Then the penetration, one finger sinking all the way into him. He moaned and felt his cock flex in the mouth.
Marcel began to move his mouth up and down in a steady rhythm, at times his suction or slurping loud to Olivier’s ears. Olivier clutched at the bed and threw his head back and moaned. Then he began to push upward until Marcel held his hips down.
When Marcel moved off his cock, Olivier lifted his head and watched him climb to his knees and move up closer.
“Fuck me,” Olivier uttered in a low voice as he held up his legs for him.
Hands tight around the ankles, Olivier felt the spread of his legs, then cock touching his opening. A push, then another, then penetration. Inch after inch, he felt the cock sink into his body. Arms outstretched, he clutched at the bed as cock sank deeper and deeper until Marcel was tight against his ass.
“Jesus,” Marcel exclaimed.
Olivier felt his loosening to the penetration, then the tug outward as Marcel moved inside him. It seemed such a long tug, impossibly long, then the satisfying push back into his depths. Marcel began to fuck, to move with a steady rhythm. Olivier moaned and grunted with every push inward. The fullness of each one made his own cock flex with his arousal. Then the hands slid down his calves until behind the knees and his legs were pushed forward and down. Thighs tight to his chest, Marcel hovered over him.
“Fuck…Marcel…do it…”
Marcel kissed his neck then began to fuck. To drive into his depths with an increasing pace until the bed rocked in rhythm with it and the sound of flesh smacking against flesh echoed in the room.
“Don’t stop…keep going…”
Olivier felt breathless. The hands held his legs down pinned to the bed as cock thrust into his depths. Marcel kept up his brutal pace until raining sweat down on him. Then just slowed down, let him feel every inch of cock moving through his tightness and the insistent press against his ass with every full push inward.
“I’m going to cum,” Marcel uttered breathlessly as he shoved inward all the way and shuddered with release.
Olivier watched with disbelief as Marcel hovered over him. It was unexpected for he considered Marcel more masculine, a man, the one to always be on top. But he watched Marcel hold his cock up while lowering down to it. The ass touched the head, then pressed down on it.
“Don’t move, okay?” said Marcel.
“Okay,” Olivier whispered in reply afraid to speak any louder.
A tight squeeze on the head of his cock, and Olivier watched with naïve amazement as it disappeared into Marcel. Inch after inch slowly squeezing through the impossible tightness.
“Fuck…it hurts, but…feels good too,” Marcel uttered.
“Relax,” said Olivier as over half of his cock disappeared from sight.
Marcel’s cock stayed half hard, dripping cum, and flexing up and down as he eased down further on Olivier. His body glistened in the dim light, every muscle visible, tight and flexing as if working out.
Olivier reached out and ran his fingers lightly down Marcel’s cock. It flexed within his fingers eliciting a groan from Marcel. He tightened his fingers around it and began to stroke it. Marcel began to move up and down, quickly sinking down the last couple of inches. Then he was fucking his ass on the cock, moving up and down faster and faster. The bed squeaked and rocked and Olivier roughly stroked Marcel’s cock.
When he felt his need for release build, Marcel seemed to want to torture him by slowing down. Slowly, gently, Marcel moved on his cock. He felt every inch of it as the ass moved up and down its length.
“Fuck, you going to make me cum again,” Marcel exclaimed.
Cum erupted from Marcel’s cock. Thick wads rained down on Olivier’s chest and stomach, then his fingers were coated in cum as he continued to stroke the spurting cock. It was too much. The scent of Marcel’s cum and how his own cock was being manipulating. He sat up, bearhugged Marcel rolling him to his back. He was on top and between the raised knees with his cock buried in the loosened ass. For the briefest moment he considered what it meant, he, Oliver Boudreau, was on top of Marcel Theriot. But the realization of it was overwhelmed by how it felt, and he began to fuck. Hard, fast, rocking the bed until it banged into the wall.
He fucked until he thought he would burn up. Sweat ran down his face and body, rained down on Marcel until every touch of flesh was hot and slick. He laced his fingers with Marcel’s and held the hands down as he moved with such urgency he knew it would not take long.
“Fuck!” Olivier exclaimed as he came.
“I’m heading out,” said Marcel, picking up his keys.
“You want to drive up to Mobile for dinner after work?” asked Olivier as he tied his shoes.
“Sure. What time will you get off?”
“I should be home by five thirty.”
“I’ll stop in time to be here by then too,” said Marcel, leaning over and giving Olivier a quick kiss, as he did every morning before heading off to work.
Three months they have been living together and it still seemed like a dream. A fantasy. Olivier knew the rumors about Marcel living with him, but he didn’t care. Let them speculate. He was happy for the first time in a long time. He stood, picked up his own keys and wallet and headed out. Marcel was pulling out of the drive heading toward Grand Bay and the shop. He watched the old truck motor away and smiled, knowing it would be returning at the end of the day.