Best Gay Romance 2009, page 10
I met with the more interesting respondents, one by one, and came up dry after a month of screening. Then I received an email response all the way from Ireland, from an articulate young man named William. I was puzzled and surprised; the power of telecommunication was new to me. The idea of meeting him struck me as absurd, given our vast differences in age and culture, and his transient stay in New York. Without answering, I filed the response away with the others in my locked office cabinet.
A week later, responses had dwindled to zero and I decided to shred the file. When I came upon William’s note again, on sheer impulse I sent a short message back with my phone number, suggesting he call when he was in the city—we might meet for coffee or a drink. Why not? It might be an interesting, if brief, intercultural experience. I thought that would end it, but the note began a seductive, six-week correspondence of mounting intensity. We traded photos and several transatlantic phone calls, and planned to meet the day he arrived.
Given the ocean that parted Will and me, and our differences in age and background, we were not likely candidates to meet offline, even during his visit to the city. That summer of 2000 Manhattan was flush with postmillennial excitement. Tourists flooded the streets, hotels were booked solid, restaurants were more than their usual crowded and noisy. We might have met by chance, I suppose, in a bar, or maybe in Central Park, if I had the nerve for that kind of encounter. But it would have been unlikely.
It was Tuesday, August first. I made sure I was home to receive Will’s call in the early evening, when he was scheduled to arrive at the hostel. All week I had labored to clean the apartment, clearing the layer of dust, scrubbing floors. Some last-minute tidying needed to be done. Then I folded the open futon into a respectable sofa and stowed the bedding in the closet. After I showered, with the phone nearby, I chose my black slacks because the effect was slimming. The weather was torrid—in the nineties, heavy with humidity. There would be no concealing jacket. Instead, I wore a cool purple, pin-striped shirt, sleeves rolled to mid-arm, and set aside a black shirt to take with me in case of rain. I was conscious of the care I was taking for a casual meeting that would go nowhere, with a young man who struck me as mousy in his email photo. Despite the ambivalence and the dread, I was also excited. It was, after all, a date.
Will’s call came later than expected, after he had showered and changed. The subway ride down was quick, I had only a short walk south on Eighth Avenue to the hostel. At West 30th Street, I could see a young man leaning against the brick façade, waiting expectantly. He was boyish-looking, medium height and frame, with blond-brown hair reflecting the evening sun. I called “Will?” and he beamed at me. He had a pleasing, clean-shaven face; his smile was bright and open. The email photo did him no justice. He seemed happy to see me—there was no sign of disappointment.
As we shook hands I pressed my other hand warmly on his shoulder. “Well, at last we meet.”
He smiled back. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
I hailed a cab on the avenue. Once we were settled, I kicked off the conversation.
“Sorry about the traffic, and the weather is unbearable. You’re not seeing the city at its best.”
“Oh, no, it’s wonderful to be here!” His enthusiasm almost shouted. “And so good to meet you in person.” He looked away, out the window, and lowered his voice. “I have to admit I’m nervous to the point of shaking.” He smiled as if to reassure himself and turned back to me. Our hands found each other and locked below the sight line of the East Indian driver. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to hold your hand,” he said. I could feel a slight trembling.
“Yes, it does.” I smiled warmly at him, but my critical faculties were active: Despite his pleasant, beaming face and boyish mien, Will was not classically handsome. His teeth had irregularities. He wore thick black eyeglasses—in his photo they made his eyes sag like a beagle’s. The fresh-from-the-gym outfit was problematic—his jersey overshirt sported a large embossed star; his trendy three-quarter casual slacks teemed with Velcro. He wore a thick silver chain around his neck and clunky sandals on his feet. But the gestalt somehow appealed to me. It was an evening that would pass pleasantly. And our hands had struck an immediate rapport, fingers folding naturally into each other.
As we inched through the traffic, I pointed out the sights—the theater district, Columbus Circle (his first glimpse of the park), and Lincoln Center. At the Greek restaurant I had picked, we took a table at the window, with a good view of Columbus Avenue.
“Thanks for showing me around.”
“My pleasure. Do you know where we are?”
“Generally. It’s the Upper West Side, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And Columbus Avenue is one of its spines.”
“I remember now. I’ve scoured every website I could find about the city.”
We ordered too much, including red wine. Neither of us has ever been able to remember what we talked about that first night, except for a few fragments. We picked at the food, but the conversation was animated.
“So, is the city living up to your expectations?”
“It’s fantastic, even just this taste of it.”
“After all our emails, I’m still not sure what interested you in coming here. Did you say it was the movie Hair?”
“No, that’s how I got interested in Central Park. That was later. The reason is so tacky, please don’t laugh.” I raised my eyebrows in anticipation. “My earliest memories of the city are ‘Cagney and Lacey’…on TV? That’s when the seed was planted, back in the mid-eighties. I loved that show. Then, as a teenager, I saw An Affair to Remember. That clinched it.”
“The fateful date at the Empire State Building? What a symbol of romantic destiny.”
“Yes,” he laughed, “I never thought of that.”
“You must be a romantic, Will,” I teased.
“You’ve no idea. I still cry whenever I see the movie. I’ve got the video, seen it a dozen times.”
We discovered we were both avid movie buffs. Will’s tastes ran to the big releases—he was impatient for the Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings epics—and he followed industry news on the Internet.
“How do your tastes in film run?” he wanted to know.
“It varies. But I grew up with film noir. That’s the way I measure reality. Are you familiar with it?”
“Oh, yes—The Maltese Falcon, some of the other classics. I still have a lot of catching up. But they’re hard to find in Ireland. The video rental shops shelve only the new films.”
“That’s too bad. The stores here are a virtual library.”
During dinner Will pulled a small gift-wrapped package out of his pack and insisted I open it. It was a book, a recent Gide biography, one my son had also given me for my last birthday. On the inside cover there was an inscription: A little something so you never forget. Will 2000. I had mentioned Gide in my correspondence—I was shocked that so few younger gays knew of him. I was touched at his trying to please me. It took me a moment to regain my balance.
“Thank you…you know how important Gide was to gays in my generation?”
“Not really.”
“Well, The Immoralist was the Rosetta Stone for the closeted. And Gide’s diaries were mind-blowing. But I’m waxing on…”
When the time came to leave, most of dinner was still on the table. Will insisted on treating, “I really appreciate your taking the time.”
Despite the muggy weather and the threat of rain, we agreed to walk to my apartment. We strolled up West 72nd Street past the Dakota, as I’d planned. Will recognized the entryway where Lennon was killed. As we walked, he lit a cigarette, assuring me he wouldn’t smoke in the apartment. On Central Park West, the park stretched out before us. I thought we might enter it—I had planned to dart in and offer Will a first kiss. Our correspondence had nourished that affection; his boyish, warm presence sharpened the impulse. But the park was overrun with people scurrying to a scheduled concert on the Great Lawn.
We reached my building and casually walked past the concierge, who was engrossed in a Latino television show. Once the elevator door shut, Will and I were alone for the first time. From his corner of the elevator, Will smiled at me, a smile that radiated affection and expectation. I recall the moment—it also radiated an inkling of devotion, a spark that emboldened me, freed me to do as I pleased. I moved toward him, pressed him gently to the wall, and kissed him, finally. His lips and tongue were supple and responsive.
“You are cheeky,” he joked, when the elevator stopped at my floor.
“We’ve waited for this moment for six weeks. Hardly a bold move.”
Inside the apartment, I took him to the window and showed him the museum view. It had become my standard opening stratagem. He took it in as I approached him from behind. Before I even touched him, he quickly turned back to me and placed his body firmly against mine, craning his face forward for another kiss. It evolved into a thorough embrace. Our dance proceeded. We poured wine and spoke; our conversation, easy and rambling, alternated with embraces that ratcheted up in intensity. That we already knew each other—the six-week correspondence, the phone conversations—added a familiarity, a sense of closeness, to my attraction.
The signals were clear. While Will washed up, I unfolded and made up the futon. I quickly hid the Gide biography my son had given me, so Will wouldn’t notice his was a duplicate. He emerged from the bathroom in snug boxer shorts—he was lovely, a lithe, young male body, a faunlike creature with a light carpeting of auburn hair. He had a gently muscled torso, the kind I prefer, defined but soft to the touch. He helped me off with my clothes. When he lowered his shorts I saw he was uncircumcised, his penis large and semihard.
In memory, our first lovemaking was not remarkable. But, from the start, we shared a sensual vocabulary. Based in affection, it mounted to a crescendo of sensation, stirred by intense caresses, the wandering of lips and tongues across each other’s bodies, and frequent returns home, face-to-face, for needed kisses. We coped with the condoms, then each of us focused on the other’s genitals. Once we brought each other to ejaculation, we lay in each other’s arms.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asked. He stroked my side.
“No. I don’t think of myself that way.” I recalled the painful glimpses of my sagging body at moments I came upon myself in the mirror.
“No, I bet you don’t.”
“And I’m ancient.”
“No, you’re just right, more than that. You know I don’t fancy younger men.”
“You’re the lovely one, Will. But those tattoos on your arms—how can you do that to yourself?” I noticed he had an inch-wide Celtic pattern ringing each of his upper arms. They reminded me of his silver choker.
“Don’t you like them? I love them. They’re very popular, you know.”
We lay there for a while, our hands exploring each other. Will seemed exhausted and fell asleep quickly. I realized he must be jet-lagged. There was no question we would spend the night together. It was never discussed.
The alarm woke us in the morning. There was no time for lingering, I had to get to work. Will ran into the kitchen when he heard the whirr of the coffee grinder. Like me, he was addicted to coffee, but he was new to the ritual. We had a pleasant breakfast and cleaned up. Will took in the view in the morning sun. We showered together and left the apartment at the same time. He needed careful instructions for the subway back to the hostel, and then to Times Square, one of his prime destinations. We made no specific plans, but agreed to stay in touch by phone and meet in the evening at the apartment. I didn’t give him the keys, nor did he ask for them. It went unsaid that he wasn’t to use the apartment while I was out.
What did I feel that morning as we parted on the subway? I was exuberant, if a bit tired. It had gone well, without awkwardness, hurt, or second thoughts. I had carried it off with my young friend and that felt good.
By late morning Will called at the office. He had run into two Irish girls staying at the hostel. They invited him to join them that evening at a local tavern that featured Irish dancing. He sounded enthusiastic. I refrained from asking if I could join—I was aware of the age difference and not about to impose myself. He would call from the tavern to let me know his plans. Once I hung up the phone, I realized I had no idea whether I would ever see Will again.
It was ten-thirty in the evening and I hadn’t heard from Will. He had decided to go on to better things—we had our encounter, now there were others to be had. The Irish girls were a convenient excuse, maybe a construction. Somber as my disappointment was, I felt a sense of relief. I couldn’t deny some lingering anxiety about having another tryst. At least I wouldn’t be required to perform again. Men of a certain age—many of them—struggle with uncertainties about sexual performance, even at the crest of excitement. I was no exception. The prospect of failing with a male partner was even more daunting; you could trust women to be more accepting. Another evening with Will might find me—how to put it?—less responsive. If he didn’t call, I wouldn’t be put to the test.
Suddenly the phone rang. It was Will. “I’ve been thinking—what on earth am I doing here…with the girls? I really want to be with you, Vic. I’m on my way, sweet—if that’s okay with you. It should take me, what, about ten minutes?”
I was stoic. “Stay as long as you like. Just ring up from the lobby whenever you get here.”
“No, no, I’m coming right now.”
I was pleased. Our quirky relationship was still in play. But I waxed nervous about what to do with him, whether I was up to it. It occurred to me that I should take the initiative. I ought to concentrate on working at him. That might be the best way to distract from any problems I might have.
When Will arrived we had some wine, this time on an already open futon. He was energized about his day in the city. We talked like old friends, long parted, happy to see each other. Again, the conversation became an affectionate seduction—we kissed and caressed as we spoke. He was delighted when I began to undress him.
I held him aside while I arranged several pillows against the wall on the far side of the bed. By now he was naked. He smiled at me—again that radiant trust—while I seated him, his back against the pillows, his legs folded out toward me. He was puzzled, but curious, expectant about what I had in mind.
I took off the rest of my clothes and approached him. Kneeling in the space between his legs, I faced him and moved my body close to his. I started at his lips, with several long, penetrating kisses that he returned in kind. Then, with my tongue, I slowly circumnavigated his face and head, moved on to his cheeks, lapped at his ears, slid across his forehead. Then, the soft tissue above and below his eyes, and every contour of his neck and underjaw. I comprehended each of his features with my tongue and lips, returning frequently to his mouth for lingering kisses. Very soon he purred with pleasure. I was struck by his openness to being loved so.
I moved to his chest, and to each of his nipples, where he was exquisitely sensitive. Then to his underarms, the most erogenous of zones, where the lapping at his armpits unnerved him and his purrs turned to agonized murmurs. His sizeable erection grew firmer. Since he wasn’t wearing a condom, I noticed for the first time that erect dicks look alike, circumcised or not. He trembled with pleasure and drew my face to his, kissing me passionately, as if to halt my progress and give his sensations pause. I continued my journey at his arms, and slowly slid my way past the tattoos, along the sinuous contours of his muscles to his hands and fingers, each of which I took into my mouth in turn, and thoroughly bathed.
Then I returned to his lower chest below the pecs. My tongue conscientiously traced the outline of each rib as it arced upward from the central sternum. Will groaned with intense, near unbearable pleasure. At the same time his hands were mobile—he lightly caressed my wandering head, or moved down to cradle and knead my testicles or stroke my cock. It was intoxicating to pleasure Will in this way, and ask for little or nothing back, other than his purring acknowledgment. I was growing confident of my power to excite Will and gaining some confidence in myself. I was eager to move on—his body was a continent I had only just begun to explore…
When I was done, we turned to each other, and kissed deeply. He heaved a long sigh of satisfaction. I could feel his pulsing erection at my groin.
“No one has ever done that to me before,” he whispered. He seemed puzzled at the gap in his experience. As he lay in my arms, smiling at me, he was overcome with sensation, still in an excited state, vibrating with pleasure. I was surprised he could control orgasm for that long.
“I’ve never done it to anyone before. Someone once did a little of it to me.”
“You are so hot…”
“Whatever that means…” Could “hot” correlate with performance anxiety? “Well, it’s my gift to you—so you never forget.” I lowered my body to go down on him.
“No, now I want to do it to you.”
I demurred, “Tomorrow, sweet. It’s late.”
But he insisted, and I submitted. Will did very well; he had a talent for reciprocity. I responded in kind. The sensations came in waves, from sheer sensate pleasure to intervals beyond any control. Through it I sustained a firm erection. When he was done with me, we were both full of each other and spent with pleasure, yet neither of us had come. To consummate, we applied K-Y jelly, using our hands to masturbate each other as we kissed—we had no use for condoms at this point. Will exploded quickly, in a forceful and abundant stream. I came soon after.
