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How it began? I happened to be in the bunkhouse of Tio Rey’s farm washing off dirt that only hired help handles. When I finished, I passed an open stall. Gregorio was on the toilet playing with his thick brown cock. I wasn’t sure he had noticed me. Tio Rey’s family paid no attention to hired help and weren’t even supposed to be in the bunk house. I should have walked away, but Gregorio moaned then slid off the seat, squatted on the floor, and bounced slowly up and down, one hand on the wall for balance, the other up his ass. Abruptly, his hand moved from the wall to my leg. Grasping my trousers, he kept his rhythm until cum covered my boots. Then he slumped over and started to snore. My heart melted at his incompetence and poured like piss over his lack of shame.

Yes, Gregorio was family, but just a nephew. After a bad report about his Navy service, he had to move from the big house to an old cottage on the edge of the farm. I’m not sure how I got assigned to fix up the place. Probably because the real handy man was recovering from a fall. And probably because I lied about my experience and skills. Plastering walls, putting up shelves, fixing light sockets – none of that sounded complex. Moreover, rehabbing the cottage meant avoiding heavier work – at least for
the time allotted to finish the job before Gregorio moved in.

I wouldn’t say friendly, but sometimes Gregorio nodded when we crossed paths in the fields. He never quite acknowledged what had happened in the latrine – in each other’s presence if not exactly between us. But memories of his utter abandon overpowered me. Often when I entered the cottage, I had to beat my meat to clear my life enough to resume work.

Near move-in date, he visited his new home for the first time. I don’t remember which of my construction errors I was trying to cover up or undo, but, when he opened the door, he looked around and laughed, “If Tio Rey sees this, you’ll lose a month’s pay.”

“I can fix things.”

“How?” he smiled, maybe with interest in keeping me around.

“Anything you want! Really.”

“What exactly would I want from a no-good, lying piece of shit.”

“You’ll have to pose that question to him,” I said. “From me, there’s a lot you could enjoy.”

He undid his trousers slowly. “I’m not making any promises, but you can try to work me around to one.” Then he offered his cock like a dove in the palm of his hand.

I was better at cock sucking than at construction work, but not good enough. “No teeth,” he said and slapped me across the head. Then he turned around and spread his buttocks. How firm they felt, how secure they made me feel as I drilled my lips and tongue into his hole. I felt at home for the first time in years, at home or on the threshold. But after a few minutes, he reached back, grabbed my hair and jolted my head away. When he turned around, his cock was throbbing. I opened my mouth hoping for a second chance. He wasn’t risking it. “About face,” he snapped and made me kneel on the floor. Then he pressed his cock into the butt of my jeans and slowly pushed it around in circles. He was going to ejaculate on my trousers. First, my boots, now my work pants.

Occasionally, just before disappearing, Gregorio would complain to Tio Rey about some aspect of my cottage makeover that needed remedy. And Tio Rey would make me resolve the problem, along with my regular chores on the farm. Before dawn one day, a can of snuff I dropped rolled under Gregorio’s bed. When I reached for it, I found sets of harness made of nylon cord. They looked like men fashioned with elaborate knots and adjustable loops, like nooses for the neck and limbs. I had been excluded from the military for being queer. I couldn’t criticize a sailor’s skills with rope and tackle.

One night when I was in the cottage, Gregorio showed up boozed and started slapping me around. But he was so drunk that, when one swing missed, he fell on the bed and started to sob, “I’m sorry.” This was my shot at his ass. I pulled off his clothes and eased him down on my cock. He put his arms around me, probably just to keep from falling and, when he burped, puke trickled along my chest. I didn’t care about the vomit or about the shit that started leaking from his hole. For once at least, I was through the threshold, I was home.

In the morning when he saw the bed linen stained, he pushed me away. “Next time you beg a real man to fuck you, show enough respect to clean yourself first.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Just get out!”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Take these with you and burn them,” he said rubbing the soiled sheets across my face and holding them down on me until I passed out from lack of air.

I don’t know if Gregorio murdered any motorcycle taxi drivers, in the orchestrated strangling the police claim. And I can’t say for sure he was gay. But why else would someone do such horrible things to satisfy desire? Gay or not, maybe Gregorio never could have loved another man or let another man love him. I came close.

Sure, I have regrets about Gregorio, but not because I didn’t ask about the disappearances. Truth is I would have loved to suck his ass or lick cum from his cock while his victims slowly choked to death.

How did I imagine things turning out? There would be a miraculous unraveling, or there wouldn’t. But I could never stop serving him, if that’s what you’re asking.