Full Circle

by Kaje Harper

  "Let's wait and see," I told him. "You applied for financial aid of all kinds. Maybe something else will come through. Or, I have some money..."

  "Fuck no." He pushed his chair back and stood. "I'm not taking your money, Jamie. That's final. God, if it wasn't for you I'd be dead. And don't pretend like the money you've been willing to take from me pays for my keep. I'm betting it doesn't even cover my food."

  "Does it matter? Henri would like thinking his money was going to train another future doctor." By then he knew where my funds came from.

  "Henri wanted his money to keep you safe. No way."

  Before the response card was due back, he got notice of another scholarship at SUNY that made his total within reach. We celebrated with sparkling apple juice, and he sent the card back. He would never know that the "Collingwood Pre-med Award" was built from Henri's money, and had only one recipient.

  He graduated high school with high honors, not slacking off his classes after his acceptance as so many seniors did. I was in the auditorium to see him get his diploma and the science prize. As we stood around afterward, several people congratulated me on how well my "son" had done. I looked at that bright, beautiful boy that I was fucking and felt a little sick.

  Toller worked hard that summer, unloading boxes in one store all day and then bagging three nights a week. On the nights he was free, we hit the couch early and often. He still had his hang-ups. I couldn't hold his head or his ass. And he always had to be on top. But he was getting better. He got tired of washing so much laundry, and now he willingly stripped down to gorgeous naked skin for me. I could kiss him, touch him, and he would happily touch me back. He used his mouth everywhere and would lick the hell out of me, as long as I didn't push into his mouth. And he was beautiful doing it. God, he was beautiful, with his dark hair in his eyes and his lips red and swollen and his tongue soft and agile on my skin.

  One night he stopped, my hard cock poking up against his cheek.

  "Jesus," I said, panting. "Don't stop there, boy. Haven't I taught you anything?"

  He laughed and nipped at my foreskin very gently. I was so freaking sensitive there, I almost came just from the mix of pleasure and pain. But he paused again, and there was something different in his eyes.

  "What, Toller?" I asked, grabbing at the rags of my patience.

  He looked up at my face. "I was thinking."

  "Not the time for that."

  He laughed. "It's just...I'll be leaving in a few weeks."

  "And?" My heart clenched and I pushed the thought away from me. Already my body was less happy just at the idea.

  He wrapped his fist around me and stroked firmly, ran the tip of his tongue under my skin a little. It perked me right back up.

  When he lifted his mouth again, he said, "I want to try real sex."

  I touched his cheek to make him meet my eyes. "Anal penetration real sex?"

  He snorted. "You make it sound so romantic."

  "Sorry. Just making sure. Toller, you don't have to do anal. Lots of guys don't. They don't like it, or don't want it." I tried to make my voice lighter. "You've already accumulated a wealth of skills that will make some guy in New York ecstatically happy."

  "It's not that." He was talking to my dick again, eyes lowered. "It's just...the idea bothers me a little, but it also turns me on. I want to try. And there's never going to be anyone I trust more than I trust you. So I want to try it with you."

  "Um, okay, if you really want to."

  "Do you?"

  I said, "I've been wanting your cock in my ass for a long time."

  He jolted. "I thought...you want me to fuck you?"

  "Sure. Why not? I bottomed for Henri a lot more than I topped, although we were both versatile. Why start with the thing most likely to make you freak out when there are other options on the menu that we both can enjoy?"

  He was looking a lot less anxious, happier, and excited. "You think? You'd like doing that?"

  "We need lots of lube," I told him. "I haven't done this in a long time. But God, yes. I want to." I slid out from under him. "Just let me run to the bathroom first."

  When I got back he was sitting on the couch watching me. His cock was only semi-hard. I slid to my knees in front of him and fixed that with hands and mouth. After a few minutes he pulled me up. "I still want to."

  "Good." I kissed him, wet and sloppy. "Because I'm more than fucking ready. Scoot over and let me in underneath you. And get the lube."

  He reached under the couch. We had some there, since a lot of skin play went better with a little lubrication. He opened the tube and then hesitated. "Condom?"

  "We've both tested," I told him. I'd insisted, after he told me about his step-father, all the STDs and a TB test. And I'd tested myself again, for solidarity and because in truth there were times when I was drinking when I didn't remember what I'd done. We'd both come up negative. "Between you and me, we're okay. But if you ever do this with anyone else, I don't care if it's the pope, you wear protection. Promise me."

  "Of course," he said.

  Memories of Henri made me want to hammer that home some more, but it wasn't as if he hadn't heard me rant about it before. Now was not the time to spoil the mood. I scooted up a little on the bath towel we kept spread over the couch, and opened my legs. "Baby." He glanced up startled. Damn, I'd made a vow not to call him that outside of my own head. I just went on. "Do you want to do the prep work, or watch while I do?"

  "I don't..." He stared back down at my ass and from the jerk of his cock it wasn't a turn-off for him. "What do I do?"

  I passed him the lube. "Put a bunch of that on your fingers. There's no such thing as using too much. You need to open me up to take your cock. Start with one finger."

  He looked doubtful but did as I said. He dripped the gel on his fingertips and then carefully stroked me before tentatively pressing in.

  "Harder," I told him. God, I could almost get off just from that touch and the look on his face. I wrapped my fingers tight around the base of my own cock. "You need to make my ass open up for you. Go on. You won't hurt me." He pushed harder, and then grunted in surprise as his finger slid inside me. I felt that stretch and burn, so sweetly familiar. I pinched harder with my fingers around my cock and closed my eyes against the sight of him. "Okay, when I loosen up a bit, go for two fingers and then three."

  He played around a little, stroking in me, as I tried to convince my ass that we'd done this before and loved it. Two fingers was easy. Three fingers burned again, but it was gone quickly. I could feel myself opening up to this, like a plant in the desert expanding to take the long-awaited rain. He didn't know where to touch me inside, and it was probably a good thing. I was past ready.

  "Okay, lube yourself up well and then do it."

  He pulled his fingers out and stared down at me as he slicked his long, sweet shaft. "Don't you need to turn over?"

  "Nope. Want to see your face when you come. Want to kiss you while you slide inside me."

  "I didn't know we could." He leaned forward, guiding himself to my wet, prepared opening. I raised my legs around him, heels planted on the couch rather than wrapped around his hips. I bucked up, easing the angle, and he slid home.

  "Holy shit!" He paused, half-inside me, a look of shock on his face. "God that feels... Don't move, Jamie. Don't do anything or I'll fucking blow."

  I smiled and freed a hand to brush his hair out of his eyes. He looked a little wild. "Nice?"

  "Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker. You feel like magic. Like the best thing we've ever done."

  I grinned and rocked my hips just a little.

  "Shit." He moaned. "Gonna come, Jamie."

  "Then fuck me," I whispered. "Fuck me hard. I'm ready too. Want to feel you inside me when you come."

  Toller groaned and then grunted, snapping his hips down. He ploughed me hard and fast, all instinct and no technique. I took him, adjusted, pushing up with my feet. And then he was
sliding over my prostate on every gasping thrust. I held on and held on until he cried out and jolted against me. And then I let go of my dick and watched his face as I creamed against his flat pale belly and all over my own skin.

  He fell on me, gasping, and slid out of my ass. I gathered him in, for once soft and unresisting in my arms as I held him tight. My cum coated us, wet and sticky between my stomach and his. He breathed in little pants against my cheek. After a long time he stirred, and squirmed into a more comfortable position.

  "Wow." His voice was soft and wondering. "Wow. Never came that hard in my life. That was awesome. Are you okay?"

  I chuckled. "Can't you feel the spunk gluing us together? I'm a lot better than okay."

  After another long pause he said in a cooler voice. "I didn't realize it would be like that. You can almost see why he would do that to me."

  "No!" I slid aside enough to find his eyes with mine. "Toller, sweetie, there is a big difference between loving, joyful, mutual anal sex and rape. I wanted you, needed you as much as you needed me. And I enjoyed it just as much. This, what we did, made us both happy. What that son-of-a-bitch did to you, it may have gotten him off, but happiness had nothing to do with it. This was voluntary sex between consenting adults. It was hot and sweet, and you about blew my mind. And if you'll give an old guy a little more recovery time I'm going to beg you to do it again. And that bastard doesn't belong anywhere in this bed with the two of us."

  "Couch."

  "Nit-picker."

  "You're sure you're okay?"

  "I'm just about melted down into a total happy puddle. But I think I can manage hard again in a half hour or so."

  "Good idea. Old man." And the nudge of his hips against mine told me that an eighteen-year-old had a really short refractory period. I kissed his hair, and didn't say that I loved him.

  He never managed to bottom for me. Several times he asked to try it, but no matter how slowly we went, the touch of even one finger against his entrance made him jerk away in panic. I persuaded him not to push through it. There was no need. He was gaining skill as a top, and some guys never bottomed. What counted was that he was finally relaxing, enjoying sex to the hilt, so to speak. He was losing his freak-out over hands in his hair, as long as I had my mouth on his before I touched him. He even began to initiate blow jobs on me and not just licking, although I gave him plenty of warning so I never came in his mouth. He was healing.

  He told me bits and pieces. What cut almost deeper than his step father's abuse was the indifference of the people around him. "I told them," he said, more than once. "I told them what he was doing to me, and they sent me back. He lied and my mother, before she died, lied for him, and the social workers kept sending me back. They told me how ungrateful I was for a nice home and all my stuff, and they sent me back. Jesus, I hate them almost more than I hate him. And my mother. She knew. She had to know--sometimes I was screaming. Why would she take his side? Why would they all do that to me?"

  And I would hold him and silently curse them all and tell him people do the best they can, believe what they want to hear. He was out. He was safe. No one would ever do that to him again. He wanted to be a doctor, wanted to help people the right way. He was already looking up and away.

  For a while I worried that maybe he wasn't really gay. Maybe his feeling safe with me was warping his sexual responses. Then one day we were following an attractive couple down the street. She was a blonde, hair down to her butt and tits so big I figured her plastic surgeon deserved hazard pay. He was a redhead with a body-builder physique. At the next block, they stood arguing as we drew near and then crossed the street.

  "What do you think of those two?" I asked, about to comment on the size double-Es.

  "Way too much muscle," Toller said. "I don't like guys who look so top-heavy they might tip over. Although the little jazz beard was cute."

  "The blonde was kind of pretty," I said mildly.

  "I guess. I didn't really notice."

  I grinned to myself and put that worry away. My boy was gay, all right.

  September and the check-in dates for the dorms rushed toward me at light speed. Toller was booked on the train five days before Labor Day. I spent that last week watching him, while trying to pretend I wasn't. He was busy, finishing up at his jobs, saying goodbye to the friends he had made the past year. One other boy was headed to New York although to a different school, and they'd made arrangements to meet up at the train station.

  That last night, we made love in the bed for the first time. It was some kind of mutual consent. We'd already gone two rounds on the couch, sucking each other off and then him fucking me into the cushions. Now we were spooned together in our usual position, his front to my back. He rocked against me gently, and I could feel he was hard again. Without discussion, I leaned back into him, lifted a leg back over his hip, and guided him against me. He pushed inside, my ass ready and wet and finally done clenching in aftershocks.

  It was slow and painfully sweet. I never got hard, never cared. He rocked against me, pressed in just right so he stroked over me a little with every move. I came from just the feel of him inside, deep ripples of climax that had me leaking a little without true ejaculation. No matter. It was glorious and hot and hurt deep, like I'd never hurt before. When he was done, he slid out and pulled me in tight. His chin pressed into my shoulder. Everything he owned was packed in two big duffle bags by the door. This was all that remained.

  "I'll write a lot," he said. "All the time. I'll call you, tell you all the shit I've been up to."

  "No," I said. "Don't."

  He tensed. "What?"

  "Don't write. Don't call."

  "I don't get it. You don't...want me?"

  He would have let go of me and turned us around but I gripped his arms, digging my fingers in to keep them locked around me. I couldn't say this face to face. "Toller, you're eighteen and going off to college. Your life is just starting now. You don't need to be looking back at me. You need to move ahead."

  "But I like looking back at you." He laughed softly. "You're not exactly a father or a brother, but something like that. You're family. The only one I have."

  "I know." I lifted one of his hands to my mouth, kissed it and wrapped it back around me. "But you're not my family."

  "I'm not?" There was a world of hurt starting in his voice.

  I just said it. "Toller, you're the second person in this life that I have loved with all my heart."

  "Oh? Oh." The first word was happy again. The second quieter.

  "Yeah. I wasn't going to tell you, was going to play the fuck-buddy back home who's glad to hear all about your adventures in the big city. But I can't. I'm just not that strong."

  "I love you, too." God, I'd wanted to hear that, but not in that tentative voice. "I don't have to, I don't know, meet new guys or hook up. If it bothers you."

  "That's exactly what I mean. No. You go on to New York, and you don't write, and you don't call. Because I want you to have a glorious new life. I want you to love your classes and study hard, and I also want you to meet nice young men and enjoy them." I pinched his hand. "Safely, of course." I'd put three boxes of condoms in his luggage. "But I can't stand to hear about it, and I don't want to hold you back. So this is goodbye. Just this, tonight."

  "You could come with me." He sounded scared now. "You don't have any real ties here. You could come to New York and I could just fuck you."

  "Even worse. I'm not gonna cock block you from a distance, and I'm certainly not going to come to New York and do it. Not unless you can say from your heart, truthfully, that I'm the love of your life and you have no interest in anyone else."

  There was a long silence. "I want to."

  "You're too honest. Toller, I've seen you looking at young guys and thinking ahead to when I turn you loose. You love me, baby, but you're not in love with me."

  "And you are. And still you're going to make me go."

  "
I'll survive. I've lost people before, and I'm getting better at it."

  "Jesus, now I'm scared to go. When you lost Henri you fell into a bottle for two years."

  "I'm stronger now. And you're moving to New York, which is only a little bit like dying. Seriously, I promise, Toller. I swear on Henri's grave that I will keep living and stay sober and find some kind of meaningful work to do. I swear."

  "I don't know."

  "Trust me, baby."

  He slumped against me in acquiescence. "Okay. I do trust you. But how can I make this easier for you?"

  "Just go. No long goodbyes. We can't make love better than that last round. Hold me tonight, and in the morning just get up and get dressed and go. Don't call. Don't write. Don't come back. Make me proud."

  He was crying softly against my neck when he said, "Okay." It was the last thing he said to me. Eventually he fell asleep. I needed to get up, clean up, but no stickiness or ache could make me unwind his arms from around me. I stayed awake the whole night through, storing each breath and each touch to remember.

  I felt it when he woke. He drew breath as if to speak and then stopped. He slid out of the bed. I stayed curled up, facing the wall. He pulled the covers up around me, tucking them in tenderly. He showered and dressed. Every sound was familiar. He hesitated over the coffee pot and then left it untouched. He walked to the door. I heard him grunt as he picked up his bags. They were pretty heavy. The door snicked open.

  On the threshold he paused. I waited, every muscle locked so tight I wanted to scream. But this wasn't some fictional romance where he dropped his bags and ran to hold me and tell me how he couldn't live without me. After a long, long pause, he stepped out the door and it closed behind him.

  My windows looked out on the street. When I had planned this, every time I had pictured it, I had sworn I would stay in bed and let him go. But I found myself at the window, gripping the sash with blanched white fingers. He appeared on the street below. For a moment he paused. He set one bag down and slung the other higher on his shoulder. Then he hefted the other bag in his hand and headed out. He never looked up. His head was high and proud, and I think he was whistling.