by Hunter, Troy
Dale laughed. It was an uncertain sound, as it was a rarity for him. “Why not? I’m always trying to become more centered.”
* * *
Cliff
Their talk continued easily, but Cliff’s mind was caught up in a whirlwind of indecision. He liked Dale, liked talking with him. But how much could he tell him?
Cliff carried around a secret, one he’d never revealed to anyone. Not only that, he’d never felt the urge to reveal it to anyone before. There had never been anyone in his life he felt could accept the weight of the revelation with anything but skepticism at best and fear at worst.
Dale, though…Dale was different. It wasn’t just that he was intelligent, which was obvious, but he also had the air of one who was completely nonjudgmental. This was probably because he was judged himself on a regular basis, and not favorably either. He knew what it felt like to be looked on with scorn and derision, so he was unwilling to hold that same point of view toward anyone else. Was it enough to make his ear the one into which Cliff could finally whisper his confession?
They had gained the center of the shadowy football field. Cliff abruptly stopped walking, and Dale did likewise, his soft eyes on Cliff’s conflicted face.
Cliff put out a hand and rested it lightly on the side of Dale’s waist. Dale looked surprised at the sudden touch, his brows raised quizzically toward Cliff. But that didn’t stop him from moving closer, drawn by the pressure of Cliff’s hand on his waist, drifting down to his hips. Hesitantly, Cliff pressed a kiss to Dale’s lips. It was as if someone else possessed him—he couldn’t resist the urge. The kiss was light at first, Dale sinking into it with a soft sigh. He brought his hands up to Cliff’s face, placing his palms to his cheeks as their kiss deepened.
They stepped closer, their bodies touching now, each aware of the heat they were giving off in the mild chill of the evening. Cliff felt a swell of pleasure as Dale moved closer to him, pressing his lithe body against his own.
The tip of Cliff’s tongue brushed Dale’s upper lip before slipping into his mouth. Dale’s lips parted more for Cliff, allowing him to sweep his tongue through his mouth. Dale shivered against him, just their torsos touching now. Cliff could feel Dale’s heart beating rapidly, matching his own excited pace. Dale grew bolder at Cliff’s gentle coaxing, exploring Cliff’s mouth with a thick tongue.
Cliff tightened his grip on Dale’s waist and brought him in even closer. When their lower bodies came into contact with each other, their mutual excitement was obvious. Cliff reached down with his free hand and brushed his fingers over Dale’s crotch, feeling the tension straining the fabric there.
Moaning softly, Dale pressed himself closer to Cliff, his groin pulsing under Cliff’s large hands. Cliff massaged Dale softly through his jeans, teasing him lightly as he bit Dale’s bottom lip. The sounds Dale made as he pleasured him were driving Cliff senseless. He hadn’t realized before this kiss how attracted he was to Dale—despite how often he’d imagined this exact moment, it had never been anything more than a fantasy.
“Hey, Cliff, you out here?” a voice shouted.
Mike and the other T-Birds were emerging from the darkness. Cliff dropped his hand from Dale’s throbbing cock and down to his side as he stepped away from the man. Their eyes met, glittering in the darkness and Cliff smiled faintly.
“Yeah,” Cliff answered, tearing his eyes away from Dale. “Over here.” Then, to Dale, “Talk later?”
Dale nodded.
Dale
The morning air is cold, frigid even. It caresses my cheeks, making them sting as I run through the city. The street lights are still on, dawn just barely breaking above the skyline, casting a moody sheen over the city. My heart pounds regularly and quickly in my chest, my legs steady beneath me as I jog.
I check my watch, my run recorded on it, 5.7 miles. Almost there. I up my pace, finishing strong as I round the corner of the block leading to my apartment. Lately, my thoughts have been preoccupied with my past; finding old high school friends on social media, dredging up old memories. Not all of them pleasant.
It wasn’t that long ago, less than ten years, but I am certainly a different person. I doubt my tormentors are any different, especially Cliff. I grimace as my building comes into view and my watch beeps, signaling that I’ve reached the end of my six-mile run. I slow, walking to finish my cool down.
After that night on the field, I never did hear from Cliff, except for the casual insults he tossed my way. But mostly, he ignored me completely after we kissed. No more smiles in the halls or short conversations about movies. He never once looked me in the eyes again.
I shake my head, heart rate slowing. It doesn’t much matter anymore though—I’ve gotten past those days. It was difficult to deal with in high school, to cope with the pain, but now…now, all I could do was try to forget. He was probably just experimenting that night and was ashamed of it. I was glad I dodged that closeted bullet, even if thoughts of him still haunt me.
In my apartment, I take a quick shower. I consider rubbing one out but decide against it. I’m running late anyway and eager to get to work. I trim my beard, appreciative of the way it gives my baby face a more masculine edge. It makes me look older. And it gives me a buffer, easy to hide behind.
A half hour later, I pull into work, parking carefully in the underground parking lot of the Bernard Frankenheimer Center on Human Attraction. My 1994 red Land Cruiser looks a little beat up in comparison to the shiny new Audis and Cadillacs. The scientists here are paid very well, first born son and then some. It’s my salary, too, but my philosophy is if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. And I doubt my Land Cruiser will ever break.
I take the elevator out of the garage and up to the main floor, the lobby. A young man at the front desk smiles as I flash him my badge and continue to the door that leads into the Center. The Center is strict on security: everything is only accessible with an access badge or codes. My lab is on the third floor, facing the back of the compound. I head there now, browsing my notes on my iPad.
The halls are a little sparse nowadays, as several scientists have quit unexpectedly or just disappeared. Disappeared is a strong word—resigned suddenly may be more appropriate. One of them, Dr. Charlie Fawn, was a friend. I’d been planning on asking him on a date, but he “resigned suddenly” a couple months ago. There weren’t many friendly people at the Center, the scientists were always buried in their work. But it was fine with me. I needed to focus on my work anyway.
Research into advanced neural network algorithms was my passion and I was very proud of my work. At first, when I was hired to work at the Center by Dr. Taylor Slickberg, I had concerns about the budget. I chuckle, thinking of the way my eyes bugged out of my head when I saw the budget Slickberg had set aside for me.
It was as if there was no limit to his resources, but then again, would any university ever limit the most successful and decorated scientist in the world? He had dabbled in everything from biology to physics and made strides in each field. And after his invention of Semi-Synthetic Amenopeben, the new miracle drug to fight anti-biotic resistant bacteria, Slickberg could have almost anything he wanted.
In my lab, I drop my satchel onto the stool nearest the door, still staring down at my screen. The blinds are closed; I open them without looking, it’s the same routine every morning. My windows face the courtyard in the back, a picnic area for the scientists to eat lunch in and three volleyball courts. Slickberg spared no expense when he opened the Center.
I turn on the radio, rock and roll filling the room, and settle into the chair in front of my computer. My days are mostly filled with programming, now that my preliminary research is over. Tapping my finger on the desk, I pull up my file on body language, specifically facial expressions. My big project, my key to making a difference in the world, all depends on this. I’ve been creating a computer program that can interpret human body language and respond appropriately, flirt, argue, calm. If it all goes to plan and my programming is succe
ssful, it could do virtually anything in the realm of human interaction.
Typing quickly, I start making final changes to my program, running it after each new change to make sure it runs smoothly. It’s like performing surgery in the digital world. Instead of a scalpel, I have a keyboard. I make careful moves; if I get sloppy, the entire program will collapse.
I tug uncomfortably at my collar. I’ve worn a button-up today and a tie at the behest of Slickberg. He sent out an email this morning warning me that some investors would be touring the facility and he planned a special stop for them at my lab.
Distractions and interruptions to my work are never appreciated, but this one is necessary for the Center’s endowment. Luckily, my lab is spotless, as usual, and I could get to work immediately before they arrive. Which should be any minute.
As I’m putting the finishing touch to a particularly difficult line of code, the door to my lab swings open, Slickberg’s voice floating through.
“Gentlemen, this is a special stop. One of our most important projects is almost complete and we get to witness the refining stage,” Slickberg says, leading three men and a woman into the room.
They look at the lab curiously as I swivel around and rise to my feet. I take them in, observing the designer clothes, the perfectly coifed hair. Private investors.
“This is Dale Weitz, one of our best programmers,” Slickberg introduces me with a grin.
I reach out to take their handshakes, they flash me brilliant smiles. The smiles of people waiting to be very, very impressed. I’m confident in my work but I hope Slickberg hasn’t built it up to be more than it is. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say dutifully, flashing them a smile.
“You don’t look like any programmer I’ve ever seen,” the woman says, eyeing me.
I’m acutely aware of my well-trimmed beard. “How many programmers have you met?”
“Well, not many,” she starts.
“That might explain it,” I say, smiling even though her comment irked me.
“Dale here is our resident whiz kid. In less than a year, he’s created an algorithm that will help computers understand and respond to human body language,” Slickberg interrupts, slapping me on the back.
“Impressive,” one of the men says, peering over my shoulder at my computer screen where my code is flashing. “But what’s the end goal?”
What’s the profit, he means. “There are many implications for this kind of technology. With the digitization of much of our communication and the development of AI in our homes, tech like this will go far. We can program robots, smart homes, cell phones, virtually anything we interact with,” I explain.
“You mean sex robots?” The man raises a brow.
I shrug. “Potentially. It could also, of course, have medical benefits. Imagine how this kind of program could be used to help kids on the autism spectrum. Imagine a device that can interpret body language and project what kind of response the child needs to the people around them, such as space or touch, when the child can’t communicate it themselves. Or on the opposite end, it makes other people’s body language clear to those who have difficulty interpreting it.”
The investors murmur amongst themselves, impressed. Slickberg grins broadly. “Like I said, whiz kid.”
I go to a nearby counter and reveal a sleek, white helmet. “Anybody want to try it on?”
The investors look at it skeptically. “What is it?” the woman asks.
“Here, try it.” I pass it to her, helping her place it properly on her head.
The helmet almost completely obscures her eyes, and suddenly, a classical tune plays. Stringed instruments swell, a piano joining in. “What the…” Her eyes are wide.
I help her remove the helmet, but before they ask any questions, I pass it to the next investor. Eagerly, he tugs it onto his balding head and almost immediately, rock and roll plays. Before the man can pass it on, I take it back and tuck it away; the hardware is expensive.
“What was that?” he asks.
“It’s part of my programming, a separate piece. The helmet has a program that can read your brainwaves.”
“So, it knows what music we like?”
“Your brain created that music,” I say. I can’t help the grin on my face. They gape at me. “Brain waves can easily be converted into sound waves with my tech—it’s just another facet of this project. Reading brainwaves is key to understanding intent. Eventually, we’ll link it to the program that interprets body language and the two will work in tandem.”
Slickberg interrupts before they can speak. “Very impressive, Dale, and a truly excellent presentation of the project.”
“Yes, we’re looking forward to seeing this completed,” the woman says, eyeing me appreciatively.
I shrug. “Thank you.”
“And how is ARF?” He turns to the investors. “Automated Response to Flirtation, I mean.”
Internally, I cringe at the acronym. The Center has never been particularly good at acronyms for their projects. ARF is another segment of my programming, a little more complex. “I have the completed prototype.” I show him a small white device that fits in the palm of my hand. “I’ll be taking the weekend off to test it outside the lab.”
Slickberg nods. “Very good. Now then, we’ll leave you to it, Dale. Keep up the good work.”
He ushers the investors from the room, and as they murmur about my projects, I catch them whispering about potential profit margins. I sigh. I’ve never been one of the money people, but I can certainly understand their need for it.
I fiddle with the ARF device as the door clicks softly closed behind them. After work today, I’m headed back to my hometown for a long weekend, and the device is going with me. It’s passed all my lab tests but working with it in the field will be a different type of test altogether. Hopefully, I can find people to use it on, not that my hometown has a lot of eligible bachelors.
Gently placing the device in my satchel so I don’t forget it, I turn back to my programming. There’s still a lot to do before I head home.
Cliff
Country music fills the small restaurant, adding to the rural atmosphere. The hostess, dressed in plaid and cowgirl boots, leads me and Nicholas to our table in the back. Nicholas, my date, is almost as tall as me and a burly man whose style can simply be described as “camouflage.”
There are peanut shells covering the hardwood floor and they crunch beneath my feet. Antlers are the theme throughout, horn chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, trophies mounted on the walls. I grit my teeth, dragging my eyes away from the hunting trophies to focus on the man in front of me. Wearing a camo shirt and a pair of blue jeans, Nicholas has dressed casually for our date, perhaps a little too casually. Or maybe I’m simply overdressed. I glance down at myself, in my plain button-up and a cardigan.
I bump gently into Nicholas’s back as he comes to a stop in front of our table, which is covered in a light layer of grease. “Here ya’ll go,” the hostess says with an exaggerated country twang.
I slide into the booth across from Nicholas as he settles in comfortably. He picked the location for our date today and I can tell it’s a restaurant he visits often. It’s not my scene, but I was happy when he asked me out, happy enough to let him take the lead planning our date.
The hostess is replaced by a grumpy waiter and he takes our orders. “Due to the city’s temporary ban on water, our menu options are a little more limited than usual. I recommend the steak,” he says, staring resolutely down at his notepad.
“Steak it is, extra fries,” Nicholas says gruffly.
“Are salads available?” I ask, searching my menu.
“Unfortunately, no,” the waiter says. “What can I get for you instead?”
Damn…as a vegetarian, salads are usually my go-to, particularly when I’m not sure about a restaurant’s vegetarian options. “I’ll just take some fries, thanks.” I pass my menu back.
The waiter disappears and I turn my attention to Ni
cholas, admiring his handsome features. He’s rough around the edges, with a scruffy beard and caterpillar eyebrows. But his online profile was amusing and his messages were sweet. I had a good feeling about him. I take a drink of my beer, smiling at Nicholas across the table.
“So, vegetarian, huh?” Nicholas asks, raising a brow.
I give him a lopsided grin. “What gave it away? My profile or my order?”
He laughs. “Honestly, I didn’t quite believe you until just now.”
On the dating app we met on, I made it clear I was a vegetarian and only interested in other vegetarians. “Meat eaters move on,” I’d written, with an eggplant emoji. But I’d learned to handle myself around meat eaters. Most of my friends aren’t vegetarian so it was something of a necessity.
“Oh?” I take another swig.
“Vegetarians aren’t exactly commonplace in Bear Moose.”
“No, I guess not.” I laugh, jokingly adding, “I just say it to make myself more interesting.”
He chuckles. “It worked. And you’re a…wildlife photographer?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’ve got some big shoots coming up in the national forest outside of town soon.”
“That’s cool,” Nicholas says, though I get the sense he’s not into photography.
“So, you know a little about me, but your profile was a little…sparse.” I raise a brow.
“I’m a man of action, not much for words,” Nicholas says, stretching back to show off his bulging muscles.
I feel a tendril of heat between my legs at the sight, but I hide my admiration as I raise my beer to my lips again. “Indulge me.”
As he opens his lips to answer, the waiter returns with our food. He sets down my plate of fries and places a massive steak in front of Nicholas. Nicholas rubs his hands together eagerly and I keep my eyes trained away from the steak. As he cuts into it, it’s impossible not to notice the raw pink flesh in the middle. The beast within me rumbles at the sight and I dart my eyes away. Nicholas moans at the first bite.