Snobs

Fucking snobs.

They think just because I wear this one-piece navy blue jumpsuit all day everyday just to make a few dollars above minimum wage it gives them the right to talk to me any kind of fucking way! Actually, the last two ends ain’t entirely true. For one thing, I rake in a tad bit more than the Average Corporate Joe ‘cause I really put in some real work with these two beefy hands. And two, when a regular customer gets a look at my shaven scalp and red bandage-wide soul patch with a wedge of my colorful tattoo showing across either my broad neck or pec they automatically give me the utmost respect as Satan’s little redneck helper.

If I wanted to start this right maybe I should start from the beginning, huh?

In the beginning there was an Asshole who fathered a Meathead that turned around and produced a Pipsqueak. The Asshole, grandfather of said Pipsqueak, gave Pipsqueak a key to a townhouse that wasn’t ready to be moved into yet. But rather than tell the fucking little shithead to go fuck himself to pass the time, Pipsqueak chose to complain to Asshole (that also doubled as the property developer) who called upon crews of men to work around the clock to get that one free townhouse livable while a couple of hundred units that have already been paid for sit and wait for their completion. Talking to the different guys working on this particular project, I knew my number was coming up. I just wasn’t expecting it to pop up on poker night.

Had better circumstances prevailed, I would’ve happily told Pipsqueak and his malignant Asshole to go suck a fat lemon. Unfortunately, I was venturing out on my own in the cable installation business, and the Asshole himself promised me a lineup of jobs–if I didn’t fuck this up. So, I kept my tongue buried in my teeth, and turned my happy ass back around to service the Asshole Master.

Except for Pipsqueak’s townhouse, most of the surrounding buildings were wood-beamed skeleton. So, his house wasn’t hard to find in the wave of new construction, considering the two others around him were just slapped with faces just so his home didn’t stand out like a lone star.

“Where have you been?” Pipsqueak answered the door, in his robe, angrily, and pulling me and my clipboard inside.

“Sir, I came over as soon as Mr. Paddington called…that was barely ten minutes ago.” I said as any resemblance to the only apology that bastard was going to get out of me.

“That can’t be!” Pipsqueak whined, heading down the long narrow hallway that ran parallel to a decadent staircase of nude male models. “I told him I needed it done by tonight so I could watch myself on TV.”

I took his disappearing act into a far-off room as my cue to follow him.

“I know nothing about that, sir. All I can tell you is he just told me about it ten minutes ago, look,” I said, opening up my cell phone to my last received call.

It was a great mark against the service industry, people thinking that were are not always timely just because. And I was more than happy to dismiss it since I was a fresh entrepreneur just starting out.

“Oh,” he ended, too stubborn to offer an apology.

“So what’s seems to be the problem?”

“It would seem to me that the cable guy is here because I need some cable!” Pipsqueak snapped, obviously with a ting of sarcasm in his voice.

I was thinking he needed my foot up his ass, but managed to mumble, “You need something alright.”

I should have said it loud and clear, screaming it from the top of the mountain. What was bleach-blonde pretty boy pipsqueak like him going to do to a strapping hairy bastard like myself? He was a lanky little pipsqueak with bony cheeks and a butt chin to spare. I will admit the SOB was attractive for his kind. He could have been more so if he wasn’t trying to cling onto the hope of being eighteen again rather than beefing up and not shaving off the proverbial chest hair to become a real man. Was it not for the threat of his asshole grandfather, I might’ve chased him around the house with a tent in my pants just for the hell of it. He was obviously queer. He probably would’ve accidentally “tripped”, snatched off his tidy whiteys, and spread his barely-there ass cheeks right there on the floor as subtle rebuttal.

“Calling the cable guy can mean several things, sir.” I said, gritting my teeth. “It could mean that you never had cable, the cable went out, water in the line, etc, etc.”

As a proud gay redneck, it always bothered me we gays were the snobbish of them all, especially those that were fortunate to own homes that honestly believed it was a queer world after all. Like this pipsqueak.

“Well,” he conceded. “I never had cable installed.”

“Good, then, I can hook you up.” I said, checking the wall to make sure it had a wall plate for cable in the room. For the dumbest reasons, people will put a television on the furthest wall away from the connection and then get mad at me because I tell them that they must get an extra-long cord to connect the wall plate to the TV or they have to move their furniture to where it would be more practical. Fortunately for him, the Pipsqueak wasn’t as dumb as he looked, putting this huge armoire in the corner next to the outlet with someone considerate enough to install a double jack (phone and cable).

“Mind?” I asked, trying to move the armoire away from the corner.

He was helpful, grunted a little that he was the help. But the pipsqueak helped nonetheless in fear I might just by “mistake” let the television fall out of the armoire, ruining his chances of watching television for awhile.

“Remember, telephone and internet is hooked up to the same line part of my package deal.” He noted.

“Alright. And all of them are going to be in here?”

He nodded in agreement.

I went to work. In some cases, I went beyond the call of duty (to impress his grandfather), hooking up the cable line to the television and connecting the phone line to his power pack to venture off to the telephone connections as well as the internet connection.

“Television, you say?” I asked, checking all the apparent connects to the electronics.

“What…Joel,” he said, reading my nametag on my jumper.

“You said you were going to be on TV tonight when I came through the door.”

“Yeah…on HGTV. I was a featured painter on Designer Final. Well, not actually featured. More like on there helping a good friend. But I was on there. I had to sign a release form and everything.”

“Cool,” I was saying before anything about what he said and laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“You,” I blurted. “No offense, I just have a hard time picturing you picking up a paintbrush.”

“Why is that so hard to believe?” Pipsqueak inquired asked, putting his hands on his hips.

“That.” I pointed.

It was that, along with the old idea of painters I had grown up with in my mind. Back when some of the neighbors came together to help out an elderly family paint their house, there was never a skinny man in the bunch. Sure, some were wiry, but nevertheless each of them had ridiculously thick forearms to support holding a paintbrush for hours on end without even a hint of fatigue. As a teenager I even joked to myself that they were getting the practice in by messing with their own paintbrushes. Pipsqueak, on the other hand, looked as if he would give up the tango with a paint roller shy of five minutes.

“Just because I’m—

I cut him off. “If you stand there and say something to the effect that I said something because you’re gay, I might just beat the shit out of you.”

By the look on his face, I had truly hurt his feelings.

“Just remember this for me: Not every gay man wears his sexuality on his sleeve.” I added.

He asked shocked “You?”

“What? You can’t hear?”

“But you’re—

“What? A serviceman or is it being a redneck? Pure ignorance, I suppose…on your part.” I ended.

I checked the connections one last time before turning everything on to make sure everything was working accordingly. With his face covered in yolk, he quietly hooked up his computer and telephone, slowly taking the wire from the power pack and hooking one up to the telephone and other to the surf box and the port box.

“Don’t worry, bub, you were no match for me.” I smiled. “I deal with snobs everyday that feels like the whole world owes them a favor every time they get out of bed!”

“I am not a snob.” Pipsqueak protested.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Andy,” he shied.

I asked, “Andy, as in just like your grandfather, Andy?”

He nodded.

“Andy, trust me when I say that you are more of a snob than anybody I know.” I said, turning on his television with the sizable spaceship remote, flipping through all the cable channels and such. I left the silence alone for awhile, hoping he would think about what I had said. I wasn’t trying to be mean to the snot. I was just being truthful–from an observance. “Do you know what channel your show is on?”

“Thirty-something or another,” Andy guessed.

I scored the thirty-something block of stations, lucking up on HGTV around channel fifty-two or fifty-three just in time to watch him paint a small piece of wall before the camera cut back over to the carpenter sawing off some of wood.

“I guess my job is done.” I said, crawling off the floor after reaching my clipboard and briefly filling my services rendered slip. “And if I can get you to sign this.”

He signed the clipboard. I handed him his receipt and trailed down the long hallway. I had almost reached the front door when he shouted. “I am not a snob, you know.”

I turned around and laughed. “What are you, then? ‘cause I have yet to hear a ‘thank you’ or you being hospitable enough to offer me something to drink or even a tip for coming along so impromptu. Because if it wasn’t for me just leaving this place, I could’ve easily told your grandfather to fuck off until tomorrow since I can’t claim any extra money off this project. That is another thing; he should’ve never let you moved in here in the first place. Step outside and look at the half-finished townhouses around you. Only a snob could bitch his way into getting a finished free townhouse before people who actually paid for theirs.”

“Okay, I get your point.” He conceded.

“I don’t think you do, Andy. Not with you snubbing your nose at me as soon as I came through the door. I should’ve just punched you in the throat for fucking up my poker night.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, though it carried out the door and the hall.

“Come again now?”

“I’m sorry for ruining your night.”

“Thank you.” I emphasized. “See, how easy that was.”

Andy was still unwavering, choosing to instead offer me a beer.

I accepted. I knew it was hard for a snob like him to get off his high horse like that. I followed the poor snot into the kitchen which wasn’t nearly as fancy as his den, but it made an impression, nonetheless. Along with an ice-cold beer, he offered me a seat at the counter and gave me a twenty-dollar tip for my time. It wasn’t much, but it was one less thing I could complain about to him. He even tried finding some common ground for us to engage in. But his taste was too highfalutin for a mere cable guy that only has three things on his mind at any given time.

He started in on his life, about his grandfather spoiling him while his parents tried to raise him right. When his parents could no long meet his ever-constant demands, he went to live with his grandfather that treated him like gold. Disappointingly, he was never asked to reciprocate with gratitude, and found cocking an attitude with others gave him the title of being a bitch. Because his grandfather continuously flipped the bill, he learned that money talked above all else. And, of course, nobody ever questioned that except for one guy in his life named Jimmy.

The story wasn’t the typical fuck story where the two men played around with one another before fucking around. No sir. Andy was to Martin as Jimmy was to Nelson (after The Simpsons characters grew up and perhaps submitted to their homoerotic desires as pussy and protector). Not exactly high school sweethearts but knew each other well growing up. But the summer after graduation, the two ran into each other at a leather bar, and Jimmy fucked Andy across the pool table for the whole world to see. Andy pointed out that during and afterwards, he felt like a total man-whore.

“And you’re telling me all this because?” I asked nonchalantly sipping on my beer and nibbling on some fancy cheese and crackers.

“I just wanted you to know I have not always been a total snob.” He delicately swirls his wine goblet.

“What? Either you’re a total snob or a total slut?”

“Not exactly, but close,” Andy winked.

I have never been the kind to let subtle gestures go unnoticed, so I called him out on it. “A bare bottom gets further with me than a weak wink.”

Andy snickered.

“Do I look like I am joking? I mean if you want me to whip out this redneck dick just let me know. I will whip it out on you so fast that you’ll be suing me for dick-whiplash!” I laughed.

“I would like to see that!” He said with a nervous laugh.

I was on the verge of pulling off my jumpsuit when he asked me to keep on my uniform calling me handsomely rugged and uncouth. “So? I’m like the Cable Guy on TV, ‘I getter done.’ I don’t have time for dillydally.”

Andy gulped down the last of his wine. “I’m not holding you up from doing something else, am I?”

“Nope,” I answered, looking at my watch and realizing that an hour had passed since I came through the door. “I missed my poker game by an hour, and the buy-in this late in the game would be astronomical without a good pot built up.”

“Who do you play with?” He inquired, though the look in his eyes said he was looking for some explicit escapades during our games. Never being one to disappoint–I, being the cable guy, coming at you with a selection of channels–I told him about some of the servicemen I engaged in playing poker with, from the drywall hangers to the tile setters to the big shot independent iron workers that makes time for the lowly union man. Of course, I threw in a couple of X-rated stories that were to certainly pique his snobbish and sluttish interests. From time to time, we had an insulator on his knees catching our hot spunk in his mouth for the mounting debt he owed us, to the time we forced an electrical apprentice to be our slut slave for the week just because. And there was no way I could resist, though, I didn’t even bother trying, of how we converted that virgin chute into one of the sluttiest holes this side of the pond, handsomely noting that he gave up his budding career as a talented plumber to be a porn star power bottom that specializes in getting gang banged across this great land.

“Looks like you’re kinda dry, Andy?” I commented to his stunned face.

I reach over the counter and swatted his crotch to find a boner pressing through his underwear.

“Let me rephrase that, kinda, well, eh?” I laughed, taking my last swig of beer. “Let me know when you want me to hook you up. Stick this dick up in you so fast, you’ll be crying for weeks…if not become a porn star solely on me.”

I got up from the counter and headed back down the hallway, leaving Poor Andy to himself. Rather than leave the townhouse, I quietly made my way up the stairs to the landing where I slowly unzipped my jumpsuit down to free my hairy chest and sweaty cock.

Once Andy made his way down the long hallway, checking out every room along the way for me, he chose to look up the stairs instead of out the door to find my cock jutting down at him. “Like I said before, I don’t beat around the bush.”

“What is it that you want me to do, Joel?” He said, trembling up the stairs.

“Whatever comes natural?”

Almost as if he was in a trance, Andy came rushing up the stairs with his mouth wide open ready to salivate on my hung meat. He was pretty good at the mouth-worshiping thing and tongue-bathing my orbs, working them every which way but loose. Because I have somewhat of a thick porky cock the last thing I was worried about was coming too soon. Still, though, I couldn’t resist encouraging him by emulating some of my favorite porn stars as he nearly unhinged his jaw to satisfy his need to slurp my cock.

“This was all you wanted, huh? I could tell that was all you wanted when I came through that door.” I said, coming off sympathetic to his plight. He wasn’t so much a snob, as he was an uptight prick who had gone too long without nursing a nice supple cock with a nipple head. “Ain’t that right?”

Andy said nothing, but his long-lasting cock slurping said it all with it dripping heavily with his saliva. I managed to peel off my jumper by then, totally nude, thanks to my forgetfulness to throw on a pair of boxers after a wank session last night. But Andy remembered, tossing off his robe in the throws of passion. As it was hard to make it passed his pink lips wrapped around my cock, I saw that his was imprisoned by his white cotton briefs, straining to break free.

“Take ‘em off,” I commanded, pulling out and smearing his thick spit back in his face with my cock.

He obliged, stuffing my cock back into his mouth.

“Had you just taken them off when I got here I could have been in that sweet butthole as we speak.”

He pulled off, and laughs. “You know I’m a snob. I had to put up a fuss.”

I pulled his head back on my cock. “No. You’re not a snob; you’re my slut for the night.”

“For…the…night,” he growled in a muffled scream with me fucking the lights out of his sweet mouth like a well-oiled piston machine on the landing of those stairs.

Poor Andy Boy practically turned red in the face trying to stir out a drop of precum. I tried telling the bastard I wasn’t like most of the snobbish pieces of shit he was accustomed to. No sir. I was in for the long haul. That was all he needed to hear as he eagerly got me further up the stairs to his bland bedroom. Colorful condoms and flavored lubes were sprinkled with a light dust atop his nightstands, but everything was up to snuff (date wise) as he laid me out on the bed and put a condom on me with his mouth. With the help of me fingering his moist backhole with some tasty lube, he rode my cock like a pogo stick. When it was obvious he was getting tired of taking care of himself, especially after he came on my fur, I climbed on top of and damn near slammed him into the headboard. (Don’t worry, where I had my arms against his shoulders, he wasn’t about to go anywhere with his legs wrapped tightly around my waist.)

Covered with sweat working his tireless hole as it was working my cock, I saw a swing in the corner of the room after I wiped my eyes with his bed sheets. “Change of venue?”

He nodded.

And with that, I pierced his hole to the hilt and lifted him off the bed just to plop him down in the swing, cursing myself for missing that huge netted swing in that bland bedroom to begin with. It wasn’t like I know a ton of people that owned one, so whenever I get a chance to use one I seize it, figuring it was much better for their back than the metal drum in the back of my trailer that I usually fuck ‘em on. Taking his ass my way on that swing was sweet. His ankles in my hands, screaming his fucking head off begging to be fucked like the slut he was, like the filthy good-for-nothing slut I was making him out to be. Although there were a couple of times when I found myself balancing myself on the ball of my feet when it was totally unnecessary.

“Oh, you fucking slut. I’m gonna cum.” I said not being able to take his ceaseless screaming in my ear anymore. I dramatically snatched my cock out of his well used hole and unloaded my hot stick spunk right there on his tiny flat stomach.

“Oh yeah, fuck! Yeah! Yeahh! Yeahhh!”

Being the gentleman, like I am, I played with his battered hole as he came for a second time. After that though, I slapped on my navy-blue jumper and ran out of the house like a teenage boy afraid to get caught by a set of angry parents. I can’t say I ever saw Andy again. It wasn’t like he didn’t try to get in contrast with me, getting his asshole of a grandfather to call me every other day to “fix” the cable. But like most snobs, he wanted to make a good fuck the bases of a relationship.

Snobs. So fucking easy.