Mi Alma

by Dale Cameron Lowry

  Alma nodded. Smiled. Damian felt lighter, like maybe he hadn’t fucked up so bad. “I thought about changing it when I left the church, because it’s just so Mormony. But then I thought about what the name meant. Mi alma. I’d spent my life thinking that if I left the church I’d lose mi alma, my soul. But I still have it. Maybe more than before, when I was lying about who I was.”

  Flakes of snow had caught on Alma’s eyelashes. They glittered like tears. Or maybe they were tears. Damian was overwhelmed with the urge to kiss them away. Instead he said, “That’s beautiful, man. I’m glad I asked, even if it was stupid and awkward of me.”

  Alma laughed. “I’m glad you did, too. I don’t talk about that part of my life with a lot of people.” His hand was still on Damian’s elbow. For a moment, he looked like he was about to move away. Instead, he gave Damian a quick peck on the cheek—light and friendly, the way gay friends sometimes do without any deeper hidden meaning.

  Still, it made Damian’s blood go warm.

  “I’ll see you at the party. Well, and probably email you a million times before then,” Alma said as he pulled away.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Damian said. The words had never felt truer.

  ❄

  Alma didn’t email a million times, just a few. There were text messages, too, and phone calls that would start with a question about which brand of liquor was the right one but would turn to long sprawling discussions about the weather and childhood memories and a funny incident that happened on the bus, and the differences between Dominican and Mexican swear words and endearments.

  Damian came within a hair’s breadth of accidentally calling Alma “mi amorsote,” my love. He managed to catch it right as the first “m” slipped out.

  Man. He was fucked.

  They didn’t talk in person again until the evening of the party. It was a nice office, big and a little quirky without being ostentatious or overly hip, on the second floor of a warehouse-turned-office building near the river. Etched letters on the glass door said “Palabras del Alma LLC”—which could mean either words of the soul or Alma’s words, depending on the context.

  “Cute name,” Damian said with a laugh.

  “I was pretty proud of that one,” Alma said. “Though it makes us hard to find on an internet search. We get buried under all the links to Marc Anthony lyrics.”

  The main part of the office was a large central room with rows of large tables made of pine two-by-fours for the legs and thick plywood tops, everything sanded down and finished so it looked almost sophisticated instead of like something dragged out from some grandpa’s barn. Alma pointed to the ones he wanted Damian to use as the bar.

  Damian ran his hand over the wood. It was smooth as silk or as the skin most men had just under their balls. Not that Damian was going to spend the night thinking about balls, no sir-ree. He was going to do his work like the professional he was. “You make these?” he said, looking up from the table he was fondling to Alma, who nodded.

  “Yeah, heck of a lot cheaper than buying from the office supply store.”

  “Nice sanding job.”

  “You do woodwork?”

  Damian shook his head. “Nah, not since middle school shop class. I just say shit like that ’cause it makes me sound manly.”

  “You’re already pretty manly even without the shoptalk.” Alma held his eyes. Damian almost forgot how to breathe.

  The employees and their guests started showing up after about an hour. By then, Alma had transformed the room into a winter wonderland with twinkling lights and metallic silver snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. Ella Fitzgerald crooned in the background.

  “And now the pièce de résistance.” Alma pulled an enormous box out of the freezer and set it on the end of the bar, lifting the lid as if he were a magician unveiling a rabbit. It was a huge block of ice, at least one foot wide by two feet across, carved into conjoined snowflakes. “I know it’s going to melt pretty fast, but I just couldn’t resist.”

  “Man, you really are gay,” Damian said, hoping the affection in his voice wasn’t too much.

  “What can I say?” Alma flourished his hands dramatically. “I own it.”

  It was a nice, cozy affair—lots of warm tipsiness with no obnoxious drunkenness. Or, at least not the vomit-and-police-calls kind of obnoxious drunkenness. “You’re gay, right?” said a woman with magenta hair after her third Grinch, a bright green cocktail that complemented her look nicely.

  Damian nodded.

  “Single?”

  “You’re not my type, honey.”

  She leaned across the bar, flicked her head over her shoulder to where Alma and a few others were in a heated discussion about whether pumpkin desserts were appropriate after Thanksgiving. “Yeah, but you’re his type. He was sure flying high when he came back from meeting with you. What’d you guys do for four hours, anyway, rent a room?”

  Damian’s mom had this look she used to give him when he’d overstepped his bounds, like she was some kind of supervillain that could beam death rays from her eyes. He tried to give this look to Magenta Hair.

  “You’re right, that was inappropriate. Maybe I should switch to eggnog? Without the bourbon?”

  “Good idea.” He took the eggnog from the cooler and filled a glass. He handed it to her.

  “I just love my boss, okay? He’s like a little brother to me. And it’s not like he’s unhappy, but—” She huffed a breath that blew her bangs up from her forehead. “If you’re the kind to settle down, he’d be a good one to settle down with. And if you’re not—just leave him better off than when you found him, okay?”

  Damian looked at her for a long moment, more kindly this time. “I will consider your slightly intoxicated advice.”

  “Thanks, flaquito.” She reached over and squeezed his arm.

  “De nada.”

  ❄

  “Things going okay?” the familiar voice got to Damian’s groin as fast as it got to his ears. It was smoother than the low tones of Bing Crosby crooning in the background.

  “Everything’s good,” Damian said. “Though you may have overstocked the bar. There’s enough of the hard stuff here to get the whole East Side drunk.”

  Alma shrugged and set his coffee mug on the bar. “I figured it was safer to get two of everything, just in case. I can return whatever’s unopened.” He pattered his fingers across the top of the bar in nervous, fitful repetitions that almost looked like playing the piano.

  “Speaking of the hard stuff, how many coffees have you had tonight?”

  Alma looked into his mug. “I think this is my fourth.”

  “That explains things.” Damian gestured at Alma’s hand.

  Alma looked for a moment like he wasn’t following. Then recognition dawned in his eyes. “Oh, that? I just do that when I’m nervous. That’s not the coffee. I’ve been drinking decaf.”

  “Oh? What are you nervous about? The party seems to be going fine.”

  Alma switched from pattering his fingers to dragging the tip of his index finger along the edge of the table. “It’s not the party I’m nervous about. It’s—” He bit his lip and studied Damian. In the flickering holiday lights, Alma’s eyes were no longer hazel. But they were still breathtaking. “Something else.”

  Something, or someone? Damian wanted to ask. But he felt unable to speak. Alma’s eyes traveled down his neck and shoulders with the rapt attention of someone undressing his lover. Damian’s pulse boomed against his skin. His face and cock flushed warm. The room disappeared from around them.

  That is, until a woman’s voice broke through with a loud giggle and “Two Dirty Santas, please!” It was Magenta Hair, practically flinging herself into the bar. She made a loud braying sound like a cartoon donkey.

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” Alma said with a forced smile and walked back toward the center of the room.

  “With extra Kahlua, please,” Magenta Hair said.

  Damian reached for the nonalcoh
olic eggnog. “Sorry, dear, still no booze for you until you stop making donkey noises.”

  “I thought it was worth a shot.” She turned and looked over at Alma. “Did I interrupt something there?”

  “Even if you did, it’s none of your business.”

  “Alma’s happiness is my business.” She waited for a response, but Damian didn’t give her one. He didn’t even bother with the death-ray eyes. “Oh, fine. If I can’t have a Dirty Santa, can I have a clean one?”

  “As soon as I figure out what that is, flaquita.”

  “Thanks.”

  ❄

  By the time the party was over, the ice sculpture was half-melted but still looked remarkably like snowflakes—maybe even more so, having become lacier and more delicate as its outer layers disappeared. Alma bent down behind the table to pick up the bucket the water had drained into.

  “Good party,” Damian said, setting half-empty booze bottles into crates. “What are you going to do with all this open liquor?”

  “Stash it in the supply closet and save it for next year, I guess. Unless someone finds it first.” Alma hauled the bucket over to the snack area sink and poured it out. His shoulders sank as the water streamed into the sink, and he looked suddenly tired.

  “You okay? I can finish cleaning everything up.”

  Alma glanced up. “I should be saying that. You’re the one who’s been working all night. Here,” Alma reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, pulled out a couple hundred-dollar bills and a fifty and held them out to Damian. “You’re done. It’s not your job to do the cleanup. That’s what grunts like me are for.”

  Damian stared at the money, didn’t make a move. He didn’t want to take it. Not because he was too proud—he’d earned it fair and square—but because accepting it would mean his shift was over. No excuse to linger then.

  “What? Isn’t this the amount we agreed on?”

  Damian’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t just stare at the cash all night and leave Alma in the lurch. He reached out for the money, brushing his fingers against Alma’s as he took it. “Yeah, it is.” He shoved it in his pocket and turned back toward the half-empty bottles. “Do you mind if I finish this up, though? I’d like to—” He rubbed the back of his neck. Ugh. He was acting like a fucking teenager. Making a pass at a guy had never been this hard his whole adult life. “I like hanging out with you.”

  “I like hanging out with you, too. I think we’d make good friends.” Alma smiled. His cheeks went the slightest shade of pink, like those carnations the popular kids used to send each other at school on Valentine’s Day.

  Damian’s knees and heart felt like they were about to melt. Nah. That’s an understatement. His whole body felt ready to melt, just like that ridiculous, gorgeous ice sculpture standing on top of the bar in all its wintry glory. “No.” Damian shook his wobbly head. “Not friends.”

  “Oh?” One of Alma’s eyebrows shot up, a question mark. “I thought—”

  He didn’t finish his sentence because Damian was on him, trembling hands cradling Alma’s warm pink cheeks, lips pressing against Alma’s stunned little mouth. It curled up in a little bow at first contact, and Damian wondered if maybe he should pull away—but then Alma made this shuddering sigh that tasted like coffee and peppermint, and he clutched his hands around Damian’s waist, pulling him as close as two bodies could possibly be while still clothed. Alma pushed Damian against the table and kissed him hard, like Damian was a feast to be consumed.

  Damian’s cock jacked right up in his pants, and he felt Alma’s growing, too, warm and heavy and stiff against him. Who started grinding first, Damian had no idea, but if he’d thought he’d been ready to melt before, now he was on the edge of evaporating.

  “Whoa, hold on.” Damian pulled back from Alma’s lips, and he tried to pull back from his hips, too—only that didn’t quite work given how he was wedged between Alma and the table. So instead, Damian started to fall in a backward bend until Alma caught him and righted him, then stepped back to let them both recover.

  “Sorry, dude,” Alma’s chest was heaving and his face was redder than his hair. It was adorable, and incredibly hot. “Got carried away. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t apologize, Alma. I want this.” Damian stepped toward Alma and ran a thumb over his burning cheek. “But I need to know this isn’t a one-time thing.”

  “It’s—” Alma took a deep breath, his shoulders trembling. “It’s not a one-time thing, Damian. I promise.”

  For Damian, the undressing part of sex was often hazy, clouded by arousal and need and swiftness—the quick frantic blur of tugging and popped buttons and hungry, demanding grabs. But tonight it was crystal-clear. His arousal only heightened his senses, made him hyper-aware of every movement and sound that Alma made, the unraveling rhythm of his body.

  They ended up on the hardwood floor, kissing and necking, hands roaming each other’s bodies like they were trying to memorize the topography. “Would a bed have been more romantic?” Alma chuckled as Damian kissed down his chest to his flush pink nipple. So many shades of pink to learn. Damian loved each of them against his skin.

  “We’ve got plenty of time for beds later.”

  “Do we?” Alma’s smile was audible in his voice.

  “Uh-huh.” He licked Alma’s nipple into his mouth, sucked it to a hard pebble, stroked his hand down Alma’s bare stomach to his leaking cock. They both moaned.

  “C’mon, need to touch you.” Alma shifted until they were both on their sides, face to face. He took Damian’s cock in his hand and stroked slowly up, massaging the foreskin up and down with delicate little tugs. Damian’s eyes rolled back in his head. “That feel good? I’ve never—”

  “Yeah, just—” He moved his hand on Alma’s cut cock, gathering the pre-come from the tip and smoothing it down over his shaft. “I’m so turned on right now. I don’t think I’m gonna last.”

  “Good,” Alma said, his voice pitching even deeper than usual, so low Damian could feel it thrumming in his balls. “I need to see what you look like when you come.” Alma started moving his hand faster, stripping up and down Damian’s cock in tight, relentless motions, and Damian stroked back with as much fervor, his movements growing more erratic with each breath. Alma pulled Damian closer—their chests touching, the tips of their cocks nudging each other’s hips. He crashed his mouth to Damian’s in a kiss that was almost more teeth than lips, jaws wide and tongues colliding.

  Damian’s orgasm slammed into him. He thrust into Alma’s hand, squeezed Alma’s slick cock, kissed and kissed as the waves pummeled him, one after another, pleasure building upon pleasure.

  Alma came onto Damian’s belly with a low, rolling cry. His head fell back and Damian chased it with his hand, tracing the tight muscles along Alma’s jaw as he pulsed again. “Alma, Alma,” he whispered over and over, though he wasn’t sure whether he was calling to his lover or his own soul. In that moment, their joy was the same.

  ❄

  One Year Later

  “Want me to tend bar again at your office Christmas party?” Damian fell into his side of the bed.

  Alma looked up from his tablet, raking his eyes over Damian’s bare chest. “No. You’re coming as my date. I’m going to show you off.” He set his tablet on the side table so he could tug Damian closer.

  “Everybody knows me already. They’re probably sick of me.”

  “Ay, cariño, no one could possibly get sick of you.”

  “That’s just you. I use mind-blowing orgasms to trick you into keeping me around.” Damian skirted a playful hand over the crotch of Alma’s pajama pants. “Others don’t get that benefit, mi alma.”

  Alma slapped Damian’s hand but didn’t make him move it to a new location. “It’s not the orgasms that made me fall in love with you. I was already halfway there before you gave me my first one.”

  “Yeah, but only halfway. It was my amazing powers of lovemaking that sealed the deal.” Damian crawled
over his lover and tugged down on his pajama pants. Alma’s cock sprung pink and eager from them. The sight never failed to make Damian’s mouth water. He dipped his head and pulled Alma’s half-hard cock into his mouth, feeling it pulse and grow with each warm suck.

  Alma groaned, a deep rumble that made Damian’s heart and dick both quiver. “Te quiero con toda mi alma, Damian.”

  Damian let go just long enough to whisper back, “Te quiero también, mi Alma. Por siempre.” I love you too. Always.

  DID YOU ENJOY this story? Please consider leaving a review at your favorite online book vendor or review site.

  You’ll also want to check out Dale’s anthology of nine gay romances, Falling Hard: Stories of Men in Love.

  ❄

  OTHER BOOKS BY DALE CAMERON LOWRY

  ❄

  https://dalecameronlowry.com/books/falling-hard/

  FALLING HARD: STORIES OF MEN IN LOVE

  https://dalecameronlowry.com/books/love-unmasked/

  LOVE UNMASKED: A PARANORMAL LOVE STORY

  https://dalecameronlowry.com/books/myths-moons-mayhem/

  MYTHS, MOONS, AND MAYHEM: AN ANTHOLOGY OF PARANORMAL GAY MÉNAGES

  THIS LIST INCLUDES just a few of Dale Cameron Lowry’s books. You can find them all at dalecameronlowry.com/books/.