Best Gay Romance 2011, page 10
I stayed inside Gordon while our breathing relaxed and our pulses slowed. His pucker continued to flex, a love muscle caressing me.
He looked up and stroked my cheek. “That was…amazing, Beau-Beau.”
I nodded, my gaze fixed on his. His eyes were luminous, so dark and beautiful, pools I could easily drown in. I stroked his sooty eyebrows with my thumb, then I kissed the tip of his needle nose.
He fingered the spot where I’d bit him. “Do I have a hickey?”
I bobbed my chin. The size of a postage stamp, it had already turned maroon in color.
He rolled his eyes. “How will I explain that to my folks?”
“You’ll think of something. Tell them a dog bit you.”
He giggled. “A dog did bite me: a sexy beast with a big dick.”
I shifted my hips, still inside him and stiff as a broom handle. “Will you stay the rest of the weekend?”
Gordon nodded, running his fingers through my hair.
“Sure,” he said, “I can do that.”
We spent our Saturday naked.
Waking at dawn, we made love while sunlight slanted into the room through the eastern windows. The sex was even better than the night before, since we were sober now and entirely alert. Afterward, we showered, then I cooked breakfast: bacon and eggs, toast and orange juice. Gordon insisted on cleaning the kitchen, telling me, “I believe in fifty-fifty.”
I sat on the sofa, reading a Doctorow novel, Loon Lake, and after he finished the dishes Gordon joined me, stretching out and resting his head in my lap. He read from Hemingway’s collection, The Nick Adams Stories. I felt relaxed and contented, like I’d known Gordon all my life. Once in a while I’d run my fingers through his hair, fiddle with his nipple or finger his cock. I loved touching him like this, as though he were treasure I’d discovered. Occasionally he’d stroke my forearm or kiss my knuckles. His chest rose and fell as he breathed and I told myself, I could stay here on this couch with Gordon for the rest of my life; I really could.
The day was warm and bright. After lunch, we skinny-dipped in the lake, then lay on the dock, sunning ourselves, covering up with towels only when a boat passed by. Our mutual nudity bound us together; it made us comrades, gave the weekend a special and intimate feel.
The temperature plunged when the sun dropped behind the tree line. I stacked logs in our fireplace, then I got a blaze going and the two of us sat on a blanket before the hearth, watching flames dance while we sipped beer, our arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. Gordon talked about his childhood. He’d grown up in Camden, a coastal Maine town I’d visited several times, a picturesque place with a harbor full of sailboats and tree-lined streets where Cape Cods and brick colonials stood among emerald lawns.
“I know it looks like a postcard,” Gordon told me, “but folks there are nosy. I have a dozen aunts and uncles in Camden and scores of cousins. Everyone knows everyone, so you have no privacy, no secrets. Folks are conservative and family oriented; it’s no place for a gay boy.”
When I asked if he’d ever had a lover he shook his head. “In Portland, I’ve met several guys over the Internet. I’ve gone to their homes for sex, but that’s all. I’ll walk in the door and maybe we’ll share a beer, then it’s off to bed. As soon as the sex is over, I’m gone.”
“That’s it? Don’t you want more?”
Gordon looked at me and knitted his eyebrows. “Of course I do. It’s just…”
“What?”
“I’ve never met someone like you before. Understand?”
His remark made my belly flutter. I brought my lips to his cheek and kissed him, then I laid my head on his shoulder and we didn’t speak again for the longest time.
It seemed we didn’t need to.
Sunday evening—after I’d dropped Gordon off at O’Connor’s—I drove the county road, headlights cutting through darkness, and I felt so lonely I wanted to cry. Back at my cottage, I walked into the living room and the place seemed empty and cheerless. It wasn’t the same without Gordon’s presence. I glanced at the sofa, the dinette and the kitchen sink. I peeked into the bedroom, then the bathroom, recalling acts Gordon and I had performed in these places, our conversations and our lovemaking. How special each moment had been. Why had the weekend ended so quickly?
I couldn’t wait for Monday morning to come, so I could pick up Gordon and bring him to my place. We could have sex before commencing our work, right? I looked at the kitchen clock and it seemed as if the second hand crept along. Had someone poured syrup into the clock’s movements?
I shook my head and my eyes itched anew.
Beau, I told myself, I think you’re in love.
I woke to an overcast sky on Monday, and as I drove to O’Connor’s I wondered if it might rain. If it did, Gordon and I would forgo installing roof shingles. The thought of spending the day inside with Gordon made my pulse quicken, my cock stir. I longed to hear Gordon’s voice, to stroke his cheek.
I came upon a gaggle of moose, a half-dozen or so, the largest a male with enormous antlers. They stood in the middle of the road, licking the asphalt, oblivious to my presence, and I had to drive onto the road shoulder to get past them. I shook my head and chuckled. Only in Maine....
At O’Connor’s, Gordon wasn’t waiting for me outside the camp’s office, so I parked the truck and waited, listening to the radio and chewing a hangnail. Ten minutes passed and still Gordon did not appear, and then a bearlike man in a ball cap and flannel shirt emerged from the office, hitching his work pants. Lumbering to the passenger door of my truck, he stuck his head through the open window.
“Are you James Beauregard?”
I nodded.
He handed me an envelope. “Gordon Noyle left this for you.”
“He’s not here?”
The man shook his head. “Gordon settled his bill last night. This morning he put his boat on a trailer and left before daybreak.”
I thought, Trailer? I thought Gordon didn’t own a car.
I said, “What about Gordon’s folks? What about his brothers and sisters? Did they all leave too?”
The man looked at me like I was daft. He said, “Noyle was here alone.”
A shiver ran through me while the man walked away.
Inside the envelope was a single sheet of spiral notebook paper. I fingered its crinkly edge while I studied Gordon’s blocky handwriting.
Beau:
My mom’s diabetic and she’s felt poorly the last few days. This morning her blood sugar level is seriously out of control, so we must take her to the hospital in Camden. I have no idea when or if we’ll return to O’Connor’s. It all depends.
I enjoyed the weekend at your place, more than you know. Sorry to have to say good-bye this way.
Gordon.
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. For a moment I thought I might puke. Gordon was gone? Just like that?
Driving home, a tear rolled from the corner of my eye. Last night I’d assumed I would see Gordon every day for the next few weeks. I’d savor his presence as we worked, and each afternoon we’d make love. Weekends we’d fish or take hikes in the woods, and maybe we’d visit Greenville for a lobster dinner.
But no.
None of it would happen, would it?
I pulled onto the gravel road leading to my cottage and braked. Shifting into park, I thrust my face into my hands and wept like a five-year-old.
Why was life so unfair?
Three days after Gordon’s departure I was going crazy. I’d lost my appetite, and even looking at food made me nauseous. I slept poorly and performed no work on the cottage. All I wanted to do was drink alcohol. My dad kept a few liquor bottles in a cupboard, and one evening I drank rum and colas till I puked. Next morning I woke on the sofa, still fully dressed, my head pounding.
You can’t keep this up, Beau. Pull yourself together.
What could I do? I had to see Gordon. I needed to hear him tell me he cared for me as much as I cared for him. But how could I find him? I didn’t have his Camden phone number or address. Undressing, I dragged myself into the shower, then I let warm water pound my shoulders while I pondered what I should do next.
Camden’s not a long drive, less than two hours. Go down there and find Gordon.
Tell him you love him.
I’d forgotten how pretty Camden was: the tree-lined streets, the stately homes with hedges trimmed just so, the quaint shops and restaurants. When I was ten my family had taken a windjammer cruise out of Camden’s harbor on a ninety-foot, wooden sailing vessel called Scud. Built in the 1880s, Scud’s hull was painted forest green. Its main mast was as big around as an oil barrel, probably thirty feet tall. For three days we cruised the coastline and even now I recalled details of the trip: rocky points thrusting into the sea, the birds and sunsets, whales and seals and brine-scented air.
Now I stood in a phone booth, leafing through pages of the Camden directory. I didn’t know Gordon’s father’s first name, and there must have been two dozen Noyles listed. What should I do? Call each number and ask for Gordon? How much sense did that make?
Then I recalled Gordon had told me his father did construction work. Turning to the yellow pages, I looked under Building Contractor and, yes, there was a listing for Noyle Construction.
My hand shook as I dialed the number, then I cursed when an automated service answered my call. I didn’t even bother to leave a message. What would I say? “Hi, I’m Gordon’s boyfriend and I need to see him?”
I drummed my fingers against the phone booth’s glass pane. All around me, tourists in shorts and tennis shoes strolled in the sunshine, many licking ice-cream cones, smiles painting their faces. Little kids darted here and there, knees chugging. Shops around the harbor did a brisk business, selling nautical paraphernalia, moose T-shirts, miniature sailing ships in bottles, sea captains and lighthouses carved from wood, watercolors depicting Maine’s rocky coast.
Leaving the phone booth, I strode down a crowded sidewalk, hands in my pockets, my gaze fixed on the pavement as I tried to concentrate. A construction crew performed demolition work inside a storefront, a group of guys dressed in overalls and work boots. They used crowbars and sledgehammers to dismantle room partitions, and two were close to Gordon’s age. Sticking my head in the door, I asked one if he knew Gordon Noyle.
He shook his head. “Is he local?”
I nodded.
“We’re all from Freeport,” he told me. “Sorry.”
I wrenched my lips, feeling frustrated and discouraged, but a few minutes later I came upon a café with NOYLE’S BREAKFAST & LUNCH painted on the plate-glass window. The place was crowded with patrons seated at Formica-topped tables, perusing menus or chewing sandwiches; it smelled of frying bacon and coffee. I took a seat at the counter, and a waitress in a mint-green uniform, who looked maybe thirty, offered me a menu.
I said, “Just a glass of cola with ice, please.”
When she brought my drink, I asked her if she knew Gordon, and my heart skipped a beat when she nodded.
“He’s my cousin,” she said.
“I’m a friend. I’m passing through Camden and I thought I’d say hi, but I don’t have Gordon’s address or phone number.”
She glanced at her wristwatch. “He’s likely at the church this time of day.”
“Church?”
She nodded. “St. Catherine’s on Baxter Avenue. It’s the tallest steeple in town; you can’t miss it.”
I crinkled my nose and squinted. Why would Gordon be at a church on a Wednesday afternoon?
St. Catherine’s was a brick structure with stained glass windows and a pair of coffered entry doors. A sign in the manicured lawn announced that Vacation Bible School—grades one through six—was in session, June first through the end of August.
Gordon stood in a playground surrounded by a chain-link fence. Three dozen children clambered on jungle gyms, rode swings and played four-square on a cement court. One child, a little boy perhaps seven, leaned against Gordon while Gordon’s arm rested on the boy’s shoulders. The boy rubbed the tip of his nose while Gordon spoke to him.
Gordon wore a black shirt, a white priest’s collar, black pants and shoes that looked to be patent leather, also black.
My stomach churned and my vision blurred. What was going on?
I crossed the church’s emerald lawn, approaching the chain-length fence, and Gordon didn’t sense my presence until I spoke his name. When I did he swung his gaze to me and his eyebrows arched.
Bending at the waist, Gordon spoke to the little boy, who scooted toward a seesaw while Gordon walked toward me, arms swinging, his mouth a thin line. My heart fluttered when he drew near because he looked so handsome in his dark clothing.
How badly I’d missed him. I wanted to kiss Gordon, right there in front of the kids.
Gordon placed his hands on top of the fence. Puckering one side of his face, he said, “Surprise, Beau,” then he brought an index finger to his chest. “Meet the real Gordon Noyle.”
My knees turned to jelly and my voice cracked when I spoke. “Everything you told me about yourself was a…lie?”
“Not all, but some.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I have an alter ego. He emerges when I meet an attractive man outside of Camden. Understand?”
I shook my head.
Gordon looked here and there, then he whispered, “That first night at your cottage, I wanted you and I knew you wanted me. But honestly, Beau-Beau, would we have made love if you’d known I was a priest?”
I studied my shoes and didn’t say anything. The kids’ piping voices grated on my nerves, and I fought an urge to turn and run to my truck.
It was all false. Gordon’s a fraud.
My eyes watered. I looked at Gordon and asked him, “Did it mean anything to you? The time we spent together?”
Gordon glanced over his shoulder at the kids, then returned his gaze to me. “Of course it did, Beau. I like you so much; you’re handsome and sweet and having sex with you was wonderful.”
I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands and sniffled.
“You deserve someone better,” Gordon said, “a person who’s truthful and not afraid to be himself.”
I wanted to tell Gordon it was okay; that I’d overlook his deceit if he’d only come back to First Roach Pond, but before I could speak a girl with a mop of auburn hair and freckles on her nose approached. “Father Noyle,” she said, “I skinned my knee. Do you have a bandage?”
A trickle of blood, shiny as nail polish, oozed down the girl’s bumpy shin.
Gordon looked at her wound, then at me.
“I have to go,” he said.
A few days later, while Peter Demens, proprietor of Kokadjo’s general store, rang up my purchases, he asked, “Did the fellow from Camden ever contact you?”
I said, “Excuse me?”
“The dark-haired young man.”
“You mean Gordon?”
Peter shrugged. “He didn’t tell me his name. You were leaving as he was coming into the store and he asked about you, said he was close to your age and he needed a fishing buddy.”
A shiver ran up my spine.
I said, “How long ago was this?”
Peter scratched his head. “Must have been two weeks or so, just before that nasty storm. Remember how hard the wind blew?”
I nodded.
“Anyway, he seemed like a nice fellow, so I gave him directions to your place. You never heard from him?”
The second week of August, I stood shirtless on a ladder, painting trim on the cottage’s eaves. Late morning sunshine warmed my shoulders. I heard an engine’s mutter and the sound of tires crushing gravel, and when I looked toward the driveway a pickup truck approached, missing its front bumper.
The driver was Gordon Noyle.
After we shook his gaze traveled over the cottage. “Looks good,” he said. “The new roof really dresses the place up.”
“Listen,” I said, “I never paid you for the work you did. Let me write you a check.”
He raised a palm and shook his head. “Being with you was payment enough, Beau-Beau.”
His remark made my knees wobble. My voice wavered when I asked him, “What brings you to the lake?”
He dropped his gaze and shoved his hands inside the back pockets of his blue jeans. Then he kicked dirt with the toe of his work boot. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned; the T-shirt beneath was faded and coffee-stained. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and he looked like a guy who worked at a sawmill instead of a Catholic priest from Camden.
He said, “I know you’ll leave soon. I wanted to see you, to say I am sorry.”
“It’s all right, Gordon, I—”
He looked up. “No, it’s not ‘all right.’ I’m such a…coward; I hate myself sometimes. I wasn’t fair to you, and there’s no excuse for it. Can you forgive me?”
I told him of course I could.
Gordon smiled wanly. “Thanks, Beau-Beau.” He reached for my paint-splattered chest. Fingering a nipple, he told me, “You look good with your shirt off.”
My cock twitched.
I threw an arm about Gordon’s neck and pulled him to me and our chests and hips met. Burying the tip of my nose in his hair, I inhaled its grassy scent.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I said.
Minutes later we lay naked in my bed, Gordon’s legs hiked, my hips thrusting, cock poking Gordon’s prostate, making him squeal and grunt. The day was warm and we both sweated, and our skin stuck together as if we’d been glued. The bedsprings wheezed and the headboard drummed the wall behind it, as before.
