I don't know shit about cars, but my butch friend Jack knows a thing or two, so the next time the oil light indicator pops up on my dash, I text them about it.
Me: "Hey this happened" [picture of dashboard]
Jack: "Come over tomorrow. 2"
It could be a booty call. I wish it were.
I wear a black t-shirt and a chain necklace with black jeans and boots, an outfit that makes me feel masc. They're wearing a pair of navy coveralls covered in grease stains, and damn if they don't make it look good on their buff frame.
"Hey Jack," I say, stepping out of my truck in their garage. "Thanks for helping me out, man."
"No prob, bro." I like when they call me bro. I like to imagine that it's flirty. You never know with butches.
My truck is a green 1999 Toyota Tacoma. Nothing special, and definitely not a sexy truck. It's had a long life. The paint is peeling and the leather of my seats is worn and cracked. It's a miracle it's still kicking.
They tell me to pop the hood and I fumble for a second with the latch inside. Jack struggles with the safety latch on the hood, muttering something about Tacomas, and I watch their thick fingers gently coax it open. They start explaining the process of an oil change to me and I pretend to understand and nod along. Honestly, I'm mostly looking at their lips and jaw and eyes, thinking about their strong, dirty hands, thinking about them getting to their knees for me. I lick my lips.
They grab a wrench and kneel to set up a tray to collect the oil beneath the truck, twisting off the old filter and letting the oil drain. I swallow as I check out the curve of their sweet ass, watching them carefully. They stand back up and I pretend like I wasn't staring.
We chat about work, school, and our friend Ryan for a bit, shooting the shit. They ask teasingly about my erotica writing that they see me post about on instagram, and I blush, saying that I'm working on a piece about a Halloween party. They smirk at me in the cute way that gives them a dimple on their right cheek. We get on to talking about Halloween costumes in general, and I'm relieved and disappointed that we moved on so quickly from talking about erotica.
The oil finishes draining, and Jack explains something about replacing the filter and I pretend to care. I would listen to them talk about anything in their rumbly, deep voice. They get back underneath the truck with a rag and a wrench and I swallow as I watch their body. They say the next step is to refill it with oil and that I can do it.
"Okay," I nod. I have to bend over the truck a little, carefully pouring the oil into the engine. I feel their eyes on my body. They tell me when to stop and say, "Good boy," and I blush so hard I practically burst into flames. That's no fucking accident. They read my erotica and know what I like.
They finish checking the oil level, checking for leaks, and they have me turn the car back on to make sure that the oil maintenance light has disappeared.
"Thanks so much, man. Can I venmo you?" I ask, stepping out of the truck.
They close the door behind me and press me against it.
"No," they say. "There's something else you can do."
I'm breathing hard, pinned to the truck with their thick arms on either side of me.
"What?" I squeak.
They bring their lips to my ear. "You can be a good boy..." they say, and a flame lights in my belly. "And take my cock in your cunt right here on top of your cute little truck." I whimper, and then I snap my lips shut.
"Do you want that, dirty boy?" they ask, pressing their body against me "Do you want my cock in you, hmm? Have you fantasized about it? Written about it?"
My knees are weak and I'm breathing hard. "Yes," I whisper.
"Yes what?" they demand.
"Yes I want that," I pant. "Yes I've fantasized about that."
"Did you write about it?" they ask.
