Chapter 2
(All characters are at least 18 years of age.)
John was still within the shower enclosure. His face had turned a deep shade of red, and not for the first time that day. He made a silent prayer that Frank had not seen his cum hitting the glass in front of him, or, worse, seen his genitalia. He was wondering what the mirror opposite the shower enclosure could have shown her. Sadly, it seemed probable that she had seen something embarrassing. The far wall was mirrored along its entire length from about waist height all the way up to the ceiling. John clung to the slim hope that either Frank had not turned her head to the right at all, or else that the mirror had been too fogged-up for her to have seen anything inappropriate. On the latter point, he had no way to know. He had not been paying attention to the mirror while he had been showering, and, now that the shower was off, the glassy surface showed only minimal signs of moisture.
John stepped out of the shower enclosure, after first using a squeegee on the glass to remove excess water and thereby prevent staining. He found the purple towel on the back of the toilet, where Frank had said it would be. He dried himself off hurriedly, combed and blow-dried his hair, and put on his boxers, shorts and t-shirt. He struggled to pull the t-shirt over his chest and remembered, with mild annoyance, that it had become too small for him. He had meant to throw it away weeks ago. He left it on anyway. He did not want to cross the hallway half-undressed. He could change into a properly-fitting t-shirt from his room on the way to the kitchen.
Before hunting for another shirt, he wanted to verify whether Frank could have seen him ejaculating in the shower. As he left the bathroom, he performed an about-face. He then opened the door about as much as, he presumed, Frank had done. He could not be sure that he was accurately replicating her position, but it was the best he could do. Then he looked at the mirrored wall on the right. Dismayed, John realized that if she had so much as glanced to her right, she would have seen something shameful. He could clearly see the far wall of the shower enclosure; at the least, she would have seen his semen on the glass. There had been a lot of it. John was worried it might be worse than that. He tried sticking his head a few inches past the door frame. Now he could see the rest of the enclosure. "Ugh, I think she saw my dick!" John thought morosely.
John's brain cycled between pondering how clear the mirror had been, whether Frank had even been looking, or whether she poked her head in at all. His attention drifted as he fruitlessly considered these hypothetical questions and their ramifications. Now he began to ponder why he was worried in the first place. Frank was not interested in men and, probably, could care less about seeing a penis. But then again, he did not want other guys to see him jacking off, for example. And Frank was kind of like another guy, in some ways. On the other hand, Frank truly was his best friend, so, again, why did he care what she saw?
"Hey, super chef!" Frank appeared at the end of the hallway. "C'mon dude, I'm fucking. Starving."
John snapped out of his internal dialogue. He hurried down the corridor towards Frank. He wanted to stop by his new bedroom to get a bigger t-shirt, but given all the delays, he did not feel like he could afford to put off lunch any longer.
Frank padded across the living room, back through the entryway, and then down a short hallway opposite the front door. John followed her through the hallway and into a spacious kitchen. Light was streaming in through three large windows, as well as through the open blinds on a set of French doors that lead to the back yard. John noted a modern and expensive-looking gas range, two ovens, and a large island for food preparation. On the far side of the island was a counter, with barstools. Guests could sit and watch the chef. John thought back to the shabby-looking exterior of the house. It was a stark contrast to the thoughtfully designed and spacious kitchen.
"Out!" John shouted at Frank. He placed his hands on her shoulders and marched her unceremoniously towards the door to the hallway. He was hoping to avoid the subject of what he had been up to in the shower, and was using Frank's legendary lack of ability in the kitchen as cover. Frank had other plans, though, and twisted off to the right, away from John's grasp.
"Gotta take a whiz," she said, laughing. Rather than exit the kitchen, she slipped dexterously into a small powder room.
John turned around and walked to the other side of the island. Before he could begin to cook, he was startled by a loud noise coming from behind him. It sounded like a substantial stream of water forcing its way out of a small hose. John turned around to see that Frank had not closed the door to the powder room. It was so wide open that he could see her left kneecap. Frank peed for half a minute. The longer the peeing went on, the harder his cock got, straining again at his pants.
"How many times is this going to happen today?" John thought to himself as he looked down at his crotch. He was thankful that the island would hide his erection, should Frank elect to return to the kitchen. Now that he thought about it, when they were growing up Frank rarely closed the door when urinating, although she did close the door for more involved bathroom activity. At least, this held true as long as it was only himself, or her mom, in the house. In the past he had not paid much attention to this quirky behavior. But then again, it had never had such an effect on his physiognomy before.
The bathroom noises ceased at last. Back in the tiny bathroom, Frank wiped her vagina from front to back with toilet paper, pulled up her basketball shorts (she was not wearing underpants), washed her hands for a full recital of the "ABC" song, and returned to the kitchen. She noticed John's face bring red face but said nothing except for, "Ah, now that's much better," as she slid gracefully onto one of the high bar stools lining one side of the island.
John was desperate to seem cool in front of Frank. He wanted to distract her from his red face and, assuming she might be able to see over the counter, his erection.
"Ever heard of closing the door? I thought a dam burst or somethin'!" John chided her.
Without missing a beat, Frank responded, "Suck my dick, bitch, you know you like listening in!" She grabbed her crotch aggressively and thrust her hips forward.
John burst out laughing.
"Well, lost that round," he thought to himself.
Frank seemed in no hurry to get up, so John fetched her a tall glass of water with lots of ice. John recalled that she was fanatical about staying hydrated. She would constantly give him grief about it in times past. He got himself a glass, too, anticipating what she would say if he did not.
A feline expression settled on Frank's face. She loved to watch John cook and knew that he was play acting when he had earlier shooed her out. He was a different person when he was in the kitchen. Unlike his usual self, John the Chef was confident and, at times, authoritarian. Both of John's parents were professional chefs. They had eventually started an upscale Italian restaurant together, a year before their recent divorce. Both parents had spent many hours drilling John, the oldest of three siblings, on all aspects of food preparation.
Being busy chefs who worked long hours in, or near, a kitchen all day, his parents almost never prepared meals at home. John was the only kid his parents had had the time or energy to instruct. Starting from when he was thirteen years old, he had prepared almost every home meal for himself and his younger sisters. When his parents were present at dinnertime he cooked for them, too. They were liberal with their critiques of his technique. This had never bothered him. Although he had a lengthy list of complaints about his parents, this was not among them. He liked cooking and had a natural desire to improve at it.
By contrast, Frank was possibly the worst cook, even for someone of her age, that John had ever encountered. The only dish she seemed capable of remembering was scrambled eggs and toast, and she invariably managed to leave bits of eggshell in the eggs, and burn the toast. Every time. John had tried to teach her a few other dishes over the years. She proved unable to pay attention, for more than ten seconds, to anything related to the preparation of food. John had ultimately given up on her for good.
Debbie, herself an excellent cook with gourmet proclivities, had likewise given up on teaching her daughter any culinary skills. A running joke in the past had been that John and Frank must have been accidentally swapped at birth. The last time John had seen Debbie was at Frank's sixteenth birthday party. Debbie and John spent seven hours together that day, in the kitchen at their old house, preparing a lavish birthday meal for the two dozen guests in attendance.
John surveyed the kitchen. Debbie was out of town on a work trip that would last three more weeks. The first leg of the trip was a seminar on Canadian tax law in Toronto. Then there was an off-site meeting for the entire accounting department. By coincidence, it was also in Canada. Her firm had rented out a set of conference rooms at a hotel in Lake Louise, Alberta. Given Debbie's absence, John feared that the kitchen had been stocked by Frank. Frank could not be trusted with grocery shopping any more than she could be trusted with cooking. He was therefore relieved when he opened the wide, stainless-steel door to the refrigerator. It was packed. Debbie must have, before leaving, stocked up at a gourmet grocery store. John noted a jar pate, prosciutto wrapped in butcher paper, bags labeled with the names of exotic mushrooms, and many other uncommon ingredients.
Frank observed John as he began to assemble a simple meal, including bone-in chicken breasts, white wine, and garlic. Her eyes flicked left and right, tracking his deft, efficient movements. Then she saw him stop, suddenly lost in thought. He was, in fact, chiding himself, "I'm so used to cooking for my bratty little sisters." John had just remembered that Frank had a broad palette. She disliked bland food and he could not think of an ingredient she did not like. John's right hand made a slapping motion towards his face. He turned around and reopened the refrigerator, and retrieved a package of foie gras, a brown paper bag labeled "chanterelles", and a handful of Jerusalem artichokes.
Although famished, Frank neither interrupted nor complained as John whipped together roasted chicken breasts in a foie gras cream sauce, sauteed Jerusalem artichokes with sage butter and chanterelles, and a green salad with Caesar dressing. There was a baguette in the freezer from which he made a few slices of toast. Lastly, John had not forgotten their conversation on the doorstep concerning beer, and selected two Fat Tire Ales from the back of the fridge. Thus, around an hour later John and Frank were seated at a glass-topped table on the patio outside the kitchen.
"I love you, man!" Frank said in her deep voice, before spearing a hunk of chicken on her fork and swishing it around in the pan sauce. A look of pure bliss crossed her face as she ate. "If you were a chick, I'd freakin' marry ya."
Then she asked him, "Have you been working out?" John's overly tight t-shirt gave her a clear picture of what his torso looked like.
"I've been doing pushups every day, and a few other things sometimes, why?"
"I can kind of tell. What d'you think about working out together? I can show you some stuff. And I'm going to need to work out a lot if you're gonna keep cooking like this. Otherwise I'm gonna get faaaat."
