Read Online Dunkin and Donuts by Daralyse Lyons - Free Book Online
Authors: Daralyse Lyons
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I’ve done a few of their other events.”
They make a beeline for Brice’s computer as he stuffs the last remnants of his second muffin into his mouth and grabs a third. Marlene is still nibbling on hers and, in fact, leaves a trail of crumbs in her wake on her way from the couch to the computer. The kindergarten teacher in me, as an automatic reflex, immediately trails after her, and picks up the crumbs she leaves behind. It’s a habit that’s difficult to break.
Dunkin feigns disinterest from his recliner, but I have no shame about my own nosiness and so peer over Brice’s shoulder as Marlene navigates toward the Gay Play page where a series of gay male actors are engaged in a variety of activities—skiing, canoeing, jogging, climbing, and a number of other active things that presumably require a person to move. Brice doesn’t move. Still, the taste of foot in mouth residue from earlier discourages me from piping up as Brice registers for rollerblading in the park. I picture him in size thirteen rollerblades, knee pads, elbow pads, a helmet and spandex and bite back the urge to laugh.
Chapter Seventeen
As predicted, Brice is laying prostrate on his bed, ice stuffed between his legs, cursing (between moans) less than a week later.
When he calls me, his voice sounds sheepish and pained. “I shouldn’t have tried to
rollerblade,” he admits. “I pulled my groin.”
“I thought the whole purpose of gay rollerblading was to try and get someone else to pull on your groin.”
“Haha. Very funny. Seriously…It hurts.”
Brice then proceeds to tell me the story of his gay rollerblading adventure—or, more accurately, misadventure. Apparently, he had decided that elbow and knee pads were uncool and that a helmet was beneath him and so arrived at the park with his rollerblades slung over his shoulder clad in—I kid you not—a pair of bicycle shorts and a Queen T-shirt. He did not consult with me before outfitting himself for his day with the boys. Also, he likely missed the episode of Modern Family where Mitchell tries to covertly get Cam out of his bicycle shorts—double entendre intended. Few men can pull off spandex and burly Brice is not one of those chosen few.
But, I digress. Brice arrived at hunk central where a bunch of svelte, athletic men were stretching and laughing in their rollerblade gear. Feeling slightly out-of-place, but not wanting to let on, Brice flirted. He smiled. He preened. To hear him tell it, he was the life of the party for roughly ten minutes until it came time to actually rollerblade.
Then, he put on his skates and realized his mistake. Brice is not especially athletic or coordinated. At 300 pounds, balancing his oversized body on a single strand of four, small, centered wheels was an accident waiting to happen. And happen it did.
Surprisingly, he managed to stay upright and navigate the flat stretch of paved park terrain by wobbling and wriggling forward, inching his way around after his more practiced gay comrades, until a dog—albeit a tiny Chihuahua-looking thing—got loose from its leash and ran toward Brice, yapping and jumping.
“Go away!” Brice snapped, teetering, but somehow managing to keep his balance.
I’d have given anything to see my friend furiously waving his hands about while simultaneously maneuvering his substantial bulk and trying to keep his cool. Remember, he was a man on the prowl after all, only signing up for gay rollerblading in the hopes that he might meet someone. Unfortunately, I have to content myself with Brice’s recounting of the details since I can’t be there to see it firsthand.
“Did you fall?” I ask. “Did the dog knock you down?”
“No. I’m pretty proud of myself for managing to stay on my feet. I wasn’t exactly graceful, but I didn’t fall—at least, not then.”
The dog’s owner had rushed over, scooped up the dog, and apologized as Brice skated slowly away. Crisis averted! And he was still vertical. Rounding
They make a beeline for Brice’s computer as he stuffs the last remnants of his second muffin into his mouth and grabs a third. Marlene is still nibbling on hers and, in fact, leaves a trail of crumbs in her wake on her way from the couch to the computer. The kindergarten teacher in me, as an automatic reflex, immediately trails after her, and picks up the crumbs she leaves behind. It’s a habit that’s difficult to break.
Dunkin feigns disinterest from his recliner, but I have no shame about my own nosiness and so peer over Brice’s shoulder as Marlene navigates toward the Gay Play page where a series of gay male actors are engaged in a variety of activities—skiing, canoeing, jogging, climbing, and a number of other active things that presumably require a person to move. Brice doesn’t move. Still, the taste of foot in mouth residue from earlier discourages me from piping up as Brice registers for rollerblading in the park. I picture him in size thirteen rollerblades, knee pads, elbow pads, a helmet and spandex and bite back the urge to laugh.
Chapter Seventeen
As predicted, Brice is laying prostrate on his bed, ice stuffed between his legs, cursing (between moans) less than a week later.
When he calls me, his voice sounds sheepish and pained. “I shouldn’t have tried to
rollerblade,” he admits. “I pulled my groin.”
“I thought the whole purpose of gay rollerblading was to try and get someone else to pull on your groin.”
“Haha. Very funny. Seriously…It hurts.”
Brice then proceeds to tell me the story of his gay rollerblading adventure—or, more accurately, misadventure. Apparently, he had decided that elbow and knee pads were uncool and that a helmet was beneath him and so arrived at the park with his rollerblades slung over his shoulder clad in—I kid you not—a pair of bicycle shorts and a Queen T-shirt. He did not consult with me before outfitting himself for his day with the boys. Also, he likely missed the episode of Modern Family where Mitchell tries to covertly get Cam out of his bicycle shorts—double entendre intended. Few men can pull off spandex and burly Brice is not one of those chosen few.
But, I digress. Brice arrived at hunk central where a bunch of svelte, athletic men were stretching and laughing in their rollerblade gear. Feeling slightly out-of-place, but not wanting to let on, Brice flirted. He smiled. He preened. To hear him tell it, he was the life of the party for roughly ten minutes until it came time to actually rollerblade.
Then, he put on his skates and realized his mistake. Brice is not especially athletic or coordinated. At 300 pounds, balancing his oversized body on a single strand of four, small, centered wheels was an accident waiting to happen. And happen it did.
Surprisingly, he managed to stay upright and navigate the flat stretch of paved park terrain by wobbling and wriggling forward, inching his way around after his more practiced gay comrades, until a dog—albeit a tiny Chihuahua-looking thing—got loose from its leash and ran toward Brice, yapping and jumping.
“Go away!” Brice snapped, teetering, but somehow managing to keep his balance.
I’d have given anything to see my friend furiously waving his hands about while simultaneously maneuvering his substantial bulk and trying to keep his cool. Remember, he was a man on the prowl after all, only signing up for gay rollerblading in the hopes that he might meet someone. Unfortunately, I have to content myself with Brice’s recounting of the details since I can’t be there to see it firsthand.
“Did you fall?” I ask. “Did the dog knock you down?”
“No. I’m pretty proud of myself for managing to stay on my feet. I wasn’t exactly graceful, but I didn’t fall—at least, not then.”
The dog’s owner had rushed over, scooped up the dog, and apologized as Brice skated slowly away. Crisis averted! And he was still vertical. Rounding
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