The following narrative involves sexually-explicit erotic events between men. If you shouldn't be reading this sort of thing, don't.
This is a work of fiction. No similarity between the characters here and any real person is intended or should be inferred. Lake Polk is a fictional town, though I fear it is like all too many real communities.
In the world of this story, the characters don't always use condoms. In the real world, you should care enough about yourself and others to always practice safe sex.
The author retains all rights. No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the author's consent.
Thanks, as always, to Tommy, Mickey, Patrick, Ash, and Evan.
Timmead88@Yahoo.com Chapter 8
"Well," Doug said, "when Hallie told me that, I was floored, as you can imagine."
"Oh, I don't know, stud. I am in love with you. I can easily imagine that Hallie might be, too."
Stan and Doug were sitting on Doug's screen porch drinking merlot. Doug had been telling his lover about his lunch with Hallie Hall earlier that day.
"So, Don Juan, what happened next?"
"It's not funny, Stanley! Call me stupid, unobservant, whatever. I had no idea that she wanted any more out of the relationship than I did. I thought we had agreed to be just good friends, to go places and do things together because it was convenient and, sure, because we enjoyed each other's company."
"Did you two ever do anything physical?"
"Nothing more than hugs or a peck on the cheek once in a while."
"You'd think she would have gotten some kind of message from that."
"Oh, we talked about that. She said that since the divorce she hadn't dated very many other guys, and when they came on to her she quickly discouraged them. She just wasn't ready for much physical contact with a man yet. So she was grateful at first that I didn't try to push the physical thing. Then she thought perhaps she had intimidated me and that she needed to set about encouraging me a little. Then the rumor made its rounds of the city, and she got the message."
Stan went into the kitchen, got the bottle, came back out, and topped up their glasses. "So what happened next?"
"Well, at first I couldn't think what to say. Then I apologized, of course. I told her that I really loved her as a friend and that I could see why she would be furious with me for not telling her I was gay."
"What did she say to that?"
"She said that's what hurt the most, that I hadn't trusted her enough to tell her the truth. I said I certainly understood that. Then I asked her what her reaction was to the fact that I'm gay."
Stan studied Doug's face. "And . . . ?"
"She's an amazing woman. She said she had had lesbian and gay friends in college. She said she had long since quit wondering about what we do in the bedroom because she thought she really didn't want to know. She said she still had some religious reservations. Then she said she knew that we would be in for a tough time if we stayed in Lake Polk and that she wished us luck."
"That was decent of her."
"Oh, yeah, Hallie's that kind of person. But then she went on to say she couldn't tell me she had forgiven me for deceiving her. She still had to work on that. She said she really felt I had betrayed her. And again, she mentioned the matter of my not trusting her with the truth."
"Doug, babe, don't take this the wrong way, but I see her point. Truth is essential in any relationship. Sorry, didn't mean to sound pompous."
"It's OK, Stan. You're right. I just hope Hallie can see her way to forgiving me eventually."
"Me, too."
Doug stood, took his glass and Stan's and went into the kitchen. Stan followed him.
Doug had made a pot of chili and a pan of hot corn bread. They took bowls of chili and a basket of corn bread to the table on the porch, where they continued to talk.
"You haven't told me about your day," Doug said as Stan was putting apple butter on a piece of corn bread.
"I've been trying to forget it."
"Uh oh! Bad, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Come, on, babe, better tell me about it."
"Doug, chili and cornbread is real comfort food. I'm going to enjoy it. I'll tell you later, OK?"
"Sure. Enjoy. Didn't mean to pressure you. Do you remember what you fixed for me the first time I was at your place?"
"Yeah, but you make better corn bread," he said.
"Thanks, babe. It's my mother's recipe."
Neither man said much as they finished their meal, both obviously thinking about the problems they were facing.
When they had loaded the dishwasher, Stan sat on the sofa. Instead of sitting in his usual chair, Doug sat beside him and put his arm around Stan's shoulders.
"OK, Stanley, whatever it was, you'd better tell me."
STAN:
That afternoon I was ass-deep in paper work. The last thing I needed was an interruption. On the other hand, I had made it clear that ANYONE could come in and see me if my door was open. If it was closed, they'd have to deal with Karen, my secretary.
So, just as I was trying to figure out how to squeeze some funds out of the budget to support the city's soccer league for elementary-school kids, in walked Clint Henderson. Clint, a member of the city commission, was a guy I'd thought would be easy to work with. He seemed friendly, committed to his job. Being on the city commission isn't a full-time job. Members get some pay, but not enough to live on by any means. I don't know what Clint does as his main job.
Anyway, he shut the door and stood in front of my desk. I asked him to sit, but he refused.
"Mason, you misrepresented yourself when you applied for this job."
"Sure you don't want to sit down, Clint?"
"No, sir, I don't want to sit."
"Well, then would you explain what you mean about my having misrepresented myself?"
He glared at me. "You should have had the decency to tell us when you applied for this job that you were a goddamned pervert! Since you didn't, I'm going to do everything I can to get your contract cancelled."
"Pervert, huh? Would you care to elaborate?"
"Oh, come on, Mason. Everybody in town knows you are a queer. And you should have had the decency to tell us before you came to town to flaunt your perversion."
"And how, Mr. Henderson," I asked, "have I flaunted anything here in town?"
"Well," he said, beginning to look a bit uncomfortable, "it's no secret that you and your pervert lover were brazen enough to kiss, and French kiss at that, in public on Key West."
"Not granting for a minute that what you say is true, how is that flaunting anything here in Lake Polk?"
He smiled. "Well, in your position as city manager, you represent us wherever you go. What you do in Key West is the same as doing it in Lake Polk."
"Tell me, did you see me do what you allege that I have done?"
"No, but--"
"Do you know the individual who claims to have seen me kissing someone on Key West?"
"Well, no, but--"
"Henderson, you should get legal advice about the laws of slander. Personally, I wouldn't consider myself slandered by someone who said I was gay. But others would. And you have no right going around spreading rumor."
"Listen, you fuckin' pervert. You can talk all the lawyer talk you want, but I'm going to get you out of this office. We don't need your kind in Lake Polk. You and your fag boyfriend might just as well start packing."
"Would you like to tell me who my `boyfriend' is supposed to be?"
"I don't know his name yet, but it shouldn't be too hard to find out. This is a small town, and you cain't keep a secret like that for long, you know."
"Assuming such a person exists, he might also have grounds for a slander suit unless you can come up with some proof of these accusations. And while we are talking law, you may be interested to know that it would be illegal for the City of Lake Polk to ask applicants for the city manager position if they are gay. And said applicants are under NO obligation to indicate their sexual preference when they apply for positions with the city. My contract for the year is legally unassailable, take it from me. So I advise you, Mr. Henderson, to go crawl back under your rock and keep your mouth shut. Now, get out of my office!"
"Hey," he said, "you got more balls than I'd have expected from a cocksuckin' faggot, but you listen to me. You and your kind aren't wanted in a nice, clean, God-fearing town like Lake Polk, and I'm going to see that you lose this job. If you know what's good for you, you might just as well pack up and go back where you came from."
I looked him in the eye. "You really should seek legal advice, you know. You may be in deeper shit than you ever imagined. Now, are you going to leave, or shall I call security?"
"Mason, you and your pansy boyfriend are an abomination in the sight of the Lord. I am going to make it my mission to do the Lord's work and get you out of this office and the two of you fudgepackers out of this town."
Stan and Doug were still sitting there after dinner in Doug's family room. Doug had asked Stan to tell him about the confrontation with the city commissioner that afternoon.
"Oh, I don't think there's much to worry about. It was just unpleasant. Actually, I think I'm more pissed than anything else."
Doug squeezed Stan's shoulders hard and then said, "Are you going to tell me what happened?"
"Do you know who Clint Henderson is?"
"Yeah, I remember him I think. Isn't he on the city commission? About my size and coloring, but sort of a wild-eyed looking character?"
Stan chuckled. "You got it. That's Clint. So, he came into my office this afternoon, shut the door and stood in front of my desk. I asked him to sit, but he refused. Then he said I had misrepresented myself when I applied for the job as city manager. I asked what he meant. He said that I should have indicated that I was a queer and that, since I hadn't, he was going to try to get my contract cancelled."
"I pointed out that it was illegal for the city to even ask if a candidate is gay, and that his objection to me had no legal force whatever. He said he would do whatever it takes' to get me out of that office. Then he said, You and that pansy boyfriend of yours are abominations in the sight of the Lord!' After which, he turned and left."
Doug chuckled.
"And what, lover, could you possibly find funny in that?"
"I'm your `pansy boyfriend.' You know, I've admitted to myself that I'm gay since I was a kid. I have been called a queer and a fag and a homo, and I've gotten used to those names, more or less. But I never thought of myself as a pansy before."
"I'm glad you could laugh. My first reaction was to tear the son of a bitch apart!"
"You're cute when you get protective."
"Dammit, Doug, this isn't funny. I hate his including you in his fucking vendetta."
"What can he really do, Stan?"
"My contract is iron-clad for a year. They'd have to prove that I did something criminal to get rid of me before next August. But if he gets the other commissioners on his side, they can make things unpleasant for me. What worries me, though, is that he and his kind can make things nasty for you, sweetheart." Stan swiveled around to look at Doug. "And I don't know whether I can protect you from that."
"Stan, babe, I feel guilty because all of this is going to make your life so difficult. Perhaps I should just go away." Stan started to say something, but Doug silenced him with a look. "Tell me, if it did all blow over, and they offered to extend your contract next year, would you want to continue in your job?"
"It's too soon to say. I'd have to see what happens. My instinct right now is just to go ahead, doing the best job I can as city manager. But I worry about you. God knows, I'd hate for you to go away, but I can understand if you wanted to just get out of here, especially after all you went through at Cranmer."
"No, babe, that's not what I meant. I want to be with you. I just offered to leave so as not to be an embarrassment or an encumbrance."
"Forget that. I need you here with me if you are willing to do that."
"This is where I want to be, Tiger."
Stan chuckled. "Funny. Trey, one of Mark's friends, is often called `Tiger.' He's always reminded me of a lion, though, because he has this tawny blond hair and hazel eyes. Nobody's ever called me that before."
"Well, I'll bet those pussies on the city commission won't know what hit them if they tangle with you, Mr. Mason."
"Dougie, I love your faith in me. But those `pussies' can make my life hell even if they can't boot me out of the office. Let me ask you this. You have made a pleasant life for yourself here -- up to now. If I resigned and moved away, would you like to try to reconstruct what you had?"
"No way. If you leave, buster, you've got to take me with you!"
Stan grabbed Doug behind the head and pulled him into a long, deep, vigorous kiss.
When they pulled apart, both a little giddy, Stan asked, "Is that what you'd like to do? Just get out of town?"
Doug thought about that for a while.
"This makes me furious. I think what we'd ought to do is stand up to the whole bigoted lot of them. That's what I'd say someone SHOULD do, if I weren't involved. But dammit, babe, I've been through this once. Nothing as overt, as nasty as what that son of a bitch Henderson said to you this afternoon, mind you, but nasty enough. Bigoted enough."
Stan squeezed Doug tightly. They remained that way, neither of them speaking for a while. Then Doug continued:
"I know very well what I think we should do. We should face them down. We should make an issue of this sort of sick, holier-than-thou bullshit. I know we should. I just don't know whether I can do it. I guess I'm getting what I deserved. I have lived here, gotten involved in the church and the Gardens, letting everyone think I was straight. Now that lie is coming back to haunt me with a vengeance. Something in me says just to get the hell out. But I can't leave you, Stan, whatever happens."
"Shhh, babe, it's OK. Come here."
Stan squeezed Doug, who rested his head on Stan's shoulder.
"We'll get through this, Dougie. And we'll do it together. Understand, though, I won't ask you to do anything you don't feel able to do. I'm sorry you have to go through all of this just because I happen to have a high-profile job. You know I would never do anything to hurt you, don't you?"
Doug straightened up. "Yes, Stan. I do know that. Whatever happens as a result of all this, you are NOT to feel guilty. Got that?"
Stan kissed the back of Doug's hand.
"I don't know how much courage I have, frankly," Doug said. "But I can't see myself leaving you to fight this fight alone. I hope I can be what you need me to be."
"Dougie, if you just keep on loving me, we'll manage. Let me do that fighting. You just be here for me, OK?"
"That makes me sound like such a wuss. Of course I'll be here for you."
By then it was 9:00. One of the habits the two had acquired was watching "West Wing" on Wednesday evenings. Stan liked the political bent of the program, and both men admired the writing, acting, and direction. Both of them also thought that several of the actors, especially Dule' Smith and Rob Lowe, were cute.
When the program was over, Stan switched off the television and said, "I suppose I should go home."
Doug chuckled. "I don't hear much conviction in those words. Why don't you put your car in the garage and spend the night?"
Stan flashed his brilliant grin and said, "Twist my arm," as he jumped up to go put his car away.
When he came back, he went around turning off lights.
"I take it we're going to bed," Doug observed.
"Eventually. Now, stud, come with me."
He led Doug into the master bedroom, where he pushed him down on the bed. "Start taking it all off, babe," he said.
As Doug began to disrobe, Stan went into the en suite bath and turned on the tap in the large tub. As it began to fill, he put a scoop of bath salts in the water. Then he went back into the bedroom to check on his lover, who was just slipping out of his boxers.
"What you need, baby, is a nice soak in the Jacuzzi."
Doug grinned. "You know, I've never used that thing much unless I over-did it in the garden and had sore muscles. That sounds great."
Stan pulled him into the bathroom and told him to get into the tub, which was beginning to fill with hot water and suds. When Doug sat in the tub, the water level rose above the jets around the side. Stan pressed the button to start the pump. Instantly the surface of the water began to roil and heave, and the amount of suds increased considerably.
Doug settled back with a sigh and said, "Stanley, you wizard. This is wonderful. Wanna get in with me?"
Stan laughed. "No, babe, the tub's not quite that big. You relax, and I'll be back in a trice."
"Trice? Where'd you pick up a word like that?"
"Oh, I've read a book or two. I did go to Oberlin, after all."
"Yeah, right," Doug chuckled. "You Oberlin people always have been snobs."
"Call me a snob again, and I won't bring you your surprise."
"I'll be good, I promise. Surprise me, please."
Stan disappeared while Doug reveled in the feeling of the jets of hot water hitting him from all directions and the pleasant lavender aroma of the bath crystals. In a minute or so Stan was back with an old-fashioned glass with Maker's Mark on the rocks.
"Here's something to soothe your insides, baby."
Doug took a sip. "Mmmm. Mason, you keep treating me like this, and I may just keep you around. If you lose your job, you could be my house boy, you know."
Stan laughed at that, twinkling at Doug the whole time. "Right now, sweetheart, that sounds a hell of a lot better than my current job."
While Doug was sipping and soaking, Stan went to make sure all the doors were locked and to set the security system. Normally Doug didn't turn on the security system, but he had shown Stan early in their relationship how to do it. That night, it seemed prudent to Stan to turn the system on, and he vowed to insist that Doug turn it on every night after that.
When he got back to the bathroom, Doug was sitting there, the whiskey half gone, with his eyes closed.
"You OK there, sport?"
"Yeah, babe. This is great."
Stan went back into the bedroom, where he took off all his clothes. After pulling back the bedspread and the top covers, he went to the linen closet, took two large bath towels, and spread them on the bed. Then he went back into the bathroom and turned on the taps in the separate shower stall.
When Doug saw what Stan was doing, he turned off the Jacuzzi pump, pulled the plug in the tub, and stood up. He was covered with suds. Stepping out of the tub and taking a couple of long steps, he was beside his naked friend, and they both stepped into the shower together.
"OK, studly. I'm clean. It's your turn. Let me wash you."
"Yum!" his partner said.
As the water from the shower head rinsed the suds off of his body, Doug took the bar of soap and lathered it up. He carefully, slowly, lovingly washed his partner all over, paying special attention to Stan's rapidly swelling cock, his hefty balls, and his ass crack, even soaping up a finger and sticking it up his chute.
Stan laughed. "It's good to be clean there, Dougie, but that ain't the way the action's going tonight, stud."
Twisting his soapy finger around and hitting Stan's button several times, eliciting groans of pleasure from his delighted partner, Doug said, "Well, OK, if you're SURE that's the way you want it" in his best pouty voice.
"Sweetie, you can finger-fuck me any time you get the notion, but not right now. Let's get out and get dried off."
DOUG:
When we had dried off, Stan steered me back to the bed by putting his hand under my ass with the tips of his fingers resting against my perineum. As we walked, he was tickling that sensitive area, causing a predictable reaction in Spike. He told me to lie down on the bed on my back, which I was happy enough to do. Then he took his hand and put it under my butt, which he raised while, with the other, he grabbed the pillows and shoved them under me. I spread my legs, knowing what he must have in mind. Sure enough, he crawled between them and began lapping at that region with his tongue. He laved my balls until they were soaked with his saliva, gave my taint the same deluxe treatment, and then worked his way slowly toward my hole. Occasionally he would pull back and blow on my spit-wet skin. I shivered every time he did that.
Meanwhile, of course, Spike was getting harder and harder. I don't leak as much as I used to, but since Stan came into my life, I'd been oozing a lot more precum than at any time since Rick and I were together. Takes a hot man in your life to stimulate that stuff, I guess. At least it seems to when you get older.
Anyway, I really was getting hot as I looked down past my rigid cock at the sexy stud with the cobalt eyes and the curly silver-speckled hair licking me. He wasn't looking at my ass or my balls or my cock. He was looking past all that to look me in the eye. And he was grinning that sexy grin of his. I think that grin was as arousing as what he was doing with his busy tongue. I do know I shivered again when he looked at me like that.
The shivering continued when he began to probe my hole with his tongue. I don't know how long that went on because I got lost in the sensations. His beard and mustache tickled the area around my anus, and that was incredibly erotic. Eventually, though, I said, "That's beautiful, baby, but your tongue just ain't long enough. You and Sluggo gotta fuck me!"
"Not just yet, boy," he chuckled wickedly. "First I have something else in mind--and in hand."
I looked up to see him holding the vibrating dildo from the bedside drawer. First he stuck three fingers in his mouth and got them all slobbery. Then he inserted them, one at a time, into my eager asshole. When they were all three there and I was getting a finger fuck that was about to drive me crazy, he picked up the dildo and began licking it, lapping it like an ice cream cone. When he had done that a while, he stuck it in his mouth and began to suck on it as if it were a real cock. Talk about hot! Man, here I am, lying there with three fingers wiggling around in my hungry ass while the sexiest dude I've ever seen is sucking on a dildo like it was my cock. Spike, as might be expected, was not only leaking but twitching and throbbing and almost hurting by that time.
"What's next on your devious agenda, Mason?" I asked.
He was innocence personified as he said, "Oh, nothin' much, babe." Then he removed his fingers from my chute and inserted the spit-slick dildo. Once he had it all the way in, he turned it on. The vibrations in the dildo were mirrored by vibrations throughout my body. I reached for my dick, but he batted my hands away.
"Relax, Doug. I'll take care of Spike."
Then he took my yearning tool in his mouth, licking, sucking, eventually swallowing it all. As he deep-throated me, he was using one hand to play with my nips and the other to hold the dildo in place!
I remember being aware of how my heart was racing. I thought to myself that, if I was about to have a heart attack, this was the way to go. Instead of going, I came. I came so much Stan couldn't swallow it all, so I have another image burned on my brain. This time it was Stan smiling up at me with my cock still in his mouth with cum dribbling out of each corner.
"If you are trying to make me realize I'm the luckiest guy in the world, you're wasting your time. I've known that for a month! Now, lover, get that damned dildo out of my ass and fuck me!"
"We aims to please!" He grabbed the WET and lubed up Sluggo, who had been doing a pretty good job of trying to lube himself. Only after his cock was shiny with lube did Stan take the dildo out of my ass. Before my opening had completely closed, he began slowly inserting his fat cock. I felt hardly any discomfort at all. And then, shifting his position somehow, he hit the magic spot. I saw stars. I locked my feet behind his back.
"Oh, yeah, stud! Fill me up! Make me complete! Fuck me!"
He looked me in the eye the whole time he was pumping in and out of me. I knew he had been hard the whole time he was rimming, finger-fucking me, and sucking me off. I thought he would come pretty quickly. He was a master at postponing his orgasm, however. He would get close to coming, and then stop. The first time he did it I whimpered because I thought he was stopping. When I realized what he was doing, I just waited, enjoying the full feeling of having him inside me, until be began to pump in and out, gradually increasing the tempo. Then he'd stop again. Always he looked at me, always with this delighted expression on his face, as if to say, "Aren't we having fun?" Eventually, he came, unloading his hot seed inside me. After the spasms subsided, he collapsed, his head on my chest. I ran my fingers through his hair and lay there sated, happy, not worrying for the moment about what was going to happen in the days and weeks to come.
The next afternoon I had just gotten back from a trip to the ABC store, where I had replenished our supply of wine and booze. It was about 4:30. After putting away the bottles, I checked the voice mail. There was a message from Stan asking me to call him at the office. So I did. His secretary told me that he had just left, but that he had asked her to relay a message. I was to pick him up at the local Ford dealer's whenever I could get there.
I chuckled. "He's got trouble with the Bird? Can't wait to razz him about that."
"Oh, no, Dr. Curtis," Karen said, it wasn't the car's fault."
"What happened, is he OK?"
"Yes, Mr. Mason is fine. But someone slashed the cloth top of his car this afternoon as it sat in the parking lot. He took it in to be replaced and wondered if you could give him a lift home."
"I see, thanks, Karen. Does he have his cell phone with him?"
"Like most of us these days, Dr. Curtis, I don't think he goes anywhere without it."
"Thanks again, Karen. I'll call him and then be on my way."
STAN:
About two o'clock, one of the Lake Polk police came into my office. I didn't remember seeing him before, but he was wearing sergeant's stripes and had a name tag that said his name was Hanratty.
"Hey, Sergeant Hanratty," I said, standing and coming around my desk to shake hands with him. He seemed embarrassed. "I'm Stan Mason."
He shook hands with me but seemed uncomfortable. I supposed he had heard THE RUMOR and wasn't sure whether he'd be contaminated by shaking hands with a queer. I couldn't help noticing that he was tall, had big feet, wore his blond hair in a high and tight, had big feet, looked great in his perfectly pressed uniform, and had big feet.
"Sir, that's your red T-Bird out back isn't it?"
Since my red Thunderbird was parked in the spot labeled "City Manager," I assumed his question was rhetorical, but I nodded yes.
"Well, uh, I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you."
"What is it, sergeant?"
"There's been some vandalism to your vehicle. Somebody's slashed the top pretty badly. Would you mind coming out there with me?"
"Pretty badly" turned out to be an understatement. The top had been cut to shreds.
Hanratty had lots of questions about when I had parked the car there, had I been back to it since I parked it, things like that.
"Sergeant Hanratty, there are people coming and going in this lot all day long. I can't imagine that this much damage could have been done without somebody seeing who did it."
"Yes, sir, I was thinking the same thing. We'll get on it right away. I've got someone on their way to take pictures and check for fingerprints plus other forensic evidence. When they are finished, you can take the vehicle."
As I left to go back up to my office, he was on his cell phone or his walkie talkie or something.
An hour or two later Karen told me the police had finished with my "vehicle" and that I was free to use it.
I called Doug, but he wasn't in. So I left a voice mail message asking him to call me, and drove to the local Ford dealership. I think I must have had the only 2002 Thunderbird in town, and the staff there were always very attentive.
The parts manager was apologetic when he told me they'd have to order a new top and that it might take a few days to get it there. Meanwhile, he suggested that they remove the vandalized top and that I could use the detachable metal top which Doug had let me store in his garage, thus getting it out of my utility room, where it had been taking up entirely too much space. He said they couldn't get the top off before closing that evening, but that they'd do it first thing the next morning. The sales manager asked if I needed someone to run me home. I told him that I thought a friend was coming to pick me up, and sure enough, about that time my cell phone cheeped. It was Doug saying he was on his way.
Ten minutes later the Hearse, as I had begun to call it, drove up.
"Well, babe," I said as I got in his car, "the shit accumulates."
"The police have no idea who did this?"
"They have hardly had time to investigate, but it could have been anyone. I mean, there sat this bright red car in a spot clearly reserved for me. Anybody in Lake Polk with a grudge could have done it. But there are cars in and out of that lot all day long. It took a lot of nerve to do that with the chance of being seen so great. You should see it, babe. That top was slashed repeatedly. It was just a bunch of long canvas strips by the time they got finished."
"Stan, sweetheart, I'm SO sorry."
"Oh, the top will be replaced soon. It's just money, after all. But the hate, the viciousness that would impel someone to do that is what really gets to me."
"I understand and agree completely. But to be practical for the moment, do you want to borrow my car for the week? Or, most of the time I could be your chauffeur."
I grinned at him. "Yeah, let's get you a black cap to wear, and I'll sit in the back seat. You can even open the door for me."
He didn't take his eyes from the road, but he did put his hand on my knee and squeeze. "In your dreams, Mason."
"I'll get the Bird back tomorrow sans ragtop, but I can put the hard top on that you are so generously storing in your garage. I'm thinking the hard top will stay on the car from now on except for times when you and I are out of town, babe."
"Yeah, good idea."
"So, you've heard about my excitement. How was your day?"
"Oh, not bad, except that I got a nasty phone call."
"I don't like the sound of that. Tell me about it."
"Somebody -- whose voice I didn't recognize, naturally -- called and said `Why don't you two filthy perverts go back up north where you came from?' When I asked who was calling, he hung up."
"I've been getting similar calls on my voice mail during the day when I'm at work."
"Is it always the same person?"
"No, Doug, `fraid not. This is beginning to look like a well-orchestrated campaign to harass us."
"Why don't we get Caller ID? We can set it up to block any call where the caller's number is masked. That way, either we'll know who's making the calls, or they won't be able to get through."
"Good idea, Dougie. That probably won't catch the bastards, but it might give us a little peace. I'll call Verizon tomorrow about my phone, and you can call them about yours."
"Sounds like a plan, Stan!"
The rest of the week was fairly uneventful. We both asked the phone company to activate Caller ID on our lines, and we both bought phones that would accommodate that service.
My condo is at the Lake Polk Country Club, which is a gated community. I insisted that Doug spend the weekend with me. He picked up groceries Friday afternoon and brought them to my place. He'd had a key for weeks, and we figured the guards on the gates by now had heard the same rumor everyone else had, so I just told them to let him in whenever he wanted in. We sent most of Friday evening listening to cd's on my stereo. We both love the classics and a lot of jazz, if it isn't too atonal.
Saturday we made a day of seeing the Ringling Complex in Sarasota, which he hadn't seen for years and I'd never seen. We took the Hearse, by the way, and I have to admit it is a comfortable car. Stodgy, but comfortable. And, unlike my last couple of cars, it was quiet enough inside to listen to music without its being drowned by wind and road noise.
We stopped at a large mall in Brandon on the way home to do some Christmas shopping. We had invited all Mark's "Brotherhood" to come down if they could. Between my condo and Doug's house, there would be plenty of room for the six of them (assuming Lori came along). We shopped together for gifts for the kids. Neither of us had anyone else to shop for, except each other, of course, and we weren't going to do that while we were together.
Saturday evening I used the pc to get emails off to the guys at the university while Doug read something he had pulled off one of my shelves. Before we went to bed Saturday night Doug said he thought we might as well start appearing places together since everyone knew anyway. So we decided to go to the late service together.
Church shouldn't have been a surprise, but it was. We purposely got there at the last minute and sat near the rear. After the Eucharist, some of the people who had been sitting near us before simply weren't there. After communicating, they must have just left instead of returning to the pews for the closing prayer and hymn. There are cookies, juice, and coffee in the parish hall after the service. Doug and I decided to skip that.
As we shook hands with Father Dave at the door, he said, "Doug, Stan, I saw what happened. I'm really sorry about that. I think I'm a little ashamed of some of our parishioners this morning. We can't talk about it right now, for obvious reasons, but I would like for the three of us to have a chat one day soon, OK?"
"Sure, Dave, let's do that."
FATHER DAVE:
When I had my parish in suburban Minneapolis, there were several single parishioners who were openly gay, though they didn't particularly flaunt their lifestyle. We even had a pair of lesbians: one was a lawyer and the other was an administrator in a center for battered wives. Everyone knew about them, and no one seemed to care. That, of course, made things easy for me.
Here in the Diocese of Middle Florida, however, things are different.
First of all, of course, is the prevalent religious and political conservatism of the area. The Baptist Church takes up a whole city block in Lake Polk, far and away the biggest church in this part of the county, and the city is dotted with Protestant churches, most of them fundamentalist of one denomination or another.
Then there was the problem of my bishop. Any priest who gives his bishop grief is in for trouble. Don't let anyone tell you differently. And Bishop James Wenn is nationally known for his outspoken opposition to any sort of conciliation with the gay members of the church. The gays, in the church and outside it, call him a homophobe. The way he leans on the Old Testament for authority, he might as well be a fundamentalist.
Most worrisome right now, though, is the reaction on the part of some -- not all, by any means -- of our parishioners to Doug and Stan. I've lost a good, reliable LEM, and our roster will be short until I can train another one, which takes time. Moreover, only a few members of the vestry know how much money Stan Mason has been contributing to St. John's since he moved to town. He must be independently wealthy, because I don't think he could be that generous on what he's making as city manager. I worry that my fellow Christians are trying to drive away these two.
I'm a Kiwanian and a member of the Lake Polk Ministerial Association. Until the news broke about the two, everyone spoke well of both men. Doug has been around long enough to have made a lot of friends. Before Stanley arrived, there were, predictably, whispers that Doug might be gay. After all, he's at that age when a man who has never been married is suspect. But he was also discreet, didn't seem or act gay, dated Hallie Hall, for goodness sake! When Stan arrived in town and for nearly three months, everyone was talking about what a charming man he was and what a good job he was doing at city hall.
Now, I have to confess that not everyone in the parish has turned against them. I noticed that several people managed to go up to them in the parking lot after the 10:30 service Sunday and shake hands with them. But they didn't go into the parish hall for coffee. They didn't linger. The shook hands with me, with a few others who were around outside the narthex, got into that red car of Stan's and left. Can't say I blame them.
I don't know whether to admire their courage or wish they wouldn't come to church together. On the other hand, in view of all the cruel things that have been happening to them lately, I can see why they might want to stick together for moral support and mutual protection.
I wish I knew what to do. I am almost nauseated when I think what they must be doing in their bedroom. But, as Doug pointed out to me recently, by virtue of their baptism, he and Stan are both as much Episcopalians as anyone else in the parish. This is THEIR church, too. For that matter, they are as Episcopalian as Bishop Wenn. One thing I HAVE decided: I am not going to say anything to the bishop about all this. I'll talk with those two again, speak privately with some of the members of the vestry, and see if we can't smooth all this over.
DOUG:
Stan and I watched the Buccaneers' game that afternoon, just lolled around, trying to relax and put all the recent unpleasantness out of our minds. When the game was over, he called Mark and chatted for a while. Then he called Mark's best friend Cedric and chatted with him and with Ced's lover, Tim. I could hear him tell them some of the things that had happened. He also asked how someone named Steve was doing, and I heard him mention a Father Max whom he'd never told me about.
The weather had turned decidedly cooler during the afternoon, and a very unseasonal rain had set in. We decided to have grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for supper. Because of the rain and cold we couldn't sit on Stan's patio, so we were stuck indoors for the evening. We debated going to a movie but decided we didn't want to risk running into any more of "Them."
Stan gave me one of his most devilish smiles and said, "Hotshot, I know what we need." >From the cabinet under the tv he produced a couple of dvds. Gay porn.
"Stanley," I said, "the citizens of Lake Polk may be right. You are a dirty old man, and gay at that. I love it. I love you. Let's watch."
So we did, three hours worth. Then we went to bed, and you can imagine what we did when we got there.
The next morning Stan dropped me off at my place. A surprise was waiting for us. Overnight, or over the weekend at least, someone had dumped enough garbage to cover my front yard. Fortunately for the neighbors, there had been no wind to speak of, so it was all on my lawn. Mostly paper trash and things like grapefruit rinds that you wouldn't put down your disposer. But they must have brought many cans or bags full of it.
"Dougie," Stan said with tears in his eyes, "this is too goddamned much! They did this to you because they couldn't get into the Country Club to do it to me."
"Shh! Sweetheart, it's OK. We are in this together. They obviously hate both of us, and they`re trying to make us leave town."
"Babe, I'm going straight to the chief of police's office. Something's going to be done about this! Don't even think about trying to clean all this up until I can come home from work and help you. Will you be all right?"
"Stan, go to work. Talk to the chief. Leave this to me."
"Seriously, babe, I want to help you clean this up."
"Did you hear me? I said for you to do your thing at city hall. See if the chief can find out who trashed your car, who made this mess. I'll deal with things on the home front. Now go, scoot. Go be a lion!"
He chuckled at that, gave me a kiss, and said, "OK, lover, if that's what you want. I'll call you soon, OK?"
"Yeah, do that. If the phone inside doesn't answer, call the cell. I'll have that out here with me."
I went inside to change into work clothes, and Stan drove away.
When I came back out, there was my neighbor Reggie, looking fine in jeans and a sweatshirt, already beginning to rake up debris.
"Reggie," I said as we shook hands, "shouldn't you be at the office?" Reggie had an insurance agency that catered mostly to Lake Polk's Black community.
"Oh, Lavonne can handle things for a while. Things are usually pretty quiet on a Monday morning unless one of my auto customers has had an accident over the weekend."
"Are you sure? I can manage here, and this isn't going to be a pleasant job."
"Many hands make light work, my Mama always said." He grinned. "Now, let's get at this mess."
It took a couple of hours to rake it all up and eight of the big lawn trash bags to contain all the stuff. We left the bags by the curb to be collected the next day since Tuesday is one of the two garbage pickup days in this neighborhood.
When we were finished, I thanked Reg profusely. He gave me a big hug and said, "Man, that's what neighbors are for. And you're a good neighbor."
I choked up and got tears in my eyes. All I could say was, "Thanks, Reg. I'm lucky to have good folks like you and Beth next door."
He gave me another hug, grabbed his rake, and ran back to his garage.
Despite the cool, damp weather, I had worked up a sweat, so I went inside, showered, and changed into clean clothes.
About 11:30 Stan called. He said he had gone directly to the office of the chief of police, who was sullen and defensive. The chief had said that a passing patrol car had noted the vandalism of my lawn at 5:37 that morning, but that since there were no witnesses, there was no way they could find out who had done it. When Stan suggested that he increase the frequency of patrols in my neighborhood, the chief had said he could do that for a day or so, but that he didn't have funds to do it for longer unless Stan could find a way to increase his budget.
Then Stan asked about progress on the vandalism to his Bird. The chief had reported no progress, again citing the lack of witnesses, and seemed not to expect to solve that case either.
I sensed that he was close to blowing his fuse, and I worried about him.
"Lover, I think we should have lunch."
"I'm not hungry. And I sure as hell don't want to go into any of the restaurants near city hall."
"Why don't you come here for lunch."
"Babe, you've just cleaned up that mess in the front yard. I'm not gonna let you fix my lunch."
"Hey, I had help." I told him about Reggie coming over. "So, how about this? Go to the Mickey D's at the corner and bring us home something. We'll risk the cholesterol today."
"Sounds great by me. I'll be there in less than half an hour."
The next day, Tuesday, my mail contained a letter from the homeowner's association of my neighborhood. It said that the mess in my yard had put me in violation of the covenants of the association and that if such a thing happened again, I would be taken to court.
I found that interesting in view of the fact that Reggie and I hadn't been able to get them to do anything about the uncut lawn and general seediness of the house on the other side of mine.
Later that afternoon, I got a call from a local realtor. She said that she knew my house wasn't on the market, but that she had a buyer who was willing to pay `top dollar' for my place. I told her that, as she said, the house wasn't for sale and that I wasn't interested. She asked me to remember her name and her company in case I changed my mind. She said the buyer was really eager to have my place.
Wednesday of that week I would normally have spent the morning at Ridenour Gardens, but I had been "temporarily" suspended from my job at the reception desk, so I spent an hour or two at my pc working on volunteer records and answering email.
A few minutes before noon the phone rang.
"Doug, this is Dave McCord."
"Good morning, Dave. What's up?"
"Well, I don't quite know how to tell you this."
"Maybe you had better just say it."
"Perhaps you are right. First of all, I want you to know that I had nothing to do with this. I didn't tell the bishop anything about you."
I knew then what he was about to tell me.
"You see, Doug, somebody from the parish must have complained about you to Bishop Wenn. He's revoked your LEM license. And I've been summoned to Waltersburg to see him."
The next day was Thanksgiving.
[Chapter 9 will be posted in about a week. T.M.]