Best Gay Romance 2009, page 9
“We’re still—” Ralph stopped himself from ending with, talking about drumming, aren’t we? He chose to leave it at that, as if the statement were deep philosophy and not the result of sitting too close to the tense thighs of this lad, of begrudging the breeze that tugged on the frayed strings of his denim shorts.
“Where’s this guy you’re avoiding?”
Ralph pointed at the combed head of hair that was still bent in conversation with Yolanda’s dreads. “There he is.”
“Total ogre. Doesn’t deserve you.”
Ralph pressed his forehead against the rail, still looking at the man below in the way that snaggletoothed children look at orthodontists. “All right, all right. Maybe he’s not so bad. I don’t know. It’s just, he’s—what’s the word? Fastidious?”
“Human?”
“He seems like the kind of guy who’d have a different shoe for each occasion. Does that make any sense?”
“I have a different shoe for each foot.”
“He reminds me of my ex,” Ralph said.
“Ah.” For the span of a moment the swinging of their legs achieved rhythmic unison, and then fell back into their differing speeds. “My ex couldn’t take my drumming at night. I keep hoping, though, and try not to let people with ears get me down.”
Ralph stood, brushed off his backside, and sighed. “I guess I’m not giving him much of a chance, am I? Least I can do is say a quick, ‘Hello,’ and see what he’s like.”
Ralph’s counsel stood, as well. “I need to get going, myself. I tell you, all this not working is making me hungry.”
“Like the wolf?” Ralph performed a sting with his index fingers on the railing. “Sorry. I ought to leave the drumming to you.”
“No, no, you’re not bad, there. I see a bright future for you.” He offered Ralph his hand again. “Anyway, very nice meeting you, Ralph. If you’re free later, I’m meeting my bandmates tonight, at Storky’s. You know it?”
“Not sure. Wait, I think so. College crowd, dubious food, dynamite jukebox?”
“There you go.” As he descended from the tree house he added, “And my friends don’t really call me Wolfie. My ex used to, though. He thought it fit me. My name’s John.”
“John?”
“Yeah, John. One of the many, the proud. Anyway, see you. Hopefully.”
“Why did you just call me Ralph? I didn’t tell you what my name is.”
“That’s right, Moby Dick, you didn’t.” The early evening sky was blooming with the color of lemonade, as John walked toward his old Volkswagen Beetle parked at the curb. He looked back at Ralph and smiled.
Ralph called, “So, what do you think of Shakespeare?”
John made a face and swiveled his splayed level hand as if it were the deck of a rocking boat. “He’s no John Bonham,” he yelled, before getting into his car, starting it, and puttering away.
Something, some rewarding quality of the warm air, made the starting night feel unfettered. Ralph’s old boyfriend had not cared much for Shakespeare either. Housed up among the wriggling green oak leaves, Ralph closed his eyes and opened them and made the reckoning to not let his old boyfriend hinder him for one day more. Besides, John’s bumper stickers agreed with him.
“He called you a dick,” the little boy said with glee, using the drumsticks that John had left behind and employing Ralph’s right shin as a substitute snare drum.
“When he’s right, he’s right,” Ralph said. “And, by the way, ouch.”
As much as Ralph had figured that he would dread the experience of embarking from the tree house for solid ground, or coming back to earth, the act of it was not so bad. He smiled when he found Yolanda resting in the grass and eating one of the cookies that Ralph’s insomniac neighbor Terry had made.
“Where’d that guy go,” Ralph said to her, “that you were talking to?”
“I could ask you the same question, but my mouth’s full.”
“Doesn’t seem to be stopping you any.” Ralph sat next to her.
“So? What’d you think of John?” she said. “His space is downtown, next door to my workshop. Hot ass, huh?”
“And then some. And, hey, pretty thoughtful of Terry, bringing cookies, eh? Tree-shaped cookies, at that. Indeed, very thoughtful.”
She glowered. “Don’t start with me. I’m the matchmaker around here.”
“He likes you.”
“I know.” Yolanda wiped her mouth on her T-shirt. “He? Oh, my god. I thought Terry was a lesbian.”
“Easy mistake, I guess. He’s a very pretty boy.”
“Or a very butch girl,” Yolanda said, “depending on the light.”
“Poor guy. He probably thinks he doesn’t stand a chance with you. I think he’s got the idea that you’re a lesbian, too.”
“Now, see, everybody keeps saying that to me. I, for one, don’t get that.”
With the day’s work at an end, Ralph linked his arm with Yolanda’s while he walked her home, comparing notes on whether it was he or she who was the more clueless about lovers. She invited him inside her house for a beer, but Ralph declined. He had sudden dinner plans and needed to change his shirt. He hummed while he did so. Foolish, same as love, though it might have been, a reverie had already found happy occupancy in his thoughts, one of drowsing on a bed while a drummer drummed nearby, under an inconstant moon, downtown.
FINDERS KEEPERS
Rob Rosen
Red-eyes, the very bane of my existence.
Careerwise, I was frequently required on both coasts, but I chose to live on the west one rather than the east. The weather was nicer, the men were hotter, and I’d take earthquakes over sleet anytime.
On that particular run, I was leaving on an almost-midnight flight, having to be in New York for an early morning meeting. Slogging through the airport, barely even aware of my surroundings, I’d come to the sad realization that the United terminal had become my veritable second home. Collapsing onto a too-hard seat, my briefcase toppling to the worn carpet, I stared downward and sighed.
It was then I spotted it: a shiny penny, faceup, brimming with good luck.
Superstition taking hold of me, I bent down to retrieve the auspicious object. Suddenly, my head, already foggy from lack of sleep, came crashing, whammo, into a surprisingly solid object. When the stars stopped their clockwise spin, and with my hand rubbing my aching skull, I peeked through my squinting lids.
A man sat crouched on the ground in front of me, a smile on his face and the penny held firmly in his grasp. “Finders keepers,” he proclaimed while rubbing his temple, wincing as he did so. “Sorry,” he quickly added.
I laughed, despite the dull throbbing in my noggin. “Guess we both need all the luck we can get, huh?” I asked, standing up to offer him a hand, helping him back to his feet.
“Childhood habit,” he replied, his grip tightening in mine, until we stood face-to-face, his dazzling blue eyes inches from mine, his breath smelling of cool peppermint.
“Same here,” I said, my own breath growing instantly shallow as my heart began a beat-laden samba. “And sorry, as well.”
The handshake kept going, moving in auto-repeat. Flesh on glorious flesh. Our eyes stayed open, locked, not a blink, not a shift up or down or to the side, laser-locked, neither wanting, it seemed, to break contact.
“Steve,” he finally said, by way of introduction, his hand at last letting go, his eyes blinking once.
“Dan,” said I, after a blink of my own. “So, where are you headed?”
He grinned again, revealing a bright, white smile that stretched across his impossibly handsome face. “Not headed. Arrived. From New York for a meeting in the morning. Yourself?”
“The same, only in reverse.”
He laughed and then mock-frowned. “Guess that penny wasn’t so lucky after all.”
I gulped. He was flirting with me. My knees went weak, my breath turned ragged, and my arm suddenly ached to reach out and pull him in tight. I went for broke, upping the ante. “I don’t know about that,” I corrected. “Two ships, once passing in the night, now stem to stem. Seems lucky enough.”
A red flush crept up his neck and bloomed on each stubbled cheek. “Do either one of these two ships have a bar on them? I could use a drink right about now.”
“The ships, no. The United club room, yes. And my plane doesn’t board for another thirty minutes. You up for it?” I offered, the double entendre gliding from my lips and hanging in mid-air.
He leaned in, his mouth moist against my ear. “Wanna see how up for it I am?”
We hurried to the club room, slamming both our membership cards smack on the table. “Um, shower room,” I requested, practically panting.
“Two,” he added, stifling a giggle.
The staff handed us towels and card keys, barely even noticing us. Midnight shifts are a bitch for everyone. In any case, we walked in double time to the rear of the club, entering one, not two, shower stalls.
“Let’s put these ships into dry dock,” he said, locking the fingers of both my hands with his and pushing me upright against the cool tile, his mouth instantly finding my own, pressing hard, harder still, as if his body ached to become one with mine.
When he let me up for air, I replied, “How about I dock my mouth on your ass?”
He grinned. “Great minds think alike.”
He kicked off his shoes, as did I. Letting go of my hands, he deftly unbuttoned his dress shirt, then yanked it out of his slacks and off his body, revealing a slim, ripped torso, densely hairy with two rigid, eraser-tipped nipples poking through the fuzz. My own shirt was off in a jiff, followed quickly by my pants and boxers, and then just as quickly by his, until both of us stood in nothing but our socks, with hefty cocks that began their gradual lifts up, Up, UP.
“Nice,” I rasped, twirling my finger in the air to indicate that I now wanted to see the flipside. He obliged, getting on all fours, his alabaster ass upturned, his cheeks spread apart, and a pink, crinkled hole winking up at me. He was hairy fore to aft, and just as yummy. I crouched, taking a deep whiff. “Damn, you smell good,” I moaned.
“And taste even better,” he amended.
I eagerly tested that theory, which did indeed prove to be fact. My tongue darted out, licking around and around, zeroing in on the sweet beckoning center before it delved inside his satin-smooth interior. He moaned and bucked his ass into my face, while I reached between his thighs to pull and yank and stroke his swollen cock, already slick with sticky precome.
“Best meal I’ve had all day,” I said, in between sucks and slurps on his pink, perfect hole.
“What about me?” he asked. “I’m starving up here.”
Only too happy to oblige, I slung my legs through his, serving up my cock to satiate his hunger. He downed it in one fell swoop, sending an eddy of adrenaline to my crotch that ricocheted through the length of my body. I, in turn, pulled his rod down and through, coaxing it inside my mouth and down my throat, while my spit-slick fingers worked their way deep within his ass.
He moaned softly and jacked my cock in between sucks, causing my balls to bounce in anticipation. “Close,” I groaned, entrenching three digits inside his rump, up and back to the hilt. “Real close.”
“Ditto,” he agreed, his cock swelling to mammoth proportions, and his prostate hardening beneath my incessant prodding and pounding.
And then I shot, ounce after creamy, hot ounce, which I could hear hitting the tile beneath me as it exploded from my quivering cock. Aiming his prick over my shoulder, and with a final tug and then push up his ass, he came as well, sending a come-bath out against the floor and the wall. Our moans and groans and sighs filled the small enclosure, reverberating against all that smooth tile and echoing joyously in my ears.
Sadly, there was no postcoital aftermath, no warm glow to enjoy. The speakers outside the stall broke the spell, announcing the imminent departure of my plane.
“Shit,” I said, hopping up, toweling off as best I could, and lickety-split getting redressed, while he sat there, naked and dripping, watching me with that glorious grin of his.
“Lucky fucking penny,” he said with a wink as I bent down for one long, deep, wonderful kiss that ended all too soon.
“Oh, yeah,” I agreed, pressing my lips firmly against his, etching the moment into my brain to be forever remembered, just before I rushed from the shower, outside the club, and onto my plane, mere moments before they irrevocably shut the door behind me.
My heart leapt into my throat and my stomach churned, realizing that I somehow already missed him, and knowing all too well that we hadn’t exchanged anything but first names and copious amounts of bodily fluids.
Two ships that bumped and then did indeed pass in the night.
I fell asleep dreaming of him, about those eyes of his that now twinkled behind my own, blue as sapphires, lighting up the darkness. When I awoke, I was in the Big Apple, with a pit the size of a big lemon in my belly.
Fated to meet, fated to part, it felt like.
“Fuck,” I groaned, and headed to my meeting, my lips buzzing at the fading memory of his lips, of his ass and cock on my mouth, of his hirsute body perched atop mine. “Fuck,” I glumly repeated, resigned to winning and then promptly losing him.
The following weeks went by in a blur. Rather than forgetting him, my memories only grew more intense. Each trip to the airport and to the United club room, and each search for him therein, proved fruitless.
And then, just when I’d given up hope of ever seeing him again, there he was, miraculously exiting the plane I was soon to board. His eyes locked on to mine almost immediately, the familiar wide grin gleefully spreading across his adorable face. He walked up to me and gave me a hug, whispering in my ear as he did so, “Funny thing about ships, they tend to follow the same routes.”
I laughed and held on tightly, taking in the heady aroma of him. “It’s good to see you again, Steve,” I whispered back. A gross understatement if ever there was one.
He sighed. “Ditto, Dan.”
Then he reached into his pocket and held up the familiar penny for me to see. “Looks like the luck is holding out.”
I smiled and drew him in even closer. “Except we’re passing in the night again. No time to even dry-dock. The plane’s late. They’ll be boarding me too soon.”
He looked me deep in the eyes, his shimmering like a perfect midday sky. The smile briefly faltered. “Is it, um, weird to say I missed you?”
“Try me,” I replied.
He kissed me, softly and lushly, the crowd vanishing from my periphery, until only he and I remained. When his lips lifted from mine, he said, “Okay then, I missed you.”
I laughed. “You’re right. That was weird. Because I missed you, too.”
And then it was his turn to laugh. “See, just like I told you before, great minds think alike.” He paused in thought, his mind obviously racing, and then he added a hasty, “Wait right here.”
Before I could say anything, he was off like a shot, racing down the concourse and out of sight. I grinned and waited, and waited some more as the grin slowly vanished and the lemon-sized pit gradually returned.
Soon enough, they started boarding the plane, and I could wait no longer. I looked up and down the concourse, but he was nowhere to be found. Gone again. Lost in the night. Unmoored and drifting, drifting away from me.
In profound dismay, I boarded the plane, taking my seat and resting my weary head against the cold, thick-paned window. I closed my eyes and again saw his, sparkling blue, beckoning me in like the ocean on a hot summer’s day. It was all I could do to not sit there and cry.
“Penny for your thoughts,” came the voice, rattling me out of my reverie.
When I opened my eyes, there he was, handing me the shiny coin and taking the seat next to mine, ready to make the return trip, only this time by my side.
I smiled and nodded. “What about finders keepers?” I asked, pocketing the penny and then placing my hand in his.
He leaned in and brushed his lips against mine. “Fine then, I found you and now I’m keeping you. Okay?”
I shrugged and kissed him long and deep. “Okay by me, but you live in New York and I live in San Francisco.”
And then he laughed, squeezing my hand as he did so. “No, Dan. Both of our ships dock at the same port. We just seem to depart at different times, is all.”
And then I laughed, resting my head against his, and again closing my eyes. “Thank goodness for red-eyes, Steve,” I said to him.
“Amen to that, Dan. Amen to that.”
KINDRED SOULS
Vic Bach
It was the start of an intense, long-term relationship, the start of love. Of course, neither Will nor I had any way of knowing it.
We first met, awkwardly, in the nether regions of cyberspace. I had placed a personal ad in the Blade, headlined SEEKING KINDRED SOUL. (That’s how earnest I am, despite my age and advanced education.) I was facing my sixties alone, yet fairly new to gay life. After a few episodic encounters, I was still seeking the male soulmate of my fantasies.
Will lived and worked in Belfast, in telecommunications, but yearned to experience New York. At the age of twenty-five, with a vacation in mind, he followed his impulse and booked an August flight and a two-week stay at a hostel he found on the Internet, in the Chelsea area—four to a room—at a price he could afford. His early email struck a valiant chord: Nothing ventured, nothing gained. My ad interested him, particularly the promise of good conversation, so lacking in gay life. He wondered if we might meet when he was in the city.
Just eighteen months before, I had moved into my own apartment—a rent-stabilized studio on West 77th Street opposite the museum—to live separately from my wife. The reasons were complicated and had little to do with sexual leanings or my long-deferred desire for male intimacy. After the move, I felt the aloneness and resolved to become close to another man for once in my life. The late shift in sexual identity was difficult, fumbling, and closeted, but it was accomplished. I joined several groups at the Center—the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Trans-gender Community Center. My few sexual encounters were physically fulfilling but emotionally bankrupt. The longest was three months of “going steady” with a fifty-year-old Brooklyn guy with whom I couldn’t hold a decent conversation. When we parted I decided, for the first time, to place that ad.
