Best Gay Romance 2011, page 9
I didn’t say anything.
His gaze traveled about the room. “This place is nice. Is it yours?”
I nodded. “My folks bought it years ago. We’re from Florida.”
Gordon joined his hands behind his head, elbows jutting. Outside, the storm raged. Another lightning bolt flashed, followed by a thunderclap, and Gordon shook his head as he stared out a window.
“You may be here awhile,” I said.
He looked at me and blinked a time or two. “Sorry if I’m intruding.”
I told him I was glad for the company. “Last time I spoke to anyone was…when? Yesterday, I guess, when I bought groceries. It gets lonely up here.”
Gordon snickered. “I have the opposite problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m the oldest of six kids. Solitude’s hard to come by when I’m home.”
Gordon explained he was a University of Maine student, majoring in forestry. This fall he’d start his senior year. His family had rented two cabins at O’Connor’s—they would stay three weeks—and they were driving him nuts.
“I’m used to living in Portland now, with my own apartment. Here there’s no privacy and nothing to do but fish or hike in the woods.”
He asked about me and I said I was a middle-school teacher, free for the summer. I’d been here two weeks, I told him, and I’d stay another month, until mid-August.
Gordon shifted his weight on the sofa and cracked his knuckles. “Don’t you get bored, staying here alone?”
I shrugged. “My dad’s paying me to reshingle the roof and paint the outside of the house; it’s a lot of work and it keeps me busy. Evenings I read or listen to a ball game on the radio.” Yawning, I said, “I’m usually in bed by ten, awake by six.”
Gordon glanced at his wristwatch. “I’m keeping you up, aren’t I?”
I told him it wasn’t a problem. “Look,” I said, “this storm won’t quit anytime soon. Why not use my house phone? Call the O’Connor’s office and let your folks know you’re okay. You can spend the night on the sofa.”
He arched his eyebrows. “You don’t mind?”
“Nah.”
While he placed the call I went to the bedroom, fetching Gordon a T-shirt and a pair of flannel sleep pants, a blanket and pillow.
“This is all very kind of you,” he said when he hung up.
I figured he’d visit the bathroom to change, but instead he removed the robe and handed it to me and, right off, my mouth grew sticky at the sight of his slim physique, his dark pubic bush and his bulging genitals. I found it hard to swallow while he pulled the T-shirt over his head and his uncut cock wagged before him. His foreskin was buff-colored, his nuts plump in their furrowed sac.
“I’m handy with a paintbrush,” he said, stepping into the sleep pants and pulling them up his legs. “I can swing a hammer, too. So if you want help, let me know; I’ll work cheap.”
I nodded, thinking, An extra pair of hands would speed things up. Plus he’s cute and I’d sure enjoy the company.
I told him we’d discuss it in the morning.
While Gordon stretched out on the sofa, I turned off the propane lantern and the room grew dark. Switching on a flashlight, I wished Gordon a good night.
“Sleep well, Beau,” he said. “Thanks again, for everything.”
Gordon and I watched a guy with a forklift lower a pallet of shingles into the bed of my pickup truck. We’d driven to Greenville after spending our morning nailing tarpaper to the cottage’s plywood sheathing, both of us scampering about the roof, wearing tool belts and swinging hammers, our lips stuffed with roofing nails.
Gordon seemed as comfortable on the roof as he would be on my sofa. “My dad’s a building contractor,” he told me; “I’ve been around construction all my life.”
We’d already spent a week together, scraping loose paint, sanding and caulking the cottage’s clapboard siding. It was the kind of work lending itself to talking, and conversation flowed easily between us. I was only a year older than Gordon, and we shared many interests: the Red Sox, ’70s rock music, novels by Michael Chabon, Western omelets, cheese doodles and beer.
Lots of beer.
Since Gordon said he didn’t own a car, each morning I’d drive to O’Connor’s and pick him up. He’d meet me at the camp office, clutching a thermos of coffee and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane, then we’d work on the cottage till five in the afternoon, taking a lunch break at noon.
My dad kept a pair of baseball gloves at the cottage, and after a day’s labor Gordon and I would play catch in the yard while the sun dipped behind the tree line, both of us swigging from beer bottles and talking on any number of subjects: world events, school, last night’s Red Sox game, travel experiences, drinking feats, our plans for the future. Then I’d drive Gordon home.
“Lumber’s big in Maine,” he told me during one of our drives. “Most of the state is forest. I hope to land a job with a paper company ’cause they pay well and it’s clean, easy work.”
Now, at the building supply store in Greenville, I closed my truck’s tailgate. After I signed a receipt for the shingles, we drove down Lily Bay Road, the highway leading to First Roach Pond. Afternoon sunlight entered the truck’s cab through the rear window, reflecting off chrome trim on the dashboard. We both put on sunglasses. I flicked on the radio to a Bangor rock station, and Gordon slapped the passenger doorsill, keeping time with the music. He wore a ball cap, long sleeve T-shirt, saggy blue jeans and thick-soled work boots. He’d pushed his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, displaying his sinewy forearms and the fine, dark hair dusting them.
In the days we’d worked together, I found myself more and more attracted to Gordon, to his lanky frame, compact buttocks and big hands. His hair was thick and wavy, growing over the tops of his ears. He didn’t shave often, and his stubble gave him a masculine look I found appealing; it contrasted nicely with his fair skin. His lips were full, as red as raw beefsteak. He had a habit of licking the corners of his mouth while he worked, and I sometimes wondered how it might feel to kiss him, to taste his tongue in my mouth.
Back in Florida, during college, I’d had a few boyfriends. Nothing serious, I’d never been in love, but I clearly liked men, and shortly after I graduated, when my mom asked why I hadn’t dated girls at school, I explained. After that, neither she nor my dad inquired about my personal life.
Now, I taught English at a private school and my hours were long. I didn’t just teach: I coached the girls’ softball team, served as advisor to the school’s newspaper staff, sat on several faculty committees. Weekdays I arrived at school at seven A.M. and I often did not leave until early evening. Saturdays I wrote lesson plans, ran errands, bought groceries and dined with my folks, then I drove home and crashed on the sofa, usually falling asleep with the television on. I had no time for a private life, and when I met Gordon I hadn’t been laid in over two years. Sex for me was a magazine, a tube of jelly and my right hand. I was too busy for a boyfriend, I told myself.
But now, up in Maine, when I climbed under the covers at night, thoughts of Gordon filled my head. I’d lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling, recalling how I’d seen Gordon’s belly button and the waistband of his underwear when he stood on a ladder, caulking overhead trim. Or I’d think about the night I’d first met him, when he took off the robe and I saw him naked. The memory made my cock stir each time it entered my thoughts.
Gordon had never mentioned dating; he didn’t ogle girls when we saw them in Greenville or Kokadjo. He never asked me if I had dated or if I had a girlfriend, as most straight guys would do, and I found myself wondering if he might also be gay.
Now, as we left the highway with our load of shingles, I stole a glance at Gordon’s crotch while we trundled down the gravel road leading to my cottage. The head of his cock bulged in his jeans and I licked my lips. How would it feel to lower his zipper and tease his dick till it hardened? How would his crotch smell when I lowered my face to his lap and sucked him off? And what would his come taste like?
Between my legs my own cock stiffened.
Careful, Beau.
By the time we’d unloaded the shingles the sun had set and the air had cooled. It was Friday, and when I asked Gordon what his plans were for the evening he looked at me like I was nuts.
“Same thing as always: I’ll watch TV with my family.”
Go ahead, ask…
“Why not stay here tonight? We can kill a case of beer and I’ll make us dinner.”
He glanced at the lake, then returned his gaze to me. “Sounds great,” he said. “You’re sure I’m not intruding?”
“Oh, hell no.”
Gordon went inside and called O’Connor’s, then we sat on the edge of my dock, our legs dangling while we sipped from beer bottles, watching light drain from the sky. Already a few stars appeared in the east and the only sound was crickets chirping. The air was still, the lake’s surface smooth as a mirror. In the distance, mountain peaks glowed, the sun’s last rays burnishing their granite faces.
“I sure envy your freedom,” Gordon said, his gaze fixed on the water. “Must be nice, having this place to yourself.”
I said, “I like it here, but sometimes I get lonely.”
He shook his head. “Since we came to O’Connor’s I’ve felt suffocated. My folks are always on my case.”
“About what?”
He snorted. “You name it: ‘Stand up straight. Why don’t you shave? You need a haircut. No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.’”
I drank from my bottle, thinking, Go on, ask him.
I said, “Do you want a girlfriend?”
He shrugged and didn’t say anything, his gaze still fixed on the water.
“Ever had a girlfriend?” I asked.
He looked at me and shook his head. “How about you?”
I told him no.
Dinner that night was two pickles and a bag of barbeque-flavored potato chips. By ten P.M. we had consumed three six-packs, and both of us were unsteady on our feet. The radio blared a 1980s song by an Australian rock group, AC/DC. We danced in our stocking feet in my living room, hopping about, jabbing the air with our fists, both of us clutching beer bottles. Gordon wore his ball cap backward. The propane lantern cast our silhouettes upon a wall—a pair of frantic, leaping shadows.
“You’re a crappier dancer than me,” Gordon shouted.
I grinned and shot him the bird, then I spun around a time or two before losing my balance and falling to the floor, spilling my beer and leaving me flat on my back, blinking at the ceiling.
Bending at the waist, Gordon shook his head and cackled. “You’re shit faced,” he cried.
I got on my knees, then rose to my feet, concentrating on keeping my balance.
The AC/DC tune ended, then a different song began, a Rod Stewart number, slow and romantic. Gordon raised his chin and guzzled the last of his beer. His Adam’s apple pumped and my pulse raced, just looking at him. Feeling horny and reckless, I extended an arm toward Gordon, my hand upturned.
“Come dance with me,” I said.
He looked at my hand, then at me, and he giggled. “All right, Beau-Beau; if you want.”
And I thought, Beau-Beau? No one’s ever called me that before.
Setting his beer bottle aside, he approached. I put my arms around his waist and he did the same to me. Our hip bones met and Gordon rested his chin on my shoulder. We swayed to the music, shuffling our feet, while I smelled Gordon’s hair. Right away, my cock stiffened in my jeans and I wondered if he could feel it pressing against him. I let one hand drift down to his ass and I squeezed a cheek, then I left my hand there, resting on his haunch.
Bringing his lips to my neck, he kissed me beneath my ear. “You slow dance nice, Beau-Beau; I like this much better.”
My pulse pounded in my temples. I can’t believe this is happening.
Without warning, Gordon shoved his hand down the front of my jeans. Seizing my cock in his fingers he said, “Somebody’s stiff.”
I turned my face to his and brought my mouth to Gordon’s and we tongue-kissed, our chin stubbles scratching while Gordon squeezed my cock and toyed with the glans. We continued swaying in time with the music and my heart raced while I probed Gordon’s mouth with my tongue, our lips smacking. I slid my hand inside the seat of his jeans and teased his asscrack with a finger.
Gordon chuckled deep in his throat, then he pulled his lips from mine and looked at me. “So,” he said, flickering his eyebrows, “do I have to sleep on the sofa tonight?”
On my bedroom bureau a candle flame danced. Otherwise, the cottage was dark as a tomb. Gordon and I undressed each other, each of us taking his time, starting with socks, then removing shirts. I sat on the edge of the double bed and Gordon stood before me. He was slim but sinewy, with a defined chest and dime-size nipples dark as raisins. I sucked them hard while Gordon groaned and ran his fingers through my hair. Candlelight reflected off a gold cross he wore on a chain hanging from his neck.
I tickled the line of fuzz descending from his navel, then I popped the button at his waist and lowered his zipper. Parting the flaps of his jeans, I shucked them to his ankles. He kicked them aside and his cock bulged in his white briefs, a damp spot appearing where the glans leaked precome. I reached for it, but Gordon swatted my hand away.
When I looked up, he waggled his eyebrows. “Not yet, Beau-Beau. I’m pantsing you first.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks while I dropped my gaze and a smile crept onto my lips. “Okay,” I said, standing.
Gordon got on his knees before me and opened up my jeans. My cock was rigid against my belly, the tip poking out my boxers’ waistband. Gordon licked his lips; he lowered my jeans and helped me out of them. He still wore his ball cap, turned backward, and I thought he looked awfully sexy on his knees. He reached for the head of my cock and dipped his finger into a pearl of precome oozing from the slit. Bringing the finger to his tongue, he lapped my juice.
“Salty,” he whispered, waggling his eyebrows.
His fingers stole inside the waistband of my boxers; he peeled them south and now I was naked, my cock bobbing before me. Gordon grabbed my asscheeks and pulled me to him. He nuzzled my pubic bush, then he licked my nuts while I groaned and played with his ears. How good it felt, being intimate with another man, especially one as cute as Gordon.
I thought, This never would have happened if that storm hadn’t come along. Our meeting was total happenstance.
He seized the head of my cock in his fingers and lowered it from my belly. Shaking his head, he looked up at me and said, “You’ve got a whopper here, Beau-Beau. Want to fuck me with it?”
I nodded. Shoving my hands in his armpits, I pulled Gordon to his feet, then I yanked his briefs down and his genitals exploded into view, his cock bobbing like a diving board someone had leapt from. When he stepped out of his underwear I told him to hang them on the doorknob.
“I’ll decide when you get them back,” I said, grinning. “It might not be till Sunday.”
His buttocks jiggled as he crossed the room to the door. When he turned back to me his eyes looked glittery, like he was high on some illegal drug.
“You plan on keeping me naked tomorrow, Beau-Beau?”
“I might,” I said. “You look good in your birthday suit.”
We fell to the bed, our chests meeting, cocks rubbing while we tongue-kissed and our lips smacked in the otherwise silent room. After a few minutes, Gordon pulled his mouth from mine. Our gazes met while he stroked my temple.
He said, “I knew you wanted me, the first night I came here.”
“How?”
He snickered. “You should have seen your face when I took off the robe. It got so pale I thought you might pass out.”
I blushed. Had I been that obvious?
“I’ve been waiting for you to make a move,” Gordon said.
I squinted and asked, “Why didn’t you?”
He raised a shoulder. “I’m a chickenshit, I guess. Afraid of rejection.”
I took both our cocks in my fist and squeezed. “You don’t have to worry about that with me. I’m yours for the rest of the summer if you’d like.”
He made a little smile and nodded. “That sounds nice,” he said.
Minutes later, after a bit of mutual fellatio, I rolled a condom onto my cock while Gordon lay on his back. He held his legs aloft, arms wrapped about his knees, exposing his pucker. I greased it with lube using one finger, then two. Then I brought the head of my cock to his hole and nudged.
“Easy,” he whispered, “it’s been a while.”
“How long?” Already I felt jealous.
“Close to a year.”
I eased inside him and he winced, sucking air through clenched teeth. “Jesus, you’re big.”
“You okay?”
He nodded, taking deep breaths while his hole flexed against the shaft of my cock, sending waves of pleasure through my limbs. How good it felt to gaze into his dark eyes, knowing I’d pierced his most private orifice.
Clearing his throat, he said, “Go on, Beau-Beau: fuck me.”
I rode him hard, my nuts swinging, hips slapping his asscheeks while the bedsprings sang and the headboard drummed the wall. We both sweated and our bodies reflected candlelight. Gordon’s milky skin was warm and smooth, and I thrilled to the movement of his muscles as I thrust inside him. I pinched his nipples till he groaned, then I bit his neck where it curved toward his shoulder. His sweat smelled like sweet milk, his hair like freshly mown grass.
Gordon used his fist to work his foreskin while I plunged inside him. “Jesus, this feels good,” he told me, lips parting into a grin, teeth glistening. Each time I thrust he grunted.
I came first, a hoarse cry leaving my throat and bouncing off the walls. My body jerked each time I shot while sweat dripped from the tip of my nose and fell onto Gordon’s chest. My orgasm completely overwhelmed me. My vision blurred and I thought I might faint.
When he spewed, Gordon cried my name while his come struck the headboard, the pillow beneath his head, then his chest, in a series of healthy spurts. His jizz looked like pearls, glistening in the candlelight. The stuff on the headboard oozed down into Gordon’s hair. His lungs pumped like he’d just run a race and, I swear, I heard his heart thumping. I dipped a finger into a puddle of come near his collarbone, then I stuck the goo on my tongue. It tasted bitter, but in a good way, and after I swallowed I reached for more, hungry for his seed.
