– A Horny Short Series –

Philip’s heart raced as though all of his exertions were needed to bottle his urges. It wasn’t working, though. In spite of the cardiac beatboxing in his chest and the audible thrum of the blood pushing through his veins, he could feel the cold, viscous touch of his excitement on the inside of his thigh, a breach in his resolve. He shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat, the coils within sounding an obnoxious, metallic announcement of just how ancient his F150 was getting. Raising his travel mug to his lips, he prayed the warm bitterness of coffee could serve as an antidote to the hormone dump that his endocrine system seemed to be making without his consent. He stared across the dusty dashboard into the murky bleakness of an another autumnal dawn over the construction site.

A mere fourteen hours earlier and roughly 65 feet from where he sat now, tormented by a raging erection, Philip had done something stupid. For nearly two weeks, he had been on site, liaising for his landscape architectural firm on what was going to be the largest industrial complex in the county. While he done his share of housing development common areas and even the occasional outlet mall project, he had never set foot on a job of this scale before. As far as the eye could see was mounds of clay, earth movers, rebar markers, coils of plastic hiding, fleets of pick-up trucks, and—of course—men, clomping around in heavy work boots and hi-viz vests.

It would have been enough to make anyone’s head spin, let alone a closeted gay man with a penchant for ogling protective footwear. Enter Ari, muddy stage left. Ari was one of the assistant project managers in what Philip could only assume was an entire fleet of task-masters and red-tape cutters for the massive construction conglomeration working the site. He had been assigned to work with Philip as the contractor’s counterpart to his own role, and Philip had been instantly smitten.

He might have first been taken with Ari’s soft spoken reserve, his impossibly dark eyes, or even the nerdy spectacles that framed them. But what had really revved his engines was Ari’s habitual donning of Muck Boots whenever they met at the site. It didn’t seem to matter the weather or the conditions of the ground, Ari plodded across the ravaged landscape in his boots regardless, often with the neoprene shafts turned down and their bright orange lining forming two flashing cuffs, like inner tubes at his calves over which his spotless jeans bunched.

Ari’s ritual of standing at the trunk of his Nissan Versa to shrug on his fluorescent green vest and kick off his shoes so that he could point his feet into those boots had become a sexy Fred Roger’s-like scene that Philip machinated to witness whenever he was there— even if it meant showing up ridiculously early or on the complete opposite end of the site from where he needed to be.

Which is how he happened to spot his chance to steal said boots the previous evening.

Philip had taken up his usual post behind the wheel, hardening with anticipation as Ari strolled to the rear of his hatchback. In spite of it having been yet another dismal, overcast day in a long line of similarly murky days, the afternoon had grown unseasonably warm. As Philip mopped the back of his sticky neck, he had imagined what the inside of those neoprene-lined boots would be like—how breathable could waterproof boots really be? He practically moaned at the thought when Ari plucked a pair of tired-looking, gray Levi slip-ons from the cargo net and dropped them on the ground. Phillip had leaned forward, Adam’s apple brushing the steering wheel, like he was a spectator tracking a suspenseful horse race. Ari had backed a white-socked foot from one boot, then the other. Even through a cloudy windshield and from at least two car lengths away, Philip’s adrenaline-sharpened eyes could trace the lines of each wrinkle and crease that had been etched into the damp cotton after its day in the depths of a rubbery prison.

The socks performed a spellbinding dance, eventually disappearing from view as Ari wobbled his feet back and forth into the accepting mouths of the slip-ons. The scene apparently concluded, Philip had issued a shaky sigh and had begun to power down his mental video recorder, anticipating the on-demand replay that would occur later that evening when a distant voice—muffled in his truck’s exterior—rang out across the parking lot and Ari turned away to look for its owner. Philip followed his gaze to Randy McGary, who was motioning Ari over to his truck for reasons Philip couldn’t make out.

Ari had slammed the car’s hatch down as he ambled toward Randy, and Philip was left in the deafening silence of his truck cab with only the quickening rhythm of his heart to keep him company as he stared at what Ari had left behind: his boots. They stood at attention next to the Versa’s dusty bumper, looking forlorn without a handsome set of feet to animate them.

Cogent thought didn’t have a chance as Philip’s eyes darted toward Ari and Randy, who were both peering at something on Randy’s tailgate. Blueprints, perhaps. Or a water run-off study. He didn’t care. Whatever it was, it had provided him the chance to slide from his truck and—somewhat hampered by an insistent boner lodged against his thigh—hobble across the rutted ground to claim his plunder. Such a shame that the expedience and stealth required of this impromptu operation meant that he was unable to savor the lingering warmth of the boots as he clamped their spongy neoprene shafts in his hand, which he hung low to his side as he dashed back to his getaway vehicle. The boots leaned dejectedly against the passenger door when he threw them into the footwell and drove off, the precious vestiges of Ari’s perspiration left to slowly evaporate out of his reach, to Philip’s chagrin.

Still, the drive home had been one of intense foreplay. Phillip had resisted the urge to pull over, or even to lean down and run his fingertips across them at red lights. Just glancing at their twin barrels, flickering in the waning day’s light as the utility poles slid by and wobbling with the vibration over the road’s uneven surface had him pulsing with an exquisite impatience.

So stupid. So incredible.

Phillip turned and looked over at them now, mere shadows in the watery daybreak. They seemed to stare back, almost questioningly as he burned with the memory of the previous night. Not once, not even twice, but three times did he arrive at indescribable pleasure as he buried his face in one, thrust the other between his thighs, run his tongue over the pebbled rubber toe caps, and even bit the soft neoprene, all while imagining them on Ari’s feet, his beautiful face looking on impassively as Philip committed the acts without restraint.

It had been on his last climax—his back arching as his spent body scoured itself of what little seed it had left to offer the boots—that the notion of returning the footwear to its owner rather than keeping the pilfered gear crossed his mind. The sudden inspiration had sweetened the orgasm. There was an surge of anticipation to hand the boots back over to Ari and watch him put them on once again, but this time knowing that they were forever changed in a way that only Philip knew.

Now that he was actually facing that moment, Philip was tormented. The residual thrill tumbled with the shame of his compulsion and suspense of seeing Ari and having to explain his possession of the boots. What was Ari doing now? Was he searching his hatchback for the boots, wondering where he had misplaced them? Philip pictured him leaning over the back of the compact car, his brow furrowing in confusion behind those dark-rimmed glasses. He found himself emitting a small moan as he slumped slightly in the drivers seat, the unwanted erection becoming insistent. Unconsciously, he started sliding his thumb back and forth across the denim bulge at his crotch like a windshield wiper. Perhaps Ari was on his way here now, the dull gray Levis on his feet. Did Versas come in standard transmission? Phillip hoped they did. He imagined Ari deftly working the clutch with his left foot as he backed his right off the accelerator, just as he had backed his foot out of his boots the day before.

Philip was pumping his cock before he had even registered he had unzipped his pants. “God, I can’t be doing this!” he whimpered frantically as he looked down and surveyed the situation, detached and helpless. The rhythmic squeal of the seat coils, the whisper of hot skin on skin, and the sound of his constricted voice were almost deafening in the confines of the small cab. “I have to stop!” He was hissing between his teeth, looking up at the stained headliner above him when a flash of blue crossed in front of the truck and the the angry red halos of the Versa’s taillights shone through the foggy windshield.

Philip felt the ascent toward climax when he saw the driver door open. A gray shoe appeared on the doorsill—a slip-on, but not the Levi from yesterday. A Hey-Dude? Yes—Philip could see the plastic capped lace protruding from the side—like an antenna, broadcasting on a wavelength that only shoe fetishists could receive. There was a flash of a white-swathed ankle from beneath the hem of brown canvas work pants as it froze there for a moment, poised in a teasing tableaux as Ari spoke into his cell.

It was when the shoe touched down to the dusty ground and a white heel softly popped over the rim of the heathered Wally that Phillip grabbed one of the boots and frantically came inside of it, his milky tumble of emotions sliding down the bright orange lining like cascading candle wax.