He threw his legs up and locked them around Fausto’s back as his lover quickly positioned himself against him. Gene smeared the rest of the lubricant on his fingertips between his buttocks, then rubbed his fingers over his own cock. He began to masturbate, pulling his dick slowly back and forth, as he writhed closer to Fausto and moaned, “Fuck me!” again and again.
Fausto braced himself on his knees and began to push forward blindly. The head of his prick searched for Gene’s asshole, and when it found its target there was a second’s resistance. He saw Gene wince, but Gene threw himself against Fausto with reckless abandon and the Latino’s hard cock entered his body abruptly, sliding deep into his ass, sinking in right to the very hilt, so that their bodies were joined by every inch of Fausto’s manhood inside Gene.
“Fuck me, man!” Gene choked, wide-eyed. He hugged his free arm around his fucker’s neck, and they kissed again, even more passionately than before. Fausto felt Gene’s other hand beating his dick against his belly. Gene’s buttocks began to move at the same time, pulling Fausto’s fuck tool in and out of his hole.
Fausto drew slowly back, then shoved his cock deep into the other guy’s butt for a second time. Gene grunted against his mouth, and his fist hammered away on his prick, so that Fausto felt the wild vibrations of it tingling against his own, jammed far up inside the other boy’s guts.
He braced himself against Gene’s muscular body and began to pump his cock in and out of his hot, tight ass. The sperm pressure in his loins mounted higher with each new stroke, each squeeze of Gene’s anal muscles around him—until both young men ground back and forth in the same urgent rhythm, taking and giving the same immense pleasure in the act.
“Oh, come in my ass,” Gene gasped suddenly. “I’m going to shoot! I want it to go on all night, but I can’t hold out any longer, man! Not with that big cock of yours in my ass, reaming me out, fucking me! I’m coming! Oh, God!”
His arm tightened around Fausto’s neck and pulled his face down to his. They kissed, hotly, wetly, breathlessly, with Fausto’s thighs lunging at Gene’s buttocks all the while. And then, suddenly, Fausto felt the first hot splatter of his buddy’s cum striking his belly. Gene bit down on the tongue Fausto had jammed inside his mouth, and his whole body seemed to convulse in one long, violent shudder—and then Fausto began to come, too. His jism escaped from his cockhead in a rush, only to become trapped inside the tip of the condom and expand its nipple-shaped reservoir, filling the rubber with its fiery potency deep inside the other young stud’s asshole.
They lay on the bed motionless for a long time afterward, their bodies still fused together by the sweat of their sex, the wetness of Gene’s sperm between them, gluing their flesh together. It was impossible for either of them to say anything at first, as they both struggled to get their breath back. Afterward, as the heat of their passion slowly subsided and they lay there embracing and kissing each other languidly, there didn’t seem to be all that much that needed to be said. Their bodies had already said it all for them, in that special, intimate language that only lovers can share and understand.
Chapter Seventeen:
A House Warming
Fausto looked around his apartment with disgust. When he’d left on the book signing tour, he couldn’t wait to be home again. Now that he was home, in familiar surroundings, he felt restless. He’d been back for only a few hours, but already the apartment seemed like a prison.
He could go out, to one of the local gay bars, and have his pick of the men there. He could turn on his computer and cruise for a jerk-off partner on the Internet. He could pick up the phone, call a few of his local fuck buddies, tell them he was back in town and horny, and invite them over for an orgy. For that matter, he could call an escort service he knew about, and for a couple of hundred bucks have them send over some amoral, well-hung young stud who would no doubt be thrilled to find himself servicing an attractive celebrity.
But Fausto did none of these things. Not at first, anyway. Instead, he stayed at home and brooded, not even bothering to open the mail that had accumulated during his absence. He could see, at a glance, that it was mostly junk mail, and bills.
Speaking of mail—on the last stop on the tour, he had once again found himself alone in a hotel room, late at night. Acting on impulse, he’d taken a sheet of the hotel’s stationery, and written a letter to Gene.
Dear Gene—
All I can think about is how good it was to see you again, and how badly I seem to have fucked things up. My only excuse is that of course I never suspected Marc was your stepson. When I met him and was attracted to him, and he showed a certain interest in me, I couldn’t help myself. He’s such a handsome boy. Well, he isn’t really a boy, he’s already a man, a fine young man. You should be so proud of him. All I know about your wife’s first husband and his problems is what you’ve told me, but I can tell that Marc thinks of you as his real Dad.
Gene, we used to be so close to each other, back in school. We told each other everything. We never held anything back. Look at us now. We’ve wasted twenty years—half of our lives—being apart. I hate to think it’s too late for us, even now.
If I don’t deserve to be your lover, I still hope to be your friend. I really need you to be a part of my life again.
He signed the letter, Your buddy, Fausto.
He was afraid that if he waited until the morning, he might have second thoughts, and tear the letter up. So he quickly sealed it in an envelope, which he addressed. Then he went down in the elevator to the front desk, to have the letter put in the mail then and there. Feeling a strange combination of relief, anxiety, and exhaustion, he went back up to his room and went to bed.
Now, alone in his apartment, he was beginning to feel not only restless, but depressed. He was thinking about doing something he very rarely did—opening a bottle of wine and getting slightly drunk, sitting there all by himself—when his cell phone rang. It was Brent South.
“Fausto, buddy! Are you back in town?”
“Yes.”
“How’d the tour go?”
“Oh, it had its ups and downs,” Fausto said, by way of considerable understatement. “I’m glad it’s over. What’s new with you?”
“I finally closed the deal on that house I told you about.” The excitement in Brent’s voice was audible.
“I’m glad for you. No more apartment living for you, huh?”
“That’s right. I’m finally prepared to settle down and become a respectable member of the community,” Brent joked. “Anyway, I can’t wait for you to see it and give me your opinion. And I do want to hear all about the tour. Listen. I’m holding a little housewarming party this weekend. Not really a party. I’ve got a friend from out of town staying with me. He helped me move my stuff. I want you to meet him. Come and spend the weekend with us. It’ll be just the three of us.”
“All right, I’ll come,” Fausto said, impulsively.
“Fantastic. Get here any time Friday afternoon or evening. Just bring a few changes of clothes and your toothbrush. Anything else you might need, I’ve probably already got, right here.” Brent gave Fausto the address, which Fausto wrote down.
“Hey, tell me something, Brent,” Fausto said. “What’s the décor like in this new bachelor pad of yours?”
“I’ve kept some of my old furniture, but I’ve already bought a lot of new stuff. I guess you’d call it Basic Butch Modern,” Brent joked.
“I can’t wait to see it.”
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, they hung up.
Fausto had an ulterior motive, in asking Brent how he was decorating his new home. Fausto wanted to buy him some sort of a housewarming present. It was the least he could do, since Brent, after all, was largely responsible for Fausto’s transformation from jock to actor. Roused from his torpor, Fausto treated himself to one glass of wine, which he sipped slowly as he opened and read his mail.
It was great to see Gene again, he caught himself thinking, and it was ev
en greater to make love with him—to sleep with him. Even if I screwed it all up, at least we had that time together. And it’s not the end of the world. I still have friends. I have Brent, for example.
I don’t necessarily have to spend the rest of my life alone.
Do I?
On Friday evening, he drove to Brent’s place. Brent, like Fausto, having once had to be frugal by necessity, now tended to be careful about money by choice. The property was located in a good neighborhood, but not quite an exclusive one, and although Fausto’s first impression, as he parked and got out of his car, was that it was a nice house, it wasn’t an ostentatious one—especially for a successful young actor.
The house was essentially a rectangular glass box, cantilevered over the side of a gently sloping hill. The rather stark effect was softened by clumps of bushes and trees, which broke up the angles.
Brent came out to meet him.
“No, I’ve got this,” Fausto said, refusing his host’s offer to carry his single bag. “You can wrestle this up there.” Fausto handed Brent a large, garishly gift-wrapped box.
“For me?”
“Of course. I only hope it doesn’t clash with the décor.”
“Fausto, I promise you I am not turning into one of those Hollywood types who has every square inch of his living quarters professionally ‘done’ for him.”
“Thank God.”
Inside the house, Brent introduced Fausto to the other houseguest, whose name was Paul. For Fausto, Paul was a bit of a surprise. He was compactly built, almost delicate looking, with a pale, freckled complexion, long reddish-blond hair, and a mustache and goatee. He seemed like an odd companion for an athletic type like Brent.
“Are you an actor, too?” Fausto asked Paul.
“God, no. I’m a college teacher. I teach economics.”
“Paul has absolutely nothing to do with the entertainment industry,” Brent said, “which is probably why we get along so well. We’ve known each other for years.”
“Yes, I had a crush on Brent long before he became a sex symbol,” Paul joked.
Fausto wondered whether Paul was joking, or if this was his casual way of admitting he was gay.
Brent showed Fausto around the house. There was a big living room, with a sunken entertainment area, and three bedrooms. The exterior walls, mostly glass, admitted generous quantities of light.
“At night I usually don’t bother to close the curtains, so it can be almost like being onstage,” Brent said, with a laugh. “Cars drive by on the street, slow down, and even stop, so the drivers and the passengers can take a look inside. They have no idea who lives here now, but the house itself is an attention-getter.”
The three men sat down in the living room, and Brent served drinks. They toasted the house.
“Open your present,” Fausto urged.
Brent shredded the wrapping paper, opened the box, and extracted from its protective cocoon of bubble wrap a serene-looking bronze Buddha, seated cross-legged with one hand lifted in the “bestowing a blessing” mudra, and the other lowered across his knee in the “calling the earth to witness” gesture.
“I know you like Oriental things, and have that interest in Eastern religions,” Fausto explained. “If you don’t like it, though, the shop will let you exchange it for something else.”
“It’s not going anywhere, Fausto. I absolutely love it! I’m going to put it on display right here in the living room, where everybody can see it. You guys will have to help me decide on exactly the right place.”
The evening passed quickly. Brent was still unpacking some of his things from the moving company’s shipping cartons, and, as Paul and Fausto helped him, they talked, with Fausto bringing the other two men up to speed on his book signing tour. When they took a break for dinner, he found himself telling his companions about his reunion with Gene—and his tryst with Marc. By this time, Fausto felt as though he and Paul were old friends, and he had no hesitation about talking freely in front of him.
“Well,” Paul commented, over coffee and dessert, “this kid Marc sounds as though he’s got his act together. So he decided he was interested in a hot older man, and he went after him. Two consenting adults, right? Dad’s the one who seems to be freaking out over the whole thing.”
“And for good reason,” Fausto pointed out. “Not many men would be too thrilled to find out they’ve shared a trick with their own son.”
“I don’t believe Gene thinks of you as just another trick, Fausto,” Brent said.
“No? I hope you’re right,” Fausto replied.
“Give the dude a little time,” Paul suggested. “He’ll get over it.”
The three men decided they’d go out on the town the following night. Tonight, they’d spend a quiet evening in the house, and make an early night of it.
Brent flatly refused to allow his guests to help him with the after-dinner cleanup, or the dishes. “I have to start learning my way around that fancy new kitchen,” he said.
Fausto found himself seated next to Paul in the living room, talking to him over their after-dinner drinks. He decided he liked Paul—a lot. He could understand, now, why Paul and Brent were such good friends. Paul was grounded in reality in a way that was very different from many of the show-business types Brent inevitably spent a great deal of his time with. Fausto found himself talking about Gene again—perhaps a little obsessively. Aware of the fact, he apologized.
Paul smiled. “Don’t apologize. Are you in love with the guy?”
“I think I am. I think maybe I always have been.”
“Have you told him that?”
“Um, not yet, I guess. Not in so many words. There almost didn’t seem to be time. Everything in Seattle happened so quickly, in such a rush. It was kind of overwhelming.”
“What are you waiting for?” Paul challenged him. “Call him. Call him and tell him, talk to him—right now.”
“I don’t know…”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Fausto! What’ve you got to lose? What’re you afraid of? Just go ahead and do it.”
Fausto finished his drink, to bolster his courage. “All right.” He excused himself, and went into the guest bedroom he’d been assigned.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he took a deep breath, then pulled out his cell phone and punched in Gene’s number.
“Hello?” the familiar voice said.
Fausto took another deep breath to steady himself. “Gene, it’s me—Fausto.”
“Isn’t that strange? I was actually planning to call you myself. I couldn’t decide whether to do it tonight, or tomorrow. Maybe I was putting it off.” There was a rueful tone in Gene’s voice. “I got your letter. I have it right here in front of me. It was so sweet.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.”
“I was putting off calling you, too. You know, hesitating? Because I was afraid you might still be mad at me. That’s why I wrote to you, instead.”
“I was never mad at you, Fausto. Don’t be silly. It’s like I told you—I was just kind of taken by surprise, that’s all. You and Marc tricking together. I have to admit the thought freaked me out, at first. It’s still hard for me to think of Marc as old enough to be sexually active—with anybody. Let alone a man I know, the way I know you.”
“Is everything okay between you two?”
“Everything’s fine. Marc is a big boy now. A grown man, even though I hate to admit it. He’s going to have to make his own decisions, and lead his own life.”
“And what about you and me? Is everything going to be okay between the two of us?”
“Everything between the two of us, Fausto, is still a little…complicated, it seems to me. Complicated, and unsettled.”
“Gene, I want to see you again.”
“I want to see you again, too. That goes without saying.”
“When?”
“Soon, I hope. Give me a few days to clear my schedule, and then I’ll let you know. Where are you
calling from, anyway? Are you back home in LA?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad you got home safely.”
Fausto told Gene about spending the weekend at Brent’s new house, and about meeting Paul.
“It sounds great,” Gene commented. “Are you having fun?”
“I am now. I wasn’t before, really, because I was kind of preoccupied, thinking about you.”
Gene laughed. “I’m flattered. And I’m a little jealous. I wish I was there with you guys. It sounds like the kind of party I’d enjoy. Do think this guy Paul is Brent’s boyfriend?”
Fausto hadn’t even considered such a possibility. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. At first, I took it for granted that Paul is straight. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Hoards of adoring fans, male and female, take it for granted that Brent South is one hundred percent straight,” Gene reminded Fausto, a bit cynically. “But you told me he considers himself bi.”
“True. He plays on the same team you do, Gene.”
“Touché. I guess I had that one coming to me,” Gene said, with a laugh.
“It’s a big house. We all have separate bedrooms.”
“I don’t recall asking you about the sleeping arrangements, Fausto.”
“I’m volunteering the information.”
“Fausto, I don’t pretend to have any kind of exclusive claim on you. If you and your buddy Brent want to have some—you know, some guy fun this weekend, go right ahead.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“I’m getting a little envious, just thinking about it—and thinking about it is also getting me more than a little horny,” Gene admitted. “But there’s enough of you to go around, big guy. I’m willing to share.”
“Gene, I’m in love with you.”
There was a pause at the other end of the connection. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I do mean it.”
“I can’t talk about things like that over the phone,” Gene said, almost brusquely. “We can talk about it when I see you. But for the record—oh hell, I’m in love with you, too. You horny bastard,” Gene added, affectionately.
The Fortunes of Fausto (Siren Publishing Allure ManLove) Page 20