If you enjoy this type of story, let me know, I have others. Comments and suggestions are welcomed and all e-mail will be answered promptly.
The Entrapment
by
Ian DeShils
I couldn't decide if the thunder or the need to pee awoke me, both vied for my attention: My bladder prodded, yet the distant rumble from the sky urged me to snuggle down again. There is something about a storm that for me makes any bed feel like a safe haven. It's childish of course, a bed offers no safety and it's a faulty perception at best considering the life I've led these past two decades, yet it continues to be a feeling I can't deny. As a youngster my bed was the place no raging tempest breached, no harsh words or icy winds could touch me there. It was my refuge, my place of pleasure and dreams. From the embrace of my old iron bed, the world glistened with a reality unmatched by any I found outside. Safe and warm, I loved how the wind made the eaves sing like the windswept rigging of a ship at sea. Pirates and bootleggers ruled my early youthful dreams. Later, a downpour against the roof might send me to a lonely outpost on the Amazon as the hero, fighting wily headhunters to save my one true love. Storms have brought so many bright dreams of childhood that even now I love the sound of rain on a metal roof, it brings back such sweet memories.
The only thing lacking this night was that sound of rain, but it was coming, I could feel it. As the storm drew nearer, the unblinded windows begin to wink in an off beat cadence with the clash of thunder. Yes, this one should bring the rain that Carl wanted so badly. The toughest part of farming are those years when the sky dries up and the crops you plant wither. Carl had gone through that last year. Not this time around, I prayed, please, not again.
The storm rolled nearer. Through the windows I could make out distant thunderheads flickering like the backdrop of a Wagnerian opera. They piled high in the south yet through the east window the stars still shown brightly.. Maybe this storm would also pass by without producing any rain. Just as I began to fret, the air bristled and a nearby lightning strike Xeroxed the room. In that blinding flash everything look strangely different, yet as I studied the after image I realized nothing had changed. The room was still the same, cozy disaster area I remembered. More plainly than in daylight I saw the plaster cracks spidering from behind the picture of a sailing ship. Pants and shirts hung from the ears of straight back chairs, while shoes lay scattered about ready to trip the unwary. Fishing gear, Carl's Christmas gift, as yet unused, stood whip like in the corner, and on the brown pine floor drifts of discarded underwear gleaming as white as any snow. Somewhere I read that a dream of hours lasts only seconds, but how long can an instant vision last? For an eternity of dreams perhaps?
How I've missed this house. The excitement of the past six weeks offered nothing to replace the comfort I find here. The talk shows, the book signing's and the frenzied women fans, stroked my ego, but held no further solace. After the second week the tour seemed interminable, it just dragged on and on. But that's past now. Now I'm home, definitely home, and to prove it I settled back more snugly into the cozy nest of Carl's arms. For awhile kettle drums bang and roll overhead, then the front grumbled eastward leaving behind only the sound of lashing rain to remind me of how badly I need to pee. Carl's weight shifted. His breath carried the faint residuals of beer and pretzels mixed with the earthy smells of onions and oregano. Fulfilled, I yawned, fighting off the inevitable while Carl's arm holds me pinned in warm contentment. I didn't want to move at all, not for any reason, but Damn it, I had to pee!
Carefully lifting that guardian arm, I slide to the edge of the bed only to have sitting up bring on a rush of headachy dizziness.
"Where ya goin'?" Carl asked, sleepily.
"I've gotta use the john." Yawning mightily he stretching to trail a hand down my back,
"Yeah, me too. Beer makes me piss like a race horse!" Despite a throbbing head I smiled. No ambiguities for Carl, none at all, his plainspokenness a refreshing world away from Arthur's campy prissiness. Suddenly he snagged me back for a kiss.
"You smell just like mint!" He said, nuzzling. "Damn, I'm glad you're home." Before I could tell him how happy it made me, his free hand found my bladder driven hardness,
"Mm.. So round, so firm, so . . "
"So full of used booze," I interjected, "That if you don't let go right now, it's going to be wetter in here than outside!"
"Spoilsport!" he laughed, pushing me away.
Gingerly, I felt my way to the bathroom. Moments later Carl followed, flipping on the light nearly blinding me. He stood lounging against the door casing watching as I fumbled with the seat. Man, I must have really gotten into it last night! Every little move sent toilets spinning past like some surreal carousel. Carl's chuckle interrupted my befuddled concentration.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Nicky, sit down! You're aiming at the wall." He was finding far too much humor in my predicament, but I took the advice anyway. Jesus, what a night! It's all kind of hazy, but I sort of remember opening a fifth of schnapps after the beer ran out. Not one of my brighter moves obviously. Carl might like the smell of mint that still seemed to cling, but for me it held all the delight of sticky Christmas candy torn from a shag rug. Last night's bash had left me with a queasy, unsettled feeling, the sort of sensation I once equated only with Arthur.
Arthur again! With all the good things in life, why does that turkey keep coming to mind? It must be the hangover! I truly haven't felt this rotten since the last time I saw him.
Arthur turned out to be just another of those pot holes in life's road, yet at first, the fire was so intense I was positive we were destined for a life long love affair. I thought fate had brought us together and that. . . Well, it doesn't matter what I thought. The plain truth is, Arthur was never into commitment, nor was he, as it turned out, very deeply into honesty. He moved in to share my bed. . . When he wasn't sharing it with someone else; a thing that left me discontent and miserable. He was young and it was only sex, he said repeatedly. Only sex, and if I really loved him, I wouldn't let a little thing like an overactive libido come between us. Arthur had a way with sweetly coated words that almost matched his beauty.
"You're the only one I care for. These guys are just one night stands. Besides, there's nothing to worry about, you know how careful I am!" Oh, yes, he was careful all right, so very careful. . .
We went through four months of testing before he bestowed his final gift of unprotected sex. (His first gift had been a feeling of inadequacy as I watched him bed more guys in those four months than I had in several years.) I compensated with lengthy workouts in the gym, then canceled those with bouts of drinking that left me even more depressed. For an entire year I was miserable, yet not quite miserable enough to break it off, until the day I found him in bed with a guy who scared the living hell out of me. This time he had dragged home a sickly looking, bone thin, main line junky with needle tracks up both arms. It was the only time in our relationship that I truly went ballistic and when I did, the junky yelled,
"Hey, chill out, man, this ain't nothin' new!" It seemed he'd been seeing Arthur off and on the whole time, and on that day at least, there wasn't a condom in sight. One night stands? Arthur was a plain out and out liar and I'd been too blind to see it.
We argued. I called Arthur a sneaky two face rat. He called me an asshole and moved out. I then proceeded to get roaring drunk and for the next six months did little but worry and go for testing every few weeks. I thought for sure my number was up. Arthur's pal looked so frail and skinny it never crossed my mind that it might be a natural condition and not connected with the Plague. Certainly not all addicts have AIDS any more than all gay men do, yet the sight of Arthur having unprotected sex with a junky fired my worst nightmare. Maybe I've read too many horror stories, but the thought of suffering alone and unloved, all my passions wasted on some jerk who didn't give a damn about me, shook my very soul. Death itself had never scared me half so much as that dark, lonely vision. Not fair, I cried. Not fair, to face the consequences without at least having had the pleasures. He never loved me! No matter all his sweet talk, Arthur was no better than the other uncaring bastards I've known. No way, would I have done this to him, not for all the God Damned coke in the world!
Within a week of his departure, panic and a far too vivid imagination brought on a peptic ulcer and I though I was having a heart attack.
As it turned out, the whole thing was simply a charade, an excuse for Arthur to leave without becoming the heavy in our little drama. Arthur seldom did anything in a direct manner. He'd carefully set the stage, then deny any responsibility for what happened next. It was so typically Arthur I should have seen straight through it.
The first test came back negative, as did all the rest and after six months the clinic gave me a clean bill of health. I later heard that Arthur's friend had flashed a negative test report at a party some weeks before our break up, but of course that was something Arthur never mentioned. It was an experience that left me feeling totally betrayed and one that kept me celibate for a very long time after. Oh, I still think about Arthur. He was perhaps the most gorgeous looking man I ever knew, but I don't miss him.
Ruffling my hair with a callused hand, Carl stepped passed. He slid back the shower door breathing a long "Aaa" of relief as he got rid of the beer, then rummaging about for a wash cloth he began fussing with the faucets until steam billowed everywhere. Was it morning already? Must be, Carl always knows the time. We're supposed to go fishing today if the weather clears, but right now I couldn't care less. My head ached. I didn't want to think about moving yet, so lulled by the sound of Carl's tuneless humming, I lay back against the cool tank to doze. What a lucky man I am, I thought. What a brilliant move I made in trapping Carl.
I met Carl at the least likely place imaginable; a public boat ramp and on a day wet enough to drown a duck. It was my first vacation since breaking up with Arthur, I was traveling light with just a bed roll and a few changes of clothing stuffed in the saddle bags of my old Harley. What a miserable day! I left Grand Rapids facing a few puffy clouds and the forecast of light, widely scattered showers across the entire coastal region, but by the time I reached Pentwater it was as dark as night and coming down in sheets. The boat ramp with its long covered picnic area seemed the perfect haven so I drove up under the canopy and was off the bike, searching for a towel before even noticing the man at the other end. He stood looking morosely at the rain, then turned and walked toward me saying,
"Beautiful weather isn't it!"
"Yeah, sure is." I replied, mopping my face with a soggy Tee shirt. From a distance I didn't noticed sheer size of the fellow, but when I looked up from my toweling, I felt I had somehow shrunk. He towered over me, a good four inches taller than my 5'11", yet it wasn't just his height that made me feel small. He was massive in all directions, broad shoulders, a thick chest and his hands seemed twice as large as mine. He wore faded jeans and a ragged sweat shirt with the sleeves missing and the bottom haggled off, and that shirt exposed a physique that would catch a blind man's eye. His belly looked rock hard, his biceps defined, yet there was nothing about him that made me think of a body builder. He appeared to be in his late thirty's, his thinning sandy hair far lighter than the tan of his face except at the forehead, there, a hat line separated deep tan from white, giving him a rather piebald appearance. His eyes, a handsome gray, were set in a far from handsome face that was hawk nosed, weathered and severe. A most striking man, he looked as humorless as a gothic church, yet when he spoke a warm, melodious voice completely belied those stony graven features .
We sat talking about the lousy weather, I told him my name, he introduced himself as Carl Boltz from Indianapolis and said that he and his two brothers were up on a fishing trip. He told me fishing was his thing, when he found the time, and then with a twinkle in his eye, he asked,
"And, what's your thing, Nick? Underwater biking?" I laughed. "Only when I depend on Channel 13 for the weather. No, I guess my thing is just Lake Michigan in general. I love the coast and planned on spending my vacation camping on the beach, only I think a room might be in order today."
"Not a bad idea." He replied, "You know, there's a motel only about a half mile from here. We're staying there. Its old and the rooms are small, but at least it's quiet and reasonable."
"Hey, if it's under fifty bucks it's fine with me." I answered. The continuing downpour was giving me a renewed enthusiasm for the indoors.
He mentioned he was a farmer and that his brothers worked for the City of Indianapolis, then our conversation lulled as we both tried to think of other things to talk about. For me, his closeness, his overpowering masculinity made thought extremely difficult. I whacked my empty brain for things to say, coming up completely dry until I noticed a tattoo on his inner forearm.
"What's that?" I asked, pointing to it. He shrugged,
"Oh, just a dumb tattoo put there when I was an even dumber kid." He lay his arm down so I could get a better look. It was the rendering of a ship's anchor firmly planted in a field of corn, the anchor rope tautly leading upward to slowly fade away as if still attached to some unseen ghostly ship. It was unique and beautifully done in muted shades of green, blue and reddish brown. Perhaps I was just using my fascination with the tattoo as an excuse to touch him, but without even thinking about it, I began tracing that tattoo with a finger tip. At my touch, Carl froze. Not a muscle moved, he was as stationary as a deer caught in headlights until I said,
"It's remarkable! What does it signify?" He seemed to shake himself, yet his arm remained perfectly still as though he wished me to continue the outlining,
"Oh, nothing, really. I was twenty-two and in the merchant marines when my father died. I had to give up sailing to run the farm. My brothers were only ten and Ma couldn't handle it by herself, so I went home. I guess you could say it signifies what I was feeling at the time, if that makes any sense at all." It did to me, perfect sense.
"So, you never went back?"
"No, by the time the twins were through school, Ma was sick. Besides, I couldn't see being a deck hand again at thirty. Farming is my life now. The closest I'll ever get to sailing again is a fishing trip out on the big lakes." Suddenly Carl looked at me,
"I'm thirty-seven, how old are you?"
"Thirty-eight," I replied without a wince. It was the first time I had ever admitted being more than thirty-three to anyone. The honesty actually felt good. Even though the subject changed, I continued lightly tracing the tattoo and Carl made no effort to move his arm. We sat huddled together like two kids exchanging secrets as he asked what I did for a living.
"Nothing too strenuous. I write steamy novels filled with seedy characters for a tactless publisher who want's the same sex scene played out five hundred different ways. It's contract work, but it pays the bills. Maybe someday I'll write something worthwhile. In the meantime the junk keeps me off the bread line while I hunt for better stories."
That last part was a bit of self deception. It wasn't the lack of stories that kept me blocked, it was the lack of inspiration. Or perhaps, as a little voice whispered, a lack of any real talent.
Finally I withdrew my finger. I sensed he was a lonely man, but couldn't decide if he was gay or not. I thought he might be since he mentioned he was a bachelor, but it's hard to tell with some people. There are effeminate acting guys who are as straight as arrows, and husky he man football player types who spend all their off time in gay bars. With any stranger it is safer to simply show a little interest, nothing too obvious, just enough to pass a message. Admittedly, the thing with the tattoo had been a bit beyond a warm inviting smile, but Carl hadn't protested. On the other hand, neither had he shown any recognition of it as an overture. Again we seemed to run out of things to talk about. Usually I'm quite voluble, but that day I sat like a lump on a log, waiting expectantly for something to happen.
We sat in companionable silence while the rain pounded on the canopy. Dejectedly I thought Carl hadn't gotten the message. In the wilderness of straight society, gay men are a bit like dogs leaving scented messages unreadable to all but their own kind. Either he understood it or he didn't, and if he did, he could act upon it or not. There was nothing more I could do without running the risk of getting the shit kicked out of me by a man only slightly smaller than King Kong.
The rain and the thought of dogs lifting their legs against fire hydrants brought to my attention a need to pee. Since no one was about, I suppose I could have simply walked to the overhang and pissed on the ground, but I didn't like that idea. Food was served here, infants played in the grass on sunny days. It was not the place to take a leak, no matter how much rain was coming down. At least it finally gave me something to say. I stood, looked around for a moment, then asked,
"Are there any bathrooms here? Man, I gotta go, all this running water. . ." Carl smiled, pointing out the way and I made a dash to a good sized screened in building that contained not only toilet facilities, but changing rooms as well. Those changing rooms gave me pause. I hadn't realized there was a public beach nearby and that meant, of course that the whole area would be patrolled on a regular basis. It's funny how certain thought patterns persist: Rest rooms had not been my milieu since college, yet here I was still thinking about the possibility of cops..
The whole building was badly in need of an update. It smelled. In the toilet area, a tin trough hanging below twenty years of painted over graffiti, served as a rustic urinal. It was so filthy I just wanted to get done and leave, but a moment later the door banged and Carl wandered in to stand beside me. Now I may not be as astute as some gay men, but I know one thing for sure; a man follows another to a urinal for only one of two reasons and Carl wasn't passing anything but time. I had my answer. It was not exactly the scenario I hoped for, but at least there would be no more beating around the bush. I looked at Carl, then glanced down and found him to be as well endowed there as elsewhere and as my glance lingered, that endowment began to grow. It brought me to ridged attention, but before anything further developed, Carl tucked himself in and said,
"I was hoping I wasn't wrong. You know, Nick, you're a very sexy guy and I really do want to get together, but not in this rotten place!" He had a sad look about him as though he expected me to take it as a personal insult. Relief washed over me. Not that I would have turned down a few minutes of sex if that's all he'd wanted, I was simply happy he wanted more and elated that he saw this place in the same light I did. The toilet stank, the damp air intensifying the reek of a poorly ventilated cesspool. Perhaps not impossible conditions for someone who suddenly felt as hot and sex starved as me, but certainly not what I had hoped for after six long months alone. I wanted something slightly more romantic and evidently, so did Carl. The fact that I was unprepared also flashed through my mind. . . Repeatedly. If he didn't carry condoms then we would have been out of luck anyway. No more worry, thank you, and no more God Damned blood tests!
"How about the motel? "I asked," I plan on getting a room." He brightened.
"You'll stay over then? Wonderful! We can have the whole night.." Grinning from ear to ear he began helping me zip my jeans. A difficult enough job over the bulge I was carrying and his playing around brought no improvement to the fit. I slid my hands over his wash board belly now so incitingly near. His skin quivered, he stepped closer allowing me to run my hands up his broad chest and I nearly melted as he stroked me in return.
"Ah, Nick," He said, his restless fingers fingering, "Sleeping with you would be wonderful You're so . . Touchable!" Truly an apt description for someone like me who adores being fondled. Did my pleasure at his attentions show that much? Not to be outclassed in manual dexterity, I did a bit of pants fondling in return and joked,
"I don't see much sleep in our immediate future."
He threw an arm around me moving us away from the stench of the toilet alcove to the clearer air of the screened building.
"Sleep always comes eventually," He replied, his words poetic, building delightful mind pictures as he spoke,
"Never fear, we'll sleep, wrapped together, sweet and restful when the time comes, Nicky. All in good time." Then, reaching up, he massaged my neck with a hand so callused it sent shivers down my spine and I quickly grabbed his other hand to discover an equally flinty palm. Overcome with an almost orgasmic feeling, I massaged that hardened hand, holding it tightly within my own as I blurted out,
"Exactly what is it you do all day, beat anvils into plow shares?" Somewhat taken aback, he answered,
"Well, not quite, like I said, I'm just a farmer! Why? Do my hands bother you?
"Not in the way you mean," I whispered. I could hardly speak! My whole body quivered with the thought of being stroked with that work hardened palm and I slowly brought it to my cheek, saying,
"But yes, they do bother me. Oh God, how they bother me!"
I love work hardened hands. Unfortunately, they've been a commodity in short supply among the men I've know in recent years. A handsome face is fine to look at, but when the lights are out there is nothing like a pair of hard callused hands to make you know you're still alive. I guess it all goes back to a youthful summer in Oregon when I worked as a gandy dancer with three older men, the four of us repairing track in some of the remotest areas of the state. We stayed out for weeks at a time as we moved from site to site, sharing a single tent pitched along the right of way. I was closeted then, still attempting to come to grips with my sexuality, but it was only a matter of days before the guys had me figured out. They were rough and loud and not much to look at, all claimed to have done a stint in prison when they were young and they were not at all the type that had always drawn me, but their sly winks and ribald offers and especially their hard groping hands soon drove me out of hiding and turned that entire summer into one long orgy of discovery. I came out with a vengeance! A willing sex slave to three very horny guys, a sort of eager Gunga Din providing everything but water. The only thing that kept it from being a purely masochistic experience was the fact that when conditions were right, (the others sound asleep), one fellow reciprocated very nicely. Oh, they made jokes, they called me Randy, and I surely fit that description, but oddly enough the jokes were never put downs, nor did they use that nickname in front of others. Like the sex, the humor stayed within our camp, vulgar and raunchy perhaps, but not derisive.
That fall when I left to enter college they threw a party giving me one last orgy, all sorts of advice, even a drunken tear or two and finally, a little memento which I still have. It's a framed photograph, a picture of three burly men and a kid of barely twenty sitting around a camp fire. I keep it for the memories it evokes, but it shows no hint at all of what went on in that summer of my awakening, nor any indication that forever after I would be turned on by the touch of hardened hands.
I stood beside Carl sort of daydreaming about hard strong hands when without the slightest bit of warning he drew me to his chest and kissed me. Not a titillating little taster, but a deep, probing, soul shattering kiss, the likes of which I hadn't experienced in years. In an instant all thoughts of safe sex vanished without a trace and I became nothing but an eager, palpitating mass of desire. I lost track of time altogether as I wrapped myself around him, wanting it to go on forever, but then Carl came up for air, saying huskily,
"I think we better go outside, this could get downright serious!"
At that moment I wanted serious more than life, but unfortunately it didn't happen. He kicked open the door, grabbed me and we plowed our way back through the downpour to the shelter of the picnic canopy.
"I don't think it's ever going to stop!" He grumbled, swiping the water from his brow, "I wouldn't be surprised to see Noah's Ark come sailing up the boat ramp." Too dazed to even smile at that remark, I again wiped my face, then handed the Tee shirt to Carl and watched him towel his hair. All I could think of was that kiss, that head spinning, heart stopping kiss. Arthur never kissed, in fact he detested it, but then Arthur was that way about a lot of things.
That kiss reminded me of just how much I'd missed that sort of prelude to sex and without even realizing what I was doing, I shed my jacket, put my arms around him and pulled his face to mine. We stood locked in an embrace, my hands sliding up under the sweat shirt over his warm, muscled body, his, working themselves down inside the back of my jeans as he pulled me ever tighter against him. I'm sure that in another minute we'd have been stripped and making out on the nearest picnic table, but just then a deafening horn blast shattered the quietness of our sanctuary and we were abruptly bathed in glaring headlights.
Lost in that perfect moment, I never heard the truck approaching until the horn sounded and then thought it was the cops. That caused some reflex reaction certainly, (I nearly swallowed Carl's tongue) but even pinned in the lights, Carl wouldn't relax his grip, "My brothers." he said calmly, and at the sound of slamming doors, we finally unglued ourselves from one another.
Two younger men, one dark haired, the other blond, both, almost as big as Carl, came beating their way through the rain, dodging under the overhang.
"Well, it's about time!" Carl said, "Did you guys get lost again?" They shrugged. Carl, obviously not expecting an answer, draped an arm over my shoulders,
"Jack, Stu, let me introduce Nick Coltrain, a peach of a fellow and a damn good kisser. I've got a feeling Nicky and I are going to get real close before long."
"From what we saw, you already were!" Jack responded, dryly. "You haven't. . .?"
"No, but you arrived in the Nick of time, so to speak. Five minutes more and your view would have been entirely different!"
The free and easy way in which Carl spoke surprised me. Evidently there were no secrets among the brothers and that was startling enough, but unlike a genuinely gay family I once knew, those two showed no interest in me at all. They just said "Hi, Nick!", and then went about helping load the Harley onto the pick up.
By the time we reached the motel, the rain had slacked a bit, but I hadn't. I'll always think of that ride as the most erotic I've ever experienced. The four of us were jammed into the cab, I on Carl's lap, his breath warm against my neck, his stiffness palpable while those strong hands roamed freely. It left me nearly incoherent, on the verge of spontaneous combustion and mouthing the stupidest answers one could imagine to the questions Jack and Stu asked. I'm sure they thought that Carl had somehow discovered a total idiot.
Registering quickly, I got the room next to the Boltz brothers, then had a chance to cool down a bit as we unloaded the bike. Nothing I owned had survived the trip completely dry; the things on the bottom were damp and those on top entirely saturated. I wrung out the worst and then took the whole mess back to the room to hang while I headed for the shower.
The motel was clean and fairly well maintained, but I'm afraid the quietness Carl spoke of came more from the lack of guests than any amount of quality construction. I could hear the muted voices of Carl and his brothers as they spoke in the next room, only I didn't realize just how paper thin those walls were until I turned off the shower. Carl was standing in his bathroom just inches from me, his voice as plain as day.
". . .but, you have to admit, he is handsome. I think he's even better looking than Terry"
"Don't even mention that bastard's name!" A harsh voice replied, "That fucker deserved to die for what he did, but, Damn it, Carl, take it easy this time. Don't go off the deep end again. You don't know anything about this Nick, Hell, he's probably just some guy just looking for a one night stand. You're getting all worked up over nothing!"
"All worked up? Now how did you arrive at that brilliant conclusion?" Carl retorted," All I said was. . ."
He must have stepped out of the bathroom because I missed the rest, but a moment later the other man replied,
"Yeah? Well, just remember what you promised! Don't do a thing until you learn all about him, who his friends are, where he lives, the works. You know what I mean! Jack and I won't go through it again, not like the last time. If this guy turns out to be just some drifter, then . . ." and the voice faded as the man left the bathroom. That scrap of conversation completely chilled my ardor! Hurriedly I began throwing damp clothes together intending to bail, instantly. As much as Carl turned me on, I had no yen to end up in a shallow grave somewhere, there's plenty enough danger in just being gay without courting psychos. I was back into my wet jeans when someone came rapping on the door. Peeking out I was surprised to see Jack, his dark hair still damp from the rain.
"Got a minute?" He asked nervously, "We need to talk!" If he hadn't looked so worried, I wouldn't have let him in. As it was I didn't turn my back on him. I offered him a chair, but he appeared too tense to sit and just paced about the tiny room. Finally he said,
"Look, Nick, you seem like a decent guy and I can't stand the thought of going through this again. There's something about Carl you need to know. Sometimes he gets. . . gets. . "
"Violent?" I offered. Jack looked startled.
"Violent? Whatever gave you that idea? No! Carl gets obsessed. He's like some hopeless teenage romantic! He'll meet someone who turns him on and then start making all sorts of plans and when things don't work out, it nearly kills him. Stu and I can see the signs. Carl is over there primping, worrying about his looks and talking like a fool. He's going off the deep end again and when he gets this way he throws all common sense to the wind. All I'm asking is that you be honest with him, don't let him build air castles over a little vacation fling, and for God's sake, make sure you both use protection. When Carl gets wound up he won't think about it. I mean it, Nick, use protection!
"Is Carl positive?" I asked.
"I won't say, it'll give you a reason to be extra careful. But if you're not, I'll know." He added as a grim warning, "Carl tells me everything."
For a moment that veiled threat made me think Carl was negative, but then again, maybe not. Knowingly exposing someone to HIV is vigorously prosecuted here and carries heavy penalties, so Jack's concern might cut either way. Hoping to learn more, I said,
"Hey, no need to worry, I'm negative."
"I'm sure you are." He answered, dryly, his voice holding no conviction, "And that's all the more reason to use condoms."
Jack left, but in a matter of moments, Stu took his place and began going over almost the same ground. Exasperated, I said,
"Look, I think Carl's old enough to live his own life! My God, do you guys go through this every time he has sex? I'll tell you pal, it certainly kills any spontaneity." He didn't answer so I forged on,
"There is one thing I'd like to know. Exactly how did Terry die?"
"Die?" He echoed, "That bastard isn't dead. He ought to be, but he's not! Who told you that?
"You did, or at least that's the impression I got. I heard you and Carl talking and it sounded like Carl killed him."
"Well, he didn't! Carl has never hurt anyone but himself. Terry used him. For almost a year, Carl gave him everything, a place to live, a car, even money he couldn't afford. He loved Terry and then found out the son of a bitch was fucking anyone who'd get him high. All the time he was bullshitting Carl, he was exposing him to everything. What a two faced bastard!" I could empathize with that, and said,
"We've all had people dump on us, I understand your concern, but. . ."
"No, I don't think you do understand, not at all!" Stu interrupted harshly. "Carl has always considered himself ugly, the kind of guy no one could really care about, so he buried any hope for that under work. Maybe his life wasn't everything he wanted, but he did have friends, a few quiet, cautious people like himself and he seemed happy. Then he met Terry! That episode cost him those friends, a good chunk of money and his peace of mind, and since then, he's been desperate to recapture what he felt for that jerk. He'd never been in love before and now thinks he can't live without it. These last two years have been hell for Carl, so I'm warning you Nick, be up front with him. Don't let him get any wild, impossible ideas. I'm sure Jack already told you to use protection, just make sure you do! Carl has enough to worry about."
God, what a family! Those two were enough to make me pack up and leave without ever experiencing Carl's delights. Fuming, I sorted through drying clothes trying to find some that looked halfway decent and all the while thinking dour thoughts of Stu and Jack, but I guess what really bothered me was the sudden twinge of envy I felt. I had no one who cared that much about me. Oh, there was my sister, a sweet gal, with four kids and a dip shit for a husband, but that's hardly a comparison. She lives in Florida. I don't see her but once a year and besides, Sis has a blind spot as big as a barn. Years ago, I told her how it was with me, yet every time I visit she's still trying to fix me up with girls!
Life gets crazy sometimes. There I was, sitting in a cheap motel on soggy day, waiting for the man of my immediate dreams and all I could think of was Michael McDonald's lyric, 'When it comes to matters of the heart, there's nothing a fool won't get used to'
All the weirdness of that day finally disappeared when we went out for dinner, just the two of us, walking to a nearby restaurant. I found Carl fun to be with, warm and witty in his plainspoken way. He was as comfortable as an old friend, yet all the while there remained an aura of sexual excitement that told me the best was yet to come. He talked about his farm and how he was slowly changing over to all cash crops and I told him what I did as a contract writer, explaining that in my case it consisted of knocking off formula novels for a series that carried someone else's name.
"Why not just write your own stuff?" he asked.
"Well I probably would if I didn't have this odd thing about eating regularly. Only a few people make any real money at writing, the rest of us keep what day jobs we can find."
"It sounds a bit like farming." He said with a chuckle. We talked about our lives. I told him of my experience with Arthur, he spoke of Terry and the longer we talked the more it made me realize that Terry had been a driveling idiot. What a beautiful man! He was funny and sexy and as forthright as an open book and I sensed that behind his work hardened exterior lay the gentle heart of a poet. Maybe I was missing some hidden flaw, but I doubted it, and before the meal was over I knew I would have traded the entire year I spent with Arthur for just one day with Carl.
We walked back to the motel through the damp evening air, hand in hand in the darkened areas and I said,
"You, know, your brothers came to see me. . ."
"Yeah, and I know what they said! They think I'm crazy. Well, I guess I have gone overboard at times, but is it crazy to want someone to share your life with, someone to believe in? I don't want to go on just drifting, spending a night now and then with a friend who's going back to his wife the next day. I felt so alive with Terry, like nothing else mattered. Funny thing is that after the first month or so, he wasn't even much of a lover, but that didn't make any difference. I wouldn't believe anything they said about him and even the night Jack dragged me into town to show me what was going on, I didn't want to see it." He looked at me searchingly "You must think I'm nuts. Sometimes my mouth is my own worst enemy, but, Nicky, I want that feeling again so bad it hurts!"
"You're not crazy. Maybe a little over anxious, but I can't make even that judgment. It gets damn lonely at times especially when you find yourself facing a cold, empty room. It's not crazy to want someone special. You just have to remember that things don't always work out. I fell for Arthur the same way you fell for Terry, and believe me, those two hatched from the same egg, but it hasn't turned me off either. I'm still looking for Mister Right."
"You are?" He asked, hopefully. Not any longer! Only an idiot would let Carl get away. Maybe it wasn't exactly ethical, considering his obsession, but damn it, it was worth a shot. His looks sure wouldn't bother me, not with hands like his, and anyway, he was much better looking than I first thought. His eyes were beautiful, grey pools you could fall into and his smile seemed to wipe all harshness from his features. To get him interested was a done deal, but to hold him was sure to be another matter entirely. It meant that I would have to watch myself carefully and not let every little thing piss me off, and most of all, stop being the rotten, miserable son of a bitch I become every time a deadline closes in. I could see other problems as well. Two very large ones were at this moment waiting in a room next to mine. Was Carl positive? That would mean constant precautions. And then there was question of logistics. Our homes were separated by a four hour car trip and there were three books left in my current contract. That meant lots of traveling and long separations since I need total concentration when I write. I thought about it as we stopped to pick up a six pack to celebrate the evening and decided to worry about all that tomorrow. Tonight was for other things. Maybe in a day or two we'd hate each other's guts, and if so, none of it would matter. And if not? Well, there are always ways to work around things.
We drank a couple of beers, interspersed with a little petting and slowly inched our way to the bed, I felt Carl was being careful not to push things too fast. Finally I just undid his belt, unzipped the fly and let his pants drop to the floor. What a change that brought on! In moments were naked, embracing, touching each other everywhere. He was such a gorgeous hunk of masculinity, broad shouldered with a drift of hair across his massive chest. Darker hair like a pencil line, traced a path down his flat stomach to his groin. His manhood massive and perfect in every way was achingly hard at that moment. Just seeing him like that brought on a spectacular revival of what I experienced earlier and it was almost impossible to pull away to do what must come next. Fumbling about, I found my pants and extracted a pair condoms, laying them on the bed.
"God, I hate those things!" Carl moaned, poking a finger at them.
"So do I, but I promised your brothers, they insisted." Then, fishing out my wallet, I removed the card listing my test results from the clinic and handed it to him.
"Of course it would be wonderful if we had no need for them." Puzzled, he looked at the card, finally realizing what it was and as he read it, a beatific smile lit his face.
"Negative! No need for these, no need at all!" He cried jubilantly, flinging the condoms away
After that, pure lust took command and the rest became more or less an exercise in stamina as our pent up hungers ruled the night. Carl seemed to know what turned me on, perhaps because our passions are akin, and he built upon it, stoking it until there was nothing left but raging fire and oh God, how I reveled in it! He gave and took with equal gusto. In our thrashing, we somehow slid to the floor, his strong fingers still woven in my hair, and I lost to all, but lust. He came mightily, prodigiously, his groan and spasm bringing me to the verge of doing so, then moments later he snatched me up and flung me to the bed and with all the power and passion one could hope for, we kissed. As we lay there, Carl's hands began a survey, his callused palms turning skin to goose flesh and soon he was stroking me from chin to shin, his breath hot against my body. With active tongue he worked his way from nipples downward, and there, he played a most erotic game of tongue and nip. I cried out in ecstasy, sweet, tormented anguish, and just when I thought I could stand no more, he began his attack in earnest. Boldly, masterfully he sought for my release and when it came his moans exactly matched my own. And that was but the beginning!
We continued playing Christian and Cannibal, reversing roles repeatedly. I am quite orally inclined and so is Carl, but that didn't prevent us from trying everything, and with Carl, all things are pure sensuous delights. We barely slept that night, merely dozing between each new assault and it was almost noon before hunger finally drove us out. I was sore all over, muscles ached I never knew existed, I was starved and deliriously happy. We ate like gluttons, stuffing ourselves on French fries and greasy bar food. I drank too much and with my head spinning, Carl dragged me back to the room for more. . . Or was it I who dragged him?
I admit I planned on trapping Carl. That idea took root soon after his brothers spoke to me: After all, those were the finest recommendations imaginable. It wasn't Terry's pampered place I hoped for. I just wanted the same thing as Carl; someone I could care about, someone who would be there for only me. Relationships rarely go the way we want. Perhaps we don't try hard enough, but if both are looking for exactly the same thing then at least the odds are better. Yes, I planned on trapping him, but the truth is, he trapped me instead.
I awoke with a start. Warm fog filled the bathroom, steaming the mirror and making the tank clammy against my back. I stretched, running hands through hair that hurt and decided to give up drinking altogether. Last night's little shindig had been to celebrate my latest book, the first under my own name. It's a novel about of the trials and tribulations of farming in the 90's. I think it a realistic portrayal of what people go through to hold family farms together, but my publisher says it's becoming a best seller because of the love story woven throughout. The thing is, the love story isn't fiction at all. It's completely true! Oh, genders were rearranged to protect the sensibilities of the general public, but it's really just the retelling of our first three years together, of our getting to know each other and how our individual needs and yearnings evolved into this absolute and all encompassing love. Perhaps Carl's paraphrasing of R. L. Stevenson's poem tells it better than I. Stevenson wrote it as an epitaph, but Carl has brought it full circle to mean a new beginning, yet for all its poignancy and truth, it tells only half the story. The rest there are no words for..
Thus can be said of you and me:
Here at last where they longed to be;
home is the sailor, home from the sea,
and the hunter home from the hill.
The steam seems to have cleared my head a bit. Maybe some aspirin and a hot bath will make the fishing trip look more appealing. Carl heard me rummaging about, his humming stopped, the shower door opened slightly and he reached toward me with a soapy hand,
"Nicky, will you do my back?" He asked, adding a sexy little emphasis to the words. I laughed. Oh how well I know that tone of voice! It's not back scrubbing he's thinking of, no, he's got something else in mind. Not that we won't get around to it eventually, but as he likes to say,
"All in good time, Love, all in good time. . ." God, it's great to be home!