Owen

Owen

Chapter twenty

by Roy Reinikainen

Beatrice Carver eased the screen door closed and stepped out onto the home's front porch. It was late, and the house was finally quiet. Jonathan was snoring, a symphony of sound which reverberated throughout the house, Abigail had finished her homework and was now asleep, and she and Opie had struggled through another chapter of her library book. 'Patience,' Beatrice thought with a tired sigh as she slowly sank onto the hard seat of the rocking chair, 'is a virtue . . . or so I've heard.' She snorted a soft laugh.

Helping her youngest daughter learn to read was actually the least of the reasons she was tired. 'Opie tries so hard, but things just don't come as easily for her as they did for the others . . . especially Owen and Jonah. They were always asking for more difficult books, complaining that the ones at school were, "too easy."'

"Oh, my lovely boys," she murmured. "I miss you both so badly."

Earlier in the evening, she had retreated to the bathroom, the only place where she could have a moment of privacy, to read the Christmas cards, Daniel . . ..' She paused a moment and corrected herself. 'The Christmas cards from both Owen and Jonah, which the doctor had brought me on his brief visit.'

She rested her head against the high back of the wooden chair. 'Oh, if only I had met a man like Daniel when I was younger,' she thought. 'My life would surely have been so much different.' She compressed her lips. 'But, then I wouldn't have my four lovely children.' She stared out over the moonlit fields. 'Four wonderful children . . . and the rest of my life a portrait of misery.'

She had retreated to the bathroom, resting against the vanity as she carefully opened Owen's card first. It was simply addressed, "Mama." Her fingers shook as she wiped her watery eyes with a tissue. Just holding Owen's card had been an emotional experience. It was a piece of him . . . something he had touched . . . only a few days earlier.

"Dear Mama," the brief message began, in the carefully formed letters typical of him. "I'm sending this card to the doctor, and have asked him to deliver it. I miss you so much, Mama. More than I ever thought possible. I miss your touch, your laughter, however infrequent, our midnight conversations, your insight . . . and, of course, your cooking." Beatrice's lower lip trembled as she continued.

"I find that the strangest things remind me of you. I was visiting my landlady, Mrs. Verner, in the hospital, and every time she brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead, I thought of you and I about cried.

"My friend, Lucas, brought home an apple pie from the bakery the other day. He served me a slice, along with a dish of vanilla ice cream. A simple thing, but I had to excuse myself so I could cry. I don't cry, Mama, yet it seems as if my emotions are raw all the time. That day, as I ate some of the pie Lucas brought home, I was thinking about the year we had so many apples to harvest you were feeding us apple pie three meals a day. I remember you serving it with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream at dinner one evening. It was so wonderful . . . the ice cream, of course, but mostly your pie. Remember?"

Beatrice tilted her head back and sniffed, smiling as she recalled her oldest son's prodigious appetite, especially for desserts.

"School is going well," he wrote. "I'm working hard at the library, and continue to live with my good friend, Lucas. You'd like him, Mama. He's so kind and generous. He's always smiling and laughing. I call him skinny. He calls me the bottomless pit. (He's referring to my love of food.) I wish you could meet him, Mama. You'd like him.

"I miss you so much . . . you and Jonah and Abigail and Opie. I wish I could be there for Christmas so I could give you all a big hug. I'd have trouble letting any of you go.

"You know, I spent most of my life dreaming of getting away from Riverton. Now, I spend a good bit of my time thinking how much I miss it. I miss you, Jonah, and the girls most, of course, but I'm also missing Sam. Sometimes, it hurts - I miss everyone so much.

"Well, since I've about run out of space to write any more, I'd better quit. You have a good Christmas, Mama. Find a time when you can give the girls my best wishes, and my love. I'm writing another card to Jonah.

"I love you, Mama. More than I can express.

"Forever,

"Owen"

Beatrice had been so moved she had to lean on the bathroom vanity with her elbows as sobs wracked her body. It was as if a floodgate had been opened and all the sadness within her was pouring out. She clutched the simple card to her breast; then slipped it back into its envelope, lest she stain it with her tears.

Her hands shook as she gently opened Jonah's card. Like his brothers, his was a simple card of a Christmas tree surrounded by gifts. 'Something he never had,' she thought in sadness.

"Merry Christmas, Mama," the card read. "I wish things were different so that I would be able to be with you at Christmas, but please know that, even though I'm not with you, you are always in my thoughts. I worry about you and the girls, and hope that everything is going as well as possible.

"I feel guilty about not being there to help you all out. The doctor has volunteered to be a go-between, so if there's ever anything I can do for you, or Abigail or Opie, please find a way to let him know. Of course, you can call Sam's too. I'll help out however I might. The doctor seems to be a good man. He and I have had a number of nice visits where we talk about all sorts of things. Our talks remind me of the talks you and I often had, sitting out on the front porch after everyone had gone to bed.

"I miss those talks, Mama, just as I miss you. You take care of yourself. The doctor says you don't look too good.

"I'm wishing you a Merry Christmas, and am sending you my love. I've kissed the letter where I've signed my name. Touch that spot and know that I've kissed you, as well.

"Happiness, Mama. Life is too short. Each of us owes it to our self to find whatever happiness we are able.

"Love,

"Jonah"

Beatrice slowly rocked the chair, resting her hands on the cards she held in her apron pocket. 'I've got to have strength,' she told herself, not for the first time. 'My boys have strength. I must, as well. Jonathan is not necessary for me to live. I have to do something before it's time for spring planting. He won't be able to handle the farm by himself, and I won't have him ordering the girls out to the fields to do the work he and the boys have always done.' She clenched her fist. 'I must have the strength to do . . . something.'

She looked up, at the sound of Jonathan calling her name, and sighed as she pushed herself out of the chair. "Coming, Jonathan," she called, hoping she didn't wake the girls. First though, she went to the kitchen and placed the two Christmas cards in the container on the top shelf, where she stored all her other precious possessions: a lock of each of each child's hair, a few photos of them smiling, some crayon pictures each had drawn when they were young, a lumpy green and yellow ashtray Owen had made when he was in second grade. She knew the contents by heart.

The two Christmas cards would be safe. Jonathan never looked in the kitchen cabinets.

"Coming," she called, after another grumbled shout from her husband. She closed and locked the living room door; then headed for the bedroom, all the while telling her self she had to be strong.

"You know," Lucas paused a moment, after swinging the apartment door open, trying to balance two bags of groceries and his computer bag, surprising the two men, hugging and kissing, in the living room. He wasn't sure whether he should be irritated or amused by how quickly Sam and Owen had separated as the door to the apartment opened. They now stood looking like two schoolboys who were trying to convince a teacher that they were innocent of anything and everything the teacher might accuse them of.

Lucas pushed the door closed with his foot, releasing his bag into Owen's waiting grasp. He smiled his thanks and headed for the kitchen, trailed by Sam and Owen.

Once the groceries had been set down, he rested his hands on the cold granite slab of the counter. Owen shifted from one foot to the other, while Sam stood slightly behind Owen, looking equally serious. Owen's alabaster skin was almost luminous, a faint pink coloring his cheeks. The faint sprinkling of freckles on his nose, which Lucas loved so much, caused him to smile. Sam's suntanned skin shone a healthy brown glow beneath his hair, which had finally, through the graces of a hot shower, been allowed to relax. Even so, it seemed to have a life of its own, shifting with every motion Sam made. Both men's lips were puffy from over use, and neither appeared to have slept very well.

"You know," Lucas repeated, anxious to make sure Sam and Owen both were paying attention, "there is no need for the two of you to freak every time I come into the room." He smiled, trying to take any sting out of his words. "You're acting as if you're doing something wrong by wanting to hug." He looked closely. "Hell, I hope you did more than hug while I was gone!" He turned, as if to head toward the bedroom to check out whether the bed had been slept in, but stopped at a slight sound. He turned to Owen, with an inquiring look.

"The room's a mess." Owen murmured, the pink tint of his cheeks darkening. "If it makes you feel any better, about all we have been doin' is . . . touching."

"Fucking," Sam added in a low voice, his glance flicking from Owen to Lucas. "He means fucking, but is too cowardly to say the word." He nudged Owen with his hip, in mild rebuke.

"We've done other things too," Owen muttered, bowing his head slightly.

"Well, I should hope so!" Lucas laughed. "You love one another. You've been apart for months. I'm glad you've been enjoying yourselves, and whenever I'm home you can still at least . . . hold hands . . . in my presence." He looked from beneath lower lids and grinned. "If you choose to do more, I can handle it." His grin grew to a smile as he returned to the kitchen counter and began emptying the bags of groceries.

"It's just . . ." Owen began, causing Lucas to stop and look up, when he didn't continue.

"It's just, we don't want to do anything which would cause you pain." He hurriedly continued. "You've done so much for both of us . . ." He hesitated, not knowing how to continue.

"We don't want you to feel any worse than you already must, havin' me here, n'all," Sam finished. Owen mutely nodded agreement.

Lucas shook his head in exasperation. "Guys, if I felt I was going to be hurt by seeing you two together, I wouldn't have asked Sam out for a visit." Lucas knew, just as did Owen and Sam, that the statement wasn't entirely true.

"But you . . . care for Owen."

"Say what you mean, Sam. I love Owen, just as you do." Sam bowed his head, while Owen chewed on his lower lip. "But," Lucas continued, "I also know that Owen does not love me." He held out a restraining hand to prevent Owen from saying anything. "He cares for me a great deal, but he doesn't love me, not as he does you. I know that. He's always told me that . . . no matter what . . . he would never stop loving you." Lucas looked away for a moment as Sam took Owen's hand.

"I may not . . . like it, but how he feels is no surprise. The whole . . . situation . . . is as difficult for me as it is for you. Still, I can live with it." He looked at Sam. "The thing you have to figure out is if you can live with how I feel about him." Lucas grinned, turning to Owen, who was turning his head from one man to the other, his mouth open slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite figure out what.

"Sorry, Cowboy," Lucas smiled. "We're talking as if you're not in the room."

Sam smiled broadly, turning to Owen. "Cowboy?"

Abigail slowly looked around the corner into the living room where her mother sat knitting a sweater and slowly rocking in the family heirloom rocking chair. Bea looked up and smiled. 'She's lost so much weight,' Abigail thought. 'Pops is doing this to her. Not having Jonah and Owen here doesn't help, either.'

"C'mere, dear," Bea said, in voice that only hinted at her once laughter-filled voice. "I want to tell you something." She lowered her voice. "Is your father nearby?"

Abigail shook her head. "No, he's gone off to town." She sat on the sofa and curled her feet beneath her, idly toying with a stray length of yarn as she watched her mother continue to knit. 'She must be making a sweater for Owen,' Abigail thought. 'That's his favorite shade of blue.'

"The doctor delivered two Christmas cards, one from both of your brothers."

"Owen?" Abigail asked, leaning forward, the stray strand of yarn forgotten. "Is he okay? Is he still living with his friend? Will he be able to visit soon?" She sank back into the cushions of the sofa and seemed to deflate. "I miss him, Mama, and Jonah too, but probably, I miss Owen more. He's been away longer." She sighed. "I miss 'em both, real bad."

"Me too, dear," Bea answered, tenderly resting a hand on her daughter's arm. "Both boys send their love to you and Opie. They're both doing well. Owen's still staying with his friend, Lucas. The doctor told me that Sam's gone to visit, for Christmas, 'cause Owen's been feeling bad since his place burned down." She sighed. "I wouldn't expect him to come home any earlier than when school's out, next summer, and then only if he can afford it."

"Why's everything have to be the way it is, Mama? So . . . much of a mess . . . no one happy, everyone having to walk on pins and needles, afraid to say anything?"

"I can't answer that, Sweetheart, but I've 'bout reached a point where the three of us women, you, Opie, and me are gonna be leaving it all behind. Things . . . have got to be better someplace else." Bea stared into the distance, imagining a place where she could hear her children laugh.

"That's what Owen thought, Mama. That life had to be better . . . someplace else." Abigail paused a moment, lost in thought. "I wonder if he still thinks so."

Beatrice recalled her son saying how much he missed Riverton, and wondered if she, too, would find life elsewhere, not what she hoped. 'Can that be why I'm avoiding making a decision?' she thought. 'At least, I know what to expect here.' She looked out through the living room window to the trees beyond, imagining another place . . . any place. 'Out there . . . somewhere . . . I'm not sure what life would be like.' She shook her head. 'Coward!' she chided herself with a crooked smile, as Abigail looked up, her attention drawn by the slight motion of her mother's head.

Sam pointed to the clothes he would be wearing to Lucas' parents house for Christmas dinner. "Y'sure I'll look okay? I mean . . . they're rich. Everything'll be all fancy."

"We'll be fine," Owen grinned, sitting on the edge of the rumpled bed and patting the white sheets at his side. Sam, naked and still warm from the shower, looked younger than his nineteen years. Like Lucas, he was slender, with dark hair, a ready smile, and laughing eyes. At the moment, his penis hung limp, arching out over his full scrotum, the same as Lucas'. The thought caused Owen pause. 'Do I feel what I do for Lucas, because he resembles Sam?' He blinked, banishing the thought, to be considered at a later time.

"I was afraid, the first time I went over there," Owen explained, hoping to ease Sam's fears, but Lucas' folks are nice people, as is his sister, Allison. You'll be fine. They're real down-to-earth, and won't do anything to make either of us feel like we're dumb country-boys." Sam's mouth twisted into a crooked smile as he leaned closer and snaked an arm around Owen's naked waist, resting his head on Owen's shoulder.

The photograph of him and Owen was propped up on the nightstand at the bed's side.

"I'm glad you still have that photograph I gave you . . . the one with us standing in front of the bandstand last Independence Day," he murmured, close to Owen's ear. He glanced toward the bedroom windows, and beyond, where the wind had died, leaving behind slowly falling snow, which seemed to be illuminated by the lights of the nearby high-rise buildings and streetlights. Sam brought Owen's hand to his lips and gently kissed the smooth skin.

"It's all I've had of you," Owen murmured. "There were times, that picture helped me keep my sanity. It has been a tie, back to you, and to Riverton . . . everything I've known all my life. It's important for lots of reasons, but mostly 'cause of you. You've always made me feel good."

"Me, the photo, and Lucas." Sam could feel Owen nod once. "Yeah, I guess." Both men lapsed into silence.

Sam took a deep breath. Now was the time to tell Owen about him and Jonah. "I've had some personal dealings with helping someone else maintain their sanity and sense of self-worth."

"Oh?" He could feel Owen shift, his long fingers tightening slightly as they linked with his.

"I've got to tell you that I've learned a lot about your family while you've been gone." Owen became deathly silent. His breathing seemed to have stopped as he waited to hear what Sam might have to say. "I've learned how you were beaten . . . sometimes because of your dealings with me." Owen's grip loosened; he heaved a rough sigh, but remained silent and didn't pull away.

"I've learned how you refused to let your father see you cry, and how Jonah doctored you, and held you . . . like I'm holdin' you, now." He could hear Owen swallow.

"Jonah . . . he told you these things? Why?"

Sam nodded once, focusing on the snowflakes outside the darkened room. "Jonah was hurting, too, Owen. We began talking about you, and before long, he was tellin' me things I'm pretty sure he never told anyone else, not even you. He was in pain and had nowhere to turn. I don't really believe he intended to turn to me, but I happened to be there, and he was in need."

"Oh," Owen murmured. "Is Jonah okay? Pops isn't beatin' him or anything, is he?"

"No, your father isn't beating him, though there are other ways than beating to abuse someone. Both you and Jonah were abused, you know? Both of you are still hurting because of what was done to you."

"But . . . is he okay?"

Sam nodded. "Owen." He took a deep breath. Now that he'd gone this far, he needed to finish what he had to say. "You and Lucas have been living together, giving support to one another." Owen nodded. "Well, your father threw Jonah out of the house."

"What?" Sam placed a restraining hand on Owen's forearm, preventing him from standing. "Shh. He's okay. Jonah came to live with me."

The two men sat in silence for a few moments; then Owen slowly stood. He inhaled deeply; then exhaled slowly as he began to wander aimlessly around the bedroom. "That bastard," he muttered. "It's not enough that he gets a kick out 'a abusin' me and Mama; he now has to start-in on Jonah." Owen continued his pacing, ending at the large window overlooking the park.

He threw up his arms. "Fuck!" he shouted, at the top of his lungs, dropping his arms to his side as he pivoted to face Sam.

"I . . . I . . . always thought that . . . somewhere . . . deep inside that man, that there was some little bit of goodness. I was blind, Sam . . . blind!" He ran his fingers through his hair. "What could I have been thinking? I've always wished with all my heart that, if I tried hard enough, if I did everything he asked, that he might come to love me."

He threw his arms out again, a sign of his helplessness, as he pivoted back toward the window. "I was so damned caught up in wishin' things for myself that I never even . . . considered . . . that he might not have that kernel of goodness buried somewhere inside. I knew he was treatin' Mama bad . . ."

Owen flopped onto a chair, absently hooking one leg over an arm of the chair and looking both disconsolate and angry in equal measure. "Damn," he muttered to himself. Sam watched as a muscle jumped in Owen's jaw. "I've been a fool." He looked toward Sam, still sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I've been a fool!" Owen shouted, heaving himself out of the chair. He crossed the room to stand before the window, seeming to take comfort in the slowly falling snow.

"Well, no more," he vowed. "That man can rot in hell, as far as I'm concerned. I'm done with him!" He turned back to Sam.

"But, Jonah!"

Owen crossed the room and sat down on the bed, looking into Sam's eyes. "Jonah's okay? Y'sure? That man hasn't been beatin' him, or anything?"

'That man,' Sam thought to himself. 'Not, Pops.'

He shook his head and freed himself from Owen's grasp, taking his friend's hands and trying to radiate a sense of calm. "Jonah's okay. He was hurting in a different way than you. Y' see, he didn't even realize he was hurting. He thought that you were the only one, and your Mama, of course."

"Mama," Owen's eyes widened. "Mama's doin' okay? Don't hide the truth from me Sam," he warned. "Is Mama okay? She sounded all worn out when I spoke to her at Thanksgiving. I sent her a Christmas card, but I haven't talked to her."

"You bein' gone, and now Jonah . . . it's been hard on her. She's somethin' like you, Owen . . . afraid to admit that that man, as you call him, is not the man she married. I'm assuming she loved him, once. It's plain to see that, now, she's not in love; she's more afraid of him than anything."

"Afraid?"

Sam nodded, bowing his head. "Jonah says that he thinks she's just waitin' for your father to beat her. Doctor Johnson has been lookin' in on her, tryin' to find ways he can help out."

Owen nodded. "Jonah told me, in one of his letters, to send the doctor anything I wanted Mama to have. That's what I did with my Christmas card."

"Jonah gave his card to the doc, too."

"But, Jonah's okay? Truly?"

Sam nodded. "Yes, in fact, he's probably better now than he's ever been in his whole life." Sam linked fingers with Owen. "Jonah's still doin' really well in school. He's working with the McKenzie's, to help out both on their farm and on my folks'. He's vowed not to go back to help . . . your father, but since it's winter, that hasn't been an issue yet." Sam grinned. "Jonah's just itching for it to be spring so he can begin planting things. He's always tellin' me that he wishes he could grow things year-round.

"Owen," Sam said, tightening his fingers. "The two of us . . . he and I . . . are like you and Lucas. Jonah needed me to tell him that he is a good person, that he is worthy of being loved, and being cared for.

"Owen, we've slept together. We've had sex."

"Oh." The room seemed hushed. Even the traffic noise, already muffled by the snow, seemed subdued even further. Sam waited for a reaction; then went on.

"I told him not to develop feelings for me, because you already have my heart. I told him I can only give it away once, and that I'd done that with you when we were fourteen, that first time in our meadow. Remember?"

"Jonah's gay?"

"I don't really know if he knows what he is. What he is, is desperate for affection, to be held and told that he's a good person. He needs someone to listen to him, to be gentle with him. He's a fragile person . . . just like you."

"And . . . has he . . . fallen in love with you."

Sam tried to shrug. "He's fallen deeply in like with me, and I feel the same about him. I can say that I care for him deeply because he is your brother, and because he is a wonderful person. I love hearing him laugh. And yes, I have enjoyed the nights we've shared together." He tightened his grip on Owen's hand. "I've enjoyed those times, but that doesn't mean I love him. Not like you, at least. If things were different, I could. But, things aren't different, and I can't. I love you. End of story."

One corner of Owen's mouth twisted into a crooked grin. "I don't recall ever hearin' Jonah laugh."

"Well, he does now," Sam chuckled. "Sometimes, he seems almost drunk with laughing. It's like he's lettin' it all out." Sam paused, wondering if he should continue.

"Owen, I think he's feelin' good and laughing because he feels free of your father . . . something you still haven't accomplished, even with the realization of what sort of man he really is. Jonah's somehow been able to cut the ties to the man." He leaned closer, welcoming the warmth of Owen's naked body. "I don't really know what it'll take for you to cut your ties."

"You saw me a minute ago, Sam. You don't think I've cut the ties, as you say?" Sam leaned his head against Owen's shoulder. "No. You've begun to make the split with him, but you haven't yet. You'll know when you have." He smiled. "You'll probably begin actin' all silly, laughing and stuff." He chuckled. "Then, I'll have two laughing men on my hands."

"So, you really do understand about Lucas and me?" Owen flopped onto his back, relief radiating from him in waves, any thoughts about his father pushed aside to be dealt with at a later time. "You have no idea how I've worried if I was doin' the right thing, if I'd be hurting you by being with Lucas. I haven't hurt you, have I?"

Sam rolled onto his belly, halfway across Owen. "No, you haven't hurt me. I would be upset if you and Lucas had never gotten together, because you were afraid of hurting me." He scooted upward until he could look into Owen's eyes.

"Damn, you're sexy." He pushed one of Owen's arms over his head and nuzzled the blond hair in the armpit. "You smell good too."

"Things . . . haven't gotten too complicated for you? I mean our relationship has always run pretty smoothly, but now we've sorta brought Jonah and Lucas on board."

"Complicated, yes, but you're wrong about one thing."

The corners of Owen's eyes crinkled, and his mouth curved into a bemused smile as Sam teased one of his nipples with his tongue. "And, what am I wrong about?" he asked, running his fingers through Sam's hair.

"I'm only having a relationship with one person - you. Lucas and Jonah will sort themselves out."

"Ohh, Bail," Corey exhaled, sinking into the cushions of a tattered armchair in his apartment's living room, his bare legs sprawled in front of him. Bailey sat on a bar stool, marveling both at the nearly naked man sitting only a few feet away, and at the changes in himself. He wondered if Lucas or Owen would recognize him, or realize how instrumental they had been in his transformation. Of course, Corey was mostly responsible. The man who seemed so carefree was now suffering a bout of insecurity, faced with meeting Bailey's parents for Christmas dinner.

Bailey's brown loafers, not the most reasonable footwear for winter, were far less formal than what he would have chosen in the past, but they, along with the rest of Bailey's outfit, would be more in keeping with the clothes Corey had at his disposal.

Bailey amazed himself. 'I've never cared about the feelings of another person, before meeting Corey. In fact, I'd have purposely over-dressed for whatever occasion I was to attend. Now, all I want is to make Corey feel comfortable. I want him to be happy.' He amended his statement. 'I still want to look good, of course. I just don't want to stand out; a peacock among a . . . flock . . . of perfectly respectable . . . chickens.' The barnyard allusion was also new, courtesy of Corey. He grinned, having momentarily forgotten the distressed man who was now pacing to and fro across the room.

"I swear!" Corey took a deep breath, turning toward Bailey. "I'm going to hyperventilate and screw things up for you. Your folks are probably all set to question me about my childhood." He made a face, reflecting a past, which did not appear to have been as happy as Bailey would have thought. After only a moment, the sad look disappeared. "I know my folks . . ." He paused, cleared his throat, and continued. "Southern folks would do the same to you. They'd know everything about you before you even realized it was happening." He flopped onto the forlorn sofa and rested his head against the back cushion, then suddenly sat up, this time a stricken look on his handsome face, his voice rising.

"Oh damn! Some ancestor of mine probably killed one of yours in the War, or something!" He flopped back onto the sofa, his bare legs stretching in front of him. "I knew something would go wrong!"

"What war?" Bailey hooked the heels of his loafers on the bottom rung of the barstool's support and looked on, half amused at the show being played out in front of him.

"The Civil War, for pity's sake! That's the war to us Southerners! And here you are, as Northern as they come. My great-great granddaddy is spinning in his grave, as we speak, just 'cause I'm talking to you!

"And there's my accent!" He covered his eyes.

"I'm dead meat. Your parents are gonna hate me . . . a Southern boy . . . a working class Southern boy, falling for their one-and-only son! What'll we talk about?" He grimaced. "I'll be as interesting to them as a pocket on the back of a shirt!"

He raised one bare arm, exposing the dark hair of an armpit, and sniffed. "I probably smell bad, too!

"Bail!" he wailed, raising his arms high, then letting them fall limp at his sides. "I can't do it! Don't make me . . . please!"

Bailey heaved himself off of the barstool. "Corey, you're worrying yourself sick over nothing. Believe me," he laughed, intercepting the worried man during his next transit across the room. He nuzzled Corey's armpit.

"I love the way you smell. All clean," he added, quickly. "I love your accent, and your stories." He kissed Corey's neck. "I think you're an extremely sexy man."

Corey snorted. "My willy has to be flapping in the breeze before anyone could possibly call me sexy, and trust me, Bail, I am not planning on getting nekkid in front of your parents." The corners of his mouth twitched, amused by the thought. "I only let Big Ben out for you."

"Big Ben?" As usual, Bailey was finding it difficult to keep up. Corey waved the question aside as another thought struck him, causing him to cover his eyes.

"Ah geez. I've corrupted their boy with my kinky ways." He pivoted, turning his back on Bailey, the muscles of his buttocks flexing beneath the stretched fabric of his white underwear. "They're gonna hate me!" He looked over his shoulder in alarm. "You haven't told them about stuff we do, have you?"

"What? Of course not!"

"Well, I don't know what to expect," Corey responded, seeming slightly relieved. "My grandmama, Luella-May. You remember her? She's the one who dances? Well, when she started getting senile, she went through a horny teenage phase. 'Bout embarrassed my sisters' boyfriends to death.

"How big's your pecker, boy?" she'd ask, in her grandmotherly voice." It was all Bailey could manage, not to burst out laughing at Corey's rendition of his grandmother's question, complete with high-pitched voice.

"My folks aren't likely to ask you that question, I assure you," Bailey managed to say, without laughing. "At least not at Christmas dinner."

"Oh geez. Dinner! I won't know which fork to use! You probably use all sorts of extra, fancy utensils I've never heard of. And, if I have any wine, I get horny; so no wine," he moaned, holding out a hand in warning. "Hell, I tried to pick up a waitress once, after having one beer. Imagine! Me picking up a woman! She didn't have very big boobs, so I tell people that's my excuse," he added, in an aside. "She would have been a half-decent looking guy," he mused, half to himself. "But . . . a woman!" He shuddered. "Remember . . . no wine. None!

"Water's good though," he continued. "Nothing happens if I stick to drinking water. But, you'll have fancy glasses, of crystal or something. I'll probably drop one! Oh, your parents will hate me for breaking their good dishes.

"Let's call and tell 'em I've contracted malaria, or something that's really catchy."

"It's winter, Corey." Bailey shook his head, amazed at the depth of his friend's discomfort. "You need mosquitoes for malaria."

"Frostbite, then. I've frostbitten my toes and can't walk. Tell 'em I'm dumb as a stump. I went out in the icy weather for a barefoot walk through the park. They'll believe that. After all, I'm from the South. We're all one can short of a six-pack. Besides, someone in my family probably killed someone in yours. That's it! Frostbite! That's the excuse we'll give 'em." He paused. "My poor toes," he groaned, glancing toward his feet where he wiggled his toes, almost as if he were checking to see that they weren't frostbitten. "Most likely the poor boy'll lose 'em all, then he'll never be able to meet the family."

"Okay, Corey." Bailey threw him his heavy knit turtleneck sweater. "Get dressed and stop talking. You've just given a performance of a lifetime. Now, it's time to get dressed. Your toes are fine. You smell fine. You won't break anything. We won't give you wine. We won't ask if I have any relative who fought in the Civil War. We won't tell them I love licking your asshole, and I swear I won't tell them about Big Ben. So, get dressed. My parents will love you as much as I do, so quit worrying."

Corey paused, the sweater hanging about his shoulders.

"You love me? How can you? Do you really?" He paused. "You do?" His throat seemed to tighten, as he sank to a dining room chair, his sweater only half on. "A guy says he loves me, and he means it. A Northern boy loves me!" He smiled. "And he's a top man, too! Aaand he's handsome, with a beautiful smile, and he's learning to relax and laugh." Corey sighed. "I am so lucky!"

He looked up suddenly, concerned at Bailey's silence.

"Bail," he asked, stepping close, and resting a bare arm across the quiet man's shoulders, while the sweater twisted to cover a portion of his chest, and the other arm. "What's wrong?"

Bailey swallowed in a tight throat, then smiled. "You never once . . . just now . . . mentioned money, or my car, or clothes, or anything I've always thought of as important. You . . . you said you like things about me, not things I possess." He gulped a breath of air.

"Of course I'd be talking about you. Those other things are nice, but they don't mean much to me. I've never had enough money to have a fancy car, or stylish clothes and stuff, but when the man I care for smiles and laughs, that's what makes me feel good about the world." He rubbed a hand over Bailey's shoulders.

"You've gone most of your life not realizing what's really important, Bail. Believe me, I know what that's like. Sometime, I'm gonna have to tell . . ." He paused, compressed his lips, and gave a slight shake of his head, then wiped a finger over one of Bailey's cheeks. "Poor Bail," he murmured. "No one's ever loved you for yourself, have they?"

"Maxine, leave me alone!" Jonathan groused, giving the approaching woman a scowl guaranteed to send anyone running. Not Maxine. She seemed oblivious to the angry cloud hanging around the man who was swiftly walking down the sidewalk. "I said I don't want to talk to you," Jonathan repeated, looking straight ahead.

"Well, it don't matter," Maxine responded, still not deterred. "I'm just tryin' to be a good neighbor 'n all. Y'know, concerned about the boy, Jonah, shackin'-up with that good-for-nothin' Bridgers boy, Sam. Y'know, it's not healthy for two young men to be livin' together." Maxine puffed on her cigarette, then coughed, blinking a couple times when Jonathan stopped walking and turned to her.

"What Jonah does or does not do is no concern of yours . . . Maxine, or mine neither. He is on his own, so neither of us has any business meddlin' in his affairs." He lowered his voice. "Do you understand me? Stay out of my family's business, woman." He glanced at a passer-by who was doing her best to ignore the two people standing in the middle of the sidewalk. "Most everyone else in this dirt-heap of a town would say the same thing, if they had the nerve, or if they thought you might listen," Jonathan finished. "So . . . go away and bother someone else."

"Jonathan!" Maxine huffed, at a loss for words.

"That's my name, now quit followin' me; quit spreadin' rumors about my wife and my son. Just . . . just . . . quit, Maxine. I don't want to see your skinny carcass." He made a shooing motion with a hand, dismissing her as he turned and continued down the sidewalk, leaving her behind, wondering what had just happened.

"Hey!" Sam giggled, quietly, jumping as Owen crawled up behind him and kissed his bare buttocks. He batted Owen's hand away. "We're supposed to be getting ready for the big dinner at Lucas' folks' place, y'know; not fooling around in the bathroom. Besides, the shower's running, cloudin' the place up. We'll be all shriveley, or somethin'! Besides, Lucas might come home."

Owen continued to crawl forward, making low animal-like sounds, as he nuzzled Sam's scrotum, backing the giggling man against the glass shower door.

"Shoot in my mouth, Sammy," Owen begged, sitting back on his haunches and opening his mouth, making puppy-dog eyes at the naked man in front of him. Let me taste your sperm. Piss on me. I wanna be covered in Sam." He nuzzled the hairless scrotum, after briefly sucking on Sam's growing erection.

"Y'sure? Piss?"

"And sperm," Owen answered, crawling into the shower and waiting, still on his knees. "C'mon! I've never done this kinda thing before, but I'm getting all hot, thinking about feelin' your piss splashin' against my skin." He rubbed one hand across his bare chest and began playing with himself with the other.

"You're hot 'cause of the hot water of the shower," Sam laughed, stepping into the large enclosure. He stood in front of Owen, spreading his feet wide and began to slowly masturbate himself.

Owen reached behind himself and began fingering his exposed butt hole. He glanced at Sam. "I swear, I can still feel some of the load you left in my hole earlier this morning." He removed his finger, then sucked on it, making lewd slurping sounds, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the splashing water.

"Not possible," Sam answered, in a shaky voice. Seeing Owen, on his knees begging, less than a foot away, was more exciting than he would have imagined. "It's not possible, 'cause I sucked it all out. Remember?" he asked. Owen smiled.

"Yeah, sure tasted good, too. Nothin' like tastin' second-hand sperm." He licked his lips. "'Course, tastin' it directly from the source is good, too," he added, leaning forward and attempting to suck in, first, one of Sam's testicles, then the other.

"C'mon, Sammy," he urged, masturbating himself furiously. "Lemme taste it." He held out his tongue. He knew Sam was as close to an orgasm as was he. When they were together, it never took either one long to climax. "Gimme your stuff," he begged.

Sam rested the head of his cock on Owen's extended tongue and stroked a couple more times. The first blast of jiz, when it came, was so forceful it caused Owen to flinch in surprise. Sam saw him swallow. The second shot coated Owen's tongue and began to slide off the tip, as Owen's own orgasm washed over him.

Sam felt Owen's sperm splash against his ankle; then watched as a second spray landed on his foot with a hot splat. Owen immediately leaned forward and began licking Sam's leg and foot, slurping up his own sperm while licking across Sam's toes.

"Still want my piss?" he asked, holding onto his softening penis. Owen nodded and made an encouraging sound, continuing to lick Sam's bare foot.

Sam tried to relax; something not easily done with Owen licking his foot. 'I wonder what inspired him to this,' Sam wondered, as his flow began, washing across Owen's bare back and hair.

"Holy . . ." Owen smiled brightly, when Sam was finished, once again resting on his haunches and licking his lips. "That was so great." He ran his fingers through his soaked hair, then licked it. "You taste 'bout as good as you look," he grinned. "We gotta do some more of that," he grinned, accepting Sam's hand to help him stand. "Though maybe next time I should use knee pads or somethin'." He grinned, as he pulled Sam close, wrapping him in an embrace.

"My wonderful friend," he murmured, alternately kissing and licking Sam's neck and face. "My Sammy. You are so incredibly exciting."

"Y'know something?" Sam managed to say between kisses. Owen silently shook his head, which was now buried in Sam's armpit. "I really do hate to break this up, but we have to shower and dress, yet, and I have to use some of that gel-stuff to make my hair stand up."

"I bet I can make something stand up," Owen teased, tenderly fondling Sam's limp cock. He wiggled his eyebrows, his white teeth flashing.

"You already have . . . twice . . . this morning alone. Do you want Lucas to come back and find us frolicking on the floor of his bathroom?"

"Don'care," Owen mumbled, while sucking on one of Sam's nipples. "I'm makin' up for lost time," he added. "And fulfillin' my fantasies."

Sam gently pushed Owen away. He reached for the bottle of bath wash and squirted some onto Owen. "Well, Lucas might not mind, but I'm sure his folks' will be put-out if I show up with limp hair with you standin' next to me smellin' of piss."

They both turned as Lucas opened the door and shouted. "Aren't you guys done yet?"

"Hey, Lucas," Owen shouted, beginning to scrub at himself with a foamy sponge. "You're gonna have to show Sam how to make his hair stand up."

"I thought seeing you naked might do that," Lucas laughed, dodging the foamy sponge.

"I can make other things of Sam's stand up, but you're gonna have to work on his hair. We wanna look all pretty for your folks."

"Yeah, well hurry up with the shower. I'll get your clothes."

"I wanna wear the black turtleneck," Owen shouted over the sound of the water.

"It makes you look like a reanimated corpse," Lucas shouted. "You're so pale."

"I'm blond!" Owen shouted. "All blonds are pale. Huh, Sam?"

Sam merely shrugged and smiled, intrigued by the interaction of the two men. It was surprising, though, how much a simple change of how Owen said his name meant. 'When Lucas, or anyone else is around, I'm Sam. But, when we're making love, I'm Sammy.' He sighed. 'I love it.'

~ to be continued ~

Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I always welcome your email and enjoy hearing your thoughts. If you would like me to send you a pic of the character(s), please ask.

My other stories on Nifty include: Phalen (located in the Gay College Section) Phalen - Finding Happiness (Gay College Section) Phalen - Reputation and Honor (upcoming) Chris (Gay College Section) Leith (Gay College Section) Owen (Gay College Section Wesley (Adult Relationships Section) Jess (Gay Incest Section) Travis (Gay Incest Section)

I hope you enjoy them all.

Roy Reinikainen roynm@mac.com