October 2020

TWITTER @BAREBACKMAG

FACEBOOK @BareBackMagazine

Visit Bare Back Magazine Daily

Check out FREE Book Trailers and Giveaways

contact@barebackmag.com

ruby tuesday

by Ty Spencer Vossler

I read that, compared to men, women are lousy at math. Who needs math anyway? Women just need each other and that adds up to more than enough. A good relationship doesn’t carry exact change—someone always gets the short end. You can have Brad and I’ll take Angelina. I’m sure she has a wicked tongue to go with those luscious lips. Yeah, to hell with math.

Salinas, California is a shithole. Its only claim to fame is that it’s the birthplace of that misogynist bastard, Steinbeck. He wouldn’t recognize the place now—gang-infested, shitty schools. They call it the Salad Bowl because of all the vegetables grown there. It’s a bowl of something, that’s for sure. Anyway, every fiber in my body wants to live in the Bay area—but I live in Salinas. I manage a women’s clothing store at the mall and that’s where I met Marci. She manages an Orange Julius at the food court.

Before the breakup, Marci and I shared a tiny apartment. Lovers come and go— variety is the spice, yet I have to admit when Marci left, it fucked me up. I brought her out. She was easy to be with, smart, pretty, and she quickly learned all my favorite tricks. Anyway, it’s hard to live an alternative lifestyle in a shithole like Salinas. Dykes hardly ever come out here. You just sort of stay in and hope nobody finds out.

We got into a titanic argument when I discovered she fucked the guy across the hall in 3-B. I saw them exchange knowing glances one afternoon while we were at the community mailbox downstairs. The eyes gave her away and of course, Dickhead had a shit-eating grin on his face.

Marci didn’t lie—I’ll give her that. Women are terrific liars when it suits us. I asked her why she’d done it and she blubbered, “I don’t know, bicurious, I don't know.” So that was that. Either she would find another girl or become a hasbian.

Cliff was his name, but I call him Biff because he’s nothing but a fluffy pretty-boy, one of those computer geeks that work from home. Somehow he got to Marci. He had the balls to come knocking one afternoon asking about her. I slammed the fucking door in his stupid face.

I blew up and she left—that was two weeks ago. She picked up her shit when I was at work and I came home and saw that her side of the closet was empty. I spent the next few weeks cruising by the Orange Julius. She saw me plenty of times, yet she tried to act like she didn’t. I wondered where she was sleeping. She had a few relatives in town, but I doubted she was with them. In Salinas, you don’t find much in the way of family support.

“No big deal,” I reminded myself, but whenever the phone rang, I pounced.

Tuesday is the worst day of the week because it’s three miles from Friday. My name is Ruby, Ruby Tuesday, like the stupid song. There’s even a chain-restaurant in Salinas by the same name, serving up the usual crap. Places like that anywhere you go the menu is about the same, but if you slog down enough drinks it doesn’t matter. Salinas has a Farmer’s Market that I go to once in a while to try and find something organic produce but hell, this is fucking Salinas, the Monsanto Bowl.

My third-floor apartment is an echo chamber since Marci left—I still smell her. You hardly notice the unique smells people have until they’re gone. Marci was sweet and spicy. Yeah, fuck Tuesdays. Because it was Tuesday, my key jammed in the door to my apartment, and because it’s Tuesday, Biff happened along, jiggled the handle as if the door would spit the key out. I remember thinking, why is there never a machete handy when you need it?

“That’s okay,” I snapped, “I’ll see the manager.”

“I have some pliers, bet that’ll do the trick.”

“Don’t bother,” I said, and then it came into my mind to say, why don’t you take a flying fuck at a rolling donut? But I didn’t.

“Come on in, I’ll find them, I think they’re in a drawer somewhere.”

There was no way to stop him. My thoughts smoldered, how could Marcy let this fucking marshmallow into that luscious snatch of hers? I followed him in. He rented a studio and everything he owned was in plain sight—the bed, a treadmill, his computer desk, a black leather sofa, all within a twist of the neck. I watched him rummage through a Bermuda Triangle kitchen drawer. Everybody has one of those, where you can find anything, but nothing you’re looking for.

“I haven’t seen Marci around,” he mumbled from the kitchen.

“Nope,” I deadpanned, “me either.” This loser couldn’t eat a snatch properly if it wiggled on his nose.

“Looking for a roommate?” The bastard had the nerve to ask.

“A new place to live,” the words spilled out, yet I realized it was true. I didn’t want to be there anymore—walls marinated with Marci’s essence, her memory filling my head with regret and longing, and the whole reason living right across the hall.

“Sorry Ruby, I can’t find the damned thing.” Then he held up a corkscrew and a bottle of wine. “I found this, though.” He opened the bottle and brought over two glasses without asking, and handed me the bottle. “It’s a 2014 Bordeaux,” he said.

“How’s this gonna get me into my apartment?”

Biff chuckled like an idiot. I remembered Marci sipping wine and letting it dribble down her naked body for me to lap. I wished he’d try that so I could throw a match on his crotch. As he poured, I wondered what Marci told him about us or was she too busy being bicurious?

“Do you like jazz?”

“Beats hip-hop all to hell,” I replied.

He pushed some buttons and the studio filled with a sexy saxophone. “Richard Elliot,” he explained and refilled my glass.

I couldn’t believe I was having a second glass with this moron, thinking that I’d wake up tomorrow with a sulfite headache and no Marci. For some twisted reason, being at Biff’s felt like revenge and at that exact moment I realized how much I loved Marci—so much that my third-floor street-side window seemed a good jumping point after I finished this glass.

I ran a hand through my short, black hair. I’ve been told that I am pretty and guys have hit on me plenty of times. But I’ve been bent the other way since high school. It sounds so stupid when dykes try to explain why, so I don't even try.

Dip-shit clattered on about wine as I sipped and he poured again, “I got this at Trader Joe’s, can you believe that?”

I only stayed in my seat out of curiosity—to find out why Marci fucked this guy. Did Biff carry a cannon or have a vibrating tongue? Had he discovered a hidden button on Marci that I had overlooked? Wine dulled my edge. His elbow rested on the back of the couch and he summed me up with elevator eyes, trying to figure out my formula and wondering what it would cost in the long run.

Nibble-nibble-nibble, like rabbits we made small talk, words containing no nutritional value. His fingers touched my shoulder and a thumb ran circles there as he yammered on about how he had planned to ask me over before now.

Why was I smiling? Stop smiling bitch, my mind screamed. Without wine, I would have seen right through this. His lips touched my cheek, then my lips and yet my traitorous tongue escaped to touch his.

He didn’t rush me out of my clothes—I’ll give him that. When we were both ready, he trapped a nipple in his front teeth, flicked his tongue and I hummed like a didgeridoo. I straddled him on his black leather couch and gripped his shoulders. He spread my ass as I skewered myself. Sweet sensations flooded my body and my anger and guilt, which only served to intensify my pleasure.

“Oh shit,” I murmured, “Yeah, right there.”

His lips were on my tits and he circled a finger around my asshole. His cock put pressure in the right places and I felt a climax on the horizon.

“Oh shit,” he cried without warning.

“No, not yet,” I tried to rush my orgasm. Too late, he had launched his entire tadpole navy, softened immediately and left me with a dull, unfulfilled ache. Spunk marched out, dripped onto the sofa cushion. He pushed me off.

“Sorry,” he said, “This is leather.” He jogged into the kitchen and returned with a paper towel.

I stood up as he wiped the phosphorescent remains and then offered it to me to use. “No thanks, I’ll keep mine,” I said, gathering my clothes and making a beeline for the door. In my anger and shame, I’d forgotten why I was even there.

“What’s your hurry?” His hands were up in protest.

Checking the halls, I made sure the coast was clear and dashed across, not even noticing that the key was no longer stuck in the door. Once inside, I dropped my clothes and rested my back against the door.

Dusk had bathed the living room with amber light. Cum journeyed thickly down my thighs, a pale yellow reminder that I’m one stuttering step away from being picked apart by a flock of crows. I looked toward the street-side window. Three floors ought to do it.

There was a rustling in the bedroom. My softball bat is there too, a lot of good it does. My hand found the doorknob and I readied myself to streak across the hall—back into Biff’s protective arms.

Marci appeared, dressed in Levi’s and a tank top, her outstanding nipples showing through. She leaned against the bedroom door jam and gazed at me. Then she lifted a hand to show me the key dangling from her fingers.

“You left them in the door,” she said.

I wanted to be invisible. Guilt washed over me like dirty dishwater. She pursed her lips and slowly approached me. Putting her hands on my shoulders, she slowly kneeled and kissed me just above my belly button. My guilt mixed with hers and together it flowed downriver to the sea. Together, we were a canvas in need of a brush. A soft, fast tongue would do the trick.

contact@barebackmag.com