by Don Schecter
Two hours passed this way. Tate bought Ben a second drink and had another bottle of water. Then they went home, watched TV for a while, and fell asleep in precisely the same manner as the previous night. This time Ben walked around to the other side of the bed to pry the remote out of Tate’s fingers.
Ben was grateful that the morning was also a replay of the previous day. He now knew what to expect, and extracted a great deal of pleasure from the early lovemaking. It was followed by coffee, computer, Fred Flintstone’s call, and then they spent some time doing Tate’s laundry.
When they headed for the airport, they reverted to the same awkward dance they performed on meeting. Again Tate took the bull by the horns. “Ben, I thought this was going to be a weekend of getting rocks off with an attractive guy; it turned out to be so much more. I feel…I don’t know how I feel. Swept away.” Ben was glad he hadn’t disappointed. He hugged Tate warmly and told him that he would always remember these three days as something very special in his life.
That night, Tate returned to the bar with a small picture of Ben’s face he had printed with his computer. Bottle of water in hand, he moved from patron to patron, stopping to chat and show each man the photo, informing him that this was the man he was in love with, this was the man Tate was going to marry.
2
Five minutes after he entered his house, before he had a chance to open his bags or read the mail, Ben’s doorbell rang. “Flowers for me? Are you sure?” He took the box in and opened it. It held a dozen yellow roses and a card that read: Hurry back, T.
Ben gazed at the flowers, now in a vase. In all of his life, no one had thought to court him, to send him flowers. He had always considered flowers rather foolish, impractical; they died so quickly. But in this instance the message they carried was clear.
A month later Ben returned for a week. Only one item in the apartment had changed: a picture of Ben replaced Tate’s parents on the coffee table. Ben held it up in amazement.
Tate grinned his beautiful grin. It spoke volumes.
In the morning they were on their way to Key West in the Mercedes. Tate drove shirtless, looking more than ever like a centaur. The radio blared rock. Tate, ever smiling, explained that elevator music was reserved for the first date only. He confessed to loving rock.
Tate had booked at a clothing-optional gay hotel, but they were the only ones who took advantage of the policy. They frolicked nude in the pool while twenty gay men sunned in their trunks, and watched.
They ate oysters as the sun set, and Tate spilled two gold rings on the table.
“What are those for?”
“I want us to wear matching rings; I want us to be engaged.”
Ben laughed. “Hey, I’m flattered, but isn’t it a little soon?”
“Not for me, it isn’t.”
“Well, you're young and impulsive; I’m older and more conservative. Let’s give it some time, give me time to get to know you. When I get to feel as strongly as you do, I’ll ask for it then.”
Tate put the rings back in his pocket. “OK. But let’s not take all year to make up your mind; I’m running out of time.” He grinned. If there was one thing Ben would always remember about him, it was that ubiquitous, infectious smile.
On the way back to the room Tate glanced at his watch and announced, “Hey Ben, there’s this new program, Will and Grace; and it’s on in five minutes. I never miss it. If I sprint I can make it. Would you mind walking back by yourself?”
“No, of course not. Much wiser than asking me to run for it. I’ll be right behind you….But why didn’t you record it?”
Tate jogged backwards so he could face Ben. “Oh, I can’t work that thing. Too complicated. I just know how to put the tape in and press play.”
Ben furrowed his brow. “I’ll show you when we get back.”
“Lots of guys have tried, baby. I’m helpless at gadgets.”
“But you can drive,” Ben reminded him.
There was a momentary disconnect—something akin to a short circuit sputtered behind his gaze—until Tate processed the remark as irrelevant. His face resolved into a flash of perfectly even white teeth. A spark caught and re-ignited in his eyes.
“You’re sure it’s OK? This won’t upset you?”
“No, not at all. It’s seems very practical. Go for it.”
As he watched Tate trot off into the distance, Ben reflected on the limitations the young man imposed on himself. He was locked into certain patterns. Oh well, Ben sighed, that’s better than no plan at all. At least one can work around a fixed schedule.
In the room, Tate was sitting round-shouldered on the bed, as dejected as he had looked the day they first met. Apparently the program played an hour earlier in Key West, and he had missed it. It pissed him off no end. Ben couldn't believe so simple a disappointment could frustrate him to the point of depressing his mood.
To snap Tate out of it, Ben suggested they go down to the hot tub to socialize. The tub was as large as a pool, perhaps fifteen-feet-square with a square island in the center forming four tiled channels with benches on each side. It could have seated fifty men but was deserted. They sat nude in one corner, lit from below by eerie green light that caused dramatic shadowing of their bodies above and below water. They whispered sweet nothings and progressed to nuzzling and fondling. In the midst of some very deep kissing, Ben found he was holding in his arms a ball of a man, tightly rolled in a fetal pose. Tate surrendered completely, losing himself in Ben’s embraces. Power surged through Ben’s body as he realized he had the helm; this beautiful male was totally his…at least for this night. He ushered Tate out of the water and back to their room where, to their mutual delight, he took advantage of his dominant role.
The weekend went well: there were no distractions. Occasionally Tate’s cell phone buzzed, but it was their only reminder of the world outside before they piled into the car for the ride back. Tate drove until they bogged down in traffic outside of Miami.
“I’m sleepy. You drive.”
“Hey, I thought we agreed you were the designated driver.”
“We can pull over while I sleep, or you can take the wheel. I don’t see why you can’t share the burden.”
“Two reasons. This car’s too small for me—it’s frightening at eighty on a highway. And second, it’s shift. I haven’t handled a shift car since I was your age.”
“Don’t be a wuss,” Tate pleaded. “I’m really knocked out.”
Ben didn’t want to be a wuss, didn’t want to lose the respect he had gained in their relationship, so he agreed to drive. Tate curled up in the passenger seat and closed his eyes. After a while, Ben got the feel of the car and felt confident enough to change the radio station. He searched the dial and let it rest on the first classical music it came to. His mind relaxed as the insistent rock beat was replaced by something he comprehended; he hadn’t been aware that Tate’s choice in sound was oppressive until it was absent.
Tate stirred. “What are you doing? Don’t change the station. I liked that.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep without my music.”
Ben glanced at Tate—the boy wasn’t kidding. “Look, while you drove, we listened to your music; it’s only fair you let me listen to mine.”
“Ok, I’ll drive.” Tate roused himself.
“I can’t believe you're serious.”
“Believe it. Pull over.”
“How about I just shut the damned thing off?”
“No,” Tate howled, “I need my music; this is my car.”
Ben paused to consider. Things weren’t rational for the moment. But surely, this wasn’t worth a fight. He put the radio back on Tate’s station.
“Thanks,” Tate said sincerely, and went back to sleep.
Back from Key West: slime-boy and his new squeeze. Bet he’s got the old geezer wrapped around his finger by now. Better look out, old man—you come after TV, movies, and rock. Spoiled with a capital S. This asshole’
s a trip.
In the morning, there was something to be said for routine: both parties knew just what to expect. Afterwards, Tate showed Ben how to operate the commercial washer and dryer in the apartment complex and left him there. “Just put the quarters in and press on.”
When Ben returned with a basketful of clothes, he found furniture out in the building’s hallway. Tate was mopping down the tile floor in the condo. “I do this once a week, whether it needs it or not.” Ben smiled. It was a typically male approach. Tate had muscled the furnishings out the door all at once, rather than shift them from side to side.
It was just another workout to the powerfully built young man.
After they folded clothes, Tate announced he was going for a jog. Ben wished he could accompany him, but there was a limit to his activity range. Tate put on the briefest filmy running shorts, and carried a bottle of water. To Ben’s eyes, he was definitely not appropriately dressed, but who would complain? Ben believed that when you had it, flaunt it; and Tate had it—in spades. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, honey. Take a rest.”
He returned glistening with sweat, his muscles shining. Moisture fell in droplets from the nylon shell of his shorts onto the tile floor. “Guess what?” he grinned. “A car stopped and two guys asked me to go home with them. I told them I already had what I wanted, waiting for me back in my condo.” He spread a towel and got down on the tile to exercise his stomach muscles. Ben got down beside him and tried to mimic his actions, but their differences in age and condition got in the way.
“I’ll jump in the shower and then let’s go to the gym.”
“Don’t you ever get tired?”
“Man, I’m pumped. Let’s move out.”
Things started off the same as usual in the gym, but Tate grew annoyed that he was still setting Ben’s weights and telling him how many reps to do with which weight. “This stuff is easy, Ben. You've got to think for yourself and do what your body tells you is right. I can’t baby-sit you all the time.” Ben was irked. He realized the truth in what Tate said, but his main reason to be there was Tate, and being pampered was the part he liked best. He wondered if the honeymoon were already over.
The days continued, each a carbon copy of the one before. The one thing lacking was that they never had intimate conversations like the ones they had had online; that is, they never spoke of anything that smacked of introspection. They stuck to vanilla topics and just skimmed their histories.
Tate told Ben over several dinners that he had been puny as a child, had a mean-ass brother who used him as a punching bag, and an alcoholic father who left before he could abuse Tate too badly. His stint in the service was a two-year coming-out party, wherein he hooked up with an older petty officer who used him as a toy, and beat the living shit out of him if he failed to enjoy it. They spent their time together in alcoholic stupor, which he now wondered he survived.
Ben saw why Tate held himself on a tight leash. If he didn’t get to AA meetings, if he didn’t hit the gym daily, or jog, or eat right, he feared he was backsliding. Tate appreciated that he was lucky to remain friends with the wealthy man who had supplied him with all he owned: his condo and car, money in the bank, and tuition for school.
Nothing was expected in return except occasional companionship at dinner, or to organize things when there was a gala to be thrown. So, in effect, he was living on his looks and charismatic charm.
“I’ve had a few lovers since I left the service. But they all treated me the same. They respected me but didn’t see that I needed to do something with myself. They’d say, ‘Let’s go to Paris for the weekend.’ I’d say, ‘Can’t. Have to study for an exam…or I have a paper to turn in.’ They’d say, ‘C’mon, what does it matter? You don’t need to work.’ It was always the same answer. I would’ve had three degrees by now if I hadn’t given in each time. This time I’m finishing. Nothing and no one’s going to stop me.”
Ben admired determination. He agreed that Tate was on the right track, and felt he could overlook some minor over-corrections in the short term if they led to ultimate success. He assured himself that when Tate got out in the work-a-day world, he would ease back a bit and stop being so hard on himself. With understanding, Ben found he was growing very fond of the beautiful boy. The basics seemed to be there. He wouldn’t be around to witness the full flowering of the mature Tate, but it would be enjoyable to watch his progress in the succeeding years.
They’ve been holed up in that condo for three days now. He spilled his whole story to the old fart, gained his sympathy, has him on the ropes. I know he tossed the rings on the table. Uses them with every guy he meets. Guess what happens when some poor sucker accepts his proposal, huh? Guess!
I hate this guy. I hate him because he gets everything without any effort, and I hate him because he’s consuming my life. Watching him fuck up his life is more important to me than my own existence. I ain’t got nuthin but the loathing I feel for this scumbag.
3
“I’m turning thirty on June twelfth. It’s a significant milestone. I want to celebrate my thirtieth birthday with someone I love.”
“But sweetheart, I was just there. I haven’t been home a week. I don’t have the funds to fly back and forth on a weekly basis. Be reasonable.”
“I’ll pay. I have tons of mileage. Use my mileage. Please, it’s so important to me.”
Ben hadn’t crossed that line yet: what was Tate’s was still Tate’s and not his; and besides, taking anything from Tate was like taking it from his ex-lover. It had become a minor problem for Ben. Should he pay for the movie tickets, or the groceries, as well as dinners out? Where was the fine line between letting Tate’s ex support them, and damaging Tate’s self-respect? But the thought of returning was a heady rush—he’d never felt like this before. Impractical as it seemed, he bought an air ticket.
They ate sushi to celebrate Tate’s birthday. They were the happiest of men. And after, at bedtime, they fell asleep in each other’s arms. In the morning, sex was sublime:
“I didn’t think I enjoyed being on top,” Tate said. “I was always afraid to hurt someone. Men always looked like they were in pain…but you, you really like sex. That’s why it’s so great with you.”
“You feel that way because I’m making love to the whole man, not just to a great body.”
They played an hour of tennis. It was a sport Tate wasn’t good at and, consequently, the games were more or less even. But Ben took care to lose each set because, as victory neared, Tate’s competitiveness came to the fore and he bore down—serving aces or wildly, missing easy shots, and playing an emotional game as though nothing but winning mattered. Ben didn’t mind. As long as Tate played shirtless, his objective was to extend each game as long as possible.
Stripping out of their wet clothes, they changed into speedos and swam alone in the complex’s pool. “You know,” Tate said, “you should wear boxer swim trunks.”
“Why is that?”
“I like older guys to dress the part. Speedos are for guys like me.”
Ben didn’t agree, but neither did he care. If Tate wanted to see him in boxers, that’s what he’d wear. An easy compromise.
At the gym, Tate was pulling down on a rope for his triceps. “Now you try it.”
“Do I have to look like a knock-kneed girl when I do it?” Ben quipped.
Tate glanced down at his awkward stance. He stood at full height and poked a finger into Ben’s chest. “Now you listen up. You’re a lot smarter than me, but in here I’m smarter than you. So in here, I call the shots. I don’t want any criticism or negative attitude. Or I’ll leave you outside.”
Ben wanted to salute and smile a snappy “Yessir!” but he saw that Tate was dead serious. “Hey, I’m sorry. I was just kidding. I didn’t mean anything by it.” Tate’s square jaw was set like granite; clearly, Ben had overstepped some invisible line. But in a moment, the clouds passed. Tate shook his head as though he were loosening a crick in his neck, and his old s
mile returned. Ben felt forgiven.
In the afternoon they bought a wiper blade replacement for the Mercedes. When Tate seemed baffled, Ben looked through the charts and selected the appropriate blade. He struggled with the replacement and announced, “This isn’t the right one.” Back in the store, indeed the clerk had given them the wrong item and exchanged it. It took several minutes for Ben to mount the blade. Tate watched, near but uninvolved. Then he said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
On the way home Tate suggested they cook out in the evening, so they stopped at a butcher shop. Ben didn’t like what the butcher had in his case; he wanted more marbling and bigger tenderloins. The butcher understood and returned with better cuts. Tate watched without a word.
In the cool evening they took the meat out to the grills by the swimming pool and Tate put the steaks on. While they cooked, Ben explained shuffleboard and they played a few games.
“I think you should turn those steaks now,” Ben said.
“Are you sure?”
“Sure.”
“How do you know when it’s time?”
“Easy. When the blood comes through to the top, it’s time to turn them over.”
“Where do you find out a thing like that?”
Ben shrugged. Where did he find that out? “I suppose I watched a few cooking shows. I guess you get to know things like that in sixty-two years.”
After dinner they changed clothes to go to the bar. Tate handed Ben a belt: “Here, wear this one.”
“What’s wrong with mine? Your belts will be small.”
“I don’t like yours; it’s out of fashion. This is a longer one.”