Men of All Seasons Box Set

by R. W. Clinger

  Instead, we fell asleep in the sun for an hour, or just slightly more than hour, and woke up with pink-skinned faces and chests. How we were saved from being burned was beyond my comprehension. Maybe luck had something to do with it, or maybe not? We ended the afternoon by waking up just before we were scorched by the blazing ball of heat in the afternoon heavens, burning our exposed flesh.

  Because the park was just a few blocks from Miss Kitty’s abode, we made the walk back to our rooms. Once on Mill Street, he said, “We should go out for an early dinner. I’m thinking fish tacos. What do you think, Micah?”

  “I love fish tacos,” I confessed, over-excited to spend another set of hours with him, attached to him like a best friend, boyfriend, or lover, whatever label applied to our pairing.

  * * * *

  That was Day 15 with Tuck.

  So few left.

  So few.

  Chapter 32: Big Foot and the Little Creatures

  October 21, 2015

  Carl and I had a classic date, dinner, a movie, and a walk. He told me, “I think the charm and romance of dating is dead. The display of it is important to me. If you’re going to go on a date, it should be stylish and important. I know the word courting isn’t used these days, but I think that’s what dating should be. Manners, a good time together, and charm.”

  I agreed with everything he had said over our dinner together, which consisted of fish sandwiches and homemade macaroni and cheese at a place called Lord of the Onion Rings. Following dinner, we decided on what movie we wanted to see, a gun-toting film starring Bradley Cooper as a sniper. The movie made us both cry, somewhat somber, but didn’t ruin our evening together.

  After the movie, Carl wanted to go for a walk with me. Shoulder to shoulder we trekked form the Movieplex Cinema to The Rogue Courtyard, which sat behind a dormitory on Wruther College property. The courtyard was everything a courtyard should have been: cobblestone walkway, vine-covered iron gates, a wishing well of limestone, a gazebo, and patches of grass where chipmunks played, scampering to and fro.

  Sitting beside him on the gazebo’s steps, he told me, “Big Foot was spotted here three years ago. Four college students were passing through the courtyard and saw him next to the wishing well. They said that the furry beast was getting water. They scared him away.”

  I laughed at his story. “Those college kids were probably drunk and high.”

  “Probably. But Big Foot was here. I’ll swear on ten Bibles if you want me to.”

  I shook my head, laughed more, and admitted, “You’re crazy, do you know that? Everything about you is a roar. It’s never a dull moment.”

  He ignored me and added, “Or maybe it was a chipmunk on steroids. What do you think? I’m sure it was a beefster chipmunk.”

  He made me laugh again, leaned into me, and stole a kiss, using his tongue. When the intoxicating and melting kiss ended, he said, “I want to take you back to my garage, Micah. Is that too forward?”

  I laughed, flattered by his comment and question, and replied, “You’re just using me for sex.”

  He joked, “I was going to start charging you actually.”

  I socked him in the shoulder with a balled fist and playfully said, “You’re an asshole.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sort of your asshole.”

  Before I realized it, he had his right hand on my ass. He provided it with a hard squeeze and pushed me along the dirt trail in the direction of the lake. Before I knew it, we were in his garage, and alone together for an evening of unstoppable sex that I knew was going to be rough.

  Chapter 33: I’m Not Who You Think I Am

  August 19, 2014

  The Nut Martini: 6 Parts Vodka, 1 Part Frangelico, 1 Lemon Twist.

  It was the hottest day I can remember in Erie. The temperature was ninety-nine degrees and the sun was sweltering in the cloudless sky. There wasn’t a cool place to hide from the heat, including an air-conditioned room. The shade was useless as well as in front of an electric fan. There was only one place to be and that was Miss Kitty’s in-ground pool. The sublevel cube of chilled water was half the size of an Olympic pool. Its temperature was seventy-nine degrees. A set of four steps made a decline into the pool. The set was positioned in the shallow end, which was three feet deep of luxurious blueness. The deep end of the pool was almost twelve feet deep. A plastic duck filled with chlorine bobbed on the water’s surface.

  Tuck wore an Aussiebum suit the color of the sun. I was in a mint green trunk with white strings. Both of our bodies were golden boy-tan and the colors of our swimsuits popped. He swam from one side of the pool to the other, doing flips like Poseidon. Then he did a few backstrokes, butterfly strokes, and decided to take a break.

  We sat on the steps, half in the water and half out. Our shoulders and hips touched as we discussed having sex in the pool, but couldn’t, because Miss Kitty was home, somewhere in the house and trying to stay cool. One of his hands did move to the middle of my trunk and he grasped my junk. I pushed his hand away and told him to behave himself, adding, “There’s a time and place for handjobs.”

  He laughed.

  I laughed.

  The sun kept beating down from the transparent sky and continued to sizzle our brains.

  “You make me want you,” he admitted.

  I laughed at him that time, shook my head, and told him, “You’re not fucking me here.”

  “You can fuck me,” he said, raising his eyebrows, playfully sharing an ear to ear grin with me that told me he was nothing less than an immature boy.

  “Calm yourself down, Tuck.” I splashed water into his face, which he wiped away. And before I knew it we were in a water war, using our palms as paddles and splashing each other, hooting and hollering, laughing at the top of our lungs, and having the time of our lives.

  He slinked into the water over his head and started swimming in the deep end of the pool like a shark. Occasionally, he came up for air, bopping his head through the water’s surface, taking oxygen into his lungs, and became submerged again. He waved for me to join him, which I did, and we swam under the water for the next ten minutes, popped our heads up for air, dove to the bottom of the pool, and surfaced until we grew exhausted and met on the stairs again, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, seated.

  Out of breath, he said, “I could kiss you all over. But under the circumstances I’ll stay on my best behavior.”

  “Thank goodness for circumstances.”

  He laughed.

  I laughed.

  “I want to tell you something, Micah. You’re everything I need in life. The perfect guy. My better half. A part of me that I’ve always wanted.”

  “Stop before you make my head swell.”

  “Which head?” he asked, joking.

  “Both heads,” I teased back.

  He reached out and touched one of my hands with his own, rubbing a few of my knuckles. “Seriously, Micah, you mean the world to me. A minute doesn’t go by during my days when I don’t think about you. You’re in my head when I play the piano, or practice, or go to bed at night.”

  “I’m sure it’s horrible to think of me all the time.”

  He shook his head. “It’s the complete opposite. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen for a guy as hard as I’ve fallen for you. I really didn’t believe it was possible.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” I said. “Stop before you embarrass me. I’m not who you think I am.”

  “I know exactly who you are.”

  “Who?” I asked, putting him on the spot.

  “The guy I’m going to marry someday. My soul mate. The person who is going to know and keep all of my secrets.”

  “What kind of secrets?”

  “You’ll have to wait and find out. Give it some time. We’re still getting to know each other.”

  “How long do I have to wait to learn all of your secrets?”

  “Soon. So very soon. You just be patient.”

  * * * *

  We made o
ut for a half hour in the sun, on the steps. Then I decided to pull him into the deep end of the pool, close to the house, where we couldn’t be seen. There, hanging on to the side of the pool with elbows and palms, I pushed his trunks down to his knees, grasped his dick, pumped and squeezed it until it was hard, and jacked him off. Of course it didn’t take him long to explode his ejaculate in the pool. Before both of us knew it, snake and foam-like lines of thick white come erupted from his cock and zigzagged through the water, which would eventually become sucked down by the filtration system, removed from the pool. Until then, a part of Tucker Martini weaved through the pool’s blue and clear water.

  Deciding we were hungry, we exited the pool and went in search of food in Miss Kitty’s kitchen. There, we had apples, cashews, and handfuls of granola trail mix. Together, we sat on the rear stoop, outside, drying in the sun, and binged on our provisions. Between bites and swallows, he said, “Good times.”

  “Good times,” I repeated, and winked at him, in love with the guy, completely.

  * * * *

  I thought: Cherish every moment with those you love, Micah. Nothing lasts forever. Forever.

  Chapter 34: Showtime

  October 30, 2015

  I made enough time to write in the early mornings and afternoons, and sometimes when I didn’t spend nights with Carl in his place. I kept up with my responsibilities as a critic, crafting five or six critiques a week while under Carl’s care. I loved judging other writers’ works, learning about the craft, enjoying my time behind their words, and expressing my opinions about their short stories and novels.

  And while I worked, or crafted, yet another mystery in my spare time, I knew that Carl was busy at a job, pounding nails, measuring wood, building a deck, a tree house for a wealthy family on Sutner Street, or additions on houses. Carl was always busy in the field, crafting as I had crafted, except with different tools.

  Once, I hunted him down at his worksite, having every intention of feeding him a bagged lunch: a ham sandwich, small bag of potato chips, celery and carrot sticks, and a Snickers candy bar for dessert. He was working alone at the Shaw house on Lakeside Way, building a deck. Mr. and Mrs. Shaw were at their law firm. The three children were at school. The housekeeper was on vacation that week, sunbathing in Cancun. The house was secluded by woods on both sides, unseen by neighbors and locals in their uppity neighborhood.

  The day was hot for late October, close to eighty-two. A heat wave had taken over the lakes and connecting states. Hidden from him, I observed his shirtless torso and admired the sweat against his bumpy muscles. My stare concentrated on the perspiration that lined his stomach and broad shoulders. I became a voyeur as he stopped working and…

  Did he see me before I saw him? Of course.

  Did he know I was hidden among oak and maple trunks, watching him? Of course.

  Did he perform for me on purpose, being naughty? Of course.

  Did I enjoy his afternoon hand-show? Who wouldn’t?

  Before I realized it, his work jeans and white boxer-briefs were pushed down to his ankles, snug against his camel-colored boots, and his erection was upright and firm between his thighs. He leaned against the deck’s frame and started jacking himself off, arching his neck and back. A groan filled the early afternoon, which told me that he was enjoying himself, putting on a show that was intended just for me, toying with his erection with one hand, both hands, and back to one hand, until he shot a string of his come all over the ground, spiraling it against the autumn grass and crisp leaves, becoming spent, sweat-slicked, and exhausted.

  I left his lunch in its paper bag by the tree. And slowly I slinked away, returning to my attic room and work, smiling from ear to ear because of his afternoon show against the deck, pleased with his sticky labor, enamored with him only more. My boyfriend. My lover.

  Chapter 35: Crashing Down

  August 20, 2014

  The Octopus Martini: 6 Parts Gin, 2 Parts Dry Vermouth, 1 Smoked Baby Octopus, 1 Black Olive.

  Before this all came crashing down around me, I got to know Tuck’s parents, but only through stories, their Facebook pages, and other forms of media. Joel and Miranda Martini had been married for the last twenty-eight years. Joel worked as a janitor and Miranda as a nurse at Westerly Hospital in downtown Cincinnati. They were a middle class couple with limited dreams. In 1994 they purchased a redbrick brownstone just outside the city limits. Tuck was just a baby at the time and could barely remember when they had first moved in.

  Although Tuck’s father, Joel Henry Martini, worked at the same high school that Tuck attended, Tuck wasn’t very close to him. Sometimes they made eye contact while passing in the school’s hallways. Other times they were seen near one of the janitorial closets and Joel passed his son a few bucks for lunch. In silence, they rode together to school and then home, but only when Joel’s shift was complete and Tuck was finished with his extra circular activities, which was practicing the piano. Even Miranda knew that her husband and son had a rocky relationship, and feared that once Tuck graduated from high school neither would speak to each other again.

  Miranda Wells Martini did attempt to push Joel to his son more, but failed. She insisted that Joel take Tuck to dinner, to the movies on Saturday afternoons, and to music stores, since Tuck had a liking for the piano and music in general. Joel was a stickler about not spending any quality time with his son. Rather, he enjoyed working in his garage, rebuilding a 1967 Dodge Charger that had definitely seen better days. Miranda believed Joel liked his dilapidated Charger over their son. Of course, she confronted Joel about his affection for his refurbished car, lacking any interest in their son, but Joel didn’t seem to care about such willy nilly details in his life and pretty much abandoned his boy.

  “My father’s a weird creature, if you want to know,” Tuck admitted to me. “He doesn’t have affairs on my mom, he doesn’t drink or do drugs, and he doesn’t gamble. If you look at those details, line them up and critique them with a close eye, you’ll see that my father is a nice guy. But get him to spend a day with me, let alone a minute, he won’t have anything to do with it. I don’t know why, but it’s the truth. My mother can vouch for it also. She’s always tried to get my dad to take an interest in me, but he just won’t.”

  Tuck could ramble for hours upon hours about his estranged relationship with his father. But once, and only once, he admitted in the softest tone, making me believe that he was telling me a secret, “If I died, my father wouldn’t miss me. I’m just not that important to him. I’m really not. My mother would be heartbroken and my father wouldn’t give a damn. Truth is, he’d probably thank the good lord above for taking me away from him, just so he wouldn’t have the burden of having me around.”

  There were other facts that I had learned about Tuck’s mother and father, none of which were surprising to me, of course. Miranda was in a book club, which gathered once a month to discuss national best-sellers by Emma Straub, Donna Tart, and Gillian Flynn. She was also in a painting class that met every Thursday night. And one of her best friends, Trixie Bitlittle, had a talk show on a local radio station that Miranda sometimes was a guest on, talking about the Cincinnati community and surrounding areas. Miranda attended church every Sunday morning, enjoyed running, and was never caught without any makeup on. Tuck called her liberal and loving, and was proud to have the woman as his mother.

  Joel was a history buff and spent a lot of his time reading nonfiction hardbacks and watching the History Channel. In his spare time he enjoyed coin collecting, reading the newspaper, and sometimes playing pool with two of his middle-aged adult male friends, Toby Dane and Nick Sholton. Joel did not believe in guns, although he was a hardcore Republican, did not live beyond his means, and thought homosexuality was the first exit to hell off the highway of life. Frugal, unsmiling, and not pleasant to be around were all admissions by Tuck about his father. Joel lacked a personality, emotions, and came across to people (family members, coworkers, and personal friends) as irritating,
dull, and unable to share a single conversation with anyone.

  According to Tuck, Joel and Miranda Martini had never thought about getting a divorce. On the contrary, they were madly in love with each, or what some observers of their relationship would have deemed as putting up with each other. They both had their simple lives, sometimes connected on the sofa to watch a television show together, but they showed no signs of physical affection in front of anyone, including their son, Tuck. Joel was certainly not the type of man to perform public displays of affection with his wife; Miranda, respected as a nurse in her community, explained to her husband, “There’s a time and place for romance, Joel.”

  Also according to Tuck, his parents basically lived two different lives as a married couple. They rarely fought or saw each other. Miranda spent hours at the hospital working her shifts while her husband worked overtime at the high school, cleaning floors. Tuck called it a pity and the worst way to carry out a relationship. “They make me sad, and always have. It’s unfortunate that they stay together when they could be so happy with other people in their lives. I won’t do that when I’m married. I’ll love my husband with all my heart and be happy with him. We’ll be a devoted union that will explore the world together and have the time of our lives. That’s what I want, and that’s exactly what I will have.”

  Chapter 36: Halloween

  October 31, 2015

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Carl told me, sitting next to me on his beach under the autumn moon, which was almost full. “They don’t exist.”

  “I think there was a ghost in the house I grew up in; the house where my mother currently lives. Things used to go bang in the night there all the time. She’s always telling me that some of her belongings are missing. Her cellphone. A notebook. Her grocery lists. She says that the ghost steals things from her and she can never find what she loses, or what the ghosts steal.”