Chapter 4

At home I had a small metal box I had bought

with my allowance back in middle school, and whenever I found

something Mr. Pierce had left behind at my home, I scooped it up

before my mother could clear it away and hoarded it in my little

box. Every time I came over to Mikey’s, I did the same thing—before

heading inside, I always took a moment to glance over the

workbenches for something small, something Mr. Pierce wouldn’t

miss, something I could hold and know he, too, had held it before

me. Something to remind me of him when I left for school.

Hands in my pockets, I strolled around the

back of the garage, looking over the array of items spread out like

a metallic smorgasbord before me. Nails—I had those, bent ones Mr.

Pierce had pried out, useless and thrown away. When I pressed them

to my nose, I swore the coppery smell clinging to them was the same

musk that must have wafted from Mr. Pierce before he showered after

a job. I had a drill bit or two, broken ones mostly, but I knew Mr.

Pierce needed those and I didn’t want to steal something he’d miss.

Nuts, washers, bolts…I wanted something new, something different,

something to commemorate this last night…

There, among a handful of clutter and coins

that looked like it had been scooped out of Mr. Pierce’s pocket and

dumped unceremoniously onto the workbench, was the longest screw

I’d ever seen. I had a few short screws in my collection, nubby

things Mr. Pierce had worked out with his hands or a small

screwdriver, but this…this was easily two inches long, and would

scrape either side of my small box when I stuck it inside. It was

thick, too, a good half inch in diameter, and with a large wing nut

screwed all the way to the head, it looked like a fat, metal penis

just sitting there among the coins and smaller screws. The metal

was grimy and warm to the touch, as if it had been in Mr. Pierce’s

palm moments before I picked it up. I sniffed it and caught a whiff

of something so primal, so masculine, so rawthat my blood

rushed to fill my dick. I had to have this. I neededit.

Quickly I stuck it in the front pocket of my

jeans. The blunt tip prodded my growing erection and I pressed it

down, savoring the sweet ache. Mr. Pierce had touched this screw

last and I could easily imagine the warm hardness was hisfinger exploring the thin pocket lining that separated it from my

crotch. With the smallest of motions, I pushed the screw deeper

into my pocket and felt it draw down the length of my dick, an

exciting sensation that made me cum just a little bit right

there.

Later, I promised myself, pulling my

hand from my pocket so I wouldn’t be tempted to play further. I saw

myself on my bed at home, door locked, clothes off, my thick length

curved over the top of my thigh as I traced the faint veins in it

with the screw. No hands, just that screw, gently dancing over my

flesh, tickling the tip of my cock, the heaviness of the metal

warmed by my skin. I didn’t think it’d take much for me to get off

doing that. I couldn’t wait.

I almost wanted to go back home right then

and try it out, but Mikey was waiting. He’d probably seen me bike

up the driveway and already wondered why I hadn’t come in. Trying

to put the screw out of my mind, I hurried for the steps that led

to the back door of the house, but every step I took pushed the tip

of the screw against my groin until I was hard and aching in my

pants. I knocked once on the door, then let myself in like I always

did. As I entered the den downstairs, my hand dropped to my pocket

and tried to reposition the screw, but it only settled a little

deeper and dug a little lower, into my balls this time.

“Hey, kid.”

Mr. Pierce’s voice was right behind me, so

close I came again, just enough to dampen the front of my briefs.

My heart raced in my chest. Jesus

I should’ve brought more than just one change

of underwear. My hand flew from my front pocket to dip into my

back, well out of reach so he wouldn’t think I’d been playing with

myself. I hoped I sounded nonchalant and not the least bit trembly

when I looked around and stuttered, “Um, hey.”

Mr. Pierce sat on an old sofa that had seen

better days. The den was a catch-all room, just as cluttered as the

garage outside. The home was a split-level; the den, on the lowest

floor, led up a short flight of stairs to a bathroom, then another

set of stairs led to the main part of the house—the kitchen, dining

room, and a more well-kept living room that was the first thing

visitors saw when they entered the front door. I always used the

garage entrance, feeling more like family that way. Off the living

room, another set of steps led to the bedrooms where Mikey and his

dad slept. When Mr. Pierce’s friends came over for cards, they

played in the dining room while Mikey and I stayed upstairs.