Artwork by Ulf
Egotistical fucker! Didn’t you think I would notice your stares? Even through the tendrils of steam that choke everything in the kitchen’s path with the smell of those acerbic Mid-Eastern spices. Spices that sting the nostrils and tear at ones eyes! Amid all that, did you really believe that I wouldn’t notice your sly, surreptitious looks and the hot, sensual scent of masculine sweat and sex that radiates from your magnificent body? I think these thoughts as my cock grows inside my pants in response to my fucked up desires.
It’s the nightshift. The cooks have already turned off their stoves and ovens and left their posts for the cleanup crew to mop, scour, scrub and put in good order for the next evening’s service. They spoke in their native tongue to one another, then in broken English to us. Their voices were high pitched and rapid in their demands as they told us what they wanted done by the time they returned to begin the whole process all over again. They leave, and with every swipe of the mop that I press to the floor, I surreptitiously glance over at you as your muscles swell and expand whenever you lift each dish filled rack to the dishwasher.
Time slowly creeps by, sadistically prodding at my impatience to be in that hour when I can finally share a few moments together with you, outside this kitchen’s stagnant inferno, and into the alley where we take our smoke breaks.
Once a confident, self-assured college jock, during the last three months, since I started working at Shalimar’s Curry House, I’d found myself suffering nightly trying to find the internal courage to ask you, no, to beg you, for even the slightest physical touch of your body to mine. I’d close my eyes and see you standing before me, beautifully naked, aroused and needing me, my mouth, my body, to release all that pent up sex you’ve been holding back and denying all other men but me. Would tonight be different? Would you again merely grunt in reply to casual conversation, never speaking a word to me, only standing there with your legs spread in a firm stance as you indifferently rub and scratch at that incredible bulge beneath your grease and dirt stained jeans shorts? I worried at these images as I watch you suddenly and forcefully remove your filthy kitchen apron, toss it across the drain board of the dishwasher and head out the back door to the alleyway. You leave—but not without a quick, hard, meaningful glance back at me and I notice that your cigarette pack still lays dormant on one of the kitchen counters.
My chest tightens, my heart pounds so loudly I am certain it can be heard outside my body. Never. Never had he looked at me that way before. I drop my mop to the floor, tear at my apron which covers only my bare chest and running shorts, then rush to the door to meet you. I stop just shortly before I get there and mentally check myself as I attempt valiantly to reign in my urgency, so as not to appear too eager, and only then do I casually open the door. My eyes bulge incredibly when I see you standing across the way.
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