by Lily Velden
And it was agony. Bittersweet agony.
This was my last chance to savor the feel of the plump softness of his lips moving with mine, the last chance to slide my tongue along the velvet of his. My last chance to fill my mouth with his flavor. The knowledge was like a crippling weight on my chest, but despite the pain I couldn’t stop. Now that I had his mouth pressed to mine, I couldn’t stop myself drinking him in. What I drank from his sweet mouth would have to last me a lifetime.
One kiss melted into the next. I tilted my hips up and down, and Robert met me with rolling undulations of his spine. Our climb to our climax was slow, but exquisite, and when, finally, we both fell over the edge, it was the sweetest and yet most painful pleasure I’d ever known. It was only later, much later, that I realized neither of us had laid a hand to his cock.
We rested, Robert covering me with his body, my cock still wedged in his ass.
He started kissing me again. My eyes, my cheeks, my nose, and finally my lips, and between us, pressed hard against my belly, I felt his cock begin to expand and lengthen. It was not his growing erection that spurred my own, though.
It was the wetness on my cheeks.
Maybe, just maybe, it was not from my own tears. Maybe, just maybe, he’d come to the realization that he loved me. Hope made my dick swell to match his.
He eased himself off me, relieving my now fully erect cock of the used condom. Instead of tying it off and disposing of it as he usually did, he tipped its contents onto his fingertips and used it as lubrication to ease his fingers into my ass. I didn’t know what to think. What to feel about him using my own ejaculate to prepare me. But then he brushed his fingertips over my sweet spot and licked my dick clean, and I ceased to think at all.
He knew I was ready—hell, we both knew I was ready—when I grabbed myself just below my knees, drew my legs back until my kneecaps were just about brushing my ears, and begged him to fuck me.
But he didn’t fuck me.
He made love to me.
Slow and sweet and beautifully.
And the whole time I wanted to scream at him, “Say it. Say it. For fuck’s sake, say it.”
But I didn’t.
And he didn’t.
He never said the words I longed to hear. Not once, despite making love to me twice more during the night.
Finally, he fell into exhausted slumber, and I fell into exhausted thought.
DAWN WAS only just beginning to stretch her arms in a lazy yawn when I slid from the warm cocoon of Robert’s arms. For a moment, I allowed myself to stand by the bed and stare at him. With his thick lashes fanning his cheeks and his tousled hair, he looked unguarded, at peace, and I was glad this would be the last image I had of him to carry away with me. It was how I wanted to remember him.
I slipped from the room, my footsteps all but silent on the deep plush carpet. I crept back to the guest room and called myself a black cab before ducking down the hall to have a quick shower. It was while under the warm needles of water that the words I needed to say to Robert came to me.
I knew me. I knew I couldn’t make the leap from being a lover to a mere friend overnight. I knew that to try would be agony. That with every e-mail, with every Skype conversation, I’d silently be torturing myself with questions I both longed to ask and yet dreaded having answered. Did you go to the bathhouse? What did you do? Fuck? Suck? Who? How many? Have you made any more movies? Was he good? Did he make you come better, faster, harder than I did? Was his ass hotter, tighter? Was his mouth softer? His kisses sweeter?
And perhaps worst of all: Did you let him fuck you? I couldn’t bear the thought of another man burying his cock in Robert’s ass.
I couldn’t do it.
I just couldn’t do it.
And so I took the coward’s way out.
I wrote a Dear John letter.
Dear Robert,
By the time you read this I’ll be up in the wide blue yonder, winging my way back to Chicago.
You know how I feel. I won’t labor the point by repeating myself.
For awakening me to my true self, I thank you. I was a dead man, someone just going through the motions of living before I met you, so though things didn’t end up the way I would have liked them to, I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay.
Please know I have no regrets.
But, Robert, I also know me, and I know that right now I can’t be just your friend. I can’t be just a buddy. I need time, I need space, before I can be that. Please give that to me.
When I am ready and able to be just a pal to you, I will make contact.
Till then, take care and know I wish nothing but the best for you.
Yours,
Noah
After folding my letter and slotting it in an envelope, I left it leaning against the teapot in the kitchen.
I paused, glancing one last time around the rooms that had become so familiar to me, rooms that had come to feel like home. Steeling myself, I shouldered my hand luggage and grabbed the handle of my suitcase, and with a heavy heart, let myself out.
The early-morning air was cold, and I shivered. It was unseasonably cool, the sky overcast, which somehow seemed appropriate. I’d arrived with clouds threatening a deluge, and I was leaving the same way. Perhaps I should have waited inside for the cab’s arrival, but I’d been afraid I’d weaken, wake Robert, and beg him to not let me leave.
“Noah?”
I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath.
“Noah?”
I turned.
“Yes, Higgy?”
“Where’s Robbie?”
“Sleeping.”
“Why isn’t he taking you to the airport?”
With each question she took another step down toward the sidewalk.
“I thought it best to leave this way.”
“Why?”
Again, I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to succumb to tears. I opened them, locking my gaze onto hers. “I think you know why.”
She nodded and sighed. “He does love you, Noah.”
“No, Higgy. No, he doesn’t. But even if he did, he’d never let himself admit it, so the end result is the same.”
Again she nodded, her eyes sad.
“I’m so sorry, Noah. I am so beyond sorry.”
And then she began to cry. Her tears were silent, just two lines of water trailing down her cheeks.
“Not your fault,” I croaked, desperate not to join her in her grief.
Another nod.
And then finally the cab came to a halt beside me, and I shoved my luggage in as fast as I could.
She began to outright weep, and I didn’t know what to do. I was only just hanging on by a thread myself. She threw her small round frame at me, wrapped me in her arms, and buried her face in my chest.
“Don’t give up on him, Noah. Please don’t give up on him.”
Give up on him? If only she knew. Was there even anything to give up on? Despite my delusions of the summer, there’d never been an “us.” Nor could there ever be one. Robert had made that abundantly clear. It was Robert who gave up before we’d even had a chance to start, Robert who preferred anonymous sex to love.
The situation was hopeless. Had been from day one—I’d just been too blind, stupid, and naïve to see it.
Unable to give her the verbal reassurance she wanted from me, I hugged her one last time and kissed the top of her head.
MY PHONE buzzed, signaling an incoming message, but I ignored it, reaching in to grab it and everything else in my pockets to throw into the plastic basket for scanning at the security checkpoint.
Even when I’d cleared the scanners, I merely shoved it back into my pocket. I knew the text was from Robert. The only thing he could say that would make a difference to how I was feeling was “I love you,” and those words passing his lips were about as likely as world peace. Anything less would be salt on the wound, and I wasn’t about to torture myself.
15
DROPPING
MY hand luggage at the end of the bed, and my suitcase on the floor by my feet, I looked around my bedroom. It was familiar and yet foreign too. Nothing had changed—not the cream-and-mocha-striped feature wall behind the wooden headboard, not the drapes in a matching shade of mocha or the cream-colored coverlet. The cushions, the carpet, the dresser, the bedside lamps… all still the same. And yet it looked different somehow. Belatedly, I realized it was not my room that had changed. It was me.
I inhaled deeply and imagined I could smell the faint remnant of Robert’s scent in the air. It was probably my imagination, but I experienced a jolt of pain nonetheless.
My gaze returned to my bed, and I swallowed noisily. It was the bed Robert had slept in for six months. The bed he’d probably screwed countless men in. I highly doubted his time in Chicago had been as discreet as mine in London prior to his return. At least my sexual encounters had been off premises, so to speak. It dawned on me that my bed had probably seen more action during the time Robert was its occupant than in its entire time as my bed. I snorted—it was not a hard statistic to beat. I never brought any potential sex partner to my home; I always went back to their place. Now, with the wisdom of hindsight, I knew I’d subconsciously wanted to be in control of when the encounter ended. Far easier to do that if you were the one doing the leaving.
I turned on my heel, left the room, then made my way down the hall to the kitchen, dining, and living room. I made straight for the refrigerator, silently thanking Miranda when I saw she had indeed done a bit of grocery shopping for me, and there was milk for me to make myself a coffee. With my lifesaving cup of caffeine in my hands, I looked around, trying to decide whether to drink it at the kitchen island, at the dining table, or to take a seat on one of my couches. Everywhere I looked I saw Robert.
I saw him leaning with his weight on one leg, his hip pressed against the cupboard. I saw him at the dining table sipping his tea while reading the local paper, and lounging on the couches. He was by the oak sideboard, and kneeling before the entertainment unit, rifling through my DVDs. He was everywhere. All around me. There was no escaping him.
Panic wrapped itself around my head, my heart, its tendrils like ever-tightening vines around my chest. I gulped, trying to draw air into my lungs. Memories of him will fade, I told myself. In time you will struggle to picture his face. You’ll move on. You’ll get over him. Over and over again, I reassured myself, until finally the vise around my chest eased.
In the end I stood at the sink to drink my coffee. A quick glance at my watch told me it was only 11:30 a.m. I wasn’t due at Mitch and Miranda’s until six, so I had plenty of time to unpack, organize their gifts, and have a nap. A small wave of relief washed through me. I was glad they hadn’t been insistent about collecting me from the airport. For once they’d yielded to my wishes without an argument. I needed a bit more time to gather myself before I could put on my happy face and pretend all was well in my world.
Tossing the remainder of my coffee down the sink, I switched on the tap and watched as the water slowly diluted the dregs. Only when the water swirling down the drain ran clear did I switch it off, and then, with a sigh, I turned and retraced my steps to my bedroom.
“UNCLE NOAH!”
The excited tandem squeal from Jared and Ricky made me smile. It relieved the tension in my jaw, bringing with it the knowledge of just how tightly strung I’d been feeling.
Two wiry bodies clambered all over me as if I were a piece of gym equipment, and I closed my eyes and gave myself over to the moment.
“Boys! Let Uncle Noah breathe.” I could hear the love and exasperation in Miranda’s voice as she chided them, and I smiled at her over their bobbing heads.
“Hey, sis.”
“Hey, bro.”
She leaned between the twins to kiss my cheek.
“Okay, boys, make way. It’s your dad’s turn to hug Uncle Noah.”
The twins reluctantly slid down my body, making room for Mitch to come in and wrap his arms around me. He hugged me tight, slapping me on the back.
“Glad you’re back, Noah.” His voice was gruff, and when I heard him clear his throat, I smiled.
“It’s good to be back.”
And it was. I’d missed my family. The sight of them reminded me just how much.
Mitch gave me one last squeeze. “Okay, boys, you can have him back now.”
Once again my arms were filled with writhing, giggling bodies. I loved it.
“STOP RUNNING Robert down just because he’s gay.”
“What’s up with you, man? Where’s your sense of humor?” Mitch asked, taking another sip of his beer.
“It’s not funny. You’re not funny.”
I took a deep breath, deciding in that instant that now was the time. Now was the time for my revelation. What was the point in waiting? There’d never be a perfect time, no one ideal moment. I might as well get it out in the open and, hopefully, out of the way.
“When you jeer at Robert because of his sexuality, you’re putting me down too, ’cause I’m the same.” I paused, inhaling deeply. “I’m gay, Mitch.”
“What?”
“I’m gay,” I repeated softly.
“No,” Mitch declared, refuting my quietly spoken declaration. He was shaking his head in denial of my words, the look in his eyes one of disbelief. “You can’t be. You’ve dated half the eligible women of fucking Chicago, for Christ’s sake.”
We were seated on his patio with only the dim light from inside the house illuminating us. The faint sounds of Miranda overseeing Ricky and Jared’s bath time could be heard in the silence that followed Mitch’s protest. The boys were overexcited, carrying on like dogs with bones, trying to convince their mother to let them stay up even later so they could set up and play with the toy London train set I’d given them. I’d given them a host of other gifts as well, but that was the one that had caught their imagination the most. I could hear a note of exasperation creeping into Miranda’s tone as she spoke to them.
For a moment, my stomach tightened at their sounds. Family sounds. Sounds I might never have in my own life. Would I ever love again and find a partner? Would I ever be able to have a family of my own? Would I ever be able to have a son like Ricky or Jared? A daughter? What did gay couples do? Adopt? Hire surrogates? By and large the gay world was still the great unknown to me. There was still so much I had to learn about what my recently acquired knowledge of myself would mean in the long term.
Still, whatever the case might be, it didn’t change anything. I was who and what I was.
“Yeah, you’re right. I dated a score of women and never found what I was searching for.”
“So keep looking, and in the meantime you’ll be knee-deep in pussy. There are worse fates, bro. You can’t possibly prefer to be a faggot. Why would you choose that just because you haven’t met the right woman yet?”
“Mitch,” I began gently, trying to ignore the pain in my chest at his words, “it’s not about what I’d prefer to be. There’s no choice to be made. I am what I am. It just took me a while to realize it.”
“No. I don’t believe that. Go back to what you were… to who you were before you went to England and that queer got his hooks into you.” There was a note of desperation in his voice that made my stomach sink lower in my body. For a moment I felt sorry for him, my pity helping me put aside my resentment at him insulting Robert yet again.
“Mitch, I don’t want to be that guy. That guy was unhappy and lost. He was emotionally dead. That guy wasn’t alive. He was just going through the motions of living.”
“I don’t care. That’s still better than being a fucking queer.”
His vehemence pained me. I swallowed, my throat feeling as if I’d ingested broken glass. I couldn’t believe he’d rather I be miserable than be gay. “Would you really prefer I be alone and unhappy, Mitch, to my being homosexual?”
He put down his beer, then pushed himself out of his deck chair and walked to the edge of the patio, keepi
ng his back to me. Every line of his body showed his tension. He stared silently out into his backyard for a few moments before turning to face me, his face grim and set.
“Yes. No brother of mine is a faggot. Fuck, Noah. How could you do this? Thank God Dad isn’t around to hear it. If the news hadn’t killed him, then he’d probably have beaten you senseless. Jesus Christ, you can’t be. You can’t be a cocktail.”
The last sentence came out as a sneer, Mitch’s lips curling in disgust as if the words themselves tasted bad. I flinched as much from his tone as I did from him bringing our father into the conversation. I suspected he was right—Mitch and our father were a lot alike—but I didn’t like having Mitch voice my fears. And the fact remained, neither of us would ever know for certain, and so I decided to give my father the benefit of the doubt and to ignore Mitch’s hurtful declarations. Arguing with him over them would only make matters worse. Instead, I concentrated on his last sentence, not understanding his intended slur.
“Excuse me? Cocktail? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked, rising to my feet. Something told me it would be better to face him on an equal footing.
“Cock. You like cock,” he snarled. “And you either give it or take it up the tail.”
A jolt of pain lanced through me. I’d always suspected Mitch would take my news badly, but I hadn’t expected this. My pain translated itself into anger, and I took a deep breath, trying to keep the growing storm swirling in my gut from finding voice. “Yes, I do. In fact, I like it a lot. And I refuse, absolutely refuse, to feel ashamed of it.” I closed the distance between us, reaching out to lay my hand on his bicep. “I’m still me, Mitch. I’m still the same Noah you’ve known your whole life. Who I choose to share my bed with doesn’t change that.”
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he growled, shaking his arm free and stepping off the patio and onto the lawn. “It does change things. It changes everything. You’re not who I thought you were.”