husband, the only time she stood up to him, he had beaten her so badly she couldn't get out of bed for a week. She knew he wasn't a cowardly woman beater. He'd fight anybody, man, woman, or child, with equal fury and violence. She had forgotten what led up to the beating, but Emilio liked to remind her of "what happened when you got out a line that time."
Emilio saw his wife was having one of her headaches that hurt so badly she sometimes cried. He felt guilty and decided to be a little nicer. "Hey, junkie ... you want another fix?" He offered her the pack. She smiled no. She was still smoking the first one. He left the pack on the table and went to the bathroom.
Emilio undressed and stepped into the shower. He liked to feel the water on his body. He loved his body. He still worked out with weights every other day at the firehouse. He stepped from the bathtub, admiring himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. His muscles and his cock always looked bigger in the mirror, although, God knows, he didn't need any mirror to look big. He had kept the physique that won him the title of Mr. New York City twenty-two years ago as well as a forty-eight-year-old man could. His waist was only thirty-two, his chest measured forty-seven-and-a-half, biceps holding steady at eighteen inches, cock at nine, although it fluctuated between eight and ten. He knew muscle-bound guys with dicks the length of his little toe. There were plenty of those guys around too. Not him though. He was hung like a grandfather clock. He massaged his dick until it got hard. He tensed all his muscles, flexed his biceps, watched them dance, watched his thighs undulate at his mental command. He made his pectorals rotate under his skin. His erection stiffened—at least ten inches.
His wife waited patiently for him to finish in the bathroom. She hoped he wasn't going into one of his body-beautiful routines. They sometimes lasted half an hour. She had a weak bladder, and coffee made her pee. Once when Emilio was in the bathroom she had to go so bad that she dropped her drawers and sat in the kitchen sink. Then he came out as if he'd been waiting to catch her. It took two years for him to stop digging into her about that. Once at a party he'd told all their friends. She felt so ashamed she didn't do laundry or go shopping for a week. She'd given up Wednesday mahjong for good. Now, ten years later, she still flinched when she thought about it. She waited, listening for the noises that meant Emilio was finishing up.
Emilio lightly patted his body with a towel. He put a hand under his balls and contemplated their weight. Meatballs. That's what they were—meatballs. Two meaty balls. Must weigh a pound each. Maybe a pound and a quarter. He slapped his buttocks. They didn't wiggle. They were taut and hard. And small. When he was in the navy some chippy told him he had an athletic ass. And he'd made sure his ass stayed nice and athletic ever since. He thought of Joey. He had to admit that Joey had an athletic ass too, but that hardly counted because the rest of him was so goddamned puny. The only time he'd seen his son with a hard-on he almost puked. It couldn't have been more than five inches_maybe five and a half.
When Joey woke up the next morning he was sure he had cancer of the throat. He sat up in bed with his hands on his neck like a man who'd just taken a shot of homemade redeye. He stumbled into the bathroom, flipped up the toilet cover but not the toilet seat, and pissed. Swallowing was agony. He took the Vaseline from the medicine chest, scooped out a fingerful, and put it in his mouth. Bracing himself, a hand on each side of the sink, he gagged and swallowed simultaneously. He couldn't remember if his grandmother used Vaseline, Vicks VapoRub, or Ben-Gay for sore throats, but he imagined they all tasted the same.
Emilio sat in a bathrobe listening to the radio, smoking a cigarette, and staring out the dinette window.
Emilio saw his wife was having one of her headaches that hurt so badly she sometimes cried. He felt guilty and decided to be a little nicer. "Hey, junkie ... you want another fix?" He offered her the pack. She smiled no. She was still smoking the first one. He left the pack on the table and went to the bathroom.
Emilio undressed and stepped into the shower. He liked to feel the water on his body. He loved his body. He still worked out with weights every other day at the firehouse. He stepped from the bathtub, admiring himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. His muscles and his cock always looked bigger in the mirror, although, God knows, he didn't need any mirror to look big. He had kept the physique that won him the title of Mr. New York City twenty-two years ago as well as a forty-eight-year-old man could. His waist was only thirty-two, his chest measured forty-seven-and-a-half, biceps holding steady at eighteen inches, cock at nine, although it fluctuated between eight and ten. He knew muscle-bound guys with dicks the length of his little toe. There were plenty of those guys around too. Not him though. He was hung like a grandfather clock. He massaged his dick until it got hard. He tensed all his muscles, flexed his biceps, watched them dance, watched his thighs undulate at his mental command. He made his pectorals rotate under his skin. His erection stiffened—at least ten inches.
His wife waited patiently for him to finish in the bathroom. She hoped he wasn't going into one of his body-beautiful routines. They sometimes lasted half an hour. She had a weak bladder, and coffee made her pee. Once when Emilio was in the bathroom she had to go so bad that she dropped her drawers and sat in the kitchen sink. Then he came out as if he'd been waiting to catch her. It took two years for him to stop digging into her about that. Once at a party he'd told all their friends. She felt so ashamed she didn't do laundry or go shopping for a week. She'd given up Wednesday mahjong for good. Now, ten years later, she still flinched when she thought about it. She waited, listening for the noises that meant Emilio was finishing up.
Emilio lightly patted his body with a towel. He put a hand under his balls and contemplated their weight. Meatballs. That's what they were—meatballs. Two meaty balls. Must weigh a pound each. Maybe a pound and a quarter. He slapped his buttocks. They didn't wiggle. They were taut and hard. And small. When he was in the navy some chippy told him he had an athletic ass. And he'd made sure his ass stayed nice and athletic ever since. He thought of Joey. He had to admit that Joey had an athletic ass too, but that hardly counted because the rest of him was so goddamned puny. The only time he'd seen his son with a hard-on he almost puked. It couldn't have been more than five inches_maybe five and a half.
When Joey woke up the next morning he was sure he had cancer of the throat. He sat up in bed with his hands on his neck like a man who'd just taken a shot of homemade redeye. He stumbled into the bathroom, flipped up the toilet cover but not the toilet seat, and pissed. Swallowing was agony. He took the Vaseline from the medicine chest, scooped out a fingerful, and put it in his mouth. Bracing himself, a hand on each side of the sink, he gagged and swallowed simultaneously. He couldn't remember if his grandmother used Vaseline, Vicks VapoRub, or Ben-Gay for sore throats, but he imagined they all tasted the same.
Emilio sat in a bathrobe listening to the radio, smoking a cigarette, and staring out the dinette window.
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