Men at Play
By R.W. Clinger
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2018 R.W. Clinger
ISBN 9781634865401
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Men at Play
By R.W. Clinger
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Crafton Avenue.
The Pennsington Building.
Floor Seven. Flat B.
It’s close to nine o’clock in the evening. The New Year’s Eve party at Tony DeAngelo’s is one of the better ones I attend. Festive, colorful lights decorate his twelve-hundred-square-foot flat. Some of the lights flash a bright red, screaming yellow, and blue. The buffet in the dining room looks expensive with its lobster tails, Russian caviar, and imported treats from his family in Sicily: artichoke pâté, sweet tuna bottarga, and busiate pasta. Holiday decorations are still in place, and festive music plays down from overhead speakers: an assortment of pop songs, some country ones, and Tony’s favorite tunes by the one and only Diana Ross. An open bar with a handsome ginger bartender sits to the right of the living room. Ginger smiles as he makes the signature drink: Kamikazes with a coconut twist.
Most of Tony’s guests are strangers to me: a handsome baldy named Roger Dellafold, who plays the piano for a living; the film producer, Evelyn Bish, from California; a power couple in New Hampshire real estate, Jack and Kyle Needle; the novelist, Robert Riley; the poet, Faye Worthington; Mitchell Slander, a journalist for the New York Times. There are a variety of actors present, a painter, wealthy brokers, two architects, too many doctors to count, and Tony’s close friend and lawyer, Dash Harding. There are other guests, too: blonde bombshells, his pastor, slinky models, his older brother Andrew, his dentist, and a slew of beautiful women he has dated off and on throughout the last year. These people dance, smoke pot, pop pills, drink, and stand in circles, chatting. They all seem to be having fun: mingling, kissing, and getting to know each other. People who party. Happy.
The flat is stunning, expensively decorated with a handful of Asian silks and linens. Nothing looks cheap or skimpy. Tony has obviously spent a fortune on his decorator, Cecille Marque—his current lover of two months, possible marriage material. There are two bedrooms and two baths, a reading room filled with hardback mysteries, living room, and kitchen.
Tony has been thinking about moving away from the Ohio River, inland we say, often telling me, “It’s cold near the water during winter. I hate it.”
My take on the situation is simple: Tony doesn’t like to stay in one place for very long, just as he doesn’t like to be with the same woman for more than nine weeks. Typical Tony.
I think Tony’s a very attractive man because of his Sicilian looks: high cheek bones, tight jaw, thick black hair, smoldering brown eyes, chiseled frame, and a toothpaste commercial smile. The guy is drop dead gorgeous. If he weren’t straight, I’d be all over him, inside him…whatever it takes to be his man. I want his life over mine. He’s a silent business partner in Gallento Wines; huge bank account; superior looks; amazing lovers who bow down to his every sexual need; faithful friends; fancy cars. Just about everything I don’t have, or at least I think I don’t have.
* * * *
I move up to the bar and meet the charming ginger, ask for a Kamikaze, and his name. Too charming. Too handsome. Totally my type because of his football frame.
“Nevin McBane.”
“Irish?”
He nods, semi-winks at me, and begins to prepare my drink, half filling a cocktail glass with ice. “It’s only fair that I ask what your name is.”
“Not everything’s fair in life.” I chortle.
He studies me, squints—thick black hair, tiny nose, six-two, muscular with broad shoulders, lucky green eyes—and maybe likes what he sees. “How old are you, Mr. Nameless?”
“Thirty-seven. You?”
“Same.” He pours vodka over the ice and adds some triple sec and lime juice. Nevin stirs the drink and garnishes it with a slice of lime. He places it on a square napkin in front of me, winks at me again. “Enjoy, stranger…whatever your name is, stud.”
I can’t stop looking, studying him as if he is a newfound planet in the universe. He has dimples and dotted freckles over the bridge of his nose. His eyes are a soft green, providing me with luck when I easily fall into them, and his eyebrows are bushy, orange caterpillars. His chest is as wide as the massive shoulders, with rounded pecs and hard nipples. And his abdominal area is flat, rippled, drawing most of my attention away from his dreamy, misty green eyes.
There’s an obvious connection between our two worlds; an attraction that is drawn from light flirting. I think how our bodies can glide together under the sheets, bringing in the New Year. I’m not out to get laid, though, at least not tonight. Truth is, sometimes I just want to get to know a guy, begin to understand his layers, absorb him, and build a friendship. If sleeping with the guy comes later, then good for me. One-night stands aren’t my thing. Life with men isn’t a game for me. Never has been. Never will be. I take the gentlemen I meet for their worth and show them respect. Games are foolish, I’ve learned, tawdry and troublesome. With age comes wisdom, and the old cliché stands true for me.
He waits on other guests, earning his keep. I watch him smile at Tony’s guests. It seems quite charming when he laughs because they laugh, spoiling them with his ginger looks. When he’s given money as tips, he pushes the green bills back to the guests and explains, “Thank you, but Mr. DeAngelo has already handled my earnings.” It sounds elite and somewhat prestigious, which I enjoy.
Eventually, Nevin makes his way back to me. I tell him the cocktail is amazing.
“Nicely done. Sometimes a man can’t make a drink if his life depends on it.” I wink at him, maybe flirting. “Other men can, though, like you.”
He wipes the bar off with a wet rag, keeping the marble tidy. “You’re just trying to get in my pants, Mr. Nameless.”
I toast and tease him. “Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll see what the evening brings. I might even tell you my name.”
Curiosity obviously surfaces, and he asks, “How do you know Tony?”
“Just good friends. My mother met his mother at the gym when we were kids. The two of us started playing video games together, swimming, basketball, and bike riding. Thirty years later, we’re still friends. The only differences are simple: he’s in a higher income bracket, and I’m queer.”
“So you’re faithful to those close to you?”
I nod. “It’s the only way to be.”
He spreads his arms a little and places his palms on the ba
r, leaning over. He makes eye contact with me. “You have a boyfriend?”
I shake my head. “He dumped me eight months ago.”
“Asshole?”
“Of course. I put too much into our relationship and always thought I liked him more than me. Accountants turn me on, though, and I couldn’t help myself. I should have known right from the start that it wasn’t going to work out.”
“Accountants?” He chuckles.
“Don’t judge me. I get off on the horn-rimmed glasses, tight suits, and calculators. It’s an odd fetish, but nothing shocking.”
“I’m not judging. Just getting to know you. So tell me what you do for a living, stranger.”
“Long title short, I design action-packed video games.”
He raises his brows, fully interested in my career. “I play a lot. Which ones?”
I rattle off, “Temple of Rusk, High Tower Prison Break, Braham’s Vampire Castle, and the Cutter trilogy.”
Taken aback by the titles, he glows with a smile. “I love Cutter. Can’t get enough of the zombies he fights. It’s the best game series ever.”
I cock my head to the right and question, “Aren’t you a little old to be playing video games, mister?”
“You can never be too old for games. They keep the mind sharp. Studies have proven they help to prevent the onset of dementia and Alzheimer’s and…”
I cut him off with, “You’re full of shit. They murder brains, just as Brick Cutter does to zombies.”
He laughs.
I laugh.
“Did you base him on yourself?”
I nod. Why not confess the obvious? “He looks just like me, right?”
Nevin grins from ear to ear. “You need another drink,” he says, looking at the empty cocktail glass in front of me. He takes the glass and begins creating another specialty concoction.
“Fill me up.”
“Feel as in touch?” He plays with me, raising his brows, still grinning.
“It depends what you want to do with me.”
“You’re a bad boy, aren’t you?”
I shrug. “I can be anyone and anything you want me to be.”
He laughs, preparing me a fresh drink. When he passes the beverage to me, our fingers touch. “Tell me your name. Don’t make me beg. I hate guys who make me beg for things.”
I stare into his intoxicating, green eyes and grin. I lift my drink. “Brick…Brick Cutter,” I lie. Then I wink and walk away.
He laughs, waves goodbye.
Mission of teasing accomplished.
Maybe we’ll see each other again before the evening’s over.
* * * *
The party is rocking with music, drinks, heroine, and all the whatnots that coincide with a good time among adults at a social gathering. A new couple arrives, both men. David and Daniel Dogmas. Tony calls them unmarried lovers. I think they look like Abercrombie & Fitch models: young, beautiful skin, somewhat too thin, and almost too pretty. Tony shakes their hands, welcomes the two to his flat and the party.
“Help yourselves to the bar.”
I watch David and Daniel for a few minutes. It’s apparent they know no one at the party. Probably just the host. Possible wealthy clients of Tony’s wine products or investors of his company. They walk from room to room, checking out Tony’s place. They study the furniture, paintings on the walls, and Tony’s wine collection, which he’s very proud of and sometimes talks too much about. The men fetch drinks from Nevin McBane. David enjoys a long-neck bottle of beer. Daniel drinks an orange juice concoction. Soon they meet Ralph Concentra and blow their noses full of cocaine, getting high.
Honestly, I’ve never been into drugs much. Grass is probably my limit. Never cocaine. No meth. No heroine. I can have a good time without the shit. At some parties, I drink too much, but not all the time. I like my imported Russian vodka and kissing handsome men, particularly ginger bartenders. Both are my weaknesses.
David and Daniel back me against a wall.
It’s Daniel who says, “You’ve been watching us. What’s your game?”
“I don’t have game,” I admit, looking from one man to the other. It’s the truth. I’ve never had game. Not in high school. Not in college. Never.
The duo doesn’t believe me, though. I can see it in their boyish eyes.
David almost kisses me, moving his face to mine. His breathe smells like Yuengling. He rubs his nose to my nose and asks, “You want a threesome, don’t you? Admit to it. You’re like all the other queers who watch us. It’s about sex with models, isn’t it? You want to get naked with us and…”
I shake my head, become nervous, and stammer, “I’m…I’m with the guy at the bar.”
They both look at the ginger serving drinks.
Daniel arrogantly says, “But he’s not as good-looking as we are. He doesn’t even come close to our handsomeness. He’s not a model.”
I shrug, loathing their play. “What can I say? He likes me. I like him. We’re a great couple.”
David surprises me with, “So what about a foursome? We take on you and Mr. Ginger. What do you say?”
“We don’t play,” I say.
One of them grabs my right hand and places it between his legs. I feel a throbbing erection hidden by fabric. The mass is large, tuba-like.
They both snicker.
Daniel demands, “Take my dick out and jack it. I’ll come right here if you want. I’m not embarrassed in crowds. I like to perform for others, especially groups.”
Enough. I pull my hand away from his plump cock, push between them, and become lost in the party, mingling with others, ignoring the pair for the rest of the evening, or at least try.
* * * *
Time for a piss. My bladder is ready to explode. I walk through a few guests and gently push my way to the bathroom next to Tony’s bedroom. The area is dimly lit. My view shifts to the right, into Tony’s private room, and I see two queers, both shirtless, making out on his bed. I place them in their early twenties. As they suck face, pants are being unbuttoned, and their sloppy act of lovemaking begins.
After squeezing past a straight, power couple—the blond female is in a navy skirt, white blouse, and pearls, and her gentleman friend is dressed in a dark brown suit—arguing over the woman’s knowledge of stocks and bonds and financial whatnots, I eventually come to the closed bathroom door. I tap twice, don’t hear a response, and enter at my own risk.
Ginger takes a temporary residence inside the bathroom (lots of blues, blacks, and chrome), standing in front of the mirror. His shirt lies on the edge of the sink, balled. I immediately become distracted and flustered by his good looks, studying the splay of his bare chest. Orange-colored hair covers his pumped pectorals, continues in a line down the center of his abs, and surrounds his dented navel. His biceps and forearms sport numerous freckles and inflated veins. I stare at his V-shaped, muscular back, which is decorated with a few freckles and his Thor-like shoulders. His reflection shows the top button on his khakis undone. Maybe getting ready to jerk off. Maybe not. Then he turns on the cold water, gathers up his shirt in one hand, and wets part of it under the running stream.
He sees me over his right shoulder, grins a mouthful of pearly whites, and nods. “Mr. Somebody, you found me.”
I want to ask him what he’s doing, but he reads my mind.
“Some inebriated hussy spilled her red wine at the bar. It splashed all over my shirt and pants.” He semi-turns around, and I see two, deep purple stains covering his private parts. “Nice, huh? It looks like I pissed myself.”
I want to snicker, but hold it in. There’s no reason to make an ass out of myself. “Anything I can help with?”
It sounds pornographic and the worst come-on in the handbook of communication between gay men, but it’s not what I mean. I’m not the type of guy who enjoys sexual contact in bathrooms.
He turns back to his chore, attempts to clean his shirt. It’s the first time I see the bottle of club soda to his left. He gentl
y pours a tablespoon on the shirt’s wine stain. “Yes. I do need your help.”
“I don’t do bathroom sex,” comes out of me, quick as shit, and I persistently shake my head. “Although you’re adorable, and probably right for my needs, I’ve just never been into that scene.”
A chortle escapes his throat, and his handsome face fills with an even broader smile. “I’m not asking for a blowjob, friend. I need someone to watch the bar while I try to get these stains out. Tell me you know how to make martinis?”
There are very few drinks I don’t know how to make. A variety of martinis, a whiskey sour, mojito, cosmo, and a White Russian aren’t a problem for me. I tell Nevin, “I can get by.”
“Good. Can you handle the bar until I finish here?”
“As soon as I take a piss.”
“Have at it.” He nods to the toilet to his right. “I won’t peek. Just imagine I’m not here.”
Maybe I want him to peek, though. Just a little. Nothing perverted. A simple glance of someone’s junk never hurt anyone, when, and if that certain someone just happens to be interested.
The gentleman I was raised to be by Rose Bett surfaces, causing me not to respond to his suggestion. I meander up to his side, park my upright frame perpendicular to his, unleash the beast from its zipper home, and let the urine run into Tony’s American Standard toilet, seat up.
Apparently, I let out a convincing sigh.
“Sometimes it feels pretty good to hold your own junk, doesn’t it?”
Not now, I think. Let’s not talk while I’m pissing. It’s far too distracting and not right. Some dudes would maybe find it hot, a sexual aphrodisiac, but I’m not in that grouping. Rather, I find it annoying and unbearable.
“Give me a second. Let the juice flow.”‘
He laughs, not that my comment is supposed to be funny.
I do the dirty deed, shake my junk, and zip up. I stand beside him at the sink, stare at his gorgeously cut and hairy chest in the mirror, and begin to wash my hands. I say something stupid: “Nice chest. You’re a good-looking guy. How can you be single?”
He rubs the wine stain with water and club soda. “As of yet, the right guy hasn’t come along. Someday he will. I’m an optimist by trade, of course.”
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