A laugh escaped his beautiful mouth and he said, “Brent Bannerman. He was forty and I was twenty. I was a junior in college.”
“Tell me about him.”
And so he did. Bannerman made jewelry for a living, which he sold online: turquoise bracelets, teardrop-shaped Cubic Zirconia earrings, silver-plated necklaces, and pendants in various animal themes. He had a small house in Cincinnati, two dogs, and a pool. Tuck admitted, “I think I liked his pool more than I liked him.”
“So you like to swim?”
“Of course. It’s great exercise. I have to stay in shape if I want dates. Besides, it was an amazing pool. Deep on one end. Heated. That pool was the best thing in my relationship with the man. I know that sounds horrible, but it’s the truth.”
“Did you fall in love with him?”
“Never.” He shook his head. “There really wasn’t anything to love. He liked my body and sex drive, and I liked his awesome pool. We really had nothing in common. That’s what sort of broke us apart. He did jewelry and I did the piano. Neither of us enjoyed what the other one liked, so we parted ways, which I guess was meant to be.”
“Sounds damaging,” I said.
“Not really. Some men are supposed to be together, others aren’t. It’s just the way the cookie crumbles, as the saying goes.”
We discussed his obsession for the piano and how he ended up in Erie, leaving his life in Cincinnati. I learned that after he graduated from Lincoln College, he applied to various symphonies and orchestras throughout the United States, determined to obtain a job in his chosen field. Out of twenty-seven organizations, numerous interviews and performances, the Mastery Orchestra of Western Pennsylvania (MOWP) picked him up. Tuck added, “I’ve only been in Erie for eighteen months. When I first arrived here, I rented a duplex with three other guys on Sadowick Street across town. It was crazy living with that many straight guys. Unfortunately, the house was for sale, which sold last month to a young couple who are getting married next spring. I was forced to find a place to live. I didn’t want a large place and thought a bedroom would work fine. I answered Miss Kitty’s ad in the paper.”
“And here you are.”
“And here I am.”
* * * *
It was close to midnight when he finally climbed out of the window and into the night. Before he left, I asked, “Do you need a flashlight?”
He grinned his adorable smile again, melted me like caramel left in the sun, and said, “I’m good. The moon will provide just enough light for this short trip.”
“Try not to kill yourself, guy.”
“Never,” he said, and vanished into the night, down the ladder, into the house, and eventually inside his own room for a good night’s sleep.
Chapter 6: Heated Daydream
October 8, 2015
Carl wasn’t swimming in Miss Kitty’s in-ground pool, but I imagined that he could be. While staring at the pool, which was closed for the season, half-drained and covered by a plastic wrapping that looked like a giant garbage bag, I imagined him stripping out of his shorts and T-shirt, dropping them to the leaf-covered ground and standing in the mid-afternoon sun, drenched in its splinters of warm light.
My mind drifted and I pictured his hairy chest, pink nipples, and the long cock between his legs that reached halfway down his right, inner thigh. The dick was cut with extra skin, plump and golden-brown with thick veins. A thick patch of bristly black hair accessorized the part. The patch of coils was nicely trimmed and eye-appealing. Balls hung underneath his dick with more extra skin drooping from them, which was a totally aphrodisiac for me.
Gawking at his muscular and handsome features, he supplied me with a wave, an ear to ear smile, and walked to the pool’s edge. I thought he would bend over and release one of the plastic covering’s knotted corners for a quick swim. Instead, he stood next to the pool, showing off his tight and bulbous bronze bottom to me, and his thick thighs, and said over his right shoulder, “We could swim if you wanted to.”
I imagined shaking my head. “I have a better plan.”
“What kind of plan?”
“We could have a drink together and make out in my room.”
“So you want me?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s nice to be wanted.”
“I’m sure you get it all the time, Carl. You’re rock-hard sexy and good looking. You could pass as a model.”
He shook his head, “I’m really not that good looking. I’m just an average Joe.”
“Hardly,” I said to him and…
* * * *
Carl tapped my right shoulder with two fingertips, pulling me out of that interesting daydream. I spun around and stared into his dark eyes. “What?” slipped out of my mouth, which sounded like a surprised whisper.
“Can you help me over here for a second? I need you to hold a piece of wood for me while I measure it out and cut it.”
His comment was perfectly ambiguous, which caused a smirk to form on the edges of my mouth. Of course I would help him, followed him to his Hilty saw and lumber and…whatever else he had wanted me to assist him with, like maybe stripping him out of his clothes and going for a swim in Miss Kitty’s pool, after removing its plastic cover.
Chapter 7: Invitation
August 6, 2014
The Noritake Martini: 6 Parts Gin, 1 Part Maraschino Liqueur, 1/2 Teaspoon Lemon Juice, 1 Lemon Twist.
Miss Kitty demanded my attention the following morning inside a small study that she had called her office. The room was covered in books, smelled of thick dust, and offered very little daylight. She prepared us iced teas with a Noritake bowl filled with slices of lemon. In a second Noritake bowl was granulated sugar and a gold-plated spoon. She sat behind a walnut desk in a too-tight blouse the color of the Pacific Ocean with swirls of black wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Oriental matching earrings hung from her earlobes and she smelled of lavender, which I had guessed was the soap she used during her morning shower.
I rather liked the woman. She was old enough to be my mother and deserved nothing but my respect. When her hair was curled nicely, I told her about it. When she climbed my ladder and gave me dinner on a disposable Dixie plate, I made sure that I thanked her. When she needed the lawn mowed, asking me politely to do it, I did. Never did we have any confrontations or dilemmas, living in a peaceful environment as two people should, without problems, arguments, or a strong sense of loathing.
Loathing was not something Miss Kitty did. If she didn’t like you, she told you about it, face to face. Renters who didn’t pay for their rooms were evicted. Lawn boys were fired because they did shitty jobs. Miss Kitty didn’t have time to loathe. Instead, she used the cause and effect approach. If anyone caused her discomfort, she proposed a way of corrective behavior, which usually meant that the tenant was evicted or the hired help was terminated. According to her, “Loathing is for weak women, Micah. Do I look weak?”
Not two minutes into my visit with her and she said, “Musicians cannot be trusted.”
“Excuse me,” I said, almost choking on my first sip of iced tea.
“The piano man…Tucker. He cannot be trusted. No musician can.”
I was then told why, listening to her exuberant and elaborated tale. Miss Kitty, I had learned, was married to a jazz performer who played many instruments, including the piano. Oscar Meadowford was an award winning piano man who was backed by fame and loads of money. Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep Miss Kitty, who had learned that her husband had had numerous girlfriends during their marriage. Outraged and broken, Miss Kitty had a nervous breakdown after uncovering her husband’s sexual antics, divorced the man, took most of his money and pride, and told herself that she would never become involved with a musician again.
“I’ll be very careful,” I told her. “Just as I always am, of course.”
“Of course,” she said, reaching out for one of my hands and patting its back. “I should take lessons from you.”
; Her cellphone buzzed then, which was sitting on the table, and she retrieved the device. She looked at the name that appeared on its screen and a bubbly smile appeared on her face. “It’s Harlow,” she said, referring to one of her best girlfriends, since childhood. “I’m sure she wants to have dinner this evening. Excuse me, if you don’t mind.”
I shook my head, slinked away, and climbed back up to my private room, via ladder, of course. Once there, I imagined Tuck against me, chest to chest, and kissing me. And there, tucked away in my confines, safe from the world beyond my window, I believed Miss Kitty wrong for maybe the first time, convinced that Tucker Martini was harmless, someone of goodness.
* * * *
Later that day, closer to mid-afternoon than evening, to my surprise, a package was delivered to the house on Mill Street. Miss Kitty, always on the pursuit to help people, climbed the ladder outside my attic room and delivered the package to me, which was a brown box approximately twenty inches long, five inches thick, and not very heavy.
Alone with the parcel, I sliced the box open and saw a violet note card centered on white tissue. I removed the card, thumbed it open, and read: Please join me this evening at the Rothshire House for an intimate piano performance. 8:00 P.M. Dress appropriately. Champagne afterward. Hope to see you there. Tuck.
Beneath the white tissue was a black tuxedo and pair of black leather shoes in my size. There was also a white dress shirt and bow tow inside the parcel. The light scent of teak and honeysuckle—Tuck’s signature smell—accompanied the gift. Feeling delighted with the surprise, and Tuck’s thoughtfulness, I removed the items from the box, had every intention of looking handsome for him that evening, and told myself, “Let’s knock him off his feet.”
* * * *
The Rothshire House was everything I anticipated it to be: spiral staircase in the marble foyer, massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the convex ceiling, human-sized alabaster statues of Brahms, Mozart, Puccini, and Handel. There were handsome waiters passing out flutes of champagne and beautiful women in cocktail dresses who were collecting tiny pale blue envelopes from the guests, which contained monetary donations.
To the rear of the foyer were three gold-gilded double doors that led to the Rothshire auditorium. The spiral staircases led guests to the balconies, which overlooked the stage. I walked through the middle door, was ushered to my seat, front row and center, and whispered lightly to the middle-aged woman next to me, Erie’s mayor, Tanya Mitchford.
I learned that the evening was called Gershwin, Be Good!—Piano Performances by Tucker Martini. The gathering was a fundraiser for a charity called Blink, which specialized in creating jobs for the LGBTQIA community. Local celebrities, newscasters, artists, college professors, doctors, two authors, and an assortment of other uppity-ups attended the event, seated all around me, chatting and whispering amongst each other before Tuck’s show started.
The evening started with Tuck performing “Swiss Music” and “French Ballet Class.” Both were followed up with “Romantic,” and then he paused, speaking to his audience about the beautiful works of Gershwin, the man’s history, and personal facts. He played “For Lily Pons” and “Merry Andrew.” Following the piano performances there was a short intermission and then a long string of solos which included, “Rialto Ripples,” “Sleepless Night,” “Sutton Place,” “Three-Quarter Blues,” “Machinery Gone Mad” “Our Nell,” and seven other solos, which I had fallen in love with.
When the show was over he mingled with the guests, introducing me to a few that I didn’t know. Hands were shaking all the time and a few hugs were supplied by the money-giving viewers of his piano show. Once the Rothshire House emptied and we were alone in the giant foyer with its magnificent glimmer, he turned to me, hugged me against him, kissed me on the lips, pulled away, and said, “Thanks for coming.”
“I should be thanking you. This was an amazing night.”
He chuckled, brushed my chest with one of his hands, and admitted, “Guy, things are just getting started between us. We’ve got the whole night ahead of us.”
* * * *
Things are taken away from us so easily.
Did I say that yet?
I don’t think so.
Listen…
Chapter 8: That Truck
October 9, 2015
That truck with its bumper sticker that read Why Hammer a Nail When You Can Hammer a Carpenter? and the diagonal crack in the right, side view mirror. That truck with its rusted front bumper, Oklahoma-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, and helmet-sized dent on the driver’s side, next to the gas tank. That truck with its three scratches on the passenger’s door, its rear sliding window, and broken antenna. I was turned on by it, and its driver, Carl Bascoe. Everything about that truck made me horny, from its rugged looking tires to its license plate that read Tools1…
The things I dreamed of doing in that truck were sinful and unthinkable. I wanted Carl to pull down the tailgate, lean me over its metal, and have his way with my bare ass, holding my hips and ramming his dick inside my tight asshole. I wanted to be spanked, bitten, and licked in the bed of that truck, lost together with Carl on an unmaintained Erie road, deep in the woods. I wanted to make out with the carpenter in that truck’s hollow cab, unzip my jeans, pull out my erection, and have him jack me off. I relished the thought of having Carl’s face between my legs and his mouth open, sucking on my cock while I sat in the passenger’s seat, mumbling, “Let me come in your throat, Carl. I want to…”
* * * *
Carl took me for a long drive along Lake Erie. We bounced up and down, shoulder to shoulder, laughed, and talked about our childhoods. He had a dozen friends growing up, was the center of attention all the time, and enjoyed playing football with his pals. He also liked to bike as a kid, hike, and swim. “We didn’t have a pool, but one of my best friends did. I spent hours at Ricky Fender’s house, loving the water.”
I told him about growing up in Erie and loving the lake. “I can’t tell you know many parties I went to next to the lake. My high school days were crazy. I was always drunk and having fun.”
“We’re all crazy when we’re young. Then we have to grow up. Most of us don’t have a choice in life. We can’t stay young forever, can we?”
“We’re only as young as we think we are,” I said, and continued to enjoy the ride with him, at his side, bonding.
Chapter 9: Magic
August 7, 2014
The Glimmer Martini: 6 Parts Currant Vodka, 1 Part Dry Vermouth, 1 Part Fino Sherry, 1 Lemon Twist.
Midnight and under the summertime stars, washed with silver-blue moonlit, we walked down Washington Street, and headed towards Lake Erie, swinging our connected hands to and fro. The night was more than stunning and breathtaking, if there was such a description. The air was thick with lavender and summer hay from surrounding farms. The moon was a large sphere of bright, white light overhead, shining down on our bodies, illuminating us as if were tiny Martians.
Once we reached the lake, the night glistened with black, blue, and silver hues, which I thought stunning. He squeezed my hand within his own, and said, “Tonight is magical.”
“Magic doesn’t exist. It’s only a figment of our imaginations.”
“I’m a little surprised that you think that. Magic is all around us. The clouds, the moon, the stars…everything. And especially you and me here together.”
“You’re trying to seduce me,” I said, chuckling.
“All the guys in Erie want to do that, don’t they? They are lining up for a piece of your ass.”
I tilted my head back, let out a chuckle, and replied, “You’ve heard all about them, haven’t you?”
“There are billboards all over the city. From what I understand, your ass gets a lot of action,” he joked.
What I didn’t tell him: my ass wanted him for an hour or more, worked over by his dick. I was a gentleman, though, just as he was, and kept such a dirty secret to myself, unable to speak
it out loud.
“It’s beautiful here tonight,” he said, looking out into the night, over the moving lake.
I didn’t want to be too queer and tell him that it was enchanting and fairy tale-like. Rather, I simply pushed my shoulder against his, and replied, “You make it nice, Tuck. I’ll remember this for a long time to come.”
“Likewise, Micah. I don’t think I’d ever want to do this with anyone else. You make me feel so comfortable and under no pressure.”
His stomach growled, answering me. Then we both complained about being hungry and he said, “You ever been to Cajetan’s?”
“Every other week,” I replied. “Believe it or not, they make the best blueberry waffles, even when they’re out of season.”
So we went to Cajetan’s for the next hour and enjoyed plates of blueberry waffles, sausage patties, and decaffeinated coffee. Seated across from each other in a high-backed booth made of red vinyl, we talked about our jobs. I mentioned an assortment of novels and short story collections that I had critiqued in the last year, and he told me about his performances in the MOWP. Then we chatted about the mystery I was crafting in my spare time, which seemed to have hit a dead end at the moment, going nowhere.
I realized a few things about the man during our discussion. He not only knew how to carry out a conversation, never devising a string of silence between us, but he also listened to every word I had said, and seemed interested in me.
It was almost two o’clock in the morning before we realized and decided to head back to Mill Street and our rooms. We walked side by side through the night, caught in each other’s lives with simple beauty. Quiet surfaced between us for maybe the first time, which we were both comfortable with, and yielded to, identifying that maybe we were meant to be together, aligned in some kind of unclear or vague relationship that neither of us really understood our involvement in.
Once we were back on Mill Street, he leaned into me outside of Miss Kitty’s Tudor, both of us on the sidewalk. He provided my lips with a gentle kiss and collapsed one of his hands against my left hip, which helped to balance me. The embrace was long, settling, and just what I had needed after our evening together.
Men of All Seasons Box Set Page 20