Tongue Twisted Two: Five Freaky Fables Featuring Full Frontal

By Mark Blaise

Five more sexy paranormal short stories for adults that will make your heart race and your palms sweat. In story one, our waiter Franklin hears disembodied voices in the cellar of the restaurant he works at. The voices are so scary that he has a hard time concentrating on flirting with the guy at table three...In story two, Fenton comes home from the war, accompanied by the love of his life. The problem is, his soul mate never seems to age...In story three, Philip asks for counseling because he has a memory of something no one else seems to recall...In story four, Perrin is about to admit to his fiance that he hides a family secret from him- and the rest of the world...And in story five, Pharaoh goes on a date that leads to a three week cat-and-mouse chase through New Jersey. And as big as New Jersey is, Pharaoh cannot seem to find a place to hide...Plus there is an LGBT card game named "Full Frontal."

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483529912

Book preview

leave?

I.

FRANKLIN

Kenny tells me to spit in the man’s wine. It doesn’t have to be a honker, it just has to have enough of my DNA to make it undrinkable. He glances at his cell phone, looks up at me, then adds that he wants some floating on top, large enough to make the man cause a scene. Did he just read his instructions to me off of his phone? I don’t know, but I would rather he do it. I don’t dare ask him, though.

Well? Kenny asks. You doing this or what?

It’s impossible to say no to Kenny. He is a good general manager who gave me a good job in an upscale establishment. I owe him. So, two nights ago, when he asked me to cover part of the shift for my relief waiter who would be an hour late, I said yes. Last night, when he asked me to go alone into the haunted cellar of his haunted restaurant to retrieve an expensive bottle of wine for an important customer, I said yes. (I could hear disembodied voices down there. It’s creepy.) And tonight, when he asked me to cover his new girlfriend’s table for her kid’s nineteenth birthday, I said yes again.

But for this, I hesitate. I am about to spit in a man’s wine. I feel guilty for even considering it. I feel guilty for hesitating. Yes, Kenny is my general manager, but he’s also a kind and loving father-figure; a daddy. Even at 22 years old, sometimes a gay man still needs a daddy. I don’t want to disappoint him. So I flip on my bravery switch, lift the glass of red wine from the counter, slosh around a thick wad of saliva, then goober in the glass before I have another chance to think about it.

Good, Kenny says with a look of satisfaction. I’ll walk it over to him.

I could do it, I answer, feeling bad that my boss would have to do something so menial.

Nah, he said. Franklin, you check on Table One. That’s the important table. I got this.

Kenny walks out of the kitchen, passes his girlfriend’s table without even looking up, and heads for Table Three. Nine people at the table in the middle of a celebration all stop talking to pay attention. Kenny smiles, and each one of them thinks he is smiling at them personally. It is a nice smile from a handsome fifty year old man…who apparently has a secret fetish for spitting in wine. The things you learn about people you think you know.

The head-of-the-house smiles and acknowledges Kenny with, K.J. Seid.

Hello, Francis. You haven’t eaten in this dive in almost nine years. I was thrilled you accepted my invitation when I bumped into you the other night, Kenny says with a smile.

Francis shakes his head enthusiastically. He can’t believe that a man as old as him has the ability to remember the last time he sat in our restaurant and ordered from our menu.

My oldest is getting married to her college sweetheart. It was a good time to get the family together to celebrate. Thanks for the suggestion, the head-of-the-house says.

Kenny looks down the table, past Francis’s wife, at the beautiful twenty-two year-old sitting in the middle chair around the table. Her good-looking fiancé sits next to her. He has long, blonde hair, sad puppy-dog eyes and wears loose-fitting clothes. Under those clothes has to be a swimmer’s build. He is certainly cute enough to be gay.

That’s your oldest? Kenny asks.

That’s her, Francis responds. Fresh out of college and ready for marriage. Michelle and Roman are getting hitched in the spring.

Kenny introduces himself to each of Francis’s other children, and asks where each ranks in birth order. All of the kids start throwing out information about themselves at the same time. Kenny appears to be listening to every single one of them.

Francis continues to talk to Kenny over his children’s introductions with, November, December, January, February, March, April….that gives them less than six months to get ready.

Kenny isn’t listening—he is poring over his phone screen again—so Francis talks louder. He wants to hold Kenny’s attention. K.J., these kids coordinated the entire wedding using just their smart phones. They didn’t even ask for financial help from me and the missus.

K.J. Seid (to some of his customers)…Kenny (to his staff)…stops dividing his attention and hands the glass of wine to Francis. I thought maybe he would change his mind. He doesn’t.

Enjoy, he says. A small gift from me to the father of the bride.

Thank you, Kenny. And with that, the man lifts the glass of wine to his lips and drinks all of it in one gulp.

Kenny nods his head at Francis and walks back to the kitchen. He finds me watching the entire exchange. His eyes widen (his pupils are the size of nickels) to show his dissatisfaction that I have not yet asked his girlfriend and her son for their order.

I’m going, I say, unable to believe what my boss just did.

Push that pumpkin cheesecake.

Even at your girlfriend?

I want that crap gone by the end of the night.

Check.

And she doesn’t know, Kenny calls out, as the kitchen door swings closed behind me. I know he is referring to Michelle’s fiancé with the puppy-dog eyes and the swimmer’s build, who probably keeps his stomach very, very flat and most likely has a habit of spreading his legs for men with similar builds as his. That could be me. Let’s see how the night goes.

I introduce myself to Kenny’s girlfriend and her son. I tell them that they must be important to him since I’ve never met any of Kenny’s girlfriends before. Despite how good Kenny makes me feel about working here, and how much he supports me emotionally in every aspect of my life, he doesn’t really say much about his own life. I don’t say the last thought out loud.

They both decide on the codfish. Agnes wants pan-fried cod fillet with brown rice and steamed carrots. Her son, Garbes, a few years younger than me, a cute nerd with a pocket-protector, wants his cod poached, with a side order of broccoli. I have the insatiable urge to advise him that if he is going to insist on being a gay nerd, then he needs to stop eating broccoli in public. Otherwise, any guy even remotely interested in him will automatically assume he farts for an hour after dinner. I hold my tongue. He wouldn’t have heard me anyway. He is busy staring at my zipper.

The couple at Table Seven asks if they could have another five minutes. The shorter of the two men requests that I Go away and come back later. I wasn’t planning on lurking, if that’s what he was worried about.

Michelle calls me back over to the big party. She wants specifics on how the swordfish is prepared. I stand between her and her future-husband/my future one-night-stand and dare myself to casually place my right hand on the center of her back and my left hand on his shoulder. Neither says a word about this. I explain that because Pacific swordfish is so meaty, it is best cooked on a grill. I tell them some of the options for seasoning. The conversation remains one-sided, and when I stop talking, Michelle puts her hands over her mouth and looks down. Her affect seemed extremely incongruent.

I love it, I say, and take my hand off her back. She doesn’t say anything in response. I leave my hand on Roman’s shoulder until I turn to walk away. She still doesn’t say anything. I don’t know what else to do but walk away.

You’re selling it to me hook, line and sinker, Michelle responds, her hand still over her mouth. I wonder what the geisha hand is all about.

I tilt my head, wondering how she plans to extend her thought. I stand there for two minutes while she remains silent. I give up and turn to walk away.

She blurts out, I’ll take it.

I didn’t know she was ordering her main course, since they hadn’t even been asked if they wanted appetizers. I say, Very good, and nod politely.

Son! Francis yells to me. Come here.

I walk over to Father, slump my shoulders slightly forward and lean in. He asks for a second glass of the same wine K.J. brought him earlier and tells me to get it to him in a hurry. I don’t say, Would you be requiring the same amount of spit? Rather, I say my usual, Very good, and head for the kitchen.

What did he want? Kenny asks.

He asked me for a glass of the house wine.

I’ll take it to him, he says, retrieving the bottle from where he left it after he poured the first glass.

No sir, I insist. I don’t mind.

Kenny pours another glass and tells me to spit in it again. He wants a sticky the size of porridge. I can’t believe how angry he seems at this man, whom he is (at least) casually familiar with. I do as he instructs, in front of witnesses this time, feeling as if I should say something that would convince Kenny to stop this before it explodes in his face. I stay silent. Why stop now? I wish I could understand his motive, since his behavior seems so twisted.

You either put more effort into flirting with Agnes’s son, or you walk your concoction over to Francis at Table Three, Kenny says. Before you decide, I have it on good authority that the young man has a garden hose dangling between his legs.

Kenny doesn’t seem to want to spend any time with his girl or her son so I stop insisting. He takes the glass of wine from me. Before I leave the kitchen to wait on the nerd and his mom, I look at the ground between our feet, gather up the nerve, and shyly ask my boss, How do you know about the garden hose?

He nods his head in the direction of the assistant chef. Luis was standing at the urinal next to him when he was taking a whiz.

Kenny heads for Francis, passing his girlfriend and her son without even looking in their direction. I know the employees in this restaurant are always busy and running, but I can’t figure out why he doesn’t even casually smile at Agnes. Francis cheerfully accepts his liquor and drinks some more of my mouth-lube. I’m not happy. I wish I could stop this. I don’t know how.

Garbes eats only a small portion of his meal and opts to skip dessert (unless it’s what’s hanging left in my tight, black pants, since he never looks anywhere else). But Agnes wants dessert. When she is done with her fish, she wants pineapples. I tell her to consider the pumpkin cheesecake. It’s infused with candy corn. I’ve been eating it all day. That’s a lie.

Don’t you think Garbes should have cake also? It is his birthday, Agnes states.

Garbes turns to me and whispers, It’s not really my birthday. I didn’t want to celebrate every year on All Saint’s Day, so I tell people my birthday is on Halloween.

His story is cute and I tell him so. I also say that he has a nice sense of humor. While I’m standing over him, I attempt to glance at the bulge between his legs. The tablecloth is covering most of his pants, so there’s not much to see.

Your birthday cake is on me, I blurt out, trying to find a way to make myself irresistibly lovable to Garbes. I’m not usually attracted to guys with dark hair. I usually like guys with light hair, like me. Garbes is different.

That’s very sweet of you, Franklin, Agnes says. It’s too bad we’re working…I mean, you’re working, or I would invite you to sit with us so we could enjoy your company.

Would the boss mind if I sat for a minute and entertained his girlfriend and my date (he doesn’t know it yet) for tomorrow night? I don’t risk it. I should. It’s not like my boss has spent one second at her table. I excuse myself to the kitchen to steal two pieces of cake. Luis is behind the counter, chopping celery with one hand and stirring a squash cream soup with the other. There are no other waiters around and the head chef is certainly not paying any attention to me. Luis catches me looking at him and smiles.

You were in the bathroom a little while ago, I say, unsure if I should ask our assistant chef whether he did a sneak-peak at our customer’s wiener.

Luis winks at me. I washed my hands.

I’m sure, I say, and abandon my idea of asking him any follow-up questions. I slice a second piece of cake and set it on a small dessert plate. I’m going to insist that Garbes eat it.

Kenny continues talking to Francis, who periodically continues to check his cell phone. Even with Roman sitting at the center of the table, I can’t take my eyes off of my boss’s peculiar behavior and how it relates to this customer. Their words are hard to hear from a distance, but are obviously passionate. I walk to Garbes and Agnes, place a piece of cake in front of each of them without ever taking my eyes off of Kenny. Agnes reaches for my hand. Her touch snaps my attention back to the cute, gay nerd and his mom.

I look down to see Garbes holding my hand. His skin is soft; his fingers are long and thin. He says, Thank you, Franklin, and takes his hand away.

A shock of electricity courses through me. I deal with the shutter running down my back by standing straight. I could only think to say, Mom, should we sing to the birthday boy?

Garbes reluctantly agrees to let us and we quietly sing/speak, We wish you a happy birthday, we wish you a happy birthday, we wish you a happy birthday, and a pinch to grow an inch, to the tune of a Christmas song. I don’t really know any Halloween songs.

His mom claps. I tell them I will return quickly, once I check on my other tables.

Before Kenny walks away from Francis, I hear him say something about, Potassium to heal the inner wounds, which is nothing I’ve ever heard anyone say, let alone Kenny.

The almost-bear and almost-twink at the difficult table announce their need for five more minutes (which in waiter’s terms means bad tip night). I nod and ask if I could get them more water. The taller one, whose name I think is Auto, tells me to bring the smaller one, Perrin, some seltzer water, and that he’ll take, Anything diet.

Very good, I say and leave them to debate whatever it is they’re debating.

Kenny is talking to Luis in the kitchen. They’re behind the counter that separates the chef from the wait staff. Luis talks with his hands, both of which are in front of him, with the palms facing each other. About eight or nine inches of space separate the two palms. Kenny mentions the enormity of the size, so I twist my neck to hear. Some part of me doesn’t want my daddy engaging in this discussion.

Luis says, I gasped. It was very large.

My excitement increases. Garbes certainly likes me. I like him. If that’s what he has down there, then my affection for him just grew exponentially. I can get used to the uneven sideburns and the high-water pants and the Band-Aid holding his broken glasses together at the bridge. Although the white socks with brown shoes will be changed immediately.

Kenny looks over at me. He knows I’m listening. We’re talking about the pieces of cheesecake you stole for Agnes and Garbes.

I know, I say quickly, hightailing it out of Kenny’s sight before he has a chance to widen his eyes and point his finger at my twelve-dollar theft. Why he would want me to be stingy with his girlfriend is confusing.

I take the seltzer water to Perrin and the diet cola to Auto. I listen in on the conversation that keeps them from ordering. If they aren’t going to give me their order, at least they could give me some gossip I could take back to the kitchen. Auto sounds reluctant to agree to a winter cruise with Perrin. Perrin listens to every concern Auto voices, then counters with an assurance that they would have a good time. Rich people talk. Auto is on the verge of agreeing to go when I give up asking for their order and walk away.

Garbes hands me two one-hundred dollar bills as payment for their dinner, and tells me to keep the change. Kenny never instructed me as to whether I should comp any part of their meal, so I never brought them the check. I calculate the bill in my head, and Garbes’s tip is so large, I think about kissing him. I bring him back my name and phone number on a fake receipt that I wrote, Text me when you get home on. He smiles and nods that he will. Agnes thanks me. They stand up to leave. I hug her. I hug her again because she is the single parent of a gay son, and that just reminds me of my mom.

You want me to find Kenny before you leave?

No. That’s okay.

Peculiar.

They aren’t gone five minutes when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I know it’s Garbes. I walk in the kitchen for a minute to sneak a look at the message.

The text reads,

Dad won’t die from bacterial infection because of you, spit boi.

Did Garbes really hear us talking about spitting in Francis’s wine? Did he think it would be cute to refer to me as spit boi? All I can think to write back is,

Uhmmmm.

Garbes reacts immediately with,

Friggin’ autocorrect. I was trying to thank you for making my birthday night with my mom so special. I hate technology LOL.

Relief washes over me. I text back,

You’re welcome. I’m hoping we can talk after work tonight.

His next text reads,

Sure, but be weary of the angel of death in the basement.

If we were speaking and not texting, I would run away from him as quickly as possible. I would hide behind Kenny for protection, let him be my bouncer. I don’t know how to react, (after all, I don’t know much about Garbes except that he is a cliché and everyone is talking about his big tip,) so I again write back,

Uhmmmmm,

with extra Ms this time.

He writes back,

OMFG, Seriously…I was trying to type that *I’m hoping we hook up tonight.*

He gets a thumbs up sign back. I shut off my phone and walk back into the dining room. Kenny is signaling that the party of nine is skipping appetizers and ready to order. I stand at my boss’s side, and listen as the entire family gives their specialized orders, with explanations about what they are allergic to. Francis reveals his issues with ongoing bowel pain, and the youngest sibling reveals what certain foods he can’t eat after 6 pm. I pretend to write it all down, reassure some of them that they made a very good decision on what they ordered, and head for the kitchen.

One second, Kenny says.

I stop in my tracks and turn to my boss. Yes? I ask, dreading his response before he even gives it.

Francis needs another glass of wine, Kenny says.

I wipe my hand across my mouth and tap one finger on my lips. I look as guilty as I feel. The words, Are you sure? escape my lips before I have a chance to rethink or retract saying it. I don’t think we have any more of the house wine.

Kenny looks down at his phone, and then shakes his head. I keep my eyes on my boss. I don’t dare look at our customer. Please go get another bottle of wine from the basement.

I say it again, without really thinking about how disrespectful it might sound. "Are