This is a work of gay erotic fiction. It contains graphic descriptions of sex between adult consenting males. Do not read it if such scenes are offensive to you, if they are illegal where you are, or if you are underage in your jurisdiction. None of these events or characters are real.
Your encouraging comments are greatly appreciated.
CLOSETS CHAPTER SEVEN POOL PARTY
Lonnie, Calvin, and I hit the shower again, and the three of us set to work preparing, as best we could, for a possible but unpredictable invasion of guests in the evening. In the dining room, we set up a modest dessert table, with coffee and tea, and in the library, we put out some sherry, brandy, and other after-dinner liqueurs, just in case. At the pool, we set up more of the desserts, along with snack items we found already there or in the kitchen. The ice-maker was going, the beers, wines, and cheeses were chilled. Still, just getting out plates, napkins, glassware, and such took quite a while.
We then hit the kitchen and helped ourselves from the largesse there. Tonight was "casserole night." There would still be plenty for the gathering following the funeral.
I strongly suggested that the big-mouth who had brought about this spontaneous and unpredictable event should stay up front with me from 7:00 to 9:00 (unofficial but honored "visitation" hours in the South), and Calvin good-naturedly agreed. He didn't have any appropriate clothing at my house, but any of mine would fit him fine, down to the size 10 shoes. I decked him out in a tan suit, and myself in a blue blazer with khakis, and I sent Lonnie, still happily naked, out to the pool garden to receive the club men back there.
Calvin hung out in the front much of the time, and he directed men who were casually (or barely) dressed around the side of the house to the back, and those more seriously dressed, or with wives in tow, to the front door, where I greeted them. As we feared, some of Grand-daddy's associates, and some neighbors, dropped by simply because they saw the cars parked near the house and deduced that I was "receiving." I had thirty or so people to chat with, mostly business acquaintances of Grand-daddy, and I had to admit, grudgingly, that the opportunity to meet them was going to be helpful at the funeral tomorrow, and in the weeks to come as I sorted out the estate. They put a pretty good dent into the food supply, and were not bashful with the drinks in the library, either.
One woman stared at me relentlessly until I was beginning to become rather uncomfortable. I was standing in the long hallway that runs the width of the house, which Grandmother had made into a kind of gallery of family portraits and photographs, conversing innocuously with a pair of my grandparents' old friends who seemed unable to make it to the front door and out of the house. Goodbyes can take longer than visits in South Carolina. Eventually, the couple left, and the woman explained herself to me. She had known Grand-daddy from church, but she had also been my dad's high school trig teacher. I had been standing, unwittingly, right beside my father's high school graduation portrait, and this poor woman had been fighting the unreasonable notion that she was seeing Jimmy Redivivus before her eyes. She just wouldn't shut up about it. She made me go up and down the hallway, examining all the pictures there, and dissecting every feature of face and body. I had probably never paid any real attention to any of these pictures. They were just there, part of the wall. But I had to admit that she, and all the other dozens of people who boringly brought it to my attention, had a point: I did look like a clone to my father, who himself bore a remarkable resemblance to the younger versions of J. P. III. I had a lot of my mother in my psyche, but my body was all Jim Carter.
Then, I had a revelation: that might explain a peculiar behavior of Dalton DuPree that I had noticed. Sometimes, it seemed he could hardly look at me-he cast his eyes downward or off to the side. Other times, especially if I did not seem to be noticing, he gazed at me intently, with a deep and soulful expression. If the belief that was building in me was true, that he and Dad had been paramours, then I might be causing him considerable pain, just by being here and looking so damn much like his late lover. But I had only that snatch of suspect memory and an even more suspect dream to go on in support of my theory, no real evidence whatsoever. I resolved to speak to Bryce, if I ever got to see him again, and see if he could shed any light on the question.
There were pictures of the DuPree family on our wall, too. One was of both families gathered together, when Dad and Dalton were in their early teens. It was at the beach, and the whole bunch were in swimwear. They were a handsome lot, clearly having a happy holiday together. The color of the photo was somewhat faded, but it seemed like the Peter DuPree of that time had kind of strawberry blond hair (it had been white as long as I had known him.) His wife, Emmy's, hair was a light brown color, and her skin fair. I could see some of the delicacy of her facial features in Dalton, too, but none of the coloring. Bryce also, though somewhat fair skinned, had dark hair, and both of them were taller than the senior generation. It struck a silly chord of pride in me that the men of my family bred so much more true to type than the DuPrees.
I resolved to try to engage Dalton in conversation more, to wear down any hang- ups my resemblance to Dad might give him by building up his awareness of my own distinct personality. It seemed like a merciful thing to do, and helpful to me in the long run, too. Besides, it might somehow throw me into Bryce's path more, as I knew without conscious thought, I wanted very much.
Nine o'clock came, and the well-wishers retreated like Johnston's army from Atlanta. Calvin had been inside schmoozing the visitors with me for the last hour or so, and I had something new to scratch my head over-the puzzled and bemused expressions of my guests on seeing him co-host their visit with me, contrasted with his poise and casual elegance. They clearly didn't know quite what to make of it-him the yard boy, son of the house-keeper, dressed better than anyone, and clearly present not as butler or bartender, or as family retainer, but as a family member. What a shift since the morning! I liked to think that I would have welcomed him in this position even without the morning's revelations, but would I have really? It was hard to be sure. But there was no question in my mind that if Calvin had not known what he now knew about his family and mine, he would have stayed outside rather than be seen assuming that kind of easy familiarity with me and the white townspeople. What an odd society we live in, and how easily we allow ourselves to be molded by it, I mused. Still, I was pleased with him for his helpfulness and adaptability. And he was unquestionably a decorative addition to the household in any case.
We were free to go to the real party out back now. We darkened the front rooms and discarded our clothes upstairs. Then, properly naked, we walked out into the garden congratulating ourselves on having pulled off a good save, socially speaking. The lights in the rear garden were dim, apparently just the pool lights and some candles. There was some soft background music and a low hum of male conversation that were scarcely audible at the back of the house.
When we walked through the moon-gate, our eyes were met by some fifty naked or nearly-naked men, standing in small groups with drinks in hand, or handing onto the side of the pool together, or seated at tables. They made a handsome band. Hebron as a whole was not a very slender or physically fit town, but the gay and bisexual men of Elysium were, regardless of their age, undoubtedly leaner and firmer than their counterparts in town. And in the center of it all, clearly reveling in his role as host, was Lonnie. He had managed everything brilliantly, keeping everyone both quiet and content at the same time with his diplomacy and hospitality.
He was a fantastic front-man for me, though, because he had someone watching the gate for our entrance, and as we stepped inside, the music instantly changed to a hipper and louder selection, and the garden lights rose. Every head turned in our direction. Calvin, now turning modest on me, stepped back, while the men in the garden came forward almost as one to greet me, welcome me, and offer their condolences. It was kind of like running for governor in a bizarre, gay nudist dream, but it almost made me cry again, too. I was just beginning to learn how much the gay men of Hebron cared for my grandfather, and their sympathy to me for his loss, especially in the light of my father's tragic death earlier, was pretty overwhelming. Lonnie worked his way to me with a martini, which he replaced at intervals, and the show was on.
It is remarkable how natural it feels to be naked among a crowd, when they are also naked and everyone treats it as a normal thing. Several couples were dancing on the pool deck. Ordinary and mundane social conversations proceeded exactly as if we were wearing tuxedos at some fancy function. I moved about from guest to guest for a couple of hours, often standing right next to a couple who were making out with stiffies waving, or a twosome or threesome engaged in oral sex right beside me. I noticed bowls of condoms on the tables. Lonnie had anticipated everything.
And sure enough, it wasn't long before I noticed the first couple fucking, one slim young man who introduced himself to me earlier as Lewis, squirming ecstatically on the lap of a husky, dark-complexioned fellow named Stan. Next, there were a pair going at it doggy-style at pool-side, and then a couple tried the missionary position on the pool diving board.
Being a bit voyeuristic as well as exhibitionistic, I found all this pretty entertaining. My eyes were restless, though. I kept scanning the crowd, not only checking for newcomers I might not have greeted yet-the group kept changing as more arrived, and a few had to leave-but more importantly, for a sight of Bryce. Surely, Calvin would have told him, of all people, that we'd be out here tonight. If he was at Peter's house, he'd hear the music, anyway. But 11:00 came, then 11:30, and there had been no sight of him.
I was on my fifth martini, and feeling a little tight. Lonnie came over with number six, and I was slurring my speech a bit. He suggested that I have something to eat, and led me over to the cabana, where he prepared a plate of fruit and veggies for me. I was not very cooperative, however. I remember commenting that I wanted meat, specifically sausages with cream filling. I started swaying and he caught me, and I grabbed his dick. A few guys nearby laughed, and Lonnie grabbed me under the arms and sort of danced me gracefully over to the door to the sitting room behind the serving area, which was darkened. He dragged me inside, and we fell onto a daybed, me giggling like a ten-year-old girl. For once, Lonnie was being the mature and responsible one. I would have none of it. Having not been fucked for going on eight hours now, I latched onto him like a lamprey eel.
"I want your dick, Tiger," I slurred. "Come on, fuck me."
It actually took some doing to persuade him. Finally, he relented, on condition that I get up and try to get back to being civil with the guests as soon as we finished.
"Yeth, thur, Lootenant," I promised.
He ran out for a condom, and in seconds he had my knees pinned back to my shoulders, my ass rotated up for easiest access and deepest penetration. I dimly heard the throbbing of the music and the murmur of the voices nearby as I felt the rim of his dickhead press past my sphincter muscle. I moaned, rather too loudly. He slid smoothly all the way into my bowel, and pressed his shoulders behind my knees. I was folded up like an auditorium chair, and he was pumping me smoothly, like he meant business.
I had my eyes closed and was sort of crooning softly, caught between a martini haze and a pre-orgasmic stupor. I heard the door open, then a voice in the dimness.
"Oh, sorry to intrude. They just told me Jamie might be in here. Very sorry."
I sensed Lonnie turning to look behind him, slowing in his thrusting.
"Yeah, man, I'm here. You wanna be next?" I began drunkenly.
Then it hit me like a frying pun upside of the head, that voice. It was Bryce. My mind leaped to half-sober in a fraction of a second.
"Oh, Bryce, is that you? I'm here, just give me a minute, I...."
"I'm really sorry, Jamie, I didn't mean to intrude. It was nothing, really. I'll see you tomorrow." His voice was cool, controlled, courteous, civil. It cut like a knife through my heart.
And with that, he disappeared.
My head fell back against the mattress. Lonnie slammed at my ass with renewed vigor. Almost immediately, he began to blow semen into the condom deep within my gut. His chest sweated against the backs of my legs. His scotchy breath neared my face, as he kissed me gently and apologetically.
A tear ran down my right cheek.
Oh, god, what have I done now, I thought. I'm truly and for all time, fucked.