Page 4 of Rubbing One Out

Hem had a penchant for dating more than one woman at a time. He’d told Ben it was an ancestral benefit dating back many years for a man to have many women. While Ben didn’t doubt that tradition existed, he didn’t think having affairs with multiple women at once was what had been intended.

“You are jealous because you cannot find even one boyfriend. You are too picky,” Hem proclaimed as he secured the steel straps around the pump. His impressive biceps strained with the effort. Hemmy wasn’t a small man. “Okay, you can let go now. I think we have done it.”

Ben stepped back, still wary of the mammoth structure falling. When it stayed put, Hemingway chuckled loudly and stroked his stubbled beard. “See? I told you it would only take two of us. I am the stronger one among us, but I was glad of your help.”

Ben rolled his aching shoulders, ignoring the bait his friend left hanging. “Shit, that was heavy. I think I might have a hernia.” He scowled. “What a day for the damn pump to give up the ghost. I know the boss intended installing the new one he’d bought, but I didn’t think we’d have to do it quite this soon.”

Hemingway gave a philosophical shrug. “It is what I am here for. I have you as my apprentice, so we make a good team.”

Hemingway also had a degree in zoology from the University of Pretoria in SA and was one of the life support technicians for the zoo. He loved anything to do with engineering and tinkering with parts. Mechanical bits floated his boat. Last time he’d visited Ben, he’d messed about with the toaster, which had stubbornly refused to heat up. Now the thing worked like a charm.

Ben enjoyed getting his hands dirty, and being out in the sunshine with a man he called a good friend was always welcome.

“Talking of boyfriends…” Hemingway said slyly as he plopped himself down on the grass and reached into his overall pocket for a forbidden cigarette. “When was the last time you got laid?”

Ben glared at him. “None of your fucking business. Just because you like notches on your belt doesn’t mean I do.”

Hemingway nodded wisely, puffing on his cigarette. “Ah, so that would mean a long time ago. Do not be embarrassed, my friend.” He waved down at his lean physique. “Not everyone can be a sexy powerhouse like me.”

Ben sat down on the grass next to him, trying to shield Hemingway from the public footpath. If his boss, Hazel, caught him smoking again in public, there’d be hell to pay. His friend didn’t seem to acknowledge the danger, or if he did, he didn’t care.

“More like a fizzled-out sparkler, you are,” Ben teased, eying out the long legs of a tasty park visitor as he strode past. The man had an arse to be proud of. “You know I’m no player, Hem. Until I find the right guy, I’m fine with my own company.”

That wasn’t strictly true. Ben had the occasional hook-up when he was feeling the need, but it wasn’t anything serious, or something he relished.

“You are such a romantic.” Hemingway took one final puff of his smoke then buried the butt end in the dark soil of the nearest garden bed. “You’re thirty-two years old and still waiting for your prince to come.” His tone was teasing. “I applaud your sentiments, but sometimes a man simply needs to let off some steam. You should find yourself a friend with benefits.” He grinned. “How about that young man down at the antiques store? Didn’t you say he had his eye on you?”

Ben snorted. “Ryan? He’s a nice guy, but there’s no chemistry. Besides, he’s only twenty-one.”

Hemingway clapped a dramatic hand to his forehead. “Oh, the shame,” he sang out. “An eleven-year difference. What would the neighbours think?” He snorted loudly. “I’ll tell you what they’d think seeing that tasty young man going into your home. They’d say Ben Sinclair had finally got over himself and scheduled a good fuck. God knows you need one.”

Ben narrowed his eyes then launched himself at his friend, who laughed in merriment as they rolled around on the grass. Hemingway had a ticklish spot between his ribs, and Ben was hell-bound on getting the man to squeal like a ferret.

Finally, panting in exertion, Ben lay back on the grass, Hemingway lying next to him, also short of breath.

“Well,” Hemingway panted, “I wasn’t intending being your play-pal of the day, but I guess wrestling with me is the closest you’re getting to sex today.” He jumped up nimbly, out of reach of Ben’s fingers reaching over to do more damage.

Hemingway brushed the grass of his overalls and reached out a hand to help Ben to his feet. “Come on. It’s almost home time. I’ll buy you a pint at the pub. If you’re lucky, maybe even a packet of crisps. We’ll call it a reverse date. The physical stuff first then the dinner.” He guffawed loudly.

Ben smiled at him as he clambered up. “You’re a douche, you know that? But I’ll take you up on the dinner date. I could use a beer.” It’d mean he’d have to get a taxi home, instead of using his bicycle, but what the hell. Perhaps Hemmy could pick him up in the morning.

Getting tipsy sounded like a damned good idea.