Sugar and Ice - RJ Scott Page 0,13

let me guess. Your girlfriend found out about your ugly feet and kicked you out?”

“Asshole, your feet are just like mine.”

I chuckled as I pushed aside some gray slacks. It was a casual affair, according to Henry. His partner Apollo was known for these team parties. They were becoming part of the Raptors experience and popped up with barely any notice. Although this one was to celebrate the end of a rather decent preseason.

“My dick is bigger,” I threw over my shoulder as I lifted a silvery type shirt up to inspect it.

“No, mine is. I’m older.”

“By seven minutes and that has no bearing on dick size.”

“Big dick! Big dick!” Frank squawked.

“I blame that on you,” I told Dimi while sliding my arms into my shirt. It would look good with jeans and some casual sandals. Not that I was trying to dress up for my teammates…

“I warned you not to teach him to say bad words. Mama thinks he’s possessed by a demon,” he said before he sniggered softly. “By the way, Mama and Papa are fine. They were bickering the other day over which of their sons was smartest.”

I rolled my eyes. “Surely they chose me.”

“Surely not. They said I was smartest, and best-looking. Also, they want you to call them.”

“Yes, I will, this Sunday morning as always. Why are you calling?”

“Oh, yes, I forgot you asked. We are planning a party for Mama and Papa’s forty-year anniversary. Will you be coming home?”

“Of course, why would you ask me that?” I padded to the dresser to sort through two drawers of folded, ironed blue jeans.

“Because your brain is addled and soft, like your dick.”

Frank whistled at the comment. Dimi roared.

I shook my head. “Your brain and my bird’s are the same size,” I muttered, lifting a new pair of Levi’s from the drawer.

“So you say. Good, I’m glad you’ll be home. Are you bringing someone?”

That brought me up short. “No, I am…no, there is no one right now.”

“I’m sorry for that. Perhaps it’s best to not flaunt.”

“Yes, perhaps.” His comment sounded cruel, and perhaps it was, but it wasn’t meant that way. Despite all the hard times we gave each other, Dimi and I were as close as two humans could be. He got hurt and I felt his pain. We had shared the same womb. He spoke only the truth. Flaunting my gayness back home was asking for trouble.

“You know I do want you to be happy,” he said, his voice low and soft.

“Yes, I know.”

“How you can make someone happy with such a small cock I do not know but…”

“I have a talented mouth,” I tossed out.

Dimi choked on a bubble of laughter. We chatted a bit more, about hockey, our teams, and how he was set to be named best goalie of the year if his play continued to be as it had been last season. He thought not, but I was rather sure of his chances.

“Go to bed,” I told him. We had always been night people. “Tell Mama I’ll call on Sunday. Sleep well. Tell your girl I feel sorry for her putting up with you.”

“She loves every moment. Sleep well, brother.”

“Spokoynoy nochi.”

The call left me smiling, as they always did. Well, not always, but usually. Frank watched me as I stepped into my jeans, zipped them up, and then slid my feet into some leather sandals.

I snapped my fingers and the bird, now partially dry, took wing. He soared through the condo, landing on top of his huge crate. I didn’t clip his wings, though many bird owners did. I preferred him to be flighted and took him outside with an aviator harness as often as possible so he could enjoy the outdoors.

“Inside,” I said in Russian, holding up my hand. He balked a bit but climbed onto my wrist and let me place him inside his crate. His water and food dishes were full, the crate cleaned of the day’s droppings, and there was a new hanging trapeze toy that he grabbed onto and hung upside down from. I closed the door, then locked it with a second small padlock. He knew how to pick the lock that had come with the cage, a lesson I’d learned within the first few days of owning Frank. Coming home to find the bird had shit all over my tidy house and eaten his body weight in bread and nacho corn chips had taught me how incredibly intelligent macaws are. “Be good.”

“Vinograd?”

“Later.” The bird