His "other" son was coming for a visit. Well, he was his real son's best friend, but nonetheless he'd always hung around the house, playing, visiting, growing up as if his own kid's adopted brother, so he felt like the "other" son. Anyway, he was coming for a visit. He was in his thirties now, all grown up, a man not a boy. Strange that he was still unmarried. Oh well, he'd certainly played the field and gone out with enough young women throughout the years. Maybe he just hadn't met the right one. Oh he was certainly looking forward to the visit.
He went around the house, straightening up, organizing, throwing away, all the normal activities people go through when a guest was coming to visit. He made up the guest bed, putting fresh towels out. He sat down and planned the menus, making up a shopping list. He went out and bought, stocking up the fridge and the kitchen, putting drinks in to cool, taking out a bottle of wine to come up to room temperature.
He began to prepare a stew, chopping up the carrots, onions and celery, putting them into the pot to sweat out. He prepared some more onions, mushrooms and garlic and put them into the oven to roast gently. Then he cut up the chicken, removed the aromatics from the pot, and started browning the chicken. When it was all nicely golden, he poured in some wine and deglazed the pan; reducing the wine and adding the vegetables back in with the roasted ones fresh out of the oven. He carefully placed the chicken on top, added some rosemary and artichoke hearts and topped everything off with more wine. The he covered the pot and put it in the oven. There it would cook quietly while he went to the airport.
A last, quick check around the house and he was off. It was a short half hour drive to the airport. If he'd timed it right his friend would be just coming out of the baggage area. He'd been humming to himself as he drove and he suddenly stopped. He realized that he was thinking of this young man as a friend and not as a son. He shook his head, wondering when that change had happened, and starting humming again.
He drove up to the airport, crawling along the access road in front of Baggage, hoping to see him come out. No luck! He drove around again, knowing he couldn't just park and wait. Darn! Here they were, years after 9-11 and security was still tight at airports. His cell phone beeped. He fumbled getting out, hurrying to answer. It was him and he was waiting in front of Baggage. He must have just missed him on the first go around. He pushed the gas and sped up. There he was! He pulled over quickly and got out of the car. At his age, hopping out just didn't happen anymore. They hugged, smiling and laughing; putting the luggage into the trunk, and "hopping" back into the car.
As they drove home they chatted, falling easily back into their old relationship -- teasing, laughing, sharing snippets of life. And yes, that undercurrent of flirting was still there. How well he remembered that!
As the young boy had grown into an adolescent, then a teenager and finally into an attractive young man, an element of flirtation had slowly crept into the relationship. They'd never talked about it, never acknowledged the looks, the interest. After all, he'd been jailbait, and it had almost had an incestuous quality about it -- his son's best friend! No, he had good boundaries and nothing had ever happened. It had just been some harmless flirtation. But boy, it had given him some interesting daydreams.
They unloaded the car and walked into the house. "Your bedroom's the second door on the right. I've put fresh towels out, and this bathroom is yours while you're here."
"Thanks. I'll find everything OK."
"Alright then. I'll just check on things in the kitchen. Come on in when you're ready. There's wine ..."
"OK."
He went into the kitchen and checked on the chicken. Got some rice started, using some of the chicken-wine broth for added flavor, and began cutting up some green onions for garnish. He pulled out some lettuce, quickly chopped up a tomato, added some cucumber and a dressing. There, it was done. He poured out two glasses of wine and took them into the living room. His guest joined him and they began chatting again.
"So, how's the career?"
"Great! Remember that architect you were always reading -- The Not So Big House? Well, I took some classes with her and then started working with her. I've begun working out my own designs now. I've done really well with the. It's been really exciting!"
"Wow. Is she really as exciting in person?"
And they were off. His guest rushed back to his room and brought out a portfolio of designs. He came back and sat down beside him on the couch and they pored over the drawings, their arms brushing against each other as their hands traced out the drawings. Their legs touched and pressed against each other as they went back and forth in their animated discussion.
The broke and went to the dining room to eat. He started pulling things out of the oven and his guest just naturally fell into helping. He fluffed the rice and took the wine bottle to the table. They worked side by side getting the last minute things finished, as if they'd been doing it for years. That sat down and ate, dinking more wine and catching up.
"So, what's up? You didn't tell me why you were coming down."
"Well, I've been offered a job down here. I wanted to come and look it over a bit, do some on-site research."
"That's great. I'd love to have you live here. I'd get to see more of you. You're all grown up now, and it would be fun to get to know you as a real friend."
"Well, if I do like the job and take it, could I maybe stay with you for a start while I look around and get settled?"
"Sure. I'd love to have you around."
As they continued to talk, he realized that he was really looking forward to having a long-term guest, even if only for a short while. He was lonely. Ever since the divorce, he'd been living alone. It wasn't too bad. He'd gotten used to it. He kept up with his friends. He spoke with his ex and his son, but they didn't live here. Sometimes, he was lonely. Having somebody around the house again might be nice.
The next day he woke up smiling. He stretched, scratched, stretched again and realized that he was feeling good. This was new. The last while hadn't been filled with hope and happiness. But he was feeling good. He wondered why, and then he remembered. He had a guest.
He got up quickly, put on his robe and went out to the kitchen. He made a full pot of coffee, more than his usual. He got out some cheese sliced the bread, and set the kitchen table. Then he walked back to his bedroom, glancing into the guest room. His guest lay there on his stomach, covers thrown back, the light and shadow following the curves of his body. His mind remembered, his mental screen playing back another morning, years ago -- the same body, covers thrown back the same way, light flowing along then, too. Such a quick memory! Such a quick physical response!
He shook his head once and moved on, stepping into the shower, turning it on cold to help his body recover from that quick, stolen glance, a glance into the past. He dressed quickly, moving back to the kitchen. He couldn't resist stealing another glance -- and stopped. His guest had turned over, leaving little to the imagination. His breathing stopped, his hand reached for the doorjamb, his body leaned in as his eyes looked hungrily at the scene laid bare before him. He took a breath, and then another, and turned back towards the kitchen. He was too old for this.
He poured the coffee, added milk and sugar, stirred and went to sit down. What was going on? He remembered all the harmless flirting over the years. But his guest had done that with everybody, hadn't he? He was just a growing boy -- though it was pretty clear that he wasn't a boy any longer. Old longings stirred. He shook his head, moving on as he heard sounds coming from the bedrooms. Shower noises followed, then the slap of still wet feet on the wooden floors. His guest stood there, hair still wet, body with small patches of damp glistening, covered only by a small towel, which seemed to be getting smaller as he looked.
"Coffee's in the kitchen...help yourself."
"OK," his guest grunted. He smiled, remembering that his guest had never been much of a morning person. He came back in, flopped down on the couch, seriously threatening the integrity of the towel, coffee sloshing a bit in the cup, and making some sort of annoyed grunt at the temerity of the coffee in burning his fingers.
"What do you want to do today?"
"Well, once I fully wake up, I thought I would go out and do some research, go in to talk with the job and just get a feel for the place."
"Do you want me to come with you, show you around a bit, or ...?"
"Can you take me around this morning, and then let me loose this afternoon?"
"Sure. When you're ready, there's some breakfast on the kitchen table."
"Oh gawd, not food, not yet." He shuddered theatrically.
They sat there, in a friendly silence, letting the sun come up, the day begin, and slowly waking up. Eventually they went in and ate; he all dressed up, his guest in the slippery towel. They separated after breakfast for a few minutes, and then reconvened at the front door. He drove and they toured the downtown, getting a feel for the city, slowly reconnecting with each other. They stopped for a quick lunch and then he left him downtown, with a transit map and directions. He went home and began preparing dinner, doing odd jobs around the house to keep busy, not sure why he was feeling restless.
The doorbell rang. He went quickly to answer it. His guest came in, excited, chattering about all he had seen that afternoon, telling him about the new company and what the job would be like; filled with nervous energy. He got them drinks so they could sit down. But his guest couldn't sit down. He kept jumping up and walking, talking the whole time about the possibilities of the job.
"So, did you say `yes'?"
"Yes."
"Good. What's next?"
"If you're still willing, I'd like to move in with you within the month. It'll take me just a little bit to get everything packed and moved down. Could we put things in your garage, or find a storage unit close by? There's not all that much."
"Sure. I told you. I'd love to have you here. Whenever and however it works out for you."
And just like that, he had a roommate. He hadn't had anyone living over for any length of time since the divorce. It would be good to have someone living with him again.
The day had come. His young friend was moving in today. He had gone home to the north, packed up his stuff, and driven a U-Haul down. He was due to arrive any moment. He had phoned earlier to say he was within an hour of the house, and it was an hour now. The front door bell rang. He ran to the front door and there was his young friend, and his son, his natural son. What a surprise! Hugs were exchanged all around. Obviously they had planned this between them. It was great to have them both in the house again. They unloaded the trailer, putting a few things into the bedroom, storing boxes and furniture in the garage. They neatly piled things, so that he could get at some of his boxes as he needed to. Everything was labeled with its contents and numbered. Knowing him, he probably had a master packing list somewhere so that he could find things, organized alphabetically. After a couple of hour's hard work, everything was unpacked. They took the trailer back to the depot, picked up a 12-pack of beer, some extra-large pizzas and returned home. Tonight was laying about the house night and recovering from the trip and the unpacking. The young men went into the guest room, now his young friend's room, took turns showering and changing, and came back into the living room. They dug into the food and beer, eating with little conversation. Then, filled up, they sat back to watch TV, talk and just relax.
"So, what have you got planned? It's a long weekend, you know."
"Well, I thought we would wander around tomorrow and do some sightseeing together, finish the unpacking -- you know, get my clothes out of the boxes -- by the way, thanks for emptying the dresser and the closet. That's about all. I don't have to report to work until Tuesday."
"Great. Are the two of you going to do all the sightseeing, or did you want me to come along?"
His son burst out, "Dad, of course we want you to come along. We always have fun with you." He felt good inside. He'd always had fun with them, too. "Good. Then I'm going to bed. I'm tired. I'll see you in the morning." And off he went to the bedroom.
He lay there in bed, listening to the sounds of the two of them, remembering all the times when those sounds had been so familiar. It was as if all the years had disappeared. He was glad to have them in the house; he looked forward to the next few months.
His friend came bouncing into the house, arms loaded with food, a smile filling his face. "I got my first paycheck today. Now I can pay you some rent or something. Let's celebrate!"
"Sure. Let's celebrate, but you're not paying me any rent."
"But, I'm getting paid now. I can't just mooch off you."
"You're not mooching. You're my guest. I never asked you for rent when you kept coming over when you were younger, did I? I'm not going to do it now. "
"But ..."
"No `buts' about it. If you really want to do something, you can help with some groceries every now and then."
"OK, but I'm taking you out to dinner tonight, and I'm taking you away this weekend -- and there are no `buts' about that, too."
He saw that he couldn't say anything to that, so he got up and said, "OK, where are we going?"
They went off to one of his favorite restaurants, a new little Japanese bar. They ordered their food, luxuriating in the little warm hand towels while the server brought their sake. He found that his friend had learned how to use chopsticks in the intervening years as they dug into their food. They chatted back and forth about the new job, the one that had finally given his friend his first paycheck. And they laughed, and joked with each other. As the evening wore on, and the sake flowed generously, he found that his friend was looking him quizzically. "What? What are you looking at?"
"You," his friend replied. "I'm looking at you. Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are you gay?" He rushed on, "You know it doesn't matter to me if you are. It's just that I've suspected it for a long time, and, well, I just want to know. Are you gay?"
His head had cleared with dizzying speed as the question finally sank in. What was he going to say? What was going on, why ask after all these years? He stuttered as he tried to formulate an answer, not sure where this was going.
"It's OK. Really. You know I've teased you all these years, and you've teased me right back. I just think that I want to get it out in the open. I'm an adult now. I really am, and I want to know."
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes. I'm gay."
"I thought so. So am I."
"What?"
"Yep. So am I."
"Do your parents know?" ["God, what an inane question," he thought to himself.]
"Oh yes. I told them a year back; oh, and so does your son."
"So, I'm the last to know?"
"Pretty much," he said cheekily, smiling at him with that cute grin as he sipped his sake. "So, do you have any preferences for our weekend away?" And the conversation moved on, leaving him confused and not sure what was really going on.
He came home Friday afternoon tired; it had been a long day. Why was it that retirement was just so darn busy? Weren't you supposed to be resting, or relaxing or playing golf all the time? He put his key in the door and there were two suitcases in the entryway. One looked just like his. What was going on?
"Hey, about time you came home," his young friend said cheerily. "I've packed your suitcase. I think I got everything you'll need. We're all set. So, go ahead and get changed and I'll just put everything in the car." He seemed to run out the door, carrying both suitcases. He popped the trunk and put them both in. Then he rushed right back [All this rushing back and forth was getting him tired. He had a headache. He just wanted to take his shoes off, sit down and have a quiet drink.] "Well, go and get changed. Don't just stand there."
"What the hell is going on? I'm tired. Where are we going?"
"It's our weekend away. You didn't forget, did you? We're off to the coast. I made the reservations, filled the car, packed the bags. Everything is ready except you." He stared at him, stared hard.
"OK, OK, I forgot -- just for a minute. I'll get changed and be right out. Just wait a minute." He walked, slowly, back to his bedroom and changed. He popped a couple of aspirins, maybe he'd better make it four, took a quick drink from the bathroom tap, and trudged back out. "Did you get everything?"
"Yep. Everything! Trust me; everything you need is right there."
He was whisked out the door, down the steps and into the car. Somehow his seat belt got buckled, they backed out of the driveway and they were off. Everything had happened so fast that he wasn't even sure he remembered where they were going. Then it came back. They were going to the coast, to a little B and B that he had liked on the internet. His friend had made the reservations and taken care of everything. It was kind of nice to have someone else making the decisions for a change. It was kind of nice to be taken care of, and to have someone so full of energy interested in spending time with him. He slowly relaxed as the aspirin began to work. His friend chattered for the next couple of hours. It was amazing how much he had to talk about; he was absolutely full of energy. What was going on?
They arrived in the early evening, it was still light out. The view from the B and B was breathtaking, the beach lying spread out just in front of them, waves slowly rolling up the sand, small boats bobbing in the distance with their little white sails, seagulls flying overhead with their incessant crying. His friend ran in, got them registered, took the bags to the room and came back, all before he had really gotten himself out of the car, oriented and turned around from watching the sea.
"Let's go eat," he said.
"But, I haven't seen the room yet. I haven't had time to unpack or, or anything."
"Don't worry. There will be plenty of time. Let's go eat."
"But ... OK, let's go eat," he had been won over by his young friend's expression, almost pleading. He realized just how much he loved his friend. He might be a generation younger, he might be impetuous and full of energy, and awfully bossy right now, but he loved him and he didn't want to hurt him. If it was so important to him that they go eat now, right now, well then they could go eat now.
Off they went, down the boardwalk, chatting, laughing, arms occasionally brushing against each other. There were restaurants all over, obviously catering to the tourist trade. They all looked good, with menus in the front windows and sandwich board signs proclaiming the Daily Specials. The prices actually didn't look all that bad. And fresh fish was fresh fish. It had always been one of his favorite things to eat. They went in, sat down and started the difficult task of choosing something from the menus. They had chosen the right restaurant. The menu was small, a limited selection. But it was freshly Xeroxed, rather than a fancy printed menu. It looked as if they changed it every day ... and that boded well for the food. They ordered two different fish dishes, small salads and some fresh shrimp and mussels to start. The waiter -- cute looking kid in his white shirt with rolled up sleeves, long black pants and fresh white apron (well, it had been fresh and white a couple of hours ago, now, it was a little stained and more than a little wrinkled), hair cut short -- probably a college kid working for the summer -- hmmm, nice ass, too. He startled a bit, feeling somewhat guilty, when he saw that his friend had noticed him noticing the waiter.
"Yes, he is cute," his friend said. "I noticed him, too. Nice ass."
"You know, I'm not sure how comfortable I am talking with you about cute boys."
"Why? I noticed him. I can see that you noticed him. After all, you're not dead yet."
"Well of course I'm not...it's just that ..."
"Oh come off it. So you still like young boys. No big deal."
"I do not. What do you mean I...?"
"Gotcha!" his friend said, laughing. "Boy, do I know how to push your buttons or not!"
He settled for viciously tearing a bread roll apart into little pieces, occasionally glaring at his friend, who was still giggling at him. His friend stretched out his hand, putting it on top of his and stilling the massacre of the bread roll. "Hey. It's OK. I'm not making fun of you -- just teasing. That's how we communicate, isn't it, with a lot of teasing." He realized that he was a little teary-eyed. His friend reached over his other hand and wiped the tear away with a finger. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset you. I want this to be a wonderful weekend. I'm trying to say `thank you' for everything you've done over the years."
He shook his head, "You know, sometimes I just feel lonely. When you teased me like that it just kind of caught up with me by surprise." He looked down at his hands, captured by his friend's larger ones, embarrassed by the emotions. He was surprised when his friend got up, and came around the table to sit beside him. His friend put his arm around his shoulders and hugged him; one hand covered his hands on the table. He surprised himself by leaning into the hug. What was he doing?
The waiter came back, cute butt and all, and they moved apart and turned towards the meal. It was a great meal; everything was just right and tasted great. And even more, the conversation was fun and the mood seemed just right. They finished a bottle of wine between them, good thing they only had to walk back to the B and B.
After dinner they went for a leisurely walk by the beach and then back to the B and B. "Finally I get to see the room," he groused. "Yep, you do." The key turned and they stepped in to a lovely, large room with a fireplace in the sitting room and a door leading into a bedroom beyond. "Wow. You got us a suite I wasn't expecting that." He looked around, struck by the homey comfort of the room. He walked over to the window and saw that it looked over the beach they had just walked along. He glanced over into the bedroom and stopped. He walked over and looked into the room more closely, then turned around. "What's going on? There's only one bed. It's a lovely four-poster, but there's only one bed."
"Yes. I know." His friend held out his hand, beckoning. "Come over here and sit with me." He went over and sat down beside his young friend. "There's only one bed." His friend took his hand, "I want you to sleep with me. I could tell you a long story about the rooms all being filled, but the truth is I want you to sleep with me."
"Why?"
"Because I love you." He rushed on, "I love you. I have loved you since I was a little boy. You were always there for me. You hugged me, you laughed with me, you played with me when I was little. As I got older you listened to me. You never made fun of me or laughed at me. You listened to everything. And you always forgave me. You encouraged me. You were there for me. I couldn't tell you that I loved you. I didn't know what to do with that. I went away to school and I figured out that I liked boys, men, older men. It didn't matter who I slept with, I always thought of you. And now you're not married anymore; now you're available. You haven't gone out with anyone since I've been here. You haven't laughed or giggled with anyone on the phone. The only person you've been flirting with has been me. And I want to sleep with you. No." He shook his head, "I want to make love to you."
"But ..."
"Shhh. Don't tell me you're too old. I know how old you are. It doesn't matter. Don't even try to tell me that you don't love me. I know that's not true -- and so do you." His friend leaned over and kissed him, gently at first, lips just brushing his, teasing, playing. And then he moved into the kiss, and it got stronger, harder, more demanding, and he opened to him as his friend pushed him over onto his back and stretched out over top, lips crushing lips. His friend got up, his hand pulling him up, too. "Come to bed. I want to make love to you."
And so they did.