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Literary Pieces

Good As New

On the things that we’re willing to do to support the people we love…

Photo by Mateo Avila Chinchilla from

I push the key into the slot and twist it until I hear a click.

The door opens and I see there’s just the odd bill, and upon reaching in, I found a couple of letters. I stuff them inside my bag and I close our mailbox.

“Good morning, Gunther!” I turn around and see my neighbor, John, and his Bullmastiff, Boomer. “Anything interesting in there today?” He grinned, showing a perfect set of pearly teeth.

“Nah, man. Just the same old stuff.” Boomer approached and nuzzled against my hand. I reached over and petted him. “Boomer’s being especially friendly today?”

“Yeah. We’re on our way to the park. Do you and Erik wanna come with? We can get some coffee on the way.” He was built like his dog. Thick, with a boxy, compact body with massive, muscular arms and legs with almost no neck to speak of; he stood there with that bright smile of his. Dark brown hair cropped neat and short, with a full beard that came almost to his big, blue, puppy dog eyes.

“Sorry, man, I’m working tonight. Maybe next time.”

He grinned, and scratched Boomer’s ears, “No worries, next time then. See you later!” He pulls on Boomer’s leash and they make their way out of the building.

On any given day, I’d have gone out that door and walked his dog with him. On any given day, I’d have gotten coffee with him, and I’d know how he takes his coffee after years of living next to each other. On any given day, I’d have chatted and laughed with him in the park. But not today or any other day, I suppose. Not if he knew what I did for a living.

I see him standing outside by the curb, looking at his phone, and for a moment I allowed myself to hope, but as he started to walk away, I started to go up the steps to our apartment.

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On any given day, I’d have chatted and laughed with him in the park. But not today or any other day, I suppose. Not if he knew what I did for a living.
Photo by Nik Shuliahin from


“Gunther, is that you?”

“Yeah!” I yell out as I drop my keys in a small azure dish on the table by the door. The apartment smelled of a heady mix of coffee and sandalwood.

Erik pops out his head of the kitchen. “Anything in the box?” I shrugged “Just the usual. I’ll leave it on the table and sort it later.” I went to the couch and slumped into it with a belabored groan.

Erik comes out of the kitchen and chuckles as he sat down on the couch with two mugs of coffee. He sets on in front of me on the center table, and sips on the other. “Rough night?” I moan in response. He began to leaf through the morning paper as he sipped his coffee. He turns to me, “John dropped by this morning, by the way, him and that dog of his. He was wondering if we wanted to go out tonight.” He paused for a bit. “I really think he wants a threesome with the both of us. What do you think? He’s not unfortunate looking.”

I sit up and take the mug he set in front of me.

“Well, threesomes are extra, you know.” He looks at me above his horn-rimmed glasses. “How much extra?”

“Wouldn’t you wanna know…”

“Well, for future reference.”

I stretched out and curled up on the couch like a lazy cat. “I wish I could lie down here forever. I have another appointment later tonight.” Erik stands up, and a takes both mugs. “You better rest, but try not to stay in bed all day. I have an appointment with Dr. Jacob today. I think I’m getting better.” He shuffles off to the kitchen and I could hear the water running as he washes up. I get up and follow him. He was hunched over the sink and I sit by the small banquette.

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“How are you feeling today?”

“Much better.” He looks back down on the sink. “I really wish you’d stop doing this, though.” He said as he kept on washing dishes. “You’re a smart guy. I’m sure there’s something out there for you.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, the money is good, and it’s fun. I will get out eventually, of course.” I took out a cigarette from my pocket and lit one. “And where is this coming from?”

“It’s coming from a place of caring, asshole. I worry about you.”

I took a hit on my cigarette and let out a long steady stream of smoke. “I’ll be fine. You know how I work.”

He sighs and he finishes the dishes and turns around, dishcloth in hand. “I know, but that does not change the fact that what you’re doing is fairly risky. I don’t want you getting sick. Especially not on my account…”

“I’ll be fine. We’ve been through this.”

He throws his hands up. “I’m just saying there are opportunities out there…”

“Geez, Erik, again: where is all this coming from?”

He looks down at his shoes, his hands absent-mindedly drying a mug. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

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“Well don’t, Erik.” He looks at me, and I look straight into his eyes. “If you have a problem with what I do, by all means let me know.” I put out the cigarette and toss it in the ashtray in the middle of our breakfast nook. “I appreciate the concern, but I am fine.” He looks at me and softly mutters okay.

I stood and left him there, still holding on to the mug, and went to my room, closing the door behind me.


My hand makes contact on his slick skin of his bare buttocks with a loud thwack, and waves of pleasure bubble up and escape from his lips like wisps of steam. I feel myself totally engulfed by his warmth. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of musk and sex.

“Harder! God, fuck me harder!”

I grumble in response as I instinctively adjust my hips to gain better leverage as I bring my weight forcefully, but gracefully, down on him. I feel his insides twitch and contract like it was sucking me further and further in. With every down stroke, I could hear the bed creak in protest, the chains that held his arms taut, spread out before me, jingled like the sleigh bells, their tone high and crisp.

I held on to the tense muscles on his shoulders, contorted in the struggle against the leather cuffs that bound him, and my relentless and unchanging rhythm on top of him. His eyes undoubtedly burning under that heavy blindfold that was clasped behind his head, he turns his head to the side with a look of abject bliss and pain on his face.

“More! More!”

I bury my hands in the silk sheets that covered the bed on both sides of his torso. I feel my breath quicken as I change my position. I hear him gasp as I pull all the way to very tip of my cock and pull out with a soft pop. He whimpers into his pillows.

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I take the bottle of lube from the nightstand and pump out a couple of globs on my fingers, and smear it in between his buttcheeks. He moans in pleasure as my fingertips grazed his raw, pink asshole. I wipe the rest of the lube on myself. I spread him apart and come up to the side of his face. I slip myself in between his thighs and lay myself down on his broad, muscular back. I feel the sweat from him stick to my chest, the soft hair on his back was matted into swirling, abstract forms that sharply contrasted with his pale complexion. I place my lips near the side of his face. He is shuddering in anticipation. He wants me. He wants all of me. I whisper into his ear.

“Say it.”

I hear him suck in air.

“Goddammit! I want you to make me bleed!”

I smile, as I always do at this moment, and I whisper; “Okay.”

I reach across him and undo the buckle on the leather cuff on his left wrist, and then the right. I flip him over and pull his hips closer, carefully guiding his legs on either side of my torso as I position myself between them. I take a deep breath and bear down, hip first in a massive thrust that knocks the wind out of him momentarily. A small groan escapes his throat, a low rumble that I felt more than heard, his shuddering body under mine. I feel his body writhe and undulate like a coiled serpent as the lines between us blurred. I started to feel that familiar fire start to creep under my skin, in every nerve, flowing with my blood. I feel that creature within me stir. I feel the familiar flush in my cheeks as I begin to slowly lose control of my thoughts.

“Do it, you fuckin’ pussy. DO IT!”

I reattach the chains that dug into the wooden posts of his bed to his restraints. Reaching behind his head, I unlatch his blindfold. He opens his eyes, but squints, blinded by the sudden burst of light. He arches his back and turns to look at me, his eyes still adjusting to the light. I raise my hand high and seeing his eyes slowly register, I bring it down hard and feel the snap of my fist make contact with his nose. The sound echoed in my head, that sharp crack that shattered the relative calm of my mind. He gives out a howl, a low pitched moan that makes my ears ring. I hear him let out a cough, and a fine, scarlet mist filled the air of the scent of blood.

“Fuck, YES!” He lets out a guttural grunt and I feel him tense up under me as he struggled against his restraints. “Hit me again!”

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I felt the creature claw its way up my throat. I reach down and feel his hair under my fingers. I clench my fist and pull his face up from the mattress by his hair. I see his eyes shut tight; his nose crinkled as sopping noises filled my ears when he tried to breathe through his flared nostrils. I move my face closer to his and see a drop of blood trickle down to the corner of his mouth.

I snake my arm around his neck and roughly pull him up. His hands balled up into fists, straining against the chains that kept him immobilized. Beads of sweat formed on his temples, trickling down his face. He struggles against me, he resists. I breathe in his scent, that metallic scent mixed with the salt on his brow.

I feel it, the creature, peering out from my own eyes, his claws prying my mouth open. His serpentine tongue, pendulous and rough as a rasp, falls out between my teeth and as he whimpers, gasping for breath, the creature’s tongue caresses the side of his bloodied face, like a tiger tasting its prey.

And I distinctly remember thinking: this one tastes, oh so sweet.


I push the key into the slot and twist it until I hear a click.

The door opens and I see there’s just the odd bill, and upon reaching in, I found a couple of letters. I stuff them inside my bag and I close our mailbox.

I go up to our apartment and let myself in. I feel exhausted: More so than any other night in recent memory. Maybe Erik is right. I really ought to consider another job: this is starting to feel like a lot of work. I place my keys in the small dish and notice that the kitchen lights are on. The smell of coffee hung in the air like a fine veil.

“Gunther, is that you?”

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“Hey, yeah.” I step into the kitchen, and Erik was sitting there, a bottle of vodka and a mess of soda bottles on the table. “Hey.” He mutters, a tired smile plastered across his face.

“Don’t you have therapy tomorrow? It’s almost three in the morning.” I began to pick up the empty soda bottles and place them next to the sink. He shrugged his shoulders, and poured himself another drink. “Come, sit a while and have a drink. I imagine it’s been a wild night for you.”

I take off my jacket and sat down in front of him with a glass I took from the dish rack. His smile never left his boyish face. I poured myself some vodka, topping it off with a splash of club soda. I took some ice from the small bucket in the middle of the table and drop a couple into my drink. I reached out to get another ice cube and gingerly ran it over the swollen knuckles on my right hand.

He just sat there, watching me through that shit-eating grin.

“Rough night?”

I took a sip of my drink. “Yeah. You can say that. I guess.”

“You really ought to do something about that. He grunts as he got up and went to his bedroom. I look out the kitchen window. It’s so dark out you can barely make out where the skyline ended and the night sky started. In the distance, a police siren echoed off the narrow alleyway.

Erik comes back and pus down a small first aid kit on the table. He went to the sink and ran some water over a small towel. “You okay?” He asked as he took my hand and began to wipe it with a damp towel. It felt cool on my skin, and I relax a bit. “Yeah. I’m fine. You should see the other guy.”

He gave out a small chuckle. “I know that was meant to be a joke, but seeing that it’s tie-me-up-Thursday with Creepy Charlie, I will let that pass.”

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He laughed, that sonorous laugh that made me fall for him all those years ago. Before all of this, before the medicines, before the hospital visits that left him drained and unable to speak for days.

He popped open a small bottle of mercurochrome and soaked a cotton ball. He started to dab it over the area where the skin split on the knuckle of my index and middle finger. The dark amber liquid seeped into my skin, and turned the top of my pale hand a brilliant shade of orange.

He just sat there, watching me through that shit-eating grin.
Photo by Rhett Noonan from

“Jealous? No.” He dressed my hand, gently turning it over to anchor the adhesive tape between my fingers. “I just worry about you. All the time.”

He turns over my hand and held it in his. I feel the warmth of his palms on mine. He leans down and gives the back of my hand a soft kiss. I feel the warmth of his breath on the back of my hand, and it crept up my arm. I close my eyes. At that moment, all the questions melt away. Why I do the things I do has always been clear. What I can and cannot betray or abandon has always been the same.

I open my eyes and I see him there.

He still held my hand. In hands that will always be warm, hands that will always be there. He smiles, as I myself find smiling in turn.

“There. Good as new.”

And I was.

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Ryan Robert Flores is a self-identified Bear. He has a Bachelor’s Degree in Business Administration, majoring in Marketing Management, and is currently working on a graduate degree, which he hopes would someday pay for TBRU, Lazy Bear Weekend, Provincetown Bear Week, Mad.Bear, and a leather sex sling that can support his weight (for, uh… research). A freelance graphic designer and photographer, he has worked with leading companies in different fields, but mostly in food (where else would a fat guy go?) by creating corporate branding and image development. A fastidious Grammar Nazi; a sure-fire way of driving him up the walls would be to say “For a while” (For a while, WHAT?), and other grammatical nightmares, without any proper context. He doesn’t like chocolate, despite being happily married to one who peddles it for a living for the past eleven years.


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