Page 8 of The Trailer Park Twink

“He jacked off in your lap?”

For God’s sake. I don’t know why my boss keeps asking for clarification.

When I walked into the breakroom ten minutes ago, I didn’t expect to have to explain in vivid detail, and multiple times, how my stepson found release in my lap, but here we are, explaining it all.

My boss, Bubba, and the rest of my work crew—a group of guys my boss refers to as the Core Four, which makes sense, since we’re the only four guys who work the day shift at the machine shop, aside from our intern—followed inside and surrounded me.

It’s been ten minutes of telling and retelling, and it’s working my last goddamn nerve.

Truthfully, my head’s been all over the place this morning. So much happened last night that I don’t know how to reconcile. Austin called me Dad for the first time. It was the proudest moment of my life. Then he masturbated in front of me. First in the bathroom, then on my lap in the living room.

When I walked into the bathroom, it felt like my heart was going to slam out of my chest. He had his hand around his .

. . his cock . My boy was stroking himself, and he was watching an old video of me serenading him for his birthday.

I don’t know if I simply don’t understand why the heck he was watching it, or if I’m just too scared to learn the answer.

And then I stood there, pretending to pluck my eyebrow hairs because I didn’t want to leave him there alone.

“I’ve already told you the damn story four times. I ain’t telling it again.”

“I could fire you for hollering at me, D-Bag,” Bubba says, pulling a chair from under the small nearby table and grabbing a bottle of water from the mini fridge behind him.

“I mean, obviously I wouldn’t, but I could.

” He twists the lid off the bottle, his arms looking like barrels under his coveralls.

I don’t know why he insists on buying the tightest ones he can get, aside from the fact that he’s a vain son of a bitch, but I guess he has every right to be.

The guy is a wall of endless muscle, and every one is visible through them.

He guzzles the bottle of water in one go. “Now, tell us the story again. ”

I roll my eyes. “The fuck is wrong with you today? It’s like you’re all stuck on stupid.

” I pull my phone out, wanting to make sure my boy is keeping his word.

So help me, God, if I pull up his profile and that little green dot appears, I’ll call his ass in a heartbeat and raise hell, the same way I do every day.

“So,” my buddy Clint says, pulling off his welder’s cap and fluffing his light-brown hair with his fingers.

“You asked Shelly to let you bring Aussie to the cabin with you and she said no?” It still feels funny to hear them call him Aussie, considering he’s only been to the shop once, and even then, he only stayed a few minutes because of the heat.

None of them even met him, but they use his pet name like they have all the right in the world to do so.

I don’t ever call them out on it, because I would look like an even bigger fool than I already do.

I mean, who gets jealous to the point of wanting to rip someone’s heart out with their bare hands, just for using an affectionate nickname?

Before I can confirm Clint’s version of events, another of our Core Four pipes up.

This time, it’s Johnny, Bubba’s best friend.

“So, he just pulled his shirt up and then you started jacking him off?” He scoots his chair a little closer to Bubba, which is nothing new.

Bubba took Johnny in after Johnny’s wife kicked him out, and he's been trying to help the man rebuild his confidence ever since .

“Fuck no,” I spit out, almost choking on the potato chip I’m trying to swallow. “He’s like a son to me, of course I didn’t jack him off.”

“He just fucked the Fleshlight while you held it,” Clint says, and thank God someone’s finally paying attention to the story.

“Exactly!” I say. Popping another chip into my mouth, I add, “They’re making it sound so fuckin’ sordid. All I did was hold the toy.”

Clint arches an eyebrow. “You realize he was essentially fucking your fist by proxy, right?”

I scowl at him, because I guess I was wrong.

“Looks like we got Benedict goddamn Arnold at the table.” I point at Johnny and Bubba who have their chairs so close together, they might as well be cuddling.

“Those two gang up on us all the time. You’re supposed to be on my side, but you never have my back. ”

“Because you’re always wrong. I’m just stating the facts. If you don’t want me to tell you that letting your son fuck your fist through the protective barrier of a sex toy isn’t normal father/son behavior, stop telling the story.”

“Then stop fuckin’ asking about it!”

“They’re fucking with you,” a new voice says, startling all of us.

“Motherfucker,” Bubba shouts in surprise.

He turns and glares at the fifth and final day-shift employee at our shop.

I can’t remember the guy’s name, because during his interview, the man assumed Bubba was gay and offered to go down on him.

Bubba quickly told him he was straight. The second he admitted he was just flirting with Bubba to land the job, Bubba told the guy he was worse than one of those queerbaiters he follows on Instagram.

When Bubba explained to me what a queerbaiter was—usually a straight guy who shows a lot of ass on Instagram just to drive thirsty gay guys to their OnlyFans—I wasn’t sure why he was following those kind of accounts to begin with.

I asked him, but he just scoffed, telling me I didn’t know shit about the Kinsey scale, and I didn’t have a retort for that, because I still don’t know what the hell it is.

Anyway, Bubba nicknamed the guy Queerbait on day one, telling him he admired his gumption, but not his problematic methods of obtaining employment off the backs of queer people.

Honestly, as far as nicknames go, it ain’t all that bad. It ain’t any worse than mine, at least.

Queerbait blinks at me. “The only reason they’re asking you to tell your stupid, idiotic story so many times is because each time you tell it, you look more and more lovesick by the second.

For God’s sake, you have an erection.” He points at my crotch, and when I look down, my eyes bulge like a cartoon character, because he’s right.

I didn’t even know I was hard. I was just so consumed with the memory.

The fuck is going on with me today ?

“Are you insinuating what I think you’re insinuating?” I clench my fist. “Because that’s fuckin’ filthy.”

“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m flat-out saying it. You’re obviously into your stepson. Look at you. You’re leaking and everything.” He points at my crotch again, and I cover it, my hand pressing against the damp fabric, my cheeks scalding.

“You don’t know shit,” I say, even though he seems to know me better than I know myself right now, because what the fuck is happening?

“You literally asked him to come for you,” Queerbait retorts.

My cock twitches for fuck knows what reason.

“And each time you tell the goddamn story, you make sure you say that part with your whole chest.” He looks around the small breakroom, seeking backup, by the looks of it.

“I mean, I’m not the only one who sees this right?

It’s crystal-fucking-clear they’re in lo—”

Whatever the hell he’s trying to say is silenced when Bubba slams his palm on the table and shakes his head, his face redder than I’ve ever seen it.

“You let it happen in its own time. Of course, it’s fucking obvious, but we don’t talk about it.

If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut that sassy mouth when you’re talking about D-Bag. He’s a good dad.”

I don’t know why, when Bubba started dishing out nicknames for his Core Four, I got stuck with the worst one. Or why he keeps using it all the time. Hell, Clint and Johnny have nicknames, too, but he don’t use theirs for some damn reason.

“The fuck are y’all talking about?” I ask.

Bubba sighs. “Nothin’, bro.”

I guess Clint is done with the conversation, because he’s got his phone out, designing tattoo art on his phone probably.

Tattoos are his passion. As an at-home tattoo artist, he’s always working to better his craft during his break, usually ignoring us completely, so I’m a little surprised he feigned interest as long as he has.

“It sounds a little gay if you ask me,” Johnny says, but it ain’t like he’s being mean or anything.

One thing I’m proud of is how, in the heart of the Bible belt, the four of us blue dots in a sea of red managed to find each other.

I don’t know what the hell Queerbait’s political leanings are, and I don’t really care enough to ask, especially after the way he just spoke to me.

Queerbait’s unknown political affiliation aside, this is probably one of the only machine shops in East Texas—hell, knowing the oilfield, probably the only shop in the country—to proudly fly a Pride flag alongside the American flag out front.

It put Aussie at ease when he came to visit me.

I kind of wish he had a chance to meet the rest of the Core Four before running off, claiming he was having a heat stroke.

I know he’d love the boys if he gave them a chance, and I really want him to give them one.

Dickheads or not, they’re my best friends—my fucking brothers—and I don’t want to keep these two parts of my life separate.

Shelly’s never met them either. Should it bother me that she hasn’t?