“Sure, we could do that, just not right now, another time perhaps.”

  “Did you want to leave?”

  “Hell no! What made you think that? We haven’t even gotten started.”

  That was that. There was no more talk. Whether what followed was sex or lovemaking was anyone’s guess. Perhaps it was a little bit of both. What did it matter? Whatever it was, it was stellar, remarkable, downright brilliant.

  There was music playing in the living room just loud enough for them to hear: an old love song from the late eighties. Taylor felt like they were playing it just for him. What he didn’t know at the time was that Mark was listening to the saccharine lyrics and schmaltzy melody as well, and was more or less thinking the same thing.

  When they were finished making love, or whatever you wanted to call it, Mark asked if he might take a shower before going home. When he returned to the bedroom Taylor was fast asleep. Being careful not to disturb him, he took a moment to admire Taylor’s body before gingerly pulling the sheet and blanket up over him. He was a genuinely handsome man with a really beautiful, masculine body, but Mark had slept with good-looking, well-built men before. Still, there was something about Taylor that was different, something intangible, something that for a brief moment made Mark consider getting back into bed and staying the night. But the impulse, as well as the heat that was building in his loins, was met with the cold reality of what that might mean. He dressed instead and left as quietly as possible.

  The next day Taylor waited patiently for Mark to call. Not that he had given him any indication that he would. It was just a hope. After their brief discussion on the subject of “feelings,” he had decided the prudent thing to do was to let Mark make the next move. Two weeks passed and still there was no call from him, and the waiting was beginning to take its toll. Unable to concentrate, he stopped painting, and looked for an outlet for his frustration. He immediately began to search the chat rooms for a connection, only to find that his heart wasn’t in it. That was what seemed to be the problem—his heart. How could he be feeling so much for someone he hardly knew? Was it simply easier to fall in love with a total stranger you could imbue with a semblance of perfection (as opposed to a real flesh and blood human being with frailties and flaws), or was there something happening here, some sixth sense that told him this was special—something worth pursuing, something real. Whatever it was, Taylor realized he was going to have to make the next move. He finally called, only to get Mark’s voice mail. He tried his best to leave a friendly, nonemotional message, but was sure his voice had betrayed him. Another week passed before Mark returned the call, only it wasn’t the call Taylor had been waiting for.

  “Taylor?”

  “Mark. It’s nice to hear your voice. I thought you had dropped off the face of the planet or something.”

  “That’s an odd expression.”

  “Is it? I’ve never given it much thought. So…how are you?”

  “Holding my own.”

  “It’s usually more fun letting someone else hold it,” he replied, trying to hide his anxiety under a façade of humor.

  “I suppose that’s true.” The long pause that followed didn’t help Taylor’s anxiety any. “I think we should talk.”

  “Oh, okay, go ahead and talk.”

  “Not now—not on the phone. Can you meet me somewhere this evening?”

  “Sure, name the place.”

  Mark gave him instructions to a local nightspot. “So I’ll see you there at nine.”

  “Sure. Nine it is. Bye.”

  Taylor looked at his watch. It was just a little after six. Three hours before…before what? Taylor had the definite feeling it was going to be a very, very long three hours. He also had a really bad feeling about the evening—meeting in a public place usually spelled trouble. It was harder to make a scene with people around. Only what scene? It wasn’t like they were breaking up, they were never together. If Mark merely didn’t want to see Taylor again all he had to do was say so, or just never return his call. He’d simply have to wait to find out, and the waiting was interminable.

  Mark was seated at a table at the back of the club. He was sprouting a few days’ growth and looked as if he’d been sleeping in his clothing. It wasn’t an altogether unattractive look for him. He greeted Taylor with a big smile and a kiss, which wasn’t at all what Taylor was expecting; it definitely helped to calm his nerves.

  “So, what are we drinking,” Taylor asked, taking a seat across the table from Mark.

  “A light beer. Can I get you something?”

  “A beer is good, or am I going to need something stronger?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t we forget about the beer and just cut to the chase, as they say in the movies.”

  “Sure. We can do that if you like. The reason it took me so long to call you was that I needed time to think—to decide what it was, if anything, that I was feeling for you.”

  “And did you come to any conclusions?”

  “There are feelings, Taylor, strong feelings. I just don’t know what they mean.”

  “Well, that’s honest, I guess.”

  “It’s more than that. You see, when I told you that I try and check my heart at the door when I hook up with someone, it’s not because I don’t want to feel anything, but because I can’t allow myself to.”

  “What does that mean exactly?” Taylor asked, trying hard not to jump to conclusions.

  “I have a partner.”

  For whatever reason, Taylor had never considered that possibility. “Oh, I see. Not a problem, I get it.”

  Taylor started to get up from his seat.

  “No, you don’t see. Please sit down.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ve been together for nearly ten years. He’s the love of my life.”

  “That’s…informative.”

  “I owe you an explanation.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. We hardly know each other, Mark.”

  “He’s dying, Taylor. He has a degenerative disease that’s slowly killing him.”

  That, Taylor wasn’t expecting.

  “Mark, I don’t know what to say. I’m genuinely sorry.”

  “He understands why I occasionally need to meet other people. We don’t lie to each other. That’s why I can’t allow myself to get involved. Why I have to check my heart at the door. Why it has to be just about sex.”

  “I understand. Really.”

  “No, you don’t. You see, I knew after that first night together that it wasn’t going to just be about sex with you. Not because of what you might be feeling, but because of what I was beginning to feel. I don’t know how long Nate and I have together, the doctors won’t be specific, but I do know that at the moment there just isn’t enough of me to go around. The last few years have been very difficult, Taylor. I don’t have anything left to give. That’s why I can’t see you again, as much as I’d like to. You have to believe me. It would just be too painful, and I already feel as if I’m being torn apart. I hope you can understand.”

  “I don’t exactly know what to say. Sometimes life really sucks, huh?”

  “Yeah, it really does.”

  Taylor reached out and took one of Mark’s hands. “You take care of yourself. I wouldn’t want to see anything bad happen to you. Nate is lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  “Maybe another time then.”

  “Maybe, if it’s in the cards.”

  Taylor stood up and left Mark holding tightly on to his light beer. He cried all the way home.

  The next day he began to paint and didn’t stop until near exhaustion. It was better than drugs or alcohol, and far more productive.

  Taylor worked through the fall and winter, dedicating himself to his art. There was safety in staying at home, and comfort in what he was accomplishing—the satisfaction that one gets from creating something of substance, something lasting. In the spring he began showing his work. He sold a few things, but couldn’t seem to get any of the galleries interested in what he was doing. They were complimentary enough when pressed, but claimed that they wouldn’t be able to market what they perceived as “Stylistically, not what our clientele is buying”—code for, take a hike, we can’t sell it. No wonder so many artists have to wait until after their deaths to become famous, he thought, when success seemed to be almost solely determined by the almighty dollar. However, Taylor was dauntless. He’d given himself three years to make it, and he was not about to give up until his money ran out.

  The following year he finally got a small show along with two other artists. It was only six pieces, but it was a beginning, a chance to be seen. He sent out promo cards to everyone he could think of—anyone who might be able to help his career—and placed a well-positioned ad of his own in the local gay paper. He understood that his work was most definitely homoerotic, and although the gallery wasn’t particularly interested in promoting that aspect of it (they preferred to describe it in their own advertising as “The Male Figure in Motion”), he knew where his most promising market was.

  Opening night was a resounding and unexpected success. Two of his paintings sold within the first hour, and it quickly became clear to Taylor that the work was generating substantial buzz.

  “There’s someone here who’s interested in you executing a commission for him,” the gallery owner informed Taylor toward the end of the evening. “He’s in my office right now. Would you mind seeing him?”

  “Absolutely, I’m on my way.”

  Taylor excused himself and headed down the hall to the gallery office. Inside, standing with his back to the door, admiring a painting, was a figure that Taylor had no trouble immediately recognizing. He’d have known it anywhere. Mark turned around and gave Taylor a big smile. He was casually dressed in white linen slacks and a powder-blue polo shirt, and looked downright edible, even more attractive than Taylor remembered.

  “Surprised to see me?”

  Taylor cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. “Nearly speechless, it seems.”

  Mark crossed the short distance between the desk and the door and gave Taylor a big hug. “You’re looking very well, and your paintings are a knockout—exceptional. You should be very proud.”

  “Thank you, I am. You’re looking quite well yourself. It’s really nice to see you again.”

  “You know, I’ve never stopped thinking about you, Taylor, not for a minute, and then I saw the announcement of your show in the paper and I knew I had to come.”

  “Catherine said there was someone in here interested in commissioning my work.”

  “I guess that someone would be me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It seems I’m a real fan. However, there is one caveat.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I get to choose the model.”

  “Did you have someone in particular in mind?”

  “Actually yes, I did.”

  “And just who might that be?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “But I’ve already painted that particular model over and over again. Haven’t you noticed the resemblance in almost every one of the canvases?”

  “I thought there was something familiar about them.”

  Mark placed his hand behind Taylor’s neck and gently pulled him near. He let the feel and scent of him permeate his senses, filling him with memory. “Nate passed away six months ago,” he whispered softly into Taylor’s ear, letting his head lean just slightly into Taylor’s.

  “I’m so very sorry, Mark.”

  “It’s all right. It was his time.”

  Mark began to weep, ever so softly.

  Taylor pulled him into his arms to comfort him.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I haven’t cried for Nate since the funeral,” he said. “I haven’t been able to feel much either. Seeing your paintings here today brought it all back, and I suddenly realized how incredibly stupid I was. I needed you back then, only I didn’t know how to find a place for it—for you.”

  “I understood, Mark, really I did. I’ll admit I was disappointed at first, heartbroken even, but I used it. You became my muse, my inspiration, and look what you did for me.”

  Mark pulled away from Taylor so he could look at him. “I’m glad for you, really glad. You deserve it.” He nervously put the back of his hand up to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Look, I don’t know if it’s too late for this—if there’s someone in your life right now, but if you don’t already have plans for this evening, I’d like to take you out and celebrate.”

  “No.”

  “No what?” He was searching Taylor’s eyes to see what he meant.

  “No, there’s no one special in my life right now…and no, it’s most definitely not too late. In fact, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather celebrate with. Yes, I’d like very much to spend this evening with you…and again tomorrow, and the day after that if you’ll let me.”

  “You would, would you?”

  “Yes. Is that way too presumptuous on my part?”

  “A little. But we never did get to spend a night together, so I guess I owe you.”

  They stood a few feet apart, smiling at each other, their eyes locked in a silent, sensual embrace, like fireworks lighting up the sky.

  SAIL AWAY

  Tom Cardamone

  The old man remembered when the shore was wild. When he was a small child the town had just finished being a collection of shacks afraid to cross the bay. He remembered that his grand-father talked of a time before bridges; no one lived on the keys. Mosquitoes moved in clouds along the beach and rattlesnakes coiled in the brush beneath the palmettos. The first bridge was made of wood. The width of the bridge was only one lane. Cars would have to stop and honk twice before proceeding. Bigger bridges of concrete were built. In his teens he would ride his bike over the bridge to the beach, past the parking lots crammed with new Cadillacs, nautical fins ready to cut the air, tops perpetually down. He pedaled past the crowded strip and two-story hotels toward the wooded area. Here the road turned to shell. He swam, chased black snakes between the Australian pines, and watched in wonder as a shifting rainbow of dragonflies hovered overhead.

  The old man remembered coming upon his classmate, Jimmy, in the dunes. Jimmy had been swimming and stood naked, smiling in the wind, as his cutoff jean shorts dried stiff in the sun on a large bend of gray driftwood. The driftwood blackened from the water it had absorbed from the shorts. The boy was younger than his classmate and shied away upon seeing his nakedness, so carefree and deserving that cloudless day, but Jimmy waved him over and patted the driftwood for the younger boy to sit. They fell into a natural conversation. The sky was brilliant with dragonflies, each one a shiny gold. As the boys talked Jimmy reclined and slowly spread his legs and flapped his arms and made an angel in the sand. He then motioned with his head for the other youth to join him. The boy blushed deeply and tucked his chin into his shoulder as Jimmy further motioned that he should remove his swimming trunks. His classmate lifted himself on one elbow to watch as he struggled out of his suit, now heavy and awkward with seawater and pockets full of sand. He was worried they would be seen. He was scared because the other boy was bigger than him and would tease him for not having as much hair between his legs, but Jimmy just dropped back into the sand and began working on his angel. The boy did the same, thrilled by the new sensation of hot sand beneath bare buttocks. Exhilarated, he was immediately erect. His prone penis quivered and he felt an impending orgasm rise, so he squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself. A calm hand on his shoulder: Jimmy whispered, “Not yet,” then jumped up and leapt toward the shore. The boy relaxed and inhaled the salt air. Cattails wavered in the breeze and dragonflies hovered.

  Jimmy returned with his hands cupped before him. He let ocean water drip between his fingers and splash on the boy’s stomach and bare chest. The boy gasped. He arched his back in the sand and concentrated on the sensation of cool water snaking down his ribs, pooling in his belly button. He dug his heels into the sand, and Jimmy laughed and stroked the younger boy’s hair.

  “Have you ever touched another guy?” Jimmy asked.

  The boy shook his head no and looked up at Jimmy. The older boy settled back into the rising sand of the dunes, closed his eyes, and spread his legs. The boy understood the question was an invitation and rose on his knees and crawled toward him. Jimmy’s legs were more muscular, his hair dark where the boy’s was frothy and blond. Jimmy sensed his approach and sighed, opening his legs farther to reveal a perfect sac pulled taut by a wide erection. The dark crevice of his plump ass settled over the sand like a pirate’s cave promising treasure. The boy approached, wanting to explore this landscape of suntanned flesh, but he did not know where to begin.

  “Touch it,” Jimmy commanded with his hands behind his head, eyes closed. The boy closed his small fist around the totem of muscle and felt as if he were touching himself but not. And he felt right. Desire melted through the fear and his touch became sure, exploratory, exciting for both. Jimmy extended his legs as the young boy developed rhythm and as they sighed in unison overhead a seagull, too, cried and they laughed and slapped and tickled each other and Jimmy chased the boy around the dunes, naked and glorious with sunlight all around. Eventually Jimmy caught the younger boy and pinned him to the sand. Face to face, they bucked and pulled and came in exquisite squirts.

  Jimmy ran into the surf to wash off his stomach. He lingered there, the dark shadow of a promise as the sun neared setting. The boy dressed quickly and grabbed Jimmy’s small, worn, striped towel; he stuffed it in his backpack and rushed back to his unchained bike.

  The old man remembered returning to the dunes as a boy and not finding Jimmy but sometimes older men, secretive in the tall grass, exposing themselves, always delighted that he would approach, proudly displaying his own solid member. They taught him different lessons than Jimmy, and were often but not always more serious and hurried. Others were marvels of new knowledge: sailors, dark men from other countries who whispered hotly in his ear. These men taught him that such meetings were universal; all over the world, wherever the land slipped into water, men found each other at dusk in the surf, in the nearby woods, behind rolling hills of sand. They pulled at each other and made quiet demands, and the boy learned that he was obsequious but just so; he bent and bobbed naturally like a cattail in the wind. When he could, he would leave the beach with the man’s handkerchief stiff in his pocket. Occasionally he would be able to claim a shirt. He would breathe its secreted scents in bed at night: sweat, cocoa butter, semen: the salts of the sea.

 

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