I promised to post an excerpt of my short story, THE INCOME TAX PARTY, that’s in the SEX AND TAXES
anthology. So here it is.
Ricky Cushman was tall and bulky and strong. His thick blond hair was cut short, but if you looked closely you could see that he wasn’t a natural blond. He touched up his roots every three weeks; he shaved twice a day to keep his heavy, dark beard from being too obvious.
But being blond suited him well and most people never bothered to notice that it wasn’t real. They were too busy staring at his large, round biceps and the muscular ridges on his forearms. Or the way his massive chest muscles jerked and bounced on their own when he clenched his fists. It was hard to miss the way his thick, floppy penis tended to swing back and forth beneath his gym shorts when he wasn’t wearing underwear.
And he didn’t wear underwear often. He knew that some of his wealthier clients, men and women, secretly preferred it that way. Ricky was a personal trainer, with a small gym of his own. He called it “The North Union Garage,” because it was located at the end of North Union Street in a long, flat building that was really nothing more than a row of faded garage doors. He was hoping to rent a better building soon. The “The North Union Garage” did very well. Many of his clients paid over five hundred dollars a month just so they’d be able to look up his shorts and see what was between his legs when he stood over their heads and spotted them during bench presses. He knew they were looking; he even spread his legs wider and forced a semi-erection on purpose so they could just lie back on the bench and watch it swing back and forth.
He was good at what he did, and he knew how to make money. But he wasn’t always sure about how to handle the money, especially when it came time to deal with his taxes. He would have liked it if more people had paid with cash. But they didn’t. They all paid with credit cards, and he kept all the receipts and paperwork in brown, stained egg crates he’d found behind the local supermarket. He’d always depended on his father to do his income taxes. The father took the egg crates every year and never complained about the disorganization, and Ricky never had any problems. But then his father re-married and moved to Florida and Ricky had to find someone else. So when a client told him about a guy who prepared income taxes on a part time basis, he took the number and called him in early March. He’d seen him around town once or twice, so he wasn’t a total stranger.