by Wynn Wagner
"I guess I ought to get back to the 24 Hour Club,” he said, and he stood up. I started to stop him and tell him to sleep over, but I didn't. He was right in front of me when he took off his swim trunks. He walked over to his clothes and got his pants. Instead of putting them on across the living room, he walked back over to where I was standing. He leaned down to the floor and stood on his hands. His backside was closest to me, and Wyatt let his heels come to rest on my shoulders. What a wonderful undercarriage.
Ding. Ding. He was trying to give me a stroke. How was I supposed to keep from drooling on his crotch? One foot was on each of my shoulders, and all I could see was his balls and thighs. Oh my God. I mean, oh my God.
Wyatt wasn't muscular, but he had well-developed thighs. They were so much better-looking than my bird legs and knobby knees. His dick was at attention and pointing at his head. I was right about it. He wasn't too long, but it was one of the widest rods that I had ever seen. He was built almost like a short beer can.
His balls fell in a really relaxed scrotum.
I leaned down and kissed his sack, and he groaned. When I looked up, his sack was reacting to my kiss. It was moving like magic even though he was completely still.
"Don't stop, Sean,” he said. “Please don't stop."
He relaxed his legs a little to let his knees come against my chest. Wyatt moved as close to me as he could while standing on his head.
I just stood there until he pulled his feet off my shoulders. He stood in front of me and held me. Wyatt put his palms on the side of my neck and wrapped his fingers around to the back of my neck. It was the second time that he had held me like that, and it was the most amazing feeling. He felt so warm and secure. He was tender and soft.
"I want you, Sean,” he said. “I've wanted you since the first time I saw you."
"There's nothing I want more, Wyatt, but you know I can't."
"You can,” he said. “I just know you won't. Big difference."
And I didn't. It almost killed me, but I kept my robe on. He'd taken off my clothes, but I had a robe handy. If he only knew how much I wanted him.
He acted like he understood. If he didn't understand my reasons, he knew that I really wanted him. I kept telling him that it was a delay, not a rejection. He asked if I could at least give him a hand job. No. He asked if we could kiss, and I caved.
We went to the diner most nights, and he started paying for his own food slowly. He was getting a paycheck, and he insisted on paying his own way. We counted down the days to Saturday. He got more and more excited as we got close to his big adventure.
Part of me wanted to tell him that the Trinity Group wasn't all that much of a big deal. I just enjoyed watching his excitement grow.
* * * *
Chico and I met for breakfast just to keep in touch.
"You never call. You never write,” he said.
"Sorry,” I said, and I meant it, but I didn't know what I was supposed to say.
"Was I too rough last time?"
"Oh no, Chico. No, I mean, it was rougher than I ever expected,” I said, “but you really made it work. I'm getting hard just thinking about the last time."
"I was afraid that the clothespins scared you off."
"They were... um... intense,” I said with a smile. “Yeah, intense. And your fingers made me remember you for a week every time I sat down."
"Sorry, man, you should have said...."
"No, listen, Chico,” I interrupted. “You were fun, and I really enjoyed... okay, ‘enjoyed’ may not be the right word... but it was great. What you did to my body was magic. It was raw and male and intense. No complaints here. None, so don't even suggest it."
"Then what's wrong?"
"I sort of met this guy,” I said.
"That's great. When do I get to meet him?"
"I'm not sure, man. I don't know if we'll ever go out on a date. When I say that I just met the guy, that's literally all that happened."
"You haven't had sex?"
"No,” I laughed. “Weird, isn't it, for me being a liberated gay guy and all. No, we haven't had sex. We've gone out for coffee and snacks, but that's it. I mean, we haven't even had a formal date."
"You're slipped, man. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, he's great. He's on the rebound, and he's going through a kind of rough spot."
"Oh, AA then."
"It's an anonymous group, you know, but yeah. He's just fresh off the streets. I'm sure nothing will ever happen."
"Maybe I don't want to give you up,” he howled.
"Don't mock me, Chico."
"Wow,” he said as he studied my face. He put his warm palm on top of mine on the breakfast table. “You are really stuck on this guy."
"I am. And it is so wrong on so many levels."
"How so?"
"He really is on the rebound after a nasty breakup. He just got a job, but is still staying at the 24 Hour Club... a really nasty shelter. And he's just barely in AA, which means somebody with as much sobriety as me has to keep his hands to himself. I'm even afraid when we're just talking. I mean, what if I say something that comes across like a come-on? What if I lose control of myself and really try to move in on this kid?"
"Kid?"
"Well, not exactly. He's twenty."
"You're in your twenties,” Chico said.
"Yeah, but he's younger."
"You like somebody who's twenty?"
"No, and he's a swish, Chico. I mean, this is the most girly guy you ever saw. I'm sure he's a bottom because everybody who's that much of a swish is always a bottom, no matter what he says. But I got it bad for this guy, Chico. I think about him all day, and I dream about him at night. It isn't just lust because I'm afraid to touch him. I'm afraid of getting close to him because I'll just drool or something."
"You got it bad, man,” Chico said as he squeezed my hand. “But I'm happy for you."
I wiped a tear from my cheek. A tear? Oy.
"Thanks, Chico."
"I mean it,” he said. “If you just want sex before the two of you get married, I'm there for you. You got a festive body, Sean. I like your ass. But that's just sex, not a relationship. I hope you and this kid can make a go of it. Just know that if you need me as an agent or as a fuck, I'm there. If you make it with this other guy, invite me to the wedding and let me host your bachelor party."
"Thanks."
* * * *
"Are you sure about this?” I asked Wyatt just before we walked into the Trinity Group. Its meeting space was in a strip shopping center. Maybe it had once been a nice place to shop, but that was forty or fifty years ago. Now it just looked like a tired, out-of-date strip mall that really needed a facelift. The potholes in the parking lot had potholes. If one of the bigger potholes got any deeper, it might work for dirt bike competitions.
"I'm sure,” Wyatt told me as we got out of his car.
I knew the group was there, but it wasn't going to make a big splash with signage. Somebody had gone to Home Depot or Lowes to get plastic block letters that looked like they were made out of wood. They spelled out TRINITY GROUP on the front window. It wasn't fancy, but it got the message across. It was right in keeping with the low-income ambiance of the group. Members were lower middle class and blue collar. I didn't think anybody was completely indigent, and they sure weren't millionaires.
Wyatt reached out and grabbed my hand. We walked up to the Trinity Group's front door holding hands. It wasn't an approach that I would have picked, but it was what he wanted to do. I certainly wasn't ashamed of being gay in any setting, but I didn't do much in the way of public displays. I didn't think I even did public displays at the gay group. Maybe I did and didn't realize it.
I recognized a few people there, one from some gay-group meetings. He waved to me as he sat down. The Trinity Group had a dozen banquet tables in the middle of the room. There were rows of extra chairs along all the walls. Unless things had changed, the group would fill up every one of those chairs. Trinity was
an old group, and it had people with some of the longest sobriety anywhere.
"Hi, I'm Wyatt, and I'm an alcoholic,” he said when the meeting leader called on him about halfway through the hour. Wyatt had learned how to take part in discussion meetings, and I was really happy to see him taking part in the discussion.
"Hi, Wyatt,” everybody said.
"I've been sober for thirteen weeks,” he said quietly.
"Way to go, Wyatt,” somebody said as there was a short round of applause for him.
He talked a little about his time in AA. “I'm here to say that I'm gay. It isn't a big deal to you, but it is a really big deal to me."
The room was silent. Nobody had anything to say. I could have told him that. Being gay is just not an issue in AA, any group, anywhere.
"Young man,” a really old woman across the table said. She was about a million years old. I'd seen her around, but I didn't really know her. She was calm but direct.
"Yes, ma'am?” Wyatt said.
"Do you know what kind of group this is?"
"Trinity,” he said.
"It's an AA group, son,” she said. I was suddenly afraid for Wyatt. It sounded like she was about to unleash some kind of anger. You don't get a tongue-lashing often, but it happens here and there.
"I know that."
"Why are you in AA?” she said calmly. She had obviously spent most of her life outside and was deeply wrinkled. There were some patches where a doctor had probably been working on skin cancer. She was so old that her wrinkles actually had wrinkles.
"I'm an alcoholic,” he said.
"Bravo, you're an alcoholic. I'm an alcoholic too. If you go around the room, everybody in the meeting will say that they're alcoholic."
"But—"
"Wyatt,” she said. “Wyatt, right?"
"Yes, ma'am,” he said.
"We knew you were gay before you said anything,” the ancient woman said. “You know how?"
"No, ma'am."
"It's because we suffer from alcoholism. We do not, however, suffer from blindness."
Blindness.
Boom! Zing! Bam! She shoots! She scores! Old woman: one. Wyatt: diddly squat. Boom! Zing! Bam! Watermelon rind... Watermelon rind... Look at the scoreboard and see who's behind. Boom!
I chuckled a little, which made Wyatt look my way with a dark frown. Whoops. I settled down.
"Son,” the woman continued, “it's okay. You can come here and tell everybody about yourself. Lots of people ought to have your guts. I don't think I can name ten others who've shown your guts. You picked the most heterosexual group in town, and most of these derelicts and hoodlums never met a gay person before. I mean, they have, but they probably don't know it."
"Yes, ma'am,” he said with a smile.
"I want to make it really clear to you and everybody else that you are here because you sucked on Long Necks. You are not here because you sucked on dick."
"I'm gay too, Wyatt,” came a man's voice from the back.
"Me too, Wyatt,” said a woman. “But she's right. You can come announce you are gay, and that's fine, because it is part of who you are. Always remember that your real reason for being here is that you have a desire to stop drinking for today."
Wyatt nodded as he started to cry. I started to put my arm around him, but a burly guy with a scruffy beard on Wyatt's other side beat me to it. If he didn't already know it, Wyatt was being loved unconditionally. He was accepted by everyone in the meeting regardless of who and what he was.
After the meeting, the ancient woman came over. She walked slowly and used a cane. “You okay?” she asked.
"Yeah,” Wyatt said with a forced grin. “Thanks for pointing me in a better direction."
"You need to come here and say whatever you need to say, but you also need to know that you may not always hear what you expected to hear. You may hear things you don't want to hear, but know that people talk because they care about you. It doesn't matter if you're white or brown or blue, and it doesn't matter if you're gay or transsexual or just confused."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I lost my lover last year,” the woman said. “Diane had been in AA for forty years. We met here, and everybody supported us as a couple. The minister at her funeral was that guy sitting next to you."
"The man in the plumbing uniform?"
"Josh is a plumber during the week, but he has a non-denominational chapel on the weekend. He's good people. Most of the people here are."
"You must miss Diane,” he said.
"More than you can possibly know,” she said as a tears came up in her eyes. “These guys, barely any gay people in the bunch, got me through it. These straight hobos were there for me. They were there when it counted, and I can't say as much for my own family. They got me through it, and we will get you through it."
"Thanks,” Wyatt said.
"I mean that."
"Yes, ma'am. I know you do."
"And when you're sober, you have a debt to repay. You have to pass it along to somebody who needs your help. Keep comin’ back, girly boy,” she said with a smile. “Keep coming back."
On the drive back, I asked Wyatt if he was happy we went to the blue-collar group.
"Oh, yeah,” he said. “Thanks for going with me."
"What'd you learn there?"
"Well, I learned that I need to take lessons on butching it up."
* * * *
The next day was Sunday, and it was a big birthday celebration at our home group. Several people thought Wyatt and I were a couple, but I had to fix the story. I told them that I wished we were, but we were just friends.
A birthday party is when people with major birthdays get their chips. Annual anniversaries are marked with a nice metal chip. Most of the monthly chips are like poker chips.
There was a speaker at the meeting. It was an old man who couldn't stand for the entire hour. He was really old, so they brought the microphone down to let him sit in a chair to talk to us. I had heard him a couple of years ago, and I knew Wyatt was in for a story he wouldn't soon forget. He was in the area and had been invited to speak for the entire hour. When he introduced himself, he told everybody that he had been sober for seventy-one years. Wyatt went bug-eyed.
"Seventy?” he whispered.
"Listen to him,” I said back.
"I was there at the beginning, if you were having trouble doing the arithmetic. They give us old farts metal medallions with our number of years in Roman numerals. You have to be sober for a really long time just to decipher those letters. It's hard. One year, my Roman numerals were so wide that I asked if the medallion came with a bookmark. I told them that I couldn't possibly parse the entire year in one night."
Everybody laughed.
"A few years ago, somebody from The Grapevine... everybody know what that is? The Grapevine is a magazine put out by AA World Services. It has stories and quips and stuff. Anyway, this guy wanted to interview me because I was one of the last of the original members of AA. I was hardly original, but I was probably one of the first thousand. I didn't tell him that, of course, because I'll always go for hero-worship."
There were some chuckles. One guy said, “You go, girl,” from the back.
"So this guy asked me if there's a secret for long-term sobriety. Well, I didn't even have to think about that, because I already knew the answer. He thought he was asking me a unique question never thought up by the billion other people who have talked with me over the years. Why do we always think we're unique here? I don't know, but I told him that there are actually two secrets for long-term sobriety. Don't drink, and don't die."
He stopped, and some people probably thought that there was more to the story. I had heard him talk before, and I knew that was it.
"I guess I won't be around much longer. I'm in my nineties, and most of my friends are dead. All the guys who were around at the beginning are dead. Part of me is saddened by that, but part of me appreciates the extra freedom I get when nobody is alive who ca
n contradict whatever I say. If I say so-and-so was a son-of-a-bitch, you just have to believe me, because so-and-so is long dead. I miss them. I miss Bill Wilson, one of our co-founders. I met Dr. Bob, the other co-founder. Dr. Bob wasn't from New York, so I didn't know him as well."
He drank from a bottle of water.
"You guys look really good to me. You're a much better-looking group than the vagrants and hobos and derelicts that were around for me. We really had hobos who really rode the rails. Lots of poverty and lots of booze. Nobody could afford a car, so there wasn't much drunk driving. I was a kid drunk, and I remember lots of those old-timers laughed at me when I told them that I had it rough. They told me to try being an alcoholic during Prohibition. They said you had to be really dedicated to your craft of alcoholism to do it well during Prohibition. They got rid of that stupid law in 1933, so I guess I had it easy."
He stopped and looked at the crowd.
"You guys look so great to these old eyes, but do you think you had it easy? Don't answer, because I'm sure you'd say you had it rough. Maybe you did; maybe you didn't. We all think we were the worst drunk ever, but back in the day, none of us had a way to stop drinking. It was a real mess back then. I was just a kid, but I remember so many guys just dropped dead. Something broke inside them. They couldn't drink, but they couldn't stop. Nobody understood. We were just rejected by proper people. Then along comes Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob. AA was spreading like crazy. Europe was just getting into World War II, and I was trying to get sober. I don't know why, except that I wanted to enlist and go fight Germans. I showed up drunk for the physical, and not even the army wants a drunk on the front lines. We weren't at war yet, but I saw it coming. I heard about this new organization that helped people like me: drunks. I was a wino. I was a whiskey-o. I was an anything-I-can-get-my-hands-on-o. And I found an AA group in my neighborhood. My family was Italian. I'm Italian. I was out on the street after Daddy caught me with a neighborhood kid. We were both sixteen, and I had lived on the streets for years. I was drunk, and I was gay. Everybody ran from the likes of me, even the hobos."
He looked around the room.
