Take the Lead

by Johnny Diaz

  “How’s your dad doing? How was your trip?”

  “He’s doing better. The doctor boosted his medication. I may go down for Christmas to check up on him again.”

  We make our way into the living room, where we sink into my soft brown sofa. Craig immediately leans closer to me and playfully drapes his left leg over mine. I continue telling him about the electric bicycle, my mother’s fabulous cooking, and how I’m missing the South Florida eighty-degree heat right about now. Then I realize that I’ve been a rude host; I haven’t offered Craig a drink. It’s a bad habit of mine, because aside from Nick, I rarely have guests. (I’ve always wondered whether my anti-baldness pill has something to do with my declining sex energy.)

  “I need to get you a drink. My apologies for not offering earlier.” I gently pat him on the knee, and he responds with a flirtatious slanting smile.

  “No worries, man. You’re a great host. Do you have beer, any alcohol?” Craig says as he begins leafing through some of the news magazines on my coffee table. They are the usual subscriptions to Latina, People, and the Star Trek Fan Club magazine.

  I return to the kitchen and flick on the bright fluorescent lights. “Well, I have some white wine, vodka, Red Bull, diet soda. Take your pick!” I call from the kitchen as I grab two glasses from the upper cabinet.

  “White wine it is!”

  I pop open a bottle and peek over at Craig, who is now squatting in front of the TV and rummaging through my bookshelf of DVDs. After pouring Craig’s wine, I fix myself my usual tonic—Red Bull with vodka. I carefully carry both drinks to the living room across my faux wooden floors.

  “So which Star Trek movie or episode is it going to be? The Wrath of Khan? The Search for Cock—oops, I mean Spock,” Craig says, catching himself.

  “Hmm… I wonder what’s on your mind. I was thinking of the Horta episode from the original series. Actually, the episode was titled ‘The Devil in the Dark’,” I say with sci-fi authority.

  With our drinks in hand, we lie back on my plush sofa and sit close to one another. Craig softly fingers the back of my hair, which tickles. We each take generous swallows of our drinks.

  “I think I remember that one. That’s the one with a giant orange blob creature that starts killing a group of miners, right, Gabriel?”

  “You got it! I read somewhere that the episode was William Shatner’s favorite because it played on so many themes of the show. It was exciting and intelligent and thought-provoking.”

  “Just like you, Gabriel!” Craig says with his eyebrow raised and a grin.

  I pop the DVD into the player, and the signature show introduction begins to play.

  “Space… the final frontier. These are the voyages….” William Shatner’s voice echoes in my apartment.

  As we relax on my sofa, we take in the episode in which Captain Kirk and Spock encounter this blob and try to communicate with it. Through a Vulcan mind meld, Spock learns that the subterranean beast calls itself a Horta. It relays to Spock that every 50,000 years, its entire race dies except for one that remains behind to protect the eggs and serve as their mother. The Horta conveys to Spock that when the miners invaded her hatchery, it had to fight back by the only way it knew it could. It spewed a toxic liquid that wiped out several dozen miners.

  “See, things are never what they seem,” I say, nodding my head to emphasize my thought.

  Craig kisses me on the neck. My right arm loops around him, and I gently squeeze and rub his right shoulder.

  “Everyone thinks this thing is a killer in the caves, but it’s the miners who are killing her eggs. So one begat the other,” I say.

  “Can you imagine being the only one of your kind and having to protect your offspring or family and not having any siblings or relatives nearby to help you? And that no matter what you do, you’re it. It’s all on you. It must be lonely for the Horta.”

  “Yeah, I know something about that,” I say, looking down and taking another swig of my golden elixir, which warms and buzzes at the same time.

  “What do you mean, Gabriel?”

  “Never mind.” I playfully swat him with my left hand. “I think the alcohol is making me melodramatic. Any minute now, I’m going to pull out a red violin from behind the sofa.”

  As I reach for the remote control to raise the volume, Craig inches closer to me and rubs my upper back with the palm of his hand. Like a puppy, he affectionately places his head on my shoulder.

  “Gabriel, do you sometimes feel like a Horta?”

  I spit out my drink and laugh, imagining myself as this giant roving beast wandering the cave with a drink in my hand. I can tell by the sweet way that Craig said it that he wasn’t trying to be funny or insensitive. He was being sincere. It just sounded funny.

  “Sometimes, I sorta feel like a Horta!” I joke, realizing the rhyme. “But no. I don’t feel like one, and I definitely don’t look like a Horta. But I can relate to feeling alone and having to support and protect your family. It’s quite a leap, but I can sort of get that, and I can see what the show’s writers are trying to say there,” I explain. “You’re too young to understand.”

  Craig rolls his eyes and puts down his wine glass, which thuds against my coffee table. “Please, Professor, ah, I mean, Gabriel. Just because I’m twenty-two doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about life. You’d be surprised. I helped my mom when our grandmother died from the Parkinson’s, and I always worked throughout high school. The only reason I’m at Jefferson is because of my grades and my grandmother. I got a great scholarship, almost a full ride, and she left me some money for college. You think I’m dumb kid, and I’m not.” His lips tighten and his eyebrows furrow. I’d struck an emotional nerve.

  “I don’t think of you like that, and you know that. If I did, I wouldn’t be spending this time with you. You’ve got a lot to offer, Craig. I guess we’re in two different places in our lives, and when I see you, I am reminded of how I was when I was twenty-two—the ambitious, enthusiastic, aspiring college journalist. I didn’t have a worry in the world. My main priorities then were my grades and where I was going to go dancing that weekend. Now I feel like I’m caught between two worlds, one here in Boston and the other in Fort Lauderdale, and lately, I’ve been feeling that I’m needed more down there. I am beginning to feel the weight of having to care for my parents.”

  “But you’re needed here too. Your students, your friends. Nick. Me,” Craig says hopefully.

  “I’m just a fantasy to you, a game, the older Latino college professor, someone to brag about at college parties,” I say with a mix of sarcasm and truth. Isn’t sarcasm truth disguised, anyway?

  “No, you’re the real thing, and I wouldn’t brag about you unless you wanted me to. I’d only say good things. Besides, I’m a private guy. I am not going to tell the world, especially the gossipy wannabes at school, that we kissed or the details of what we are going to do later.”

  “And what is that exactly?” I raise my eyebrows.

  Craig answers my question by softly planting his warm lips against mine. As if by reflex, my hands skim his fuzzy hair, which tickles my fingertips. As I rub his head, he cups my face and combs his fingers through my short hair. Our tongues dance sensually in each other’s mouths as my body eases on top of his. I press deeper into him as we lay on the sofa.

  I nudge his nape, lick the inner folds of his peach-fuzzy-ear, and slip my tongue in and out. My body erupts with insatiable tingles and heat. He wraps his arms around my back and squeezes, which cracks my bones. The sofa rocks against my Pergo floors, and I feel myself glowing from within.

  A few minutes later, my cheeks are flushed from our body heat. I grab Craig by the hand and lead him to my bedroom. At the edge of the bed, I slowly unbutton his shirt, which parts to reveal a lean and trimmed hairy chest. With each hand, I make invisible circles across his chest. His nipples look like a pair of pink dimes. My tongue then travels up and down his neck while his fingers softly rake my back.

 
The Star Trek theme song plays faintly in the background over the rolling credits. I momentarily detach myself from Craig to light a candle in the bedroom. As the candle flickers to life, I hear Craig removing his pants and socks behind me. When I turn around, a beautiful young man in black briefs stands before me, silhouetted against my closet door. A smile unfolds on my face as he slowly steps toward me and swiftly pulls off my red T-shirt and jeans. He knocks me down onto the plush bed.

  We ravage each other on the bed, wrestling and swapping positions. Each time we turn over, I feel as lit on the inside as the candle on my nightstand. For the rest of the night, my thoughts stray away from my concerns about my parents, my stresses from school, and the Horta. Craig is my sole focus right now.

  Under the sweet buzz of my drink, I make love to Craig by the light of a flickering, sputtering candle. The flow of our sweating bodies gently rattles my queen-size bed as if invisible hands are pushing against each side. After an hour of rolling around naked, we finally pass out in each other’s arms. We ease into a sweet deep sleep as if we were robbed of rest for days.

  I momentarily wake up whenever Craig’s crew cut rubs up against my hairy chest. When that happens, my eyes dart around the bedroom and reorient themselves to the darkness and fading candlelight. I look down at Craig, so soundlessly asleep, and I wonder how I nabbed such a beautiful guy. I look over at my own shadow, hoping it can answer that question. I know my shadowy figure would tell me that I’m not a bad-looking guy. I know that I’m not unattractive, and sometimes I do receive some extra caramel on my Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee because the young Brazilian server thinks I’m cute. But I believe that I am average compared to all these younger Matt Damon and Ben Affleck clones in Boston. I pale in sexiness next to Nick. I’m just okay-looking, and I’ve always been okay with that.

  But being here with Craig reminds of what has been missing in my life, or at least from my bed. I’ve been in a slump lately and don’t remember the last time I shared my bed with another guy. Maybe six months ago? That’s how bad it has been. I don’t know why, but I find dating in general challenging, be it in Boston or Fort Lauderdale, and I always thought I’d find my future husband at least in Boston because I was the new professor on the block. I have never allowed my parents’ divorce to make me too cynical about relationships because I still believe deep down they love each other. I’m not like Nick, who is happy being single and romping around the city with every young buck he meets. I want to settle down and come home to someone, share my life with him and feel that nurturing that most couples share.

  As Craig sleeps in my arms, I reflect on how men are initially intrigued that I teach in Boston. They grow more interested once I tell them that I’m Cuban-American. They are surprised to learn that I chose to move here from Fort Lauderdale, and they find that reverse migration interesting. In those initial conversations with other guys, long, piercing stares are exchanged, which leads to kissing, some heavy petting, and, eventually, sex. I rarely hear back from the guys after the first or second hookup. I’ve wondered if I am bad in bed, but the guys always seem to enjoy themselves throughout the sex, so I don’t think that’s the case. I think—hope—Craig would agree with me on this.

  Other times, the guys I’ve met on my nights out with Nick have been sloshed—a chronic problem I’ve noticed in Boston since moving here. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. It’s hard out there for a gay man in his thirties, at least in the college capital of the world, where I am well past the median age, according to US Census figures.

  I’ve dabbled in online dating sites, but they’re more directed at hooking up, even though the guys there pretend they are looking for that special someone. When an online conversation starts with “Top or bottom?” or “Do you play water sports?”, you know what you’re in for. My litmus test when I meet a new fellow is to ask myself, Could I ever bring him home to see my parents? Usually, the answer is no, especially with the water-sports inquiries.

  Still, it’s refreshing to know that I met someone who wasn’t in a bar or online or in a park after hours. I technically met Craig at school. As my head sinks back into my pillow, I hug him tighter and think of how this was the perfect ending to a long week. In the dimming candlelight, I pass out again to the soft, hypnotic rhythm of Craig’s breathing.

  Chapter 13

  I’M SITTING at a corner booth at the Barnes and Noble in Braintree, waiting for Nick. I haven’t seen him that much since I returned from Miami and began spending more time with Craig. So I invited Nick to meet me here to have some coffee or tea so we can catch up. As I sit by the large glass windows, drivers circle the lot in their big SUVs and small German cars. I sip my warm green tea, and I notice a young guy with a brown crew cut walk into the bookstore. He reminds me of Craig, and my thoughts immediately return to the new memories I have shared with him.

  The past two weekends, when I wasn’t grading papers at the bookstore, Craig and I enjoyed some quality time and got to know each other better. There were the dinners in Quincy and Braintree so as not to let anyone from Jefferson see us outside the college campus. We always fought over who would pay.

  “Craig, I got it,” I said as I clenched the bill at Bertucci’s restaurant the other night.

  “No, I got it. I want to pay. You always pay,” Craig fired back, his hands holding the other end of the bill.

  “Seriously, this is my treat, Craig. You can buy me dessert.”

  “If you don’t let go, I’ll make a scene!” Craig said with a devilish look in his eyes, as we pulled back and forth on the bill in a tug-of-war. He wasn’t going to give up this time, and the other customers were looking at us, so I caved in. It reminded me of my playful arguments with Papi at Don Shula’s restaurant in Miami Lakes.

  “Fine, you can pay this time. I wouldn’t want you to make a scene or anything. It’s not as if we’re making one right now,” I said.

  Then Craig extended his right hand and squeezed mine. “You always pay for the wine and drinks. This dinner’s on me,” Craig said before leaning over the table and kissing me. He didn’t care who was watching us. I like Craig’s carefree spirit and how he doesn’t concern himself with what others think—unless they are his viewers on Jefferson Today.

  Besides fighting with me over the dining bills, Craig also sleeps over once or twice a week when schoolwork allows him to. When he does stay over, we wake up and share a two-mile run along Wollaston Beach. At night, we continue watching various classic Star Trek episodes and then engage in heavy discussions about them. But then we start kissing, which always leads to hot sex. Every time we mess around, we continue boldly going where our bodies haven’t gone before. Craig thinks that joke of mine is pretty cheesy, but he laughs anyway because he likes me.

  And whenever Craig leaves my apartment to catch the subway back to his dorm after a night together, I stand on the cement balcony where the cool, nippy air brushes against my face.

  The other morning when Craig left my apartment, I observed him as he dashed across the street toward the Wollaston subway stop. Just as I was about look away, he waved back to me and blew me a long-distance kiss. I returned the wave and smiled before heading back inside to the warm heat, where I counted the days for his return.

  Sitting here at the bookstore, I realize that the more time I spend with Craig, the more attached to him I become. Being with Craig has been like finding a rare treasure. You weren’t necessarily looking for it, but now you’re glad that you found it. You can’t help but admire it, hold it, and appreciate it.

  I try to recall how I spent my time before I met Craig. Those days look somewhat like today so far—sitting in a bookstore having coffee or tea and watching the world pass by from my window perch. I didn’t realize how lonely I was on the weekends until Craig became a part of them. Pre-Craig on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, I ordered takeout from the Cheesecake Factory in Braintree or I stopped at the nearby Wendy’s for those tasty grilled chicken sandwiches or headed to Dunkin’ Donu
ts for my iced caramel coffees. I browsed the shelves at the video store and usually rented a romantic comedy with Sandra Bullock and Julia Roberts, or I stayed home and watched my favorite Star Trek episodes even though I’ve seen each episode several times. Or I came here to the bookstore and rummaged through the entertainment and news magazines and graded papers.

  I always had Nick to hang out with, but I usually saw him on Thursdays or Friday nights after a long week of teaching. Those empty Saturdays and Sundays remind me how alone I was until Craig. He’s like a beautiful new hue adding color to my otherwise black-and-white palette.

  On my commutes to the college or on my walks back to my condo from the subway stop, I have questioned what exactly my situation with Craig is and whether this invisible connection between us can survive our age difference. What am I getting into? Just as I’m getting to know to him better and appreciate the person he is and is growing into, I also feel like I’m running out of time. What happens when he graduates in May? Will I go back to my solo take-out dinners and watching Nick score at Boston bars while I stand on the sidelines?

  I try and push these thoughts and doubts from my mind as I watch Nick bound into the bookstore. He quickly glances around the store until he spots me in the corner. I wave to him.

  “Well, look who it is, my long-lost amigo!” Nick greets me with a strong hug and some slight sarcasm.

  “And look at what the cold weather dragged in!” I say, returning the embrace. Nick unwraps his scarf and peels off his puffy green ski jacket, which he places on the back of his chair. He’s wearing a tight black long-sleeved shirt that beautifully defines his lean body and biceps. His jeans are just as snug and outline his Portuguese-Irish bum. I offer him a drink, but he quickly turns me down.

  “GG, I got this one. I think I can afford a low-fat hot chocolate. I’m not that broke!”