There Galapagos My Heart

by Philip William Stover

  Benton and I just stare at each other. I can’t tell if I am more annoyed with him or Penny.

  “This is utter rubbish,” he says.

  “Bollocks,” I say, stealing some of his English slang. Benton looks at me with an expression of surprise, and then a sly smile sneaks across his lips, and he raises one eyebrow. Maybe this is going to be more fun than I thought.

  Chapter 20

  I’m grateful Benton is meeting with the captain this evening, because if he came back to our cabin, he would think it was burglarized or caught in a very localized tornado. I’ve tried on every single shirt-and-pant combination I brought on the trip. I’ve even experimented with a bathing suit bottom and button-down top, but that was only in a moment of complete desperation. I have no idea why I am taking this date so seriously. It’s pretend. I know that. Do I really think I can magically win Benton back somehow? He has everything waiting for him back in the UK. Who am I kidding? This isn’t real.

  I convince myself I only want to look nice tonight as a statement that I am willing to do my part to make the rest of the cruise pleasant for us and a success for Penny. Yes. That is exactly what I am doing. I finally decide to wear a pair of tight black pants that show off my ass and a black shirt that just happens to stretch across my nipples in a way I know will get Benton’s attention.

  I know Benton won’t be back in the cabin before dinner, but still I quickly clean up the place so it looks like I haven’t had a nervous breakdown deciding what to wear.

  I’m opening drawers, putting things away, when I accidentally open one with Benton’s belongings. I go to close it immediately, since I have invaded his privacy quite enough already, when I see a tiny, bright green baby onesie. I carefully take it out of the drawer and keep it at arm’s length as if it has already been soiled. It reads: My dad went to the Galapagos and all I got was this onesie. I drop it back in the drawer like it’s radioactive.

  Benton knew. He knew this whole time the momentous event was about to happen. How could he leave? Maybe the kid was born early since the miracle of life is also a mystery. I close the drawer and imagine my knowledge of this whole baby thing gets stuffed in the drawer with the onesie. I can’t go through with tonight if I have to deal with the fact that Benton is a father. I’m very good at compartmentalizing, so I just take what I know about Benton and put it in a little box deep in some hidden corner of my mind with things like my locker combination from high school and the atomic weight of helium.

  I go back to straightening and grab an undershirt from under the bed I think is mine, but as soon as I get it close to my face, that distinctive scent tells me it’s Benton’s without me even looking at it. He always wears these stretchy, almost silky undershirts he orders from someplace in Scotland. They feel like water running through your fingers. I hold up the shirt to my face and take a deep breath. Musky man scent fills my nose and mouth and overtakes me.

  I reach over to the door and flip the lock. This may be my last chance to feel this close to Benton. No matter how he feels about me or whatever obstacles there may be, I still want him very badly.

  I take his shirt and gently rub it against my face so I can feel and smell it at the same time. My cock is throbbing, but I’m going to tease it exactly as Benton would. Immediate pleasure is not an option when Benton is in charge. I move my hand down from my face, and instead of going right to my shaft, I stop to get some spit from my mouth and then go for my nipples. I squeeze and pinch them until my cock is pulsing with the same rhythm. I want to just put my hands on my dick and cum, but Benton would never allow that. He’d make me wait until my entire body was involved in the orgasm. I focus on my nips and tease them and pinch them harder with one hand. I push myself past what I think I can handle. With the other hand I gather his undershirt in my fist and hold it over my face. The scent is powerful and uniquely Benton. The pressure in my balls rises, and I take deeper and deeper breaths until I’m almost panting.

  “Benton, yes,” I moan gently. “Yes, yes, Benton.”

  The words just fall out of my mouth by thinking about him holding me, kissing me, and nibbling on me. I imagine him grabbing my cock with his thick hands, making sure it is under his control. I fight putting my own hand down my underwear, but the desire to cum is greater than any willpower I have. One hand is on my chest and one hand down my shorts. There is just enough spit left on my palm to work the slit and head of my cock, so I make sure my fist goes over it a few times until I can’t wait for the release a second more. My mind is a blur of Benton’s dick, his strong body, and piercing eyes. I pump faster and harder until I explode and shoot all the way up to my lower lip. The release feels amazing.

  I needed that.

  Chapter 21

  I make sure I am out of our cabin for a good hour or so before our “date” so Benton can have the space to himself. We have hauled anchor and are gently sailing toward our next destination, Santa Cruz Island, where Lonesome George was once the star attraction. The air is warm and dry, and I can smell the faint aroma of salt as the ship cuts through the splashing waves. A gentle melody of chimes introduces an even gentler announcement inviting passengers to dinner.

  This is it.

  I walk down the stairs and join other passengers leisurely strolling toward the dining room. I let them move past me and take a second to steady myself on one of the railings. I feel something flutter near my stomach. For a second I think my seasickness is returning, but that’s not it. This feels different. I breathe in and out and realize the sensation in my body is nerves. I have butterflies over my first date with Benton.

  I shake my head enough to wipe the thought out of my mind. I’m being ridiculous. This is all pretend. There is nothing going on between us except a simple rapprochement to appease Penny and stop the ship from sinking under the weight of our animosity. It’s all smoke and mirrors. Nothing to see here. I’m over it before it even begins.

  I push open the door to the dining room, and I am not prepared at all for what I see.

  If you surveyed one hundred random beings about Benton’s hotness, I’m sure over 95 percent would place him in the “Smokin’” category, and that includes men, women, blind guinea pigs, amoeba, whatever. He is objectively an extremely good-looking man. But tonight…tonight he is off the charts. Even the blind guinea pig would roll over and say, “Take me now.” I consider doing just that, but instead I steal a few seconds before he sees to me to take it all in. He is wearing his “semiformal special event uniform”: khaki pants, blue blazer with gold buttons, and a pinstriped button-down shirt revealing a defined pattern of dark hair against his muscular chest.

  Our eyes meet.

  It’s electric. I feel it.

  I quickly break the connection and look away. This isn’t real, I remind myself. Even if there is a spark, it’s artificial, right?

  Benton stands up as I approach the table. “Good evening, Michael. I’m so glad you could join me tonight,” he says, laying the accent on thick.

  “Nice to see you again, Benton,” I say and take the seat across from him. Penny has reserved the best table for us. It’s tucked away so it’s private, but it also has wonderful views of the constantly changing scenery.

  “This is for you,” Benton says. “I hope you like roses,” he says, pinning it on my lapel.

  Of course what he is pinning on my lapel is not a rose at all. It looks like he made it out of some red cocktail napkins and a matchbook cover. It’s actually quite a charming piece of handicraft, and it’s clear Benton took thought and time to make it since there aren’t any flower shops in the Galapagos.

  “I do love roses. What an excellent guess.” I grin. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. I’m so glad Penny set us up,” I say, wondering if I am pushing it too far.

  “As am I. I saw you around. I think our rooms are quite close.”

  “Yes,” I say, “That must be it.”

  A waiter comes over to take our drink order. I order a gin and tonic, and Benton orders
a Jack Daniels neat.

  “Tell me about yourself, Michael,” Benton says, leaning forward. “I see from the activity schedule you are teaching a watercolor class tomorrow. Are you an artist?”

  Oh, I see. Benton is going right for the jugular. Hitting me where he knows I’m sensitive. This is all a game anyway, so I might as well give him the answers he wants and pretend Biddle doesn’t exist.

  “Yes,” I say brightly. “I’m a painter. I went to art school in New York. Parsons. I did some digital mixed media for a while, but painting is really my medium.”

  “Tell me more,” he says, and he tilts his head toward me so he can lower his eyes a bit and look deeper inside me.

  I don’t think; I just speak. “Well, I always liked to draw. As a kid we didn’t have a lot of money, but there was always at the very least a pencil and a piece of paper or the back of a cereal box or an envelope, so I always had a canvas. First I just drew what was in my head. Fantasy creatures, pretend landscapes, things like that. What about you? Where are you from?”

  “Born and raised in Newark, New Jersey,” he says. “Does my accent give it away?”

  I’ve heard Benton make this joke a hundred times, but it still makes me giggle a bit.

  “I grew up on an estate in Cheshire a few hours outside of London. Father is bit of a government wonk, and Mother is a very proper English wife.” Benton’s eyes gray a bit and zero out. His relationship with his family was never bad, but it isn’t good. He always wanted so much more than they were able to give him.

  Benton knows not to ask about Peter, my father, since he left when I was a kid to “follow his bliss.” He was a drummer is some lame rock band, went on tour, and never came back. I don’t talk about him very much because there is not very much to talk about.

  Dinner is served, and we keep the game going while we enjoy a delicate arroz mariner, a seafood rice dish made with tender fresh shrimp and local vegetables. He asks me about drawing, and I have him explain the point of cricket. We remember our shared love for anything made with peanut butter and our hatred for plaid.

  After-dinner coffee is served, and we wait for our dessert: lemon tart. My favorite.

  “Have you always been interested in animals?” I ask.

  “Yes, always,” he says.

  Of course I’ve always known that. Benton loved animals since he was a small child. I guess what I never knew is what drew him to this field. I figure this is my chance to find out. I ask, very simply, “Why?”

  “Why?” he repeats. “I guess I haven’t really thought about that. We had three dogs growing up—Rascal, Scallywag, and David. They were such good dogs. Smart, loyal, loving. They would look at me and know exactly what I was thinking or what I needed. When we would walk the countryside, they would be a few yards ahead of me but always checking to make sure I was right behind them. If we ran down a hill, one of them would always keep an eye on me. Always.”

  I’ve heard about them before but never quite this way. He looks down at his drink and empties the glass with one last swallow, and then he looks away for a second to gather his thoughts. It seems like he is deciding whether he should jump back into these memories or not. He turns back toward me, and we take each other in for a second before he begins.

  “You see, mate, the thing is, everything was fine at home. Nannies, chums at primary, plenty of fresh air. Nothing about which to gripe. My father and mother are lovely people. You’d like them. They are highly thought of, but they never exactly connected with me. It was all very on the surface and polite. It sounds silly, but those dogs knew me better than my parents ever did. They knew when I wanted to run until I was out of breath or when I needed someone just sitting on my lap, swallowing up my affection.”

  “They were good dogs,” I say, gently reassuring him. I know he loved those dogs. The first thing he put up when we moved in together was a picture of the four of them on the outskirts of his family’s estate. He is all smiles and joy, and so are the dogs. I never connected the dogs to the fact that his parents always kept him at arm’s length. It’s an English stereotype, but aren’t some stereotypes true in certain circumstances? I know Benton craved being close when we were together. He was so lonely as a kid. I forgot about that. It’s why he enjoyed any form of physical affection so much. He’d always grab my hand at the movies or make a point to kiss me goodbye. I never really appreciated it like I should have.

  “They were good dogs,” Benton says. “They taught me so much. They also showed me how animals are sometimes more loving and more humane than many humans. Animals can’t lie, and they don’t judge you, and they don’t make you wear formal morning clothes complete with tails and top hat just to go to a silly state dinner.”

  “Well, that’s not true. Mr. Whiskers had definite opinions about your wardrobe,” I remind him.

  Mr. Whiskers was a rescue cat we took in. He was already ancient when we got him, but we helped him live out his last months in comfort with an endless supply of gourmet cat food and affection. He was a sweet cat, but he loved to throw up on Benton’s favorite neon-green sneakers. They were not exactly subtle shoes, and truth be told, I wanted to throw up on them too.

  “Oh, Mr. Whiskers. What a great cat. He’d sit on my head to stop me from going to work.” Benton smiles sweetly and looks down. I see his strong hands resting on the table, and without thinking, I reach out to cover his hand with mine and gently move my fingers over his knuckles. The connection is intense. Not fireworks or sexual tension—it’s more than that in a way. We are simply two men connecting over the loss of a beloved pet. It’s a gentle and sweet way of being together but also incredibly intimate. I pull my hand away.

  “Are you okay?” Benton asks.

  I remind myself this is all pretend, a pleasant way to pass the time during the rest of the cruise. I can’t feel what I’m feeling. What’s the point? This can’t go anywhere. Benton is otherwise engaged. He is a father, and I’ve hidden the birth of his child from him. I’m a terrible person.

  We had our shot, and we blew it. The only way to stop the electricity I’m feeling is to pull the plug. I need to yank it out of the wall with one strong jerk.

  “Yes, I’m fine.” I say. “Thank you for a lovely evening, but I think I should go.”

  “But we are having such a nice time.”

  “Yes, we are.” What I don’t say is that is exactly the reason why I need to leave. “It’s just that I have to do my watercolor class tomorrow after breakfast, and I really should make sure the space is set up tonight and everything is ready. But really, this was a lovely evening.”

  “They haven’t served the pudding. It’s a lemon tart.” Benton knows lemon tart is my favorite dessert.

  “You can have mine,” I say as I get up to leave. “Good night.” I walk away from the table and take a quick glance back at Benton. His mouth is agape. He knows if I am leaving a lemon tart on the table, something is going on, but I don’t think he realizes how deeply serious this is.

  Chapter 22

  I spend the rest of the night wandering the decks, avoiding the other passengers and my own feelings. Beyond the ambient lights of the ship, the ocean becomes a black blanket of shimmering silk. There are enough clouds to cover the stars and moon, so the entire landscape is without variation. The bleakness is vast and unchanging. It makes me feel even more lost.

  What do I do with these love feels I have for Benton? I know he doesn’t feel the same way. It’s easier here on the ship being whatever version of myself I wish to be. Tonight I was the artist with a burning desire to paint and create. That’s easy to be on a cruise where reality is suspended.

  It’s a different story back in San Diego, where the tacos don’t grow on trees. (Actually there are so many tacos in San Diego, you would think they do, so it’s not the best analogy.) But back home I have obligations. When I first started working at Biddle I was trying to help my mom get back on her feet after her sudden illness, and once she made a full recovery and went back
to work I started enjoying having some disposable income for a change. The salary kept growing and it kept getting more comfortable. Maybe too comfortable? I wish I could be the person I was tonight, the artist Benton wants me to be, the guy who turns down a promotion to pursue his passion. But pursuing your passion is something you do in your twenties, not in your thirties. I think my opportunity to really be an artist may have passed me by. Benton always used to say, “Michael, dreams don’t have expiration dates.” But they do, don’t they?

  If my dad had stopped drumming and taken a stable job my mom wouldn’t have struggled so much. He left her alone to raise us so he could follow his dream. Last I heard he was in Fresno working part-time for some rideshare. I’m not sure that was part of his dream. He sacrificed his family for something that should have been a hobby at best. I take a breath and push out any thoughts of my dead-beat.

  Tonight was magic. Connecting with Benton and opening up to each other felt so right. I can’t seem to stop having these feelings of love. At first it was plain animal lust. He is basically a fitness model body with a PhD mind. But now it feels like more than that. I want to be with him—in every way. I want to have the type of sex only two people totally connected and committed to the moment can have. It’s not about monogamy; it’s about focus. Benton has this way of shining his light on me that feels like a beacon from a lighthouse steering me away from jagged rocks. The problem is I never seem to take the warning.

  A gust of wind rips around the deck, and I cross my arms together. I walk to other end of the ship to see if there is a break in the clouds so I can maybe see some stars. The music from the dining room wafts upward, and I hear a slow melody softly in the background. I turn the corner, and through the dark shadows I see Fred and Rita dancing together. Her head rests on his shoulder, and they gently sway with the music.