Changing The Boyfriend's Luck

I am sitting cross-legged in the Boyfriend’s bed, laptop in my lap, watching the Gator game.  The Boyfriend is sound asleep next to me.  Call it my own little superstition.  I feel like the Gators have more luck when I am doing something more than just watching the game.  Make fun of me all you want.

The Boyfriend has not been having a good week. 

He bought a new car.  This may not seem like much, but the Boyfriend is thrifty (this is me trying to politely say he is cheap).   He white knuckles every penny before he will grudgingly let go of it.  He liked his car and was not looking to let her go.  But the mechanic said he was looking at a lot of repairs in the near future, convincing him it might actually be cheaper in the long run to go ahead and spend the money for a new car.  It took a little Rachel-encouragement, but he avoided practical and finally found a car he really loved.  He stopped for a red light - the car behind him did not.  Less than a month old, his shiny red Charger was a crunched mess. 

He has a new Director.  And she was apparently trying to run everyone off who had been brought in by her predecessor.  I never understand why upper management allows these firing-fests to go on, but we have all seen it happen time and again.  The Boyfriend has been living w a bull’s eye on his chest.  The poor guy went to work every day waiting for the phone call to come to her office.  I cannot even begin to imagine what it is like for him.

His dad has been sick.  His uncle (on his mom’s side) has been sick.  A co-worker of his, an older woman w no children on this side of the continent, had fallen and broken her leg.  He offered to help each of them w their yard work until they were able to do it again for themselves.  And none had a small yard either.  The Boyfriend, the man who lives in an apartment w no yard of his own to take care of, now spends an entire day every week mowing lawns.  He had one Hell of a tan.

Then he comes down w a cold.  I said it was a cold - he insists he is dying from the plague.  Ugh, this is me rolling my eyes and saying again, “It is just a cold”.  But I will agree w him about one thing – it is killing him.  Well, what is actually killing him is that he keeps pushing himself and is not getting any rest.  He felt it dangerous to call out sick given the politics w his new Director.  And sick or not, the lawns were not going to mow themselves.  Whether he simply had a cold or was dying from the plague, he was trying to power through.

This is where I come in.

When he called me this afternoon, he was in sad shape.

He was finishing his third lawn, trying to get them all done so he had nothing to do tomorrow.  He had finished his dad and uncle’s lawns and was apparently trying to power through his co-worker’s lawn.  He said he was trying to get her lawn done when he finally just could not stand up any longer.  He sat down right there in her yard to catch his breath.  Then he lay down.  Twenty minutes later, he still had not gotten back up.  He called me from his cell saying he was not sure he could stand back up.  “There’s nothing left in the tank”, he kept saying.  I do not think he realized that he was repeating himself.  He was miserable.

I ran to him in no time.  I managed to get him into some shade, the entire time he was apologizing for calling me.  In addition to all the apologies, he kept insisting he would be okay in just a few minutes, that he would be able to finish mowing, and if I would mind waiting for him to finish mowing and just help him drive home, then he would leave me alone.  Yeah, I pretty much just ignored him.  Putting him into the shade (the goof had been sitting in the sun), I wrapped a wet towel around his neck and gave him a Gatorade.  I proceeded to finish mowing the lawn myself (read my blog to see that I am quite popular for my mad mowing skills).  He was using her mower, so I simply had to return it to the shed when I was finished.  Then came the more challenging task of getting him into my car and back home (I decided we were going to leave his car at her place for now).  We managed it, but then I questioned the walk from my car into his apartment.  I debated taking him to my home where I had Daddy for more help if needed.  But he needed a shower and to get into something dry – the poor thing was soaked through – and that meant a stop at his place anyway.  His place was, of course, the exact opposite direction from my place.  And he probably would feel more comfortable in his cave.  I debated calling Harley for help.  I have no doubt that Harley would have rushed over to help.  But then I would need therapy for the rest of my life.  Internal debate settled, I turned towards the Boyfriend’s apartment.

We got into his apartment, but that seemed to tap whatever reserves he had found.  He insisted on laying down on the living room carpet saying he just needed a moment.  I knew the Boyfriend and I knew from his tone that a “moment” was going to be anything but a “moment”.  I fought the useless battle - he was spent.  I did manage to get a beach towel under him thinking that might feel better than the stiff carpet.  And I managed to get him out of most of his clothing.  Yuck is all I have to say about touching those sweaty things!!!  He was not much better.  He was covered in dirt and grass.  The sweat was still rolling off him.  Another plus for the beach towel under him.  Driving him home, we had to put the windows down because he had complained of freezing from the A/C.  I was afraid he might get too cold now that he was inside and still wet w sweat, so I covered him a little bit w another towel.  I insisted he wake up enough to drink a little bit more.  I was pretty sure he was dehydrated.  He drank a little bit more because I think he knew it was the only way to get me to shut up.  He lay there, dead to the world.

I sat down on the floor beside him.  After yet another internal debate, I got a rag and bowl of warm water, then I proceeded to wipe down his face, arms, back, and legs.  I did not know what I was doing.  He looked clammy to me.  I did not want to disturb him resting.  But I also was not sure anything could disturb him.  And again, I did not like the way he looked.  I was still afraid he might get a chill from being covered in sweat and now in his air conditioned apartment.  If nothing else, I thought, after I wipe him down a bit he might rest a little better.  I guess I did something right.  He seemed to enjoy it.  I asked him if he wanted me to wipe down his chest too.  He rolled over without saying a word.  I got the hint.  I toweled him dry.  Then I just continued to sit there beside him.

I am not really sure how I knew since his eyes remained closed and he had not really moved any, but I sensed he had woken up.  I was sitting close.  He stunk – love is not a perfume – to bad for me to lie down next to him.  I got on my knees to whisper into his face, “want to try getting that shower now.  I still think a warm shower will help you feel better”.

He grunted okay, but I think he was just trying to shut me up again.  If he had his way, he would have stayed right there the rest of the weekend.  He kind of got to his knees.  He was not moving fast.  “Rach, I really don’t think I can”, he finally said.

I helped him to his feet.  The two of us managed it to the shower; slowly.  He sat, more like fell, onto the toilet while I started the shower.  He insisted he would be okay to take a shower when I asked him.  He insisted he would be okay, but he also kept sitting on the toilet; not moving, eyes closed.  Another internal debate later, I began stripping out of my clothes.  It should be a testament to how he was feeling that he did not notice until we were both literally standing in the shower together.

“I should call you for help more often”, he teased when he did notice.

“Shut up and give me your back”, I said in a teasing firm tone back to him.

Done washing his back, I turned him around and just had him stand there for a bit w the hot water on his back.  Washing his chest, it was hard NOT to notice something developing.

“Oh my God”, I shouted at him, “I swear a man can be on his deathbed and will still get a boner”.

“It’s not my fault”, he protested.

“Like it’s mine”, I joked back.

“Most beautiful girl I have ever known, naked, in a hot shower, rubbing me . . . yeah, I’d pretty much say it’s your fault”.

“Besides”, he added, “you’re like the best thing that’s happened to me all week . . . all month . . . ever”.

“You’re just trying to get into my pants”, I joked.

“Must be working since . . . um . . . they’re off”.

He reached his arms around me, both pulling me closer and pulling my hair so that my face angled up to meet his.  We kissed.

I do not deny it – I love the Boyfriend.

And I love Harley.

The Boyfriend loves me too.  God, I wish so many times that was enough to make me happy.  But apparently it isn’t because being w the Boyfriend does not make me happy.  Harley loves me . . . I think . . . maybe it isn’t love . . . because he runs away.  But being w Harley makes me happy . . . until he runs away.  And the Boyfriend has his own way of running away too; we have gone months w/o his touching me.  I don’t know.  It is all so confusing to me.  It is partially why I started writing this blog years ago, to kind of try to think about it out loud so to speak, and here I am still trying to figure it out.

None of those thoughts were in the front of my brain just then.

What was foremost in my thoughts at that precise moment was the Boyfriend’s hard-on which was pressing into my mid-section while we kissed.  I had not gotten into the shower w him w the intention of making love.  I had spent the past several hours worried to death about him.  I was truly concerned about him and my being in the shower as well seemed like the safest way to make sure he did not fall and kill himself. 

“I suppose you’re hoping I will help take care of that for you”, I asked him.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be interested”, he said.  He did not say it in whiney mode.  It was more like a statement of fact.  He understood why I had gotten into the shower w him.  It had been a while since we had been together sexually.  Normally, I prefer a strong confident man.  Strangely, I appreciated his understanding in this case and in an even more bizarre way it made me all the more wanting to sleep w him.

“Well, I am naked in your shower w you . . . that’s pretty much universal girl code for you’re gonna get lucky”, I joked w him.

“Tell me what you would like me to do”, I continued, taking his erection into my hands.  It may only be a Rachel thing, but I like hearing the Boyfriend tell me what dirty thing he wants me to do for him.  The dirtier his instructions, the better.  This is another place the Boyfriend has a problem though – it is hard for him to open up w me.  Imagine it – I am naked, holding his dick in my hand, essentially offering to do whatever he tells me.  How much more of a ‘sure thing’ can it be?  And yet, w all that, he is still too nervous to tell me to bend over like the slut I am for him to fuck.  Except this time apparently . . .

“I want to see my dick in your mouth”, he said.  I was shocked to say the least.  I knew him so I also heard the nervousness in his voice.  But still . . . he did it.  How could I not reward him for it.

“I can do that for you”, I said in my most submissive tone, lowering myself onto my knees.  His back blocked the spray from my face, making it possible for me to give him a good show of his dick filling my mouth.