by Jay Quinn
With those plans set in his head, he stepped from the shower to treat himself to a shave with a razor, no electric razor shortcuts for him tonight. He wanted to be as smooth and suave as a guy on a shaving cream commercial. He lathered his face and selected a new double-blade from the pack. With these simple ablutions, thoughts of Rory rose in his mind. They skittered from his appreciative assessment of Rory’s beach-lounging form, slick with sweat and glowing in the sun, to their close conversation in the car on the way home.
Austin had never thought, no, even his best imagining of seducing Rory had never taken the direction it did in real life. His mental scenario of presenting the topic of the two of them having sex was lit by a dull illumination of the request and enthusiastic acquiescence. The reality of his actual words and Rory’s response amazed him. Austin had no idea something he’d actually say would come out so right. He felt like he’d successfully managed to call an unknown girl he’d long admired and scored a date. It made him laugh out loud. He wasn’t sure when the sex would actually happen, he only knew it would for sure.
The sex itself was still only vaguely imagined. He wasn’t lying when he’d told Rory the simple gist of it. He did want to kiss him. He did want to feel Rory’s touch, sincere and searching, it was a type of touch he longed for without seeming to know about it until he said it. The thought of it made him half-hard even now. As he’d told Rory, the dull mechanics of gay sex weren’t out of his realm of experience, but that wasn’t what he really craved. What he truly wanted was a ripening connection, as warm and intimate as his first thrilling time spent actually exploring someone else’s body after all the time spent imagining it. Austin wanted to be awakened to the forbidden once more.
Looking at himself in the master bath’s generous mirrors, he noted how red he was from his long morning in the sun. He glanced at the bathroom door to make sure it was shut. Satisfied it was, he squatted and searched for some skin lotion he knew he’d seen behind a door under the sink. It was waiting, close at hand, an intensive skin care lotion in a pump-top bottle. He grabbed it and straightened to put it on the counter.
At first, he slathered it over his shoulders and neck until the sensations of the ministrations of his hands invited their attentions elsewhere. He watched as his hands rubbed the chilly lotion over the still-firm swell and declivities of his chest. He felt the responsive rise of his nipples with some surprise. Those long-ignored small bumps of flesh firmed and stiffened under his palms, drawing his fingertips to explore and marvel at their individuality on the smooth plane of his flesh. He wondered how they’d feel to Rory. Would their smallness make some sort of difference? The flood of electric pulse they sent said they were more than sufficient to make the more southern regions of his groin respond with an insistence that intrigued him. Likewise, he renewed his palms with lotion and explored the reddened surface of his belly. He tracked its slight hill and fingered the rim of the pool of his navel wondering what it would feel like as Rory discovered that geography on his own.
Only then did he pump a generous amount of lotion on his hand and smear it across his palms and reach for the exclamation point of his physical being. He slid it in his fist and marveled at how hard it had become. There was nothing half-hearted in its wondering at another man’s touch. There was nothing tentative about its desire for an unknown hand. Austin grabbed his scrotum and tugged at its generous contents. That loose dropping bag had a yearning of its own. Austin stroked it gently wondering, half-dreaming, while his other hand found an insistent rhythm on his shaft. His knees buckled involuntarily as the center of his being was paid attention to. He was close, so close, when he felt a rush and gathering coolness in the steamy room around him that hadn’t been there a moment ago. It distracted him. He opened his eyes.
Noah stood just inside the master bath’s door, his mouth and eyes wide with wonder and, Austin was shocked to see, a certain frank interest.
“Noah! Goddamn it!” Austin said as he let go of himself and spun around, his feet catching awkwardly in the chenille mat on the bathroom floor.
“Sorry, Dad,” Noah said quickly. I didn’t mean…”
“You didn’t mean to barge in without knocking?” Austin shouted over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Daddy!” Noah said with alarm. “I won’t do it again.”
Austin reached for his towel and took two awkward, crab-like steps sideways to retrieve it from where he’d slung it over the shower door. He quickly wrapped it around his waist and turned to find Noah half-retreated behind the cover of the door. “Come in here, son,” he said firmly. “And close the door behind you.”
Miserably, Noah stepped back into the bathroom and did as he was told without looking any further than the tops of his feet.
“Noah, don’t you know some things are private?” He demanded.
“Yes sir,” Noah said quietly.
“Do you know what you just saw?” Austin said lowering his voice and half-believing the inspiration for his wanking could be read as easily as his gleaming greased hands.
Noah nodded his head.
“What?” Austin asked.
Noah took a deep breath and looked up defiantly into his father’s eyes. “You were beating off,” he said in a near whisper. His bravado didn’t reach below his eyes.
Austin was taken aback by his son’s simple assertion of fact and his familiarity with the act itself. “Have you started beating off?” Austin said gently.
“Aw Dad, don’t make me tell you that,” the boy moaned.
“Fine then,” Austin said, he had his answer in the boy’s reluctance to answer. “You know what I mean by private. I wouldn’t watch you do something like that. The thought of it makes me sick. You understand me?”
His feet and eyes fidgeting with the need for flight, he nodded.
“Were you curious about me? About what I look like?” His father asked calmly.
In response, Noah just rolled his eyes and looked away. “I wasn’t trying to be gay or anything,” he managed.
“It’s okay, son,” he said wearily, then quickly amended the statement with, “It’s okay to be curious about adults. There’s going to be a lot of adult things you’re going to want to ask me, but you have to trust me enough to ask and keep it between you and me and not sneak around, okay?”
Noah nodded gratefully.
“Do you have any questions now?” Austin asked calmly.
The boy shifted on his feet and looked everywhere but his father’s eyes. “Why did you use lotion?” Noah asked with down cast eyes and in a near whisper.
Austin fought the urge to smile. Noah was not quite fourteen. He debated exactly how much to tell him about the parallels between a firm greased grip and the reality of anatomy it tried to duplicate. He considered carefully what to say. Finally he settled on, “Because it feels better. It’s smoother.”
Noah grinned. “Better than spit?”
Austin grinned back, “Ten times better. Do you have any lotion in your bathroom?”
Noah screwed up his dark brows in consideration. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“Well then,” Austin said. “I’ll buy you some to hide in your room. But let’s not say anything about this to your mom… .”
“Hell no,” Noah said and looked over his shoulder. “She’s home,” he said conspiratorially.
“Is that what you came in here to tell me,” Austin asked incredulously.
Noah nodded.
“Oh man, do I feel stupid,” Austin said and smacked his forehead.
“Aw Dad. No way,” Noah put in quickly. “You were just… you had to just do your dad thing. It’s okay.”
Austin grinned at his kid. “So you’re not psychologically scarred or anything?”
“What?” Noah asked blankly.
Austin felt a dull ache in his groin from his unexpected interruption of a very personal act. “Nothing, son. Just go downstairs and tell your mom I’ll be down as soon as I get dressed, before she barges in here
wondering what we’re doing in the bathroom,” he said.
Noah’s eyes grew wide again, in horror this time, at the thought of his mother joining the discussion. “Gotcha,” he said and ducked gratefully out the door.
Austin watched the door close behind him and pulled off the towel. He made short work of wiping his hands and genitals before searching the counter for his boxer shorts and slipping them on. For just a little while he’d managed to feel frisky and free as a bird, just buck naked and having a good time. Now, he looked in the mirror and noted how diminished he felt. Kids, he thought, have a way of making you old way before you want to be. Still, he straightened his shoulders and shifted his mental gears effortlessly as he left to get dressed. He was very much looking forward to taking his wife on an unexpected date.
TRIBECA GRAND HOTEL, CANAL STREET, MANHATTAN
BRUNO ALWAYS SPLURGED on expensive trendy hotel rooms when he was in New York. He knew how much his travel allowance would allow, and it was usually generous enough for him to indulge himself, as long as he stayed not too far out of range from the firm’s offices in the financial district. Since 9/11, the hotel where the firm had kept a corporate account had been at first unavailable, then haunted. Bruno never faced any disapproval for the small idiosyncrasy of staying where he chose. The design, services, and personal pampering that came with these pricey rooms were significant parts of the things he looked forward to when he came to Manhattan. In much the same ways, so was Nan Bradfield.
Nan held a position that was parallel to Bruno’s, with the exception that she earned her reputation in the New York office, while his was tilled, hardscrabble, in a field location. Nonetheless, Nan admired him, and Bruno held an equal amount of respect for her. She was something to look forward to when he came up. He enjoyed her company, her mind, and her professional insights. Of course, the sight of her was more than welcome as well. In fact, Bruno appreciated the design of her total package as much as he did the particular services they rendered for each other.
They were well-matched and complementary. Nan had the blunt- cut blondeness and leggy poise of a certain type of Manhattanite. Soignée and vastly intelligent, she was also feral in a business world that idealized a kind of corporate ravening in the women it allowed to play on a level playing field. She was as strikingly attractive as Bruno was aggressively masculine. In another kind of circumstance, they would have made a perfect New York couple. As it was, they were simply perfect New York lovers. Well-matched in hunger, well-suited for fucking with no strings attached. Neither wanted it any other way.
It was from Nan’s sleek SoHo co-op that Bruno arrived back at the Tribeca Grand at 6:10 a.m. Unshaven, rumpled, and tired, Bruno was nonetheless very satisfied with himself. The women he still fucked were few and far between, but the sweaty, groaning orgasms like those Nan had abandoned herself to the night before were a point of pride for him. In the vain and proud part of himself he kept for himself away from Rory and his fuller life, he was stroked and very affirmed by his night’s activities as he let himself into his room.
Bruno didn’t even bother turning on the lights or striding into the larger room itself. He simply walked into the bathroom and began shucking his clothes, so recently put back on, and kicked them out into the room’s small foyer before running himself a hot shower and stepping gratefully into it. Efficiently, he bathed himself, conscious of the fact that he had very little time to clean up, order something quick from room service, and make his way back downtown for the meeting that would be the culmination of so much hard work over the past week.
It wasn’t until after he’d shaved and carefully examined himself in the mirror for bite marks or fingernail tracks that he was awake enough to find his way to the phone on the desk to order a large pot of coffee and some breakfast. It was then that he saw the red blinking light on the phone alerting him to the fact that he had messages. He ignored its insistence until after he’d placed his morning order with room service. Then, still naked and warm from his shower, he dialed in to see who had called the night before. He couldn’t really imagine who it might be. He’d slipped into Nan’s bathroom to check in with Rory at nine-thirty. He’d gracefully told him he’d had his dinner and planned on falling asleep like the dead, snug in his hotel room bed.
At 10:30, Rory had called. Brightly, he’d said, “Wake up beast. Pick up. This is urgent.”
At 11:10, Rory had called again. Concern tightened his voice as he’d said, “Bruno, I called your cell phone a minute ago in case you’d changed your mind and gone out for a drink. There was no answer. Please… this is urgent and I don’t want to go over it on the voice mail. Call back as soon as you get in.”
At 11:56, Rory had called once more. “Bruno, where the hell are you? Call me as soon as you get in. It’s very important. Call home, please.”
At 1:09: “Will? It’s bad news. I need you to call me, what ever time you get in. Call me!”
At 2:04, a resigned sigh, then, “Oh Bruno. You poor, dumb bastard. I wondered why you needed condoms and lube in your dop kit.” Rory gave a small, thin laugh remarkably free of any bitterness and said, “Whoever you’re with, I hope it was worth this.” And Rory hung up.
The last message came in about the time Bruno would have been getting out of the cab in front of the hotel. For a moment there was a humming silence of white noise, then what could only be Bridget barking for her breakfast. He heard Rory say, “Will, call your mother on her cell as soon as you can.” He gave him a number, repeated it, and then Rory simply disconnected.
Bruno placed the receiver back in its extremely well-designed cradle and slumped into the bespoke chair at the desk. He was still trying to think of what to tell Rory when he called him back when room service tentatively knocked at his door and he realized how utterly naked he was.
CHAPTER TEN
It’s not about you
ST. MARK’S COURT
AFTER BRUNO’S CALL, Rory made himself a plain piece of toast and a glass of milk. It wasn’t that he was particularly hungry, quite the opposite in fact. He ate mechanically, without any sense of pleasure in the toast despite the fact that it was sunflower bread from the Publix bakery, a particular favorite of his. Likewise, the cold glass of two-percent milk didn’t satisfy him the way it normally did. His spare breakfast was simply a means to an end. He tidied up the bread crumbs and rinsed the glass before putting it in the dishwasher. Those little chores accomplished, he looked around the kitchen. It was as pristine as a show home. Pleased, he turned to his last morning chore.
The picture of the Sacred Heart sat along with its vigil candle and the small statue of the Holy Family where it always had, on the counter at the end of the bar. As was his habit, he lit the candle and contemplated the gentle face of Christ before saying the prayer he’d been taught as a little boy. This morning, however, he tacked on an unscripted plea for forgiveness for a sin he hadn’t committed, but knew he would. If, as he believed deep in his heart, a sin was simply a poor choice that you made, a choice that was sometimes the wrong thing for the justifiable reasons, then he had already sinned in making the choice. If sin was more than a choice, if it was an act, a choice made concrete, then the sin was to come. However, he’d made his decision. In either event, he was a sinner today. And he repented then and there in the bright morning light before he moved away from his small altar and found his way into the bedroom.
Tucked away, at the very back of the drawer that held his underwear, there was a small prescription bottle. There was really nothing remarkable about it other than the fact that he’d kept what it held squirreled away against the time he felt like he’d really need it. Inside the brown plastic bottle was a half-handful of Oxycontin that Rory had hoarded from a nasty episode with an abscessed molar the year before. Rory’s dentist was never generous with such painkillers, but the script was a testament to the duration of the pam and treatment of the infection that had spread from an abscessed root into his sinuses and the small bundle of nerves at
the jaw joint.
Rory kept the Oxycontin like a small hoard of gold, and he spent each pill grudgingly for a couple of reasons. The first reason was the fact that he hated being high. The second reason was he loved being high. He simply loved the drug too much. But, today was a day when he wanted to feel its lush ease, when he wanted to be free of the tug of gravity. For just a little while, eight hours perhaps, if he ate only enough to keep him from feeling nauseous, Rory would feel simply wonderful. Tomorrow would take care of itself.
So Rory took out a treasured pill and dry-swallowed it. He felt it go down his throat like a small rock, but he was definitely sure it went down. Then, without another thought, he went into the bathroom for a shave and shower. He wanted to feel smooth and clean in his coming druggy ascent to the touch of the day.
Once he was sleekly towel buffed and smelled of the coconut-scented shampoo and conditioner he loved, he dressed as he did on most days. He pulled on a generously cut pair of boxer shorts, patterned brightly with orange hibiscus blossoms on a yellow background, and then slipped a gleaming tight white tank T-shirt over his head. He glanced at himself in the mirror and roughly ruffled the shiny bristles of his crew cut. He could tell by the shiver than ran through to his shoulders that his pill was kicking in. He glanced at his watch on the vanity where he left it each night. It was no more than quarter of nine. There was nothing left to do but go out on the pool deck and wait.
The morning sun was warm again, as it had been on the beach the day before. With the pill’s gift of a supersensory awareness of his own skin, Rory enjoyed feeling the morning in a tactile kind of way. Bridget obligingly lay at his feet and stretched against the searching massage his toes gave the fur on her back. Rory found his stashed pack of cigarettes in Bruno’s buzz box and lit one to enjoy while he waited. He thought it was the best tasting cigarette he’d had in a long time. It wasn’t half-gone when Austin called down from his office window.
