Scrambled Eggs

David emerged from the hallway looking sleepy-eyed. He’d showered at my request and pulled on one of the many colorful pairs of bikini briefs—panties—I’d provided him with. Despite the water having turned his golden-brown locks darker, David looked unbelievably cute. I called him over to the stove, where I was preparing our breakfast.

Slipping a free hand down the seat of his panty I first fingered his crack, then his sweet hole. My middle finger went in easily.

“How you feel this morning?” I asked.

“Fine,” David replied, in his diffident, late-teens, monosyllabic way.

“I mean back here,” I said, wriggling my finger inside him.

“Fine.”

“Really?”

David at last broke out in smile, a wan one. “A little raw,” he admitted.

“I bet!” I said, withdrawing my finger, my hand. “How many of my guests did you entertain in your bedroom last night?”

David shrugged bare, bony shoulders. He was on the slight side. Under six-foot and 140 pounds soaking wet. “I lost track,” he said.

“A dozen?” I speculated.

“No way,” David insisted.

“More?”

“No, less. A lot less.”

“Why don’t you get down a couple of mugs and pour us some coffee? You know how I like it. Cream, but not too much. Two sugars.”

As David did so, obediently if silently, I again pursued, “How many then?”

Another diffident shrug. “I don’t know. Seven? Maybe eight?”

“That’s a lot,” I observed, beginning to beat milk and four eggs together in a bowl with a fork.

A husky, derisive noise issued from David’s throat as if to say, “Tell me about it.” He brought over my mug of coffee and I thanked him for it.

“You were the hit of my party last night,” I said, hoping to cheer the young man up.

“I doubt that,” he demurred, before launching, for him, a veritable torrent of words: “I think the Champagne was. Everybody got really drunk.”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I hope everybody made it home safe.”

“Uber,” David suggested.

I laughed. Explained, “Men like that don’t Uber, OK? Some of them have their own limos.” I went on, went back as it were: “But you really were the hit of the party. My guests loved you.”

David said nothing in reply so I filled in his silence: “I told you when I first asked you to come live with me that I threw a lot of these parties and you’d be a big hit if you were here helping me serve my guests.” I flashed a smile at David as I added, “Dressed in your little panties, and in your lipstick and eyeshadow.”

Once again, David said nothing. He stood there to my right holding his coffee mug in both hands, seemingly looking down into its blackness.

“Did all these guys last night...did they shoot their loads in you?”

David nodded, reluctantly. “I think so.”

“You don’t know?”

“I assume so. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

“Agreed.” I twisted the knob of the burner under the frying pan to medium high. I like to scramble my eggs quickly, but so they remain soft. Soft-scrambled. “Must’ve made quite a mess on the bed.”

Another wordless nod.

“Did you change the sheets?”

“Yes. Before I went to bed.”

“What about the soiled ones?”
David hesitated. “Um...I wadded them up, threw ‘em on the floor.”

I looked around critically at my young roommate. He knew I was a stickler for such things. “You should’ve tossed them in the washer right away.”

“The party was still going on.”

“I mean afterwards. It could soak through to the carpet. I told you how expensive that carpeting in your room is.”

“It was, like, three a.m. by then. Besides, I tossed ‘em on the bathroom tile after my shower.”

“Last night or this morning?”

“This morning,” David admitted, sheepishly.

My critical, anal-retentive expression eased a bit as I said, “OK, but right after breakfast throw ‘em in the washer please.”

“I will,” David assured me.

I told myself, as the burner took on heat and color, to lighten up. Last night had been a huge success. My guests had loved David—both literally and figuratively speaking. He truly had been the life of the party. I asked, as I dropped a half-inch of butter in the pan:

“Did any of my esteemed guests tip you?”

“Tip me?” David seemed genuinely surprised.

“No?”

“It never came up.”

“Cheap bastards. They’re all rich as sin.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” David said.

I smiled: “Just their old-men’s cocks up your ass? And their loads of cum?”

“I guess. You never said anything about...”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I smiled, giving the egg mixture a final beat with the fork as I held it over the sizzling pan. “I’m not trying to turn you into a whore.”

“I kind of felt like one,” David admitted, as I emptied the thick, pale-yellowish liquid into the pan.

“You did? Why?”

“All those men? One after another? I didn’t even have time to...”

“To what?” I inquired. “Get down two plates will you? And be quick about it?”

As David delivered the plates and I arranged them one above the other on the cool side of the stove, I pursued, “To what? Do what?”

“Nothing,” my roommate replied, with a shake of the bowed head.

Seconds later David surprised me, volunteering: “There was so much of it, so much cum...”

“I imagine.” I gave the coagulating egg mixture a quick toss with a spatula. It was almost ready.

“It was, like, dripping from my balls by the end.”

“That’s why,” I advised, “I wanted you to change the sheets.”

“I did,” David reminded me, in a rather impudent tone.

Lifting the pan I shut off the heat and began scraping the soft-scrambled eggs onto the two plates. “Oh, fuck,” I said, looking over at the adjacent counter, at the four slices of bread still sticking up out of the toaster. “We were talking. I forgot about the toast. Will you push those down please?”

“I’m not hungry,” David declared, as he lowered the lever that lowered the wholewheat bread.

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Well,” I said, with a sigh (teenagers!), “we’ll leave this on the plate here and if you get hungry later you can...make a sandwich out of it or something. An egg sandwich.”

As my young roommate stood over the toaster, presumably watching the inner red coils glow orange, he asked: “How come all your friends are so old?”

“They’re not all old. I have lots of friends my age or younger.”

“But they weren’t here last night.”

Plate of eggs in hand, I could not help smiling as I looked my young friend’s slender—bony even—backside up and down. The pale, unblemished skin. His long blonde locks. His sweet, much-used ass. The cute little panties I liked to dress him up in. In fact, wearing them around the house was part of our agreement. What a find! I thought. And last night had gone to prove it.

“Unfortunately,” I explained to my naive charge, “most rich people tend to be old. Older anyway.”

“What about Zuckerberg and—”

“They’re exceptions,” I interrupted. “The local men I need who have the money I need...they tend to be on the elderly side.”

“So these men last night...? They’re the ones who’re going to invest in your business?”

“My idea? I certainly hope so,” I replied. “I got good feedback from them last night. Especially,” I added, breaking out in broad smile, “the ones who ended up in bed with you.”

The toast popped up. I held out my plate. “So I helped out last night?” David asked.

“You did. Big time.”

“If you get their money will I...will I, maybe, get a, you know, an increase maybe in my allowance?”

“We’ll see, young man.” I was spreading butter, soft butter, on my browned toast. “You’re already getting free room and board. And I’m paying your college tuition. Plus the weekly allowance you mentioned. Will you get the strawberry jam out of the fridge for me?”

“Yes, but...”

I laughed as David handed me the jar. “You’re not turning into a little capitalist on me all of a sudden, are you?”

“No, I...”

“I’m kidding, hon. Sure you won’t have some toast at least?”

“I’m sure. It’s just,” David said, wearing a pained expression, “when you told me what I’d get in return, in return for being here...it was about you. You and me. It wasn’t about, like, eight other guys...”

“I told you I threw parties. What did you expect, cute as you are, dressed up like you were last night? Sexy as you looked. Nobody twisted your arm.”

“No, but...”

“And you could’ve said no. Or let it go at sucking their cocks.”

“I’d rather take it up the ass than have to suck that many old men’s cocks.”

I laughed again. With my free hand, the one not holding the butter knife, I gave David’s pantied ass a reassuring pat.

“We’ll see, OK?” I said. “About the increase in your allowance? If the money comes through?”

“OK,” David agreed, though he sounded doubtful.

I was standing up eating my eggs and toast. I’d put salt and pepper on my scrambled eggs and cut the jellied toast into diagonal halves.

“Sure you won’t join me?” I again asked David.

He nodded. Silent again. It seemed only talk of money, or sex, or both, perked him up. Got a reaction out of him at least.

“Next time,” I said, still munching on some toast, “we’ll put a tip jar by the bed.”

David looked up. “A what?”

“A glass or jar or something. And I’ll make it clear to my guests that they’re expected to tip you for your services.”

“I’ll tell ‘em,” I went on, “you’re a poor college kid trying to make your way in the world. Be generous, I’ll tell ‘em.”

“Do I get to keep it?” David asked.

“What?”

“All the tip money?”

“All yours,” I grinned, my mouth full of final bites of eggs and toast. “You earned it. You deserve it, hon,” I added, oddly enough, in the past tense.

I dropped my plate and silverware in the sink. Only my coffee mug remained half-full. David could do the dishes later while he was putting on a wash and finishing cleaning up from last night’s party. But for right now I was feeling revived. My old self again.

I put my arm around David’s bare waist and said, “You know, I’m the only one who didn’t get any last night.”

“Not the only one,” David smiled, looking up at me.

“I feel left out.”

“But you can have me anytime you want,” he reminded me. Not that I needed reminding. It was part of our agreement.

“How ‘bout right now? Is your little hole up to it? Does it have one more fuck left in it?”

David was game. Enthusiastic, even. “Sure!” he confirmed.

Arm still around him, I steered David in the direction of the hallway, and his stylishly appointed bedroom at hall’s end. The one where he’d entertained so many of my potential investors the night before.

As we passed the stove I said:

“Remind me to show you how to make scrambled eggs the proper way. The way,” I grinned, “I like ‘em.”