by The Weather Baker's Son [Dreamspinner, World of Love MM] (retail) (epub)
So it came about thereafter that as Peter entered or departed the bakery, Padie would greet him with a woof and then, perhaps as emphasis or a note of approval, yet another woof. Or should one perhaps say half an extension to the first woof? Peter had no idea this was unusual, but as noted before, those locals about would stop in their tracks or turn, slightly bewildered, to survey the scene and ponder what was different. They did not understand, did not connect Peter to the event; they would shrug and were soon engrossed in their own travails as usual. Gaston however, from the back part of the shop or behind the counter, noticed and would hurriedly make his way to the front of the shop or smooth his apron in anticipation of Peter’s entry.
A familiarity developed between Gaston and Peter, a slow but determined dance of words, body language, and exchanges of glances each time Peter came to shop. Peter had successfully convinced Hélène that he could handle the morning bakery run by himself and that she could relax reading her book in the bergerie garden. At first Hélène had objected, as she liked the morning forays into town, but Peter so contrived it was important to him that she rest that she relented, though not without a slight feeling that something was up, that Peter was desirous of being alone. However, she wished him to be happy and so stayed back more often—perhaps he needed time by himself to unwind and relax as well, she thought.
Céleste as well felt a certain effort on Gaston’s part to move her into the back room from time to time through Gaston’s newfound entreaties that he could handle the “burden” of the clientele, a new characterization he had come up with, so that she could spend more time doing the books or applying her baking skills. She too relented somewhat but remained attentive to the hum of voices that permeated from the front room into the back, a hum that seemed to involve two manly voices most of the time, cheerily making small talk. Inoffensive, one might think, but oddly new. They were warm male voices that seemed to embrace each word uttered by the other. It reminded her of her late husband Frédéric, who would hum softly in her ear as he embraced her. It left her spellbound, and as much as she might have been otherwise disturbed by the unusualness of the situation, by any hidden meanings in it, she felt oddly nonresistant and sensed it was good. She found herself holding back from entering the front room, lest she disturb the encounters.
The delivery
ONE AFTERNOON Gaston set out from town in the bakery’s van to make late-afternoon deliveries. Boxes of pizza, croissants, and sweet cakes were piled in the backseat. As he traveled along the dusty roads, the dust would swirl over and envelop the windshield. He imagined shapes of faces and people in the swirls as he drove along, and one face in particular occurred again and again, a delivery he highly anticipated and was saving for the end.
Gaston arrived at the bergerie early. His prior delivery had been canceled, and so as he approached the open door of the house, he was not expected at that time. He stopped short at the open threshold, uncertain whether to look in while announcing himself or wait outside for a response. Out of the corner of his eye as he leaned slightly in at the open entry, he caught movement reflected in a wall mirror. He could see Peter moving about in an adjoining room, dressed only in a pair of small white briefs. They hugged the contours of his midriff, formed a lovely arc over his buttocks, and were tugged down in front by the weight of his manhood, allowing a treasure trail of brown hairs to entwine upward toward his navel. He was seemingly unaware of Gaston, who could not avert his gaze nor bring himself to cough or make a sound lest Peter cover up. Gaston’s breath caught short. He felt a stirring, a longing that had no immediate possibility of satisfaction, which left him in a state of paralyzed inaction. His eyes were fixed, but his thoughts wandered crazily. In this confused state, Gaston stepped in a few feet toward a nearby table to place his delivery, which he feared would drop from his trembling hands. Before he realized it, Peter was approaching him, making no attempt to further cover himself. Why should he, as he was wearing briefs, after all?
Gaston was startled therefore to see Peter standing in front of him.
He stammered, “Um, I am here for the delivery. Pardon…. Um, I see you are not dressed. I did not mean to intrude. Um, the door was open.”
As he spoke his eyes were wandering still, catching on each tuck and fold of Peter’s abdominal muscles. He felt a small jolt lower in his body. He reddened, hoping his consternation and emotional situation were not apparent.
Peter on the other hand feigned coolness, not without effort. He had been slowly learning not to reveal his true feelings, for fear of being hurt. He noted Gaston’s confusion and contained the urge to be overly friendly.
He simply said, “No harm done. Come in! I am just getting some things together here.”
Having realized Gaston was early through motion and sound in the driveway and that he was not dressed yet, he decided to pretend to be unawares, to hope that Gaston would catch sight of him, to observe Gaston’s reaction. Like Gaston, he too was caught in the moment, hesitant yet reluctant to conform to normal social behavior. He wanted to be exposed in Gaston’s presence. His mind told him he could justify his scant dress, as it was Gaston who was early, Gaston who had observed through the door… he could always just justify it as guys not being prudish in front of other guys.
Peter had known Gaston would be making the delivery, as he had observed his comings and goings over a couple of weeks. Hélène had made the order for the goods before leaving for the afternoon. Peter had decided to change his clothes after a sweaty day in the garden in order to look his best when Gaston showed up and had been doing so when Gaston arrived early.
Continuing with his surge of emotional bravery in his coolest forced voice ever Peter stated, “Excuse me, Gaston, I’m still changing.” Thereupon he threw off his briefs and walked a few steps fully naked to the trestle table where lay fresh laundry on the far end from Gaston’s deliveries, picked up new briefs and slid them on up his legs, flipping his genitals into the folds. Peter was so amazed by his own bravery, his exhibitionism, that it took all his courage to remain standing and to remain cool.
Gaston leaned on the other end of the table, trying to make it look like he was merely adjusting the placement of his delivery there, but the angle of his lean seemed more an effort to hold himself up. He watched Peter’s every movement, down to the smallest details. Sweat formed around his hairline and in his armpits.
Suddenly both guys reverted to usual male behavior as would be found in a locker room when men are naked with other men. They feigned coolness, looked up at each other’s eyes, and pretended there was nothing unusual here. Peter did not dress but walked about in his underwear, gathering his things together, folding a pile of freshly laundered clothes, and picking what else he would wear, as if it was no special thing, as if Gaston was just another guy, someone he was acquainted with. To hurriedly cover up might suggest other meaning. Gaston played the same card, feigning indifference to Peter’s lack of clothes, although struggling against tightness in his throat. Neither had the courage yet to bring the situation to what both hoped would happen. However, when one looked away at something else—a glance out the window or across the room—the other hungrily took a quick glance, memorizing the fold of a muscle, the hook of an eyebrow, the arc of lips.
As they chitchatted for a few moments that seemed an eternity—the words are unimportant, something to do with what food would best be served with the delivered goods—Gaston had the inner urge to embrace Peter, to bury his face on Peter’s shoulder. Peter likewise was envisioning running his hands over Gaston’s shoulders, tugging his T-shirt upward, and running his fingers across Gaston’s strong chest that strained against his shirt. But this was all in the mind. The young men kept up the act of just being guys, and Gaston realized that as his delivery had taken place, the usual next act was to bid Peter adieu. And so he did in a businesslike manner and slid out the door.
Gaston traveled down the road a way in his van and pulled over into a turnout. There he sat trembling
for several minutes, hoping to regain his composure so as to be able to continue on back to town. He cupped his hand on the knob of the stick shift and wandered back in his mind to the bergerie.
Back at the house Peter stood looking at himself in a mirror, brushing his lightly hairy chest with his fingers, thinking of Gaston, imagining Gaston was touching him. He struggled, wanted to let himself revel more in the image, but knew he had to get ready for his mother’s inevitable return from Avignon. He needed to calm down even more than Gaston. His recent boldness had required the assertion of a personality that was not innately his but had been learned from his experiences. He was not comfortable with his new behavior, but he had become stubborn—stubborn and hard.
Cleaning day
LATE IN the evenings, Gaston often spent time cleaning the bake room premises. The metal roller blinds would be pulled down over the roadside windows, and the door to the street was left slightly ajar to dispel heat and let out dust. A sign firmly proclaimed “Fermé” on the door to indicate the shop was closed. It was the case then one night that Peter, when walking about town and especially near the bakery where he hoped for any chance encounter, noticed the chink of light at the door and felt drawn to look in. He pushed the door quietly and slightly farther open, brushed inside, and left the door ajar behind him. He had only a vague idea as to what he was doing; it was as if he was being moved forward independent of conscious will.
Peter passed through the front salesroom and, pushing aside a drape over the door, silently entered the back baking room, where he saw Gaston arranging various items on the shelves, facing away from him. There were small patches of white flour on Gaston’s T-shirt and on the blue denim of Gaston’s jeans, on the buttocks, along the seam that joined the fabric together. The disheveled yet manly sight of Gaston’s dusty work clothes excited Peter greatly, overwhelming his fear and emboldening him further as he slipped quietly closer until he was a mere few feet behind Gaston. Gaston sensed a presence and observed Peter’s distorted reflection in the sides of metal mixing bowls on the shelf in front of him. He had an urge to turn, but something held him back, a sense of danger mixed with fear that he could undo something that might be desirable.
The two men stood in silence; a moment of uncertainty, of anticipation, beset both of them. Their frequent exchanges of chitchat over a few weeks in the front room had formed a bond. They both had knowingly drawn the other closer through those verbal exchanges, caressing each other with their voices and their eyes. But now the time for such idle chat was over. Peter, unclothed, had displayed himself openly to Gaston at the bergerie. Another piece had been moved in this game. Peter had thus set a role for himself to make the first move. Peter slipped closer still, like a beast advancing on its prey, his labored breath now becoming slightly audible. Gaston’s ears picked up the sound of the breath as the hairs on his neck rose on end. He had one hand resting on the shelves in front of him as he listened more intently still and felt arousal increasing in his groin. Peter observed little beads of sweat on the back of Gaston’s neck and ran his eyes lovingly up and down Gaston’s back and down over the curve of his buttocks, devouring the sight of the fabric over Gaston’s buttock muscles that flexed slightly and involuntarily in the anticipation of the moment.
Gaston slightly turned his head and uttered, “I….”
“Shh” was Peter’s immediate response. “Don’t talk. Let me admire you from here.”
Gaston’s T-shirt started to reveal a line of sweat forming along his spine while Gaston felt himself fully stimulated now.
Peter stepped right up behind Gaston, his body pressed against Gaston’s backside. The heat of their bodies was like a cauldron, setting off a profuse sweat on their brows, drenching their hair. Peter’s labored breath caressed the back of Gaston’s ears as he clasped Gaston from behind, around the waist, allowing his aroused body to press deeply against Gaston’s backside. Peter’s evening beard stubble rasped against the nape of Gaston’s neck as he brushed his face along it. Gaston’s head arched backward as he was embraced.
Within seconds both men, who till now had not faced each other, might have sprung into an erotic frontal embrace. Then a sudden sound caused Peter to start and to dart back through the drape. Gaston hurriedly turned to see only the swishing of the drape as it closed. It turned out to be just the voices of some passersby talking loudly in the road that had come through the ajar outer door—but it was enough to break the moment. Peter hurriedly slid out of the bakery and away into the night while Gaston remained confused, breathing deeply, unfulfilled. A break had come, however: an unfinished declaration of desire had been made. What would happen next was yet to be known. Gaston, the less bold of the two, was inflamed yet frightened. He felt he now had to take the next step and pondered what to do.
Peter slid through the darkened streets of the town, forlorn by the broken encounter, bitter tears of frustration welling in his eyes, salty tears that mingled with the jumbled elixir of the night. Conflicting scents of sweet and pungent herbs crushed under his feet as he made his way across fields. His head spun under the glaring moon, and distant dancing hearth fires reflected through the windows of stone houses. Fireflies like stars scattered away from his sight as he picked up his pace and wiped away at his eyes. His besotted head was set spinning… pulsing as his heart beat loudly like jungle drums that in full beat were left without a climax.
Half myself
THE NEXT morning Gaston entered the little sweetshop across the street to search for a box of chocolates for his mother’s birthday. In spite of the reason for being there, he looked unhappy due to the prior evening’s unfulfilled encounter, and his usual smile for the shopkeeper Marguérite was lacking. He had been going to this same shop all of his life, when younger for occasional treats for himself and nowadays for marvelous candies or gifts for special occasions.
Marguérite had observed Gaston over the years. She was not without insight. She early on perceived his direction in life and treated him always with especial care and tenderness as she realized from personal experience the tribulations that would come for him. She had also recently observed Gaston’s gaze following Peter’s passage up the street in town, a gaze that spoke a language she knew intimately. Not only that, but Padie’s new habits were not lost on her as with the other locals. She had turned one day at her shop door and perceived the enchantment in Gaston’s eyes as Peter left the shop and Padie woofed again. She had nodded at Gaston’s mother, who stood behind him as he looked down the street, entranced. She saw that Céleste was pondering her son’s enchantment. Céleste had nodded back at her, a nod that seemed to say I love this son of mine. I am happy when he is happy.
So it was this day that, perceiving Gaston’s current distress, Marguérite felt the time had come to ensure that Gaston did not feel alone.
She said, “You remember Coralie, don’t you, Gaston? I lost her to breast cancer five years ago. Her smile remains with me always, and her gentle manner. You are old enough now to understand, Gaston, that I did not actually have a sister. Coralie and I met in Bordeaux where we both were from, and things were different in those days. We moved away to where we were not known and opened this shop as the Confiserie des Deux Bordelaises, and people assumed we were two sisters from Bordeaux.
“I have known you from the moment your mother first brought you in as a youngster. I could see then and I see now that you feel alone and apart, even among friends. Let me tell you, Gaston, that you may feel different, but you are also the same as many others. Everyone has some differences, but you are not unique, so do not feel alone. You also do not need to be afraid to meet and get to know people like you. Life is so much better even when circumstances cause one to be apart.
“I think of my lost Coralie daily. I love to read poetry and philosophy and once saw where a wise man said about a lost friend: ‘I was so accustomed to be two in everything that I seem now but half of myself.’ He did not mean it was not worthwhile to love or that love had reduce
d him, rather, the love he had had was so much greater than just what he could experience alone. I never regret having known my Coralie. Even though now I indeed feel at times half myself, I know that without having known her, my life itself would have been just half lived.
“So, Gaston, with resolve, follow your heart. I have noted a new stranger in town, a foreign tourist. Padie has also noticed. Gaston, I understand. If you cannot commit yourself fully at this time, then take small steps, little actions that will enable you to find your way easier, gaining comfort as you go. Please take this book,” she said as she handed to him one of her little books. “When in need you can draw inspiration from it. Let me suggest a page for you.” And she inserted a marker.
Gaston blushed at the realization that Marguérite could see into his inner soul and understood the focus of his consternation. Blushed but at the same time felt in awe and comforted by her revelations. He felt a ray of hope, a potential blossom on his soul. Hesitantly and awkwardly he thanked Marguérite for her advice and her gift, gave her a quick embrace, and gave her a shy smile of gratitude as he left.
Tango
PETER WANDERED aimlessly in Avignon the day after he had slipped into the bake room, while Gaston visited with Marguérite. He had not seen Gaston at the bakery and so left town fighting insistent hormones that were coursing through his veins, screaming for satisfaction. He struggled against his growing and unfulfilled sexual needs, almost appearing mad to passersby as he wandered staring downward, trying to concentrate. He could easily have gratified himself alone in his room, but he yearned for human contact and wished that he might have had that with Gaston.