Nick put his arms up and my guts lurched and I thought it was over, but instead he undid his shirt, pulled it out of his of his pants, took it off and tossed it on his desk. I pressed my thumb and index finger beneath one of his shoulder blades and started to work on his tight back. His hand dropped to my knee and he relaxed into me, my legs loosely cradling his waist. I tugged the t-shirt out of his slacks, and my hands performed their unforgotten specialty on Nick’s warm body with automatic precision. He lay back against me even further, putting delicious pressure on my big business, which he must’ve felt pressing into his buttock.
“I missed this so much,” I whispered, moving my hands down his arms, squeezing his biceps, wanting to lick them.
“Me, too, Alex,” Nick said. My head swam with amazement, lust, disbelief… hope. “I missed you. I was scared you hated me.” Now he was looking into my eyes, which were filling with the sweetest tears I’d ever felt, but I couldn’t speak so I just shook my head.
He slowly rolled on top of me, lowering his face to my neck, and I tingled with jolt after jolt of rapturous pleasure as his incredibly soft lips traveled from my throat up to my ear. I ran my hand over his hairy chest, then moistened one finger to caress his small, stiff nipple. Before I could fully savor the moment, his mouth found mine, and it was a kiss worth waiting 18 months for. Hell, 18 years would’ve been a bargain.
“You’re shaking,” Nick murmured in a low, confidential voice.
It was true… I was quivering like a baby bird. So not hot. I held his handsome face in my hands, which I forced to remain still without clumsily clamping too hard to his cheeks for what came next: “I love you. I love you, Nick.”
He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and stroked whatever non-gel-shellacked hair he could find on my head. “You haven’t changed a bit.” Was he smiling? Yes, almost.
His t-shirt was already gathered around his neck, so it was easy to slip off entirely. He reclined on his back, facing me, one arm behind his head. I bent to kiss every inch of his torso. The hand I’d placed on his flat stomach moved down past his belt buckle to the oblong bulge displayed in appealing bas-relief in his greenish-gray trousers. I rested my fingers on it, feeling its weight, its power. The most gorgeous penis in the world (“porn-quality” as I’d once overshared to Sara in college), dangling from the best unavailable boyfriend a guy could sort-of-have. I spread open my fingers and closed them around him tightly. A ragged gasp of pleasure escaped his plush lips. I gripped it with the same slow, deliberate pressure a couple more times, suddenly wondering if I’d be able to open his pants from this angle, or would I just look like a horny tard with limited manual dexterity, which at this moment, I pretty much was.
He saved me the embarrassment by reaching down and unhooking something with a few impatient manly flicks of the wrist. Our eyes met. I could slowly unzip them over the heated slab without looking down, but of course I was only able to stand that for maybe twelve seconds. By sheer tumescence, the waistband of his grey bikini briefs had lifted off the taut, hairy, delicious space between navel and not-overly trimmed bush, and I saw a single dark teardrop-shape that had nothing to do with sloppiness at the urinal — instigating a small but appreciated self-esteem boost quickly dwarfed by my massive spike in lust.
I slid my fingers into his bikini briefs and freed the thick cock (with the slight, elegant upward curve) to bounce off his stomach one time, then strain toward my mouth. I rubbed my finger over the dewy slit, then brought the fingertip to my tongue for a taste… a move I prayed wouldn’t be too Vapid Sex Kittenish/Alicia Silverstone-In-The Crush. No need to worry. His dick bobbed and throbbed. I put three fingers behind it for proper positioning, then lowered my mouth toward the finely sculpted mauve head. Nick threw his other head back against a cushion, anticipating something awesome. And just as I was about to deep-throat every hot inch — my tongue close enough to give it a hearty lick if I’d been so inclined — my half-closed eyes popped wide open as I sprang upright, scared shitless by a series of loud, pulsing, jangling beeps that pierced the office like a traffic whistle. If I’d had any amount of dick in my mouth, I’d have been spitting it in bloody chunks onto the rug now. At least I’d been able to stifle my startled shriek against my own hand.
Nick had similarly jumped against the back of the couch, and now hopped off, trying not to trip over his bagging pants on the way to his desk. The phone. The fucking phone. “It’s my personal line,” he muttered, scrabbling the receiver off the hook. “Hello?” he answered, in rapid deflation. “Hi… I’ll be finished soon…. Sure. I guess I could… Oreos or Pepperidge Farm?... Okay. Bye.” He hung up.
“Serves you right!” Mini-Kyle Chandler snipped, adjusting his halo before dematerializing from my right shoulder.
“Both you bitches make me sick!” Mini-Jeff Stryker hissed, referring to me and mini-Kyle… or Nick. But mostly me. I had it coming. Possibly the most significant romantic encounter of my entire life was over because Barney Gagnon wanted something to stuff his face with while glued to the TV, watching something I was better off unaware of.
I looked back at Nick, curious to see what he’d do now. He’d already zipped his fly, a bad if unsurprising sign. He turned off the desk lamp and walked back to the love seat, where I was attempting to disguise my unfazed erection. He sat down beside me in the dark and pulled me close. “My little Mr. Young. What are we gonna do…” It didn’t sound like a question.
I swallowed hard, not wanting my voice to quaver as I said, “I think we should talk.”
He nodded, then exhaled a long sigh. “I wish you could hold me all night long. And other stuff,” he added cutely.
What?! Sweet baby Jesus, was that an auditory hallucination? “I can, Nick.” Please let me, I continued in my head only, thank fuck. I kissed his neck softly to avoid any other ill-advised blurts.
“Not tonight,” he whispered, his breath and stubble against my ear arousing the hell out of me. “I can’t…” And I can’t let you keep inflaming my confused erogenous zones. Pull it together! Make a plan, don’t beg, and get out of here, I ordered myself. He made it easy: “When ya headin’ back to L.A.?”
“Tuesday.”
“How ‘bout I come down to San Antone on Monday? Sound like a good idea?”
“Yeah!” I blurted, then, dialing it down big-time, “that’d be nice.”
‘Nice’?!!
Eat shit, Stryker. Showing my imaginary rough-trade mini-pal how much of a pussy I wasn’t, I let my hand stray nervily over Nick’s crotch to see if things were still broiling. Halfway maybe, I guesstimated, satisfied. Obviously wondering if I was going to fish it out for Take Two, Nick lightly drummed his fingers against my back — a long-established code signal for a requested end to shenanigans. Slightly offended, I complied so instantly he had to wonder if I was now too mature to need such non-verbal cues. (For the record, YES.) “I’m due to meet Sara soon,” I said, all self-actualized, expertly covering the reluctance with which I disentangled myself from his Colt Studios embrace.
“Where at? I can drive you.”
“No need, just down at the corner,” I lied. I’d walk the half-mile to the club. I wanted our goodbye to be here, in this room. We stood up, still holding hands.
“Thanks for dinner, Nick.”
“Thank you. You paid.”
“Wait. I thought you did…” I replied, seemingly alarmed, reeling him in just long enough to get that look of fondness it was so un-self-actualized of me to crave.
“This is in case I don’t see you again,” I said, perkily prefacing the long sweet kiss I gave and he reciprocated.
“You’ll see me.” I couldn’t tell if the glint in his eyes was tears or his contact lenses. He hugged me. “Just remember…” he started to say, then trailed off.
“What?” I asked… I love you??! The top of my head started floating away. “Remember what?”
He ki
ssed my cheek. “That I’m thinkin’ about you.”
“Okay. Bye.” I let myself out, practically sprinting from the lobby and across Congress Avenue so he wouldn’t leave in his car and see me walking the streets.
The implications of what had just happened were beginning to sink in through the heady, delirious glow that Nick had left clinging to me like pixie dust. The final piece necessary to make my life complete, fulfilling and eternally sun-drenched could very well be ready to snap into place. Nick had been languishing in dull, under-appreciated obscurity long enough. It was time for his glistening new life with a remarkable young man — me. Or… he’d just been lonely and weak and didn’t want to disappoint me. Naturally. This had been the question I’d tormented myself with since our sex life began. But everything was different now! It had to be. A car horn blared.
I’d stopped in front of a 4x4 careening across 4th Street. Terrific. Get yourself run down because you can’t focus on reality long enough to cross the goddamn road. “You dumb fuck!” the frat-boy occupants screamed. I hightailed it to the other side of the intersection. “Stupid faggot!” I heard one of them bellow as their tres macho Suzuki Samurai took off. I would have given them the finger, but the satisfaction wasn’t worth getting shot at. These Texas kids had quite the tempers. And ridiculously easy access to firearms.
There was no line outside Oilcan’s, just a few habitués eyeing the sidewalk traffic. Across the street at my beloved Capitol City Playhouse, all was quiet as a demographically desirable audience watched the end of A Girl’s Guide To Chaos. The Ken-doll at the club’s door examined my exotic California license for just a moment before tying an alcohol bracelet around my wrist. No cover charge, of course. The competition among Austin’s gay bars was almost as fierce as on Santa Monica Boulevard. And the music here was way, way better.
Depeche Mode blared as I scanned the smallish, reddish, half-filled club for Sara. I found her at a little table by the back bar drinking Coronas with her ex-roommate Vanessa and Van’s husband Chuck — a James Spader lookalike computer engineer/graphic designer. I had trouble circumnavigating a middle-aged guy totally fixated on a black muscle-stud, whose enormous chest he kept tapping with a ring-heavy finger to emphasize some hard-to-hear conversational point. Vanessa spotted me and shoved past them. “Alex!” she squealed, trapping her “world-famous” breasts between us in an enormous hug.
Sara and Chuck quickly appeared. “What’re you guys doing here?!” I shouted at the couple, really pleased, wanting to see everyone tonight, eager to spread my happiness like rich creamery butter.
Chuck handed me a Cape Cod with a lime wedge bobbing in it. “We heard the star of our story was making a personal appearance!” I hugged him, too.
“Congratulations, Alex!” Vanessa screamed. “We fast-forward through the show every night to get to your scenes!”
“That’s the only way to watch it!” I exclaimed into her ear. The unmistakable beat of that high school hymn “Brand New Lover” was emerging like a Hi-NRG phoenix from the ashes of the previous song. How very appropriate. Our eyebrows all shot up simultaneously and we started pushing toward the dance floor.
Sara put her hand on my shoulder and her mouth up to my ear. “What the hell happened?!” Her green eyes sparkled with a craving for good positive dish. I rolled my eyes and gave my head a “you don’t even know, gurrrlll” shake. We were almost to the dance floor. I collided with a ripped, tank-topped back and killer buns encased in 501s. Their gorgeous Hispanic owner swiveled around.
“Sorry,” I called, as Sara pulled me past him. He winked. Vanessa and Chuck were already working it hard on the floor. I put my arm around Sara and yelled, “It was incredible! He kissed me and I kissed him… then practically blew him right there in his office!”
She gaped at me, not knowing what to believe. “Are you fuckin’ kidding?!!”
“No!” I screamed, hugging her. It was time to dance. I put my glass down, amazed it was already empty. Sara took my hand and we got into the groove. Cyndi Lauper, New Order, The Go-Go’s, Eurythmics, a Bananarama megamix — New Wave lived forever at Oilcan Harry’s, but this playlist was too good to be true. I glanced over at the DJ booth and saw why — one of my Psycho Beach Party/Vampire Lesbians of Sodom castmates was on duty, clearly charmed (or bribed) by Sara into spinning a bursting buffet of all my favorites. We waved at each other like giddy lunatics. I’d polished off my Absolut Citron and cranberry way too fast, or maybe just fast enough and the tension that had been twisting my guts since I’d heard Nick’s voice on my L.A. answering machine hours before flying out was melting into musically enhanced euphoria. I was a lava lamp, joyously, endlessly recreating myself, barely noticing the college crowd of hunky homos beginning to pack the place. Nick wanted me. What a wonderful, deep-heating thought.
A so-so song finally came on and the four of us slithered over to the bar. I bought us a round of drinks. We toasted “success and romance” and retreated to the rows of theater seats that faced the dance floor. A spiky-haired male blonde in a cut-up UT sweatshirt started to French and dry-hump a skinny teen Goth boy two seats away from Chuck. He put on a great mock-scandalized expression, crossing himself, then continued telling me about the house he and Vanessa were buying in Travis Heights. He’d always been a real sport when it came to queers. Vanessa checked Sara’s Swatch and groaned.
“I have to be at work in six hours,” she said, holding up the corresponding number of fingers as a visual aid. Then “Tell It To My Heart” kicked in and I grabbed her and Chuck with a hand each and insisted on one more dance, out of respect for Ms Taylor Dayne.
After they left, promising to visit me in L.A. “and eat all your white meat,” Sara and I retired to the patio, where in fresh air and moonlight with Talking Heads’ “Girlfriend Is Better” pounding in the background, I spilled my guts about my dinner-plus with Nick.
“Jesus H Christ,” she said. “This thing is never gonna be over.”
“No, it never will. Not until he does what’s right for him.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, babe.” She leaned her head on my shoulder. “I hope it works out.”
“You’re skeptical.”
“Aren’t you?! I don’t want you to be crushed if this isn’t going to amount to anything.”
I sighed, hoisting myself up onto a drink-rail, not caring if I got wet. I cupped my face in my hands and through my fingers watched my legs swinging in the breeze. She was right, as usual. Nick hadn’t said anything to indicate plans to run away with me. Still…
“Sara, if you could’ve felt the way he held me… that kiss? It was like he was starving.”
“He was never very good at resisting you. Remember? You’ve been gone a long time and he missed you… and now you're here, incredibly successful and attractive, and I’m sure the chemistry sparked and that was that.” I could tell from her sad, compassionate eyes she knew I was shriveling up inside. “Alex —please. You know how ecstatic I’d be to finally see you two together. I love Nick. But he’d have to uproot himself from this tar-pit of a situation here, and neither one of us can make him do it.”
“I’d do it for him,” I practically whispered.
She nodded. She knew. “Fuck this,” she declared, tossing back the rest of her beer. “Let’s have fun. What the hell else are you here for?” She dragged me down from the rail. “Listen.” I did. It was the Pet Shop Boys fabulous affront to Easy Listening, “Always On My Mind.” We proceeded to further dance our asses off. At some point during the song, I whirled around and she was gone. I noticed her on the sidelines conducting an animated chat with a couple of people I vaguely recognized from The Daily Texan, the infamous UT newspaper Sara had been a fixture at throughout our college careers. Senior year she was made Entertainment Editor, and had devised weekly contests (with shrewdly sponsored if inappropriate prizes) like “Wilson Phillips: The Satanic Verses.”
I watched myself dance in the mirrored wall. I was starting to shvitz a little. Okay, a lot. My hair had compressed into a damp, bangs-impaired skullcap, my face was shiny, my shirt – a limp, silk nicotine filter. It was the ideal moment for the fan attention that had eluded me since I arrived.
“Hey!” a denim-vested crew-cut kid hollered, whacking his hand against my arm. “You’re on Hearts Crossin’, aintcha!” He scrutinized me quizzically, as if he thought he’d misspoken.
“Yeah!” I yelled back.
“I told my friend that was you!” he barked into my ear, tickled and breathing bourbon on me. I looked up and saw his friend was the gorgeous Mexi-melt in the tank-top I’d accidentally goosed earlier. He smiled radiantly. Gosh…
I extended my hand. “I’m Alex Young.” The friend shook it. His name was Paul Gonzalez. The other one was called Swann. They wanted to buy me a drink… “and not that well-piss either!” I ordered a Black Hole — vodka and Kahlua — and told them I’d gone to UT. Paul said he went to Southwest Texas State in San Marcos. “But he’s on sko-lastic dismissal this semester,” Swann informed me… rather bitchily for a closeted enlisted guy from the Air Force base in town, which Swann had self-identified as a moment ago.
My tolerance to booze was almost as nonexistent as my resistance to Latino sex gods. Two drinks was my absolute limit, and I’d had three, plus this one, which was really a double. Oblivion was setting in, accompanied by the insistent pressure of Paul’s rockhard thigh against mine. He kept yammering on about his new car getting totaled by an uninsured driver while I half-glanced around for Sara and half-stared at the dark, pointy outline of his nips through the fabric of his tank-top, stretched taut from a demanding gym routine. Where was his little military friend? Sgt Swann and the Sweet-Ass… what a cute pair. This struck me as hilarious and I started grinning. This struck Paul as encouragement and he slid closer, putting his hand on my 32-inch waist.
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