When Irish Eyes Are Sparkling

by Tom Collins

  “Lemme see the arms,” he said, pushing his half-eaten desert to the side and reaching for me. He shoved up the short sleeve and prodded my bicep.

  Here I was again, looking like a spaz in front of this gorgeous man, into whose pants I desperately wanted to get. I wondered if he’d been looking at me, if he’d liked what he’d seen.

  Why would he? Why would an older man—who has his shit together—be interested in a stupid waiter kid still wet behind the ears? You’re a skinny, painter dweeb. Remember? I looked away, returning my attention to my uncle.

  “Show me,” he demanded. I complied, flexing for him and feeling like an ass wipe. He squeezed my bicep, frowning, yet nodding in approval. “You’re going for reps over weight, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I got a book that teaches you how to work out using your own body weight, so you don’t even need weights.” The blush had receded for the most part, so I was able to look at Oliver as he regained his seat. “Well, I better go…check something,” I said, standing and hiking my baggy shorts up.

  “If you want anything,” I said to Oliver, giving it one more shot without much hope, “you know where to find me.” I indicated the pub in general.

  He nodded. “Thanks,” he said and stared at his blueberry crumble, picking up his fork. Sighing, I returned to my favorite spot behind the bar.

  Taking my seat, I pulled a small sketchpad and some pencils out of the large side pocket on my cargo shorts. Since the place was just about dead, I spent some time drawing. I tried three or four different times to rough out a painting I had in mind, but everything kept morphing into Oliver somehow. I found it distressing, because this had never happened before. My art was the one thing I could always count on to take my mind off other things, but he had managed to invade even that part of my mind. It didn’t help that I couldn’t stop looking over at him.

  My cock yearned for the relief of a touch, and I was looking down a long tunnel of about four hours before I’d get home. I had trouble keeping from holding my scrotum to ease the ache. It felt like I was developing a nice case of blue balls. Oliver and my uncle got up and moved toward the register. I set down my pad, tucked the pencil behind my ear, and went to cash them out.

  I was dealing with my uncle, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off Oliver. Even though I only had a couple easily misconstrued looks to go on, I still hoped he might be interested. He was definitely looking at me, but that could’ve been out of politeness. I thought about offering my cell number, but I didn’t want to find out he didn’t want it so I just looked, hoping he’d ask for it, or maybe offer his.

  Ask me out! I pleaded in my mind, but he just stood there until the transaction was finished and followed my uncle to the door.

  “Sleep tight,” I called, giving him a little smile and a wave, while trying not to be obvious about watching his glutes working inside his uniform pants as he walked away. I looked down at the money in my left hand, dejected and uncertain of what to do. I smiled a little realizing this was the change my uncle had told me to keep. It was a great tip, considering he’d spent the whole night bitching about the service.

  *Oliver*

  Focusing on the chowing-down of the grilled meat and filling my empty belly gave my pleasure center some of what it craved. By the time we were finished, with only a caveman mess of gnawed bones left behind, my sexual urges had quieted down and I was feeling back in control.

  That lasted for about as long as it took the busboy to clear our plates. Then, like magic, a blueberry crumble glided across the table and stopped before me. Wonder and confusion came back. What the hell was this? The dessert was on one side of an oval plate. The other side was decorated with a clever, cartoon superhero created out of different flavored syrups. A handful of very small blueberries had been arranged to fill his cape. He looked as if he’d leapt off the crumble and was diving down to clobber evil.

  I was completely bewildered. Both dazzled and panicked. Had Gabe ordered this or was it a mistake? And what did the cartoon mean? Coffee and Gabe’s dessert appeared, both supplied by Liam who stood there with a wicked grin on his boyish face, the same he’d worn when he’d played his little game with the cranberry juice. His huge green eyes were sparkling, like those of a wizard completing a particularly difficult trick.

  The sexual charge, which I’d thought I’d conquered, flickered up again, hot and hungry. The coals weren’t dead. Not by a long shot. The only difference was this time the yearning in my groin was less ravenous and more languid, as if it wanted to undress Liam slowly, and savor him.

  He happily explained everything, including the cartoon, which he’d drawn. I’m always blown away by those with artistic talent, having none myself, and silly as it sounds, I was moved. Most of all, I was amazed by his consideration. I’d made one stupid, nervous comment about antioxidants, and Liam, first with the cranberry juice, and now with the blueberries, had shown me he could satisfy any desire. Even the cartoon said it loud and clear: “Name it. I’ll find a way to give it to you.”

  There was no way I could resist, or doubt Liam wanted me. Every reason I’d thought up to say “no” crumbled like the brown sugar topping those baked blueberries.

  Gabe, thank God, missed all this subtext and chided Liam for his presumption. When Liam reached to take away the plate, I made my move. I set my hand on his wrist and said, “This is what I want, thank you.”

  He had the sort of arms I adore on a man, the kind where you can see and feel the veins, the bones even. His skin was warm and covered in dark, almost silky hair. His eyes met mine.

  “Yeah?” he asked coyly.

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  I waited until he was back at the bar before heading to the men’s room. I saw him looking my way and captured his gaze again to assure him. Inside the bathroom I came across a urinal trough long enough for three, a couple of sinks and two stalls. I stepped into the handicapped one and locked it. Nervously, I got out my cock. It wasn’t stiff so much as swollen and aching for attention. I stroked it and groaned with anticipation.

  Liam didn’t come.

  Maybe some other customer had demanded his attention, or someone in the kitchen had waylaid him?

  Or maybe he was fucking with me. Damn it. I’d been so sure this was what he wanted, and now I wasn’t.

  Jesus, God, please shoot me now, I thought. This, for me, was hell. Pure hell. See, I’ve got this complex, or obsession, call it what you will, but the one thing I hate is not knowing if someone really wants me. It’s another reason why I love my job, because EMTs are almost always confident and certain.

  Likewise, I’m actually glad that I’m gay. Not that I picked this orientation or could change it if I wanted to, but given my problem, I think I lucked out. I adore women, absolutely adore and worship them as the best friends a person could ever have, and, usually, the most reliable souls on Earth. If I had to date them, however, make love to them, I’d be in a mental institution. “Yes? No?...Maybe?” Kill me, please.

  Men, men, God bless their simple hearts, and the devil take their selfish souls, men know what they want and rarely make any bones about it. You lock eyes and you know: this one wants my cock, that one wants my ass. Testosterone is a predatory hormone and desires what it desires, no ifs, ands or question marks.

  It’s highly unlikely that a man’s going to have a change of heart.

  That, at least, had been my limited experience up to now. Liam, however, wasn’t fitting into my comfort zone. Quite the opposite. He was my worst nightmare. A man I desired so intently it scared me, yet was totally ambiguous. He seemed to be sending me signals that were certain: eye contact, flirty words, thoughtful gifts. Yet here I was, standing like an idiot, all alone in the handicap stall. I couldn’t play this game, whatever kind of game it was. I wasn’t that clever and the uncertainty was tying my stomach in knots.

  I took a quick piss, washed my hands and hurried out, not looking up until I came in range of the table. There Liam was, talking conversat
ionally to Gabe, his shirt pulled up. I saw his long, naked torso from the side, more ripped than I’d expected. A silhouette of modest definition, a swirl of that same silky black arm hair on his chest and running down and down to a delicious navel.

  He tugged his shirt down as I stepped up, flashing a sly smile, as if he’d scored another point on me. More games. I half expected him and Gabe to crow, “Psych!” and start laughing.

  I sat back down, dejected and Liam, predictably, stood. He hiked up his shorts, and playfully reminded me that I “knew where to find him” if I needed anything.

  Shit. I picked at my dessert. After all this jerking around, you’d think I’d be pissed or defeated, but even when Gabe and I finally got up and wandered over to the register, I couldn’t stop hoping Liam would reward me with his phone number. I had it bad for this guy and I was willing to make a fool of myself, even put myself at risk for him, and not just emotionally. There were college boys who got a perverse thrill from luring gay men into dark places and kicking them senseless. I wasn’t naïve or stupid, but I was—

  I don’t know what I was. I couldn’t remember ever feeling this way, as if ready to jump through burning hoops if it would get me Liam.

  Gabe offered me a lift home and I accepted. He dropped me off and I wished him a good night, saying I’d see him bright and early Sunday morning. I showered and changed into jeans and a tee, thought about sleep, and realized Liam’s personality was still clinging to me. Maybe it was finally being out of range of him, but it occurred to me that maybe I’d been incredibly dumb. What if Liam hadn’t been engaged in any innuendos, tricks or games? What if he was exactly what he’d seemed to be: a creative, fun-loving, heterosexual waiter trying to please his customers?

  Jesus. That was probably it, and if I’d taken a moment to pull my head out of my ego I’d have realized it.

  Oddly enough, this made me more depressed. It meant there no hope of having him.

  One thing was sure; I wasn’t going to get any rest until I got some release. Jerking off came to mind, but I could almost hear my cock wining, “What? Again?” I’d had all of two short relationships over the last four years, and the rest had been all work and study. Very little sexual satisfaction outside of my own hand. Internet porn and a dildo up my ass wasn’t going to be enough tonight.

  It was almost midnight, but I took a walk. I might not have known the city well, but I’d driven into it now and then during my community college years, and I was familiar with the part that really mattered to me. In fact, I’d chosen an apartment near the area for this very reason, so I could walk to it when I needed.

  The dance club I decided on wasn’t quite dead, but it was a Thursday night and pickings were slim. Metal music was playing and a handful of guys were knocking pelvises to it out on the floor. The rest were chatting quietly in corners. Behind the bar a sexy black man mixed up energy drinks in a cocktail shaker, one of the reasons I liked this place. No alcohol. Fruit juices, caffeinated concoctions, protein blends, exotic elixirs and shots of green, vitamin rich teas. It wasn’t that I was that big a health nut. I didn’t like drunks. They couldn’t be trusted.

  I ignored the bar and went right to cruising the clientele. I got a few intrigued looks, one from the coffee-brown bartender himself, another from an Asian hunk stirring his protein drink with a straw. Nothing remotely playful or ambiguous in their sober looks. It was a relief, and yet I couldn’t help wishing, instead, for huge, green eyes sparkling with mirth and fun.

  I made a tour of the place, scanning the dark booths, hoping to find one type in particular. I discovered him in a corner booth. He had a craggy handsomeness, bump in the nose, squint marks about the eyes. The dark hair was receding from a lined forehead. There was always one such guy on nights like this, when the club was half-empty and he didn’t have to worry about standing out: a lonely, middle-aged man, who kept both arms up and resting on the back of the booth, to assure everyone he wasn’t secretly wanking off. He’d come to respectfully watch and admire the dancers, storing away the hot and sweaty scene into his memory for later.

  I boldly walked up to him, and caught his eye. His gaze lit up with admiration, then flicked down to my package. I saw the telltale hunger cross his face. He was the one I wanted, all right. No need for anything complicated, either. I waited for his eyes to come back up, drinking me in, and gave him a single nod. He raised his brows then slowly glanced to either side, sure I was signaling someone else. Then he stared back at me as if to say. You’re shitting me, right?

  I smiled, and lifted a chin to the back door. Then I walked out. There was a favored spot in the back alley, a nook out of the glare of the lights and away from the stink of trash bins. The club owners were savvy. They hosed it down every morning and splashed it with bleach. This time of night it smelled of urine and male sweat. I felt a mix of excitement and terror as I inhaled those pungent scents; my heartbeat sped up.

  It was very private and very dark. I waited there.

  He came not five seconds later, not nervous so much as confused. “Hey,” he said, seeing me, and hung back warily. “Did I, um, see what I saw in there, or are you hoping to bum some cash?”

  I wasn’t offended by his implication. The sad truth was that men his age were rarely given a second glance at such clubs, not unless money was wanted. It was perfectly reasonable to wonder why I’d invited him out here, rather than someone equally young and strong.

  I nabbed his leather jacket and pulled him close, right into a kiss. The stubble on his chin brushed mine and he caught his breath, surprised. Next I knew he was returning the kiss fiercely, and with a sizzling caress of his tongue.

  “You want my cock?” I asked, releasing him.

  My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I could make out the amazement on his face. He tried to remain nonchalant, but I could smell him sweating. He licked his lips. That’s when the anxiety that had knotted up inside me over the evening finally unraveled. It was all kinds of fucked up, but this guy who so desperately wanted me, and who would take anything I was willing to give, was just what I needed.

  “Fuck yeah,” he said, “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch,” I said. “Too many of those guys in there want to rush it, and that’s not what I’m after tonight.”

  “Ah—” he breathed, “Well then, you’ve come to the right cocksucker.” He sank to his knees, and I felt him fumbling for my waistband, whispering under his breath, “Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, thank you Jesus—”

  “Shhh,” I urged him, setting my hands on his head and imagining he was Liam. It was easy with someone I didn’t have to look at or engage. A gentleman, of sorts, happy to accommodate my needs without pushing himself on me. I shut my eyes as the button of my jeans popped open, and in my mind, I imagined it was Liam’s clever fingers slowly drawing down the zipper. It was his silky black hair under my hands, his shoulders against my thighs.

  I’d gone commando, and it was Liam who breathed on my naked cock as the denim parted, and the soft night air whispered past. It was Liam who tremblingly touched it, drawing it out into the open, who rolled my heavy nuts in his strong hand, rolled them gently as if they were a rare treat, and then started to lick and suck at them.

  I moaned.

  It was Liam I envisioned nosing about until he found the head of my cock, there in the dark, Liam pushing my tee shirt up and out of the way, setting his hands on my ass. It was Liam’s warm lips, those quirky, honey slick lips, that came over my sensitive tip. I almost cried out his name. Liam, Liam.

  A mouth glided up and down my length, forehead knocking into my naked belly; a tongue relished how stiff I was and lapped at the precum I was helplessly spilling. The fire that had been flaring and dying in my gut finally blazed and I groaned aloud.

  Liam. Liam. I rocked my hips to the name, my balls striking his chin. I was loving the feel of that wet, hot mouth. Against my closed eyes, I saw Liam’s huge green eyes gazing up at me with adoration and desire. I flashed back over ever
y sensual moment: Liam sucking honey off his finger, his height and length, his lyrical voice. I re-lived sinking my teeth into juicy meat, the fragrance of baked blueberries and malty beer, Liam’s touch, the shape of his bare, upper body.

  Finally, I imagined it was Liam’s long back bowed before me as he bobbed and slurped and sucked me until I couldn’t resist it any longer. My gut tightened up in excitement and pleasure, my skin broke out into a sweat, and I jerked and jerked, grunting, as I shot my load down his throat.

  For a heartbeat, I stood there, my fingers knotted in the man’s hair as he held to my butt cheeks and swallowed down my jizz. I felt his mouth, finally, reluctantly, leave my still quivering cock, saw him release me to wipe at his lips with his sleeve.

  “Oh, fuck!” I breathed, “Yes!” and collapsed back against the bricks, relishing the almost dirty feel of my open jeans, my exposed and exhausted cock. Finally.

  “Jesus,” the man enthused, “that was fucking sweet!” He gathered himself up. While he dusted off his knees, I tucked my wet and sticky cock back in my jeans and zipped up. I tugged down my tee.

  The man wiped at his mouth again, as if he couldn’t stop drooling. He shifted and cleared his throat. “Um, I don’t suppose you’re interested in doing anything else tonight? Anything at all?”

  There was such need in his voice that I almost considered it, but now I’d gotten some relief, my only desire was to get home and go to sleep. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Yeah. Sure. And, um. Thanks. It’s been…a while.” He ducked his head and started to move away. I touched his shoulder, stopping him. When he looked back, I leaned in and gave him a kiss.

  “I wanted you. Thanks for wanting me back.”

  I left him gazing after me as I wandered out under the streetlamps and back home. I still yearned for Liam, worse than I’d ever lusted for anyone in my life, truth be told. If I was right, however, and he was just a nice, heterosexual young man, then this was probably the only way I was ever going to have him. Not as a meal or a drink or a dessert, but as a playful, imaginary friend, like the cartoon done in syrup on my plate.