So I became high in the attic room that afternoon, enlightened by God’s Zen-gift to man. Of course I became giggly and numb, accomplishing my writing tasks. And yes, my eyes became bloodshot and a smile was etched on my face. Happy seemed like the biggest understatement if describing my mood. Rather, the adjective lenient fit my mood, which I wore well, completing my wordy tasks and meeting all of my deadlines on time.
Before my evening jaunt to Jayne Street for an enjoyable outing with Tuck playing the piano, I dressed in a tux, shined a pair of black leather shoes, and turned into an irresistible pretty boy. When I finished dressing, I called a cab to pick me up because I was too high to drive, and was dropped off on Jayne Street, outside Jayne Hall, all smiles, high, and happy.
* * * *
Jayne Hall was five stories high, a city block long, and looked like a government building with its red bricks and double-paned windows. There was nothing elegant or charming about the place by looking at its exterior, but its interior was stunning and quite dazzling. Similar to the Rothshire House, its floors were of an Italian marble, chandeliers were crystal, and alabaster statues lined the walls. Often used as a ballroom for uppity dinner parties and various functions of the well-to-do, it was now a vestibule for music. The floor was filled with nine rows of foldable chairs that were covered in satin. Each row sat twelve guests. At the front of the collected chairs was a Louis XV Steinway grand piano, which was shiny and a cinnamon brown hue. Next to the piano was a long-stemmed microphone on what looked like a flamingo’s leg.
What I remember about that evening after arriving at the hall: Some professor from Anders College started to hit on me, sitting to my right. The fifty-plus man touched my right knee and worked his hand up and along my inner thigh. I pushed it away and told him to be nice. Perhaps upset with me, unsettled by my discomfort, he leaned into my ear and whispered, “Young and officious,” which caused me to ignore him for the rest of the evening, concentrating on Tuck and his piano playing.
Again, just as Tuck’s previous performances that I had attended, he made eye contact with me, discreetly grinned, and winked. Although I was still high, floating in a world I liked to call Munchyland, I winked back, provided him with a broad smile in return, and fell into his music as if I were a newborn baby in its crib, fresh in the world, at peace.
And there, next to the strange professor, I listened to “Bad Romance” mashed with Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” and Carrie Underwood’s “There’s Something in the Water,” meshed with Beethoven’s “Claro de Luna.” I also enjoyed One Direction’s “Story of My Life” with Beethoven’s “Leonore Overture Number Two,” and Bruno Mars’s “Uptown Funk” with Beethoven’s “Pastoral Sixth Symphony.” My ears came alive and my brain was on overdrive, loving the music and Tuck’s performance, mesmerized and indulging in my intimate night with Tuck, perhaps even falling in love with him even more, if that was possible.
* * * *
After his performance, an hour of mingling with the guests transpired. Red-eyed, hungry, dry-mouthed, and coming down from my high, tucked at Tuck’s side, I was introduced to two painters, some politicians, military men with virtuous credentials, and a variety of other important people of the community. Hands were busy in uncomfortable shakes. Heads nodded. Backs were patted. Fake laughs were shared. The hour was quick, boring, and nothing that honestly interested in me, except for being at my lover’s side.
As the crowd emptied from Jayne Hall, standing next to the piano he had used for his performance, not the same instrument he had stored at Bar 88, Tuck pulled me against him, licked the splay of my neck, and groaned into my ear, practically nibbling on its lobe, “I want you here and now.”
Before I had the opportunity to respond I was whisked down a narrow hallway at the rear of the hall, Tuck pushed my back against the brick wall, and my bowtie was ripped off. Heated, on fire, and overcome with a bubbling passion, he unbuttoned my white shirt and started kissing and licking my chest while rolling his left hand over the arch of my swollen dick that was hidden inside my slacks. And there, pressed against the wall, manipulated by his mouth and hands, I was sexually taken advantage of, devoured by his pent lust, and under his desirous and relentless hex.
It was the best time of my life. I knew that, and wouldn’t have changed any of it. The right guy had come along in my lakeside world and had picked me out of the crowd. Tucker Martini had become my lover and someone I knew that was permanently partnered to. I wasn’t about to give him up, or away, anytime soon. Not that night, or the nights that followed. The pianist was mine, every part of the man, which including his heart and soul. We were meant to be together as lovers.
* * * *
Love blinds us from the dangerous and unperceivable accidents of the world.
If I only knew that then.
If only…
Chapter 24: Carl’s Boyfriends
October 17, 2015
There were ex-boyfriends Carl told me about; three that I distinctly remember—Charlie Foster was a mechanic. Carl clicked a few buttons on his cellphone and a young man who looked like me appeared on its screen. Charlie was a little bit older than me, thirty-three of -four, with scruff on his cheeks and chin, but he was still handsome. Carl told me, “Charlie couldn’t stay faithful. Never. The guy was always in some other guy’s pants. The first time I learned that he cheated on me was forgiven. The two other times thereafter made me look like a complete fool. Charlie was addicted to sex, and other men, I realized. He wanted sex all the time, and anywhere. I kind of felt bad for him and thought he needed some psychological help.”
There was Louie, the comedian who traveled all the time and was also unfaithful. Louie Trevonni was Italian inside and out: looks, heart, and soul. He had gigs in New York City, Chicago, Philadelphia, and elsewhere. Carl said, “He told me his family was part of the mafia, which is why I never gave him any shit, although he probably had it coming because he cheated on me. I was afraid he would call up his cousin Mickey or someone like that and have me offed. You know what I mean. You don’t mess with a family like that. If you do, you probably deserve to have something miserable happen to you.”
And then there was Brady MacFord. When Carl showed me his picture I almost fell unconscious. Brady was the spitting image of Tuck: hair, eyes, body build—everything. The two men could have passed as twins. Carl told me, “Brady was a nice guy. Sweet as pie with all the whipping cream on top. I think I was in love with him. He was a newscaster and the job of a lifetime fell in his lap. Reading the evening news was his dream, and San Diego, California called for him when the opportunity came up in his life. We were dating for three months when he landed his dream job. Of course, he asked me to go to California with him, but our relationship was still only fresh and we were just getting to know each other. I couldn’t interfere with his career, realizing how much he had wanted his dream to come true. So he moved away, out west, and here I am now…with you. I guess we both won, didn’t we?”
Chapter 25: More Truth and What Matters
August 15, 2014
The Transparent Martini: 5 Parts Vodka, 1 Part Triple Sec, 2 Parts Fresh Lemon Juice, 1 Dash Orange Bitters.
There were more truths that I learned about Tucker Martini that night, cuddled against him in my attic room, both of us in my bed.
“I’ve never thought of myself as being perfect. I’ll never think of myself as being perfect.”
“I’ve always seen myself as someone’s assistant. I’m not sure why. I just always have.”
“Did you ever hear of the band called Boyce Avenue? I love them. They do mostly covers, but they move me.”
“Could you die for someone? I’ve wondered this about myself. Could I? I really don’t know. Honestly, I don’t. I fear that.”
“Sometimes I toss things away that I shouldn’t.”
“I hate confrontations.”
“There’s no reason to throw myself off a plane just yet, but maybe someday.”
“The pi
ano makes me miss people I’ve lost in my life.”
“I have a thing for for artists, and carpentry is an art. It’s a strange thing, I know. Those pictures of Jesus in old ladies’ homes are a total turn-on for me. Jesus looks like a handyman, doesn’t He?”
“I like being a ginger. Most people who are gingers hate it. The center of attention is there. Strangers are always looking at me because of my red hair and green eyes. I’m like a cartoon character and don’t even realize it.”
* * * *
He once dated a man named Turner who decided to steal everything he had. A flat-screen. Two computers. A cellphone. A dresser. Three rugs. The living room sofa. “The only thing he left behind was a twenty-gallon fish tank. Turner probably would have taken it if were empty.”
“Was he using drugs and needed the money to buy them?”
He laughed. “Believe it or not, he was a compulsive thief. I’m talking clinical. He saw three shrinks because of his problem. He had a warehouse he rented. That’s where he kept the things he took from people, and from the places that he visited.”
“Did you get your things back from him?”
“I did. Once he saw my devastation, he felt bad for me.”
“Did you still date him?”
“I did. In fact, I think I helped him and impacted his life. That’s what our break-up was about. I thought I could rehabilitate him.”
“How’d you do that?”
“I told him that he was hurting a lot of people because of the things that he took from them. I caused him to believe that he was affecting peoples’ lives, and not in a good way. And somehow, someway…I convinced him to return the items.”
“How long were you together after that?”
“Not long at all. He basically had a nervous breakdown because he wasn’t stealing things. It was a disaster. He ended up spending two weeks inside Baskinton Group.”
Everyone in Erie knew of the Baskinton Group. It was a mental institution with three floors. Patients were cared for there. The third floor housed the most severe patients; some of which were behind locked doors. The second floor housed patients like Turner who usually spent two or three weeks at the facility. The first floor was for associates.
Tuck said, “He wanted nothing to do with me after getting out of Baskinton. It was sad because I really liked him.”
“Did you love him?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t. I didn’t know what love was then. I don’t think I found that until you came along.”
That was flattering to hear. He loved me. All of me. Me. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.
* * * *
There was another man in his life that he told me about. A dark-skinned handsome law student named Alejandro Mussio. Tuck grabbed his cellphone from the nightstand, pulled up Facebook, and showed me pictures of the guy: black hair and matching eyes, young looking, the kind of kid (he couldn’t have been a man because his face was so thin and high school-looking) who maybe thought only about himself.
Tuck said, “We dated for three months. It was a complete nightmare. I think we were both ready to murder each other.”
“Why’s that? Explain…”
“We found out we were polar opposites about everything like food, reading, shopping, video games, television, clothes, and men. It was a disaster. All we did was fight.”
“How’d it end?”
“We came to terms.”
“So it was rational?”
“Or irrational,” he said. “We actually had a fist fight.”
“A fist fight?”
He nodded. “Can you believe it? That’s the truth, though. I ended up with a black eye and he had a broken index finger. It was gruesome and ridiculous. We acted like boys, and it’s something I’m not very proud of.”
I left out a choke of laughter and asked, “You’re friends now, aren’t you?”
“Not quite. We haven’t spoken since. Besides, he’s in New York City now and I’m here with you. That’s what matters.”
“Why does that matter?” I asked, interested.
“Because I sort of like you. You rub me the right way.”
“That was ambiguous.”
“Something like that. Whatever you want to call it.”
* * * *
Other details of his life were spoken of that night by him.
“There’s something about gray that nauseates me.”
“There’s a little island off the coast of Florida in the Gulf that I want to call my own. No one lives there. There’s just a few palm trees. I can say that is my home. Now. Forever. That’s where I sometimes feel that I belong.”
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been stung by hornets. The number is almost in the three digits. Who do you know that has been attacked like that?”
“Snow Patrol. Matchbox Twenty. Those are bands I like to listen to.”
“Keep violets away from me. I’m allergic to them.”
“You have to know a secret about me…I speak Klingon. Really, I do. Deep inside, I’m a Trekkie.”
“If I didn’t know you, I’d learn things about you, Micah. I would. So you know? I would. Because I’m drawn to you.”
Me.
I liked that.
I really did like that.
Chapter 26: Bathed in the October Sun
October 18, 2015
A heat wave struck Erie, blowing in from the southwest. I couldn’t believe it was almost Halloween and the temperature had touched ninety degrees, baking the autumn leaves, left behind dry grasses of a lost summertime, and confusing acorn-gathering squirrels. The heat was soothing and just what we needed since the stairway to my attic room was complete; some promised relaxation with the help of the blistering sun was desired, and some personalized alone-time was needed with each other.
It wasn’t expected that Carl invited me to an afternoon behind his garage/studio, enjoying his private beach all to ourselves. There, with an almost-forgotten summer around us, we lay on beach towels and wore sunglasses. And there, becoming pinkish under the rays of light, cozy and relaxed within its splendorous and fooling beams, we chatted about being together, becoming serious, and labeling our relationship as exclusive, embracing boyfriendhood.
His body lay splayed under the brilliant hues of golden and yellow light. Dapples of heated illumination grazed his pecs and ab-covered stomach. His eyes were closed and he didn’t know that I was studying his muscular curves, humps, and developed bumps. The man was handsome in the sun, not too chiseled, and just right for my decisive and hungry means for his skin to rub against my own in a nonstop and rather fleeting fire that we could build together on the sand.
He eventually opened his eyes and demanded, “Come here.” He pulled my right arm towards him and I rolled to the left. Awkwardly, with his help, of course, I was forced—a perfected tumbling of sorts—on top of him, melding our chests together. Navels and nipples touched, and then our lips compressed together. We lay parallel for quite some time, my body over his beautiful one, aligned as one on his beach, sticky, enjoying the lost summertime sun.
We kissed for the longest time: tongues rolled together whilst we were lost in manly murmurs. And before either of us realized it a public display of affection along the autumnal beach had occurred between us because Carl decided to slip his left hand inside my Rufskin swimsuit, rubbing it against the hair above my privates, and examining exactly what he was looking for. There, underneath me, he wrapped his straying fingers and palm around the solid mass between my legs and provided my dick with a gentle, and comforting, squeeze, perhaps turning us both on, and caused us to become aroused.
Chapter 27: Blur of Minutes
August 16 , 2014
The Kitty Martini: 6 Parts Gin, 1 Part Sweet Vermouth, 1 Teaspoon Pernod, 2 Raspberries.
Inside the attic room, sometime after two o’clock in the afternoon. We met there, taking breaks from our jobs. He from his piano, and I from my critiquing. We started kissing and our
clothes came off. A pile formed on the floor at our feet as our tongues met and our chests rubbed against each other. We fingered hips, thighs, and spines, locked together within the heated room, half-concealed by its shadows, lost there in a humid-filled atmosphere; a dense and nostalgic milieu which was caused by our own heat and sweat that twisted and turned in a cylindrical force of lust.
I was pushed to the bed and he fell between my legs. Fingertips and his tongue traveled along my inner thighs, one by one. My scrotum was also fingered and licked. Then he grabbed my cock that was hard and upright.
I gasped on the bed. There was no gravitational pull to my body because I felt lighter, flying. It was as if all of the atoms that comprised my frame had loosened and separated because of his sensual touch. I was floating, above the bed, and without any weight to me, drifting.
Not a minute later he was inside me, pushing his weight against my center. My legs were spread apart and my heels were on his shoulders. His weight pulverized my own, banging me with considerable force, being unyielding with his labor, and performing satisfaction for the both of us.
“Don’t stop,” I groaned beneath him, feeling my mass shift back and forth on the bed, listening to the piece of furniture squeak and yell beneath our motion. “Jesus, Tucker…You’re so good at this.”
And he was good at his task. No, not good…He was exceptional and skillful. He glided inside me, released his weight from me, and pumped inside me again, which caused me to fall semi-unconscious, and dizzy, and numb, and on fire, and…
His pounding was nonstop, leaving me murmur. I became gel under his weight, pulverized by his physical charm. I enjoyed his thrusts, though, craving one smack after the next, under his hex.
Men of All Seasons Box Set Page 24