“And you’re a poet now as well, it seems.”

  “There is poetry there. Indeed there is. And the clouds, Elyse,” he went on. “Great lumbering, marshmallow behemoths, snagging tops of mountains as they floated in that ultimate sea of blue, casting their enormous shadows over the land for as far as the eye could see. It was staggering. You had to be there. It’s difficult to describe, to do it justice.”

  “I get the feeling, really I do. You’ve managed to convey it all quite well, actually.” Elyse glanced down at her menu. “I’m sure it’s all you say it is, probably more. I’m glad you had a good time. You’ll have to show me the pictures one day.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, of course not; why would you say that? But we should order before the waiter forgets about us.”

  It had been Taylor’s first tentative visit to New Mexico, but he already knew he’d be returning very soon. There was something corporal and life affirming about the place, something that whispered to him at night while he drifted off to sleep—a lullaby in tones of copper and turquoise, desert flower and sagebrush, purple and gold, a stark cleanness that appealed to him like age-old, sun-bleached wood or terra-cotta tiles. There was simply a feeling of comfort—of home. Something he’d been searching for without knowing it. Something he hadn’t felt since he’d moved out of his parents’ house twenty years earlier.

  “I saw Michael while you were away,” she announced quite casually as she picked at her salad. “He looks well.”

  Taylor froze in midchew. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re being provocative. You know I have no desire to hear anything about him. Why are you being so mean?”

  “I am not,” she insisted, tapping the edge of her plate with her fork for emphasis. “I thought you might be interested.”

  “Why would I be interested? The man broke my heart and trashed my apartment.”

  “Sorry I brought it up.”

  “I don’t understand you, Elyse. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  “I am your friend.”

  “Then start acting like one.”

  They sat rigidly, staring at each other, waiting for the other to say something.

  “You’re being so unfair, Taylor.”

  “Unfair to whom—you or Michael? Because if you think for one minute that I’d entertain your, or anyone else’s, defense of that heartless, irresponsible, unfeeling bastard, you are not only terribly misguided, but completely delusional. I won’t hear of it. I won’t consider it. And the continuation of our friendship might be in serious doubt. Now, just who am I being unfair to, Elyse?”

  “You’re not the same person I once knew. I don’t know what’s happened to you, but I don’t like it.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s happened to me. Michael happened to me, that’s what, and I’ll never get over it if I have to hear about him and how sorry he is, or how miserable he is, or how much he misses me, or what a jerk I was, or he was, or that it’s time to forgive and forget.”

  With that he stood up, pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, threw a ten dollar bill on the table, and left the restaurant, nearly knocking down an elderly woman with a cane who was getting up from her seat to use the restroom.

  The trip to New Mexico had been an escape: from a stagnant and uninspired career, a diminishing circle of less than steadfast friends, and a lifetime of small yet surprisingly painful disappointments that had all taken their toll. Michael was the last and definitely the most brutal disappointment in a long procession of failures that had Taylor questioning not only his sanity, but also why he continually chose partners who could never live up to his expectations. There seemed to be a pattern. At first they all seemed so sane, so stable, only to emotionally dissemble when things began to get serious. It always struck Taylor as curious that someone who could hold down a good job, be sociable and literate, and maintain an apartment in the city and a house in the country, could still be so royally fucked up. New Mexico, it seemed, had cleared his head. It was now obvious that the problem wasn’t theirs, but his. He was drawn to emotionally unavailable men like a moth to a flame. No more, he told himself. It was time for a change. A serious, stable relationship might come along one fine day, but for now Taylor would concentrate on the part of himself he was most comfortable with, the part he could always rely on, and the one thing that gave him the most pleasure with the least distress—his sex drive. Taylor was good at sex, perhaps even very good, and he was in the prime of his life. How long would it be before all that changed, before the angle of his erection or the ability to summon it up on demand, as it were, would decline precipitously? Screw relationships! Like Auntie Mame always said, “Life’s a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death.”

  The very first thing Taylor did was review his finances. He’d been frugal these past ten years, miserly one might even say. The result being, if he lived modestly, he could move to New Mexico, buy a little place in the desert, paint to his heart’s content, and pursue a life of inspired hedonism—hone his crafts, so to speak, while living off of his savings. He would paint and make love, just like Gauguin had done in Tahiti. Live for the moment, he decided. Let the desert be his muse and his dick the divining rod of life. Three years to make it as a painter. Three years to forget about past failures and relationships. Three years to really live for the first time in his life.

  The following Monday morning Taylor presented his boss with a letter of resignation.

  “It’s merely time for a change,” he told him. “No hard feelings, nothing personal. I’ve decided to move to New Mexico to paint and follow my heart, my bliss.”

  “This is very sudden, isn’t it?”

  “You could say. Out of character for me, I suppose—spontaneous, and very exciting. I’d like for you to be happy for me.”

  “You won’t reconsider?”

  “No way. I’m committed.”

  “Certifiable, I’d say. Best of luck to you then, Taylor. You’re going to need it.”

  That was that. He left the office feeling lighter than air and more excited than he’d felt in a dog’s age. So excited that there was a definite tenting of his pants—the first spontaneous, nonsexual erection he’d had since he was seventeen, when he’d received his driver’s license in the mail and taken his first solo trip in his parent’s car.

  In the next three weeks he sold off a good portion of his earthly possessions, rearranged his finances, and bid a fond farewell to everyone and everything he knew. Heeding Horace Greeley’s encouraging declaration of old to “Go west, young man,” Taylor was going west. The smell of excitement permeated the air like ozone after a lightning storm.

  Taylor rented a car at the airport in Albuquerque and drove to Santa Fe. He checked in at a centrally located motel and immediately sought out the expertise of several gay-friendly real estate agents to help him locate a permanent address. He was in the market for something tucked away from the city, something earthy and inspirational, but mostly, something inexpensive. It took several weeks, but eventually, a small semifurnished, adobe-style house on the outskirts of town that was in need of a modicum of repair and had the look and feel that Taylor had in mind, came on the market. He immediately put down a deposit, located an attorney, and closed on the property the following month. He moved in with two suitcases, a roll of canvas, and several boxes of art supplies, followed by a week’s worth of groceries and a used TV that he found at a thrift shop. Things were beginning to fall into place.

  Santa Fe wasn’t New York, San Francisco, or for that matter, Atlanta. There was no gay neighborhood to speak of, or hard-driving, frenetic nightlife to be found. Action in Santa Fe meant hooking up at a local pub or a gay-owned or gay-patronized establishment, or else turning to the ever present and dependable online connection. Once Taylor got settled in, unpacked, and into a routine of sleeping until noon and painting until dinner, he began scanning the Internet for places to go and, with any luck at all, people to see. It took some getting used to, but once you got the hang of it, Santa Fe was as gay a city as any other—fifteen to twenty percent of the population, if the statistics were to be believed.

  His first hookups were uninspiring and he wondered if he’d made a mistake leaving the only place he had ever called home, streets he knew like the back of his hand, the city where sex could be found just about anywhere and at any time of day or night. Was he now going to miss all of that? But as fate would have it, date number four was the charm, and very charming as well. He was handsome, intelligent, gainfully employed, with the welcome distinction of being prodigiously endowed by his creator. In the past, those impressive attributes would have really mattered to Taylor—a prerequisite for a good and stable relationship; but this was the new improved model, the I don’t want or need a relationship, just let me have some really good sex version. And to Taylor’s great pleasure and surprise, Mark was that as well. In fact, he was just about the best sex Taylor had ever had.

  There was immediate chemistry the minute Mark walked through Taylor’s door, invoking a small, but fervent voice deep inside both of them that silently exclaimed, Wow!

  Taylor opened a bottle of red wine and offered Mark a glass.

  “If you’re trying to seduce me it really isn’t necessary,” Mark said, taking the glass from him.

  “No, I simply thought it would be a nice thing to do.”

  Mark sipped the wine, approved with a nod, and with some residual wine in his mouth, slid over to Taylor’s side of the sofa and proceeded to kiss him. It was tremendously erotic. The kissing was soft and tentative at first but quickly became more intense. When Mark began to remove his clothes Taylor abruptly stopped him.

  “No, please, let me,” he insisted, and began to slowly and deliberately undress him, taking in every curve, every nuance of his body, while he licked and kissed his way down Mark’s unpretentiously muscled body.

  “You’ve done this before,” Mark teased, lying on his back enjoying the moment.

  “Just a few times—practice makes perfect.”

  When they were both completely naked Taylor suggested that they move into the bedroom where they could be more comfortable.

  Standing beside Taylor’s bed, they held tightly to each other, kissing as if they couldn’t get enough. They finally tumbled onto the bed, Taylor straddling Mark, pinning his arms above his head, and licking the soft, downy hairs of his underarms. This was met on Mark’s part by two seemingly inconsistent responses: laughter and genuine pleasure.

  “I’m a bit ticklish, but please, don’t stop.”

  When he was unable to take any more, he flipped Taylor over onto his back and proceeded to reciprocate, slowly moving down Taylor’s chest and then on to his nipples, which were now standing at attention, begging to be played with. Mark obliged.

  “You make me feel like I came with an instruction manual,” Taylor voiced rather breathlessly. “You seem to know exactly what I like.”

  “I believe we’re just on the same wavelength—we like the same things.”

  “Isn’t that convenient.”

  Mark licked and kissed his way down Taylor’s torso while lightly running his hands over his thighs and calves. It was stimulating and relaxing at the same time. Even before Mark’s lips came in contact with Taylor’s cock he had him groaning with anticipation; but Mark wouldn’t give him satisfaction, not quite yet. He continued to tease and lick the sensitive area where Taylor’s legs and groin met, slowly descending down to his scrotum, which he caressed lovingly with his tongue, eventually rising up the underside of the shaft and devouring the ample and swollen member down to its very base, causing Taylor to instinctively gasp and arch his back as if he’d been given an electrical shock.

  “Oh, my god!” Taylor called out. “That’s absolutely incredible.”

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Mark replied with an impish grin.

  “Perhaps, but if the feature film is nearly as good as the trailer, I’m giving it four stars.”

  They played like that for almost an hour before moving on to more athletic activities, all the while negotiating each new situation with careful consideration of what the other responded to and enjoyed, their bodies fitting perfectly together as if they’d been molded that way. Every movement, scent, image of the other brought erotic delight. They each knew just how to bring the other to the point of climax without actually getting there, heightening the experience and prolonging the pleasure. And they knew how to kiss—their mouths were meant for lovemaking. The sex went on until the wee hours of the morning, until they were both drained and near exhaustion.

  “Where are you going, Mark? It’s late. You’re certainly welcome to stay the night.”

  “I appreciate the offer, honestly, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Taylor asked, wondering if he’d done something wrong.

  “It’s nothing you did,” Mark replied, as if he’d read Taylor’s mind. “I just make it a habit of never getting too involved. I try and check my heart at the door. It keeps things simple. First I spend the night, then it’s breakfast in bed, and before you know it, we’re picking out china. I like you, Taylor. I like you a lot, and the sex was indescribable. Let’s just leave it that way.” He wrote his cell number on a piece of paper by the bed. “You already have my email address. We can do this again in a few weeks if you’d like, but I suppose that’s up to you.” He kissed Taylor good-bye and strolled out of the room as if the last few hours had never transpired.

  Mark’s unqualified declaration of independence should have been exactly what Taylor wanted, only at that moment it didn’t feel that way.

  In the following weeks Taylor connected with a number of nice guys. The sex was often good and definitely enjoyable, but he couldn’t get the memory of Mark out of his head. Without meaning to he’d been comparing each one of them to the man who had left him in those early morning hours a few weeks earlier, feeling just a little lost, and yet so utterly complete. Mark, the man who had insisted on checking his heart at the door, had spoiled Taylor for every other gay man he was ever going to meet in Santa Fe—or anywhere else for that matter.

  Taylor consoled himself with his art. After all, hadn’t he come to New Mexico to paint? No sense falling back into old, bad habits—to want what you couldn’t have. With that thought in mind, he put off calling Mark for almost three weeks, three long, torturous weeks. In the end though, the memory of that one amazing evening won out, and Taylor made the phone call he’d been dreading.

  “Mark?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, it’s Taylor. How are you?”

  “Taylor? Oh, yes, I remember now. I’m fine, how are you?”

  “Good, thank you. Look, I was wondering if you might like to get together again. Maybe this evening, or whenever is convenient for you.”

  “Sure, Taylor. That sounds good.”

  “What does?”

  “This evening, say about ten?”

  “Sure, absolutely, ten is good. You remember how to get here, right?”

  “I remember. See you then.”

  With that, the phone went dead, and all that Taylor could now hear was the deep thumping of his heart as it raced wildly in his chest. He’d said yes, tonight—didn’t need to think about it. That was a good sign, right?

  The chemistry between them, once again, was amazing. Neither one would deny that. Feeling just a little insecure, Taylor was careful to edit his comments. What he wanted was to tell Mark every little thing he was thinking, to let him know in no uncertain terms how he felt, but he absolutely knew that wasn’t a good idea. He needed to keep this unemotional. What Taylor was feeling was based for the most part on sex. The truth was that they hardly knew each other. They’d never even shared a cup of coffee, or talked about their respective lives other than the basics. They didn’t even know each other’s last name. This was about sex, pure and simple. Only Taylor couldn’t stop from asking himself, if the sex was this good, could there possibly be more? And then there was the more uncomfortable truth: the fact that it just wasn’t in Taylor not to feel, to hope, to let himself fantasize what might be if things were allowed to progress. He could rationalize from now to kingdom come why he needed not to get involved, to break free from his neediness—his overwhelming desire to be in a relationship; why recreational sex was the way to go; but melting into Mark’s body like a sundae on a summer’s day threw all of that right out the window. So what if it was good sex—great sex—hell, spectacular sex! That didn’t mean there was more to it—something to hang your hat on—something to build a relationship on. Or did it?

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Why did you ask?”

  “Because you suddenly weren’t there,” Mark said, while he continued to play with one of Taylor’s nipples. “You looked a thousand miles away.”

  “Sorry about that. It’s nothing really.”

  “You were thinking about us, right?”

  “No.”

  Mark turned Taylor over on his back and kissed him. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Okay, I suppose I was. I’m sorry. I know you want this to be unemotional, but…”

  Mark kissed Taylor once again, but this time just to shut him up. “You scare me, Taylor, you really scare me…only in a good way. I’m not sure I’m ready for this, or for you, and I need time to process it. Believe me, I’m no fool. I know what we have here. I’m just not sure where it’s going to go, or if I should be going along for the ride. You see, I have a history.”

  “Is that so? Don’t we all?” Taylor propped himself up on one elbow. “We could talk about it, you know—your history and mine.”

 

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