by Jamie Lake
Of course, also, there were a lot of books, too, including Wayne Dyer, Deepak Chopra, Pema Chodron, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, and other meditation and new age authors Chris had never heard of.
As Chris walked into the brown-tiled kitchen, he noticed how much it even smelled like Mason. As he thought this, he realized that he already knew what that smell was. And that he loved it.
“I like it,” Chris said emphatically.
Mason gave him a yeah-right look, and Chris responded, “No, I’m serious. Your place is great and it’s safe and you have a backyard. I don’t even have that.”
“Well, thanks. If you like it so much, you can come hang out in it whenever you want. And clean up all the dog poop from the neighbor’s Chihuahuas too,” Mason smirked.
Chris laughed. Mason was a lot more jovial than Chris would have expected. He was nothing like the guy he met in the driveway yesterday morning.
“So, come on in,” he said opening the refrigerator, “One thing about Costa Rica is there’s no lack of cheap, high-quality, organic fruits and vegetables, which is what you should be eating by the way, young man.”
“Yes, sir,” Chris said.
Mason stopped, looked up at him, and winked. “That’s what I like to hear.”
Chris gulped.
“Now, what’s your preference: strawberries, pineapples, bananas?”
“I like bananas,” Chris said.
“Yeah, me too. And pineapples are good for you, but pretty high in sugar, so you have to go easy. We’ll throw a few heavy iron veggies in there just to make sure you get your vitamins.”
Mason must have noticed the sour expression on Chris’ face because he said, “Don’t worry, you’ll love it. Promise.”
He grabbed several apples in one hand and somehow managed to carry the bananas and other fruits and vegetables in one scoop before placing them in front of the blender.
“You want me to wash them?” Chris asked.
Mason chuckled, “I did yesterday with lemon and a splash of vinegar but if you want to again, have at it.”
“No, it’s cool. It’s just...”
“No problem at all. You never can be too careful. You’ve got to protect yourself,” he said with another wink.
I wish he’d stop doing that. It’s turning me on so much, Chris thought to himself. It was becoming increasingly hard for him to look Mason in the eye because every time he did, he’d get harder. Just being around his energy was difficult enough. He was starting to regret coming to his home; starting to even wonder if he would regret hiring Mason, because he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to control himself.
“So, what do you say, you cut up the pineapple?” he said, squeezing Chris’ shoulder.
“Ow.” Chris cringed as the stabbing pain shot through his shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” Mason asked.
“No, I guess I’m just a little sore from yesterday and today,” Chris said, “It’s nothing.”
“No, that’s not good. Most trainers say to work through the pain, but that’s not actually healthy for you. Tell you what, I’ve been learning some things in the reflexology class. After we fix our smoothies, I’ll give you a quick rub down.”
Chris swallowed hard. His cock was pulsing at the thought of it, “Sure,” he said, “that’d be great, actually.”
“Good, let’s get rolling,” Mason said, popping the strawberries in the blender and grabbing some ice.
Fifteen minutes later, they had two pale green smoothies, each topped with a strawberry. Chris looked at the pile of blender attachments and stuff in the sink.
“God, what a mess. Let me start...”
“No, you’re my guest. I’ll take care of that later. Besides, we’ve got to get to that rub down of yours, and I don’t want you to stress after it.”
Chris reluctantly agreed, trying to keep his mind off the words ‘rub down’, as Mason lead him into his living room and handed him his glass of smoothie. As Chris sat down, Mason turned on the stereo and began playing a little Sergio Mendes from the 60s: classy cocktail party music. The full band, female vocals, and jazzy Latin percussion were an old favorite of Chris’s grandparents, but it seemed that Mason was a fan of all kinds of music, and of all eras.
“Cheers,” Mason said, raising his glass.
“Cheers,” Chris responding, as they clinked glasses.
“To friendship,” Mason added, “And all that comes with it.”
“To friendship,” Chris said.
“And all that comes with it,” Mason added.
“And all that comes with it,” Chris repeated, gulping the smoothie down to drown out his mental picture of 'all that comes with it.' Chris sighed.
“How is it?” Mason asked.
“You know, for something with liquefied spinach in it...it's pretty damn good.”
“Told you,” Mason said, taking another sip and then licking the outside of the glass.
God damn that tongue, Chris thought, as he saw it rounding the edges then licking his full lips.
Mason must have noticed him looking. “Dude,” he said.
“What?” Chris answered, nervously.
“You’ve got foam on your nose,” he smiled. Mason didn’t wait, but rubbed it off Chris’s nose for him.
“Thanks. I guess it’s better than having ‘soap’ on my neck.”
Mason blushed, his eyebrows raising. “God, that was awkward,”
“No, it’s cool,” Chris laughed and kept laughing. Something about it - maybe just how awkward and sheepish Mason looked - struck him as funny.
“Well, I’m glad you think it’s funny,” Mason said, still blushing.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun,” Chris said.
Mason shrugged. “I guess it had been a long time. I haven’t really been with anyone since my ex and I split up, and well, when nature calls...”
“I feel you,” Chris said, wiping his tears from laughing so hard. “I’ve been so horny lately, I think I’m going to explode.”
“Yeah?” Mason said, sounding interested, just looking at him for awhile. Chris swore he saw him adjust himself a bit, but passed it off as wishful thinking.
“Oh Jesus, yeah,” Chris responded, sighing perhaps a little too transparently. Mason smiled at him. They sat there in what would normally be a very awkward moment; however, it felt fine. Comfortable. There was this buzzing rapport between them; this energy of calm, excitement, but simultaneous ease.
Mason had rarely felt this trusting this fast, much less with a male friend. He usually bonded with stronger women: one of the reasons his girlfriend was so jealous. For example, his best friend Vivienne, a Haitian trainer who taught him a lot of his techniques, was a perpetual source of conflict between himself and his ex, even though all three of them knew there was no sexual energy whatsoever between Mason and Vi. She was a lesbian.
Mason had realized from early on that Chris reminded him of somebody: his best friend from his school days, Kevin. He and Kevin had gone camping together in rural Maine where they grew up; they had tramped around in the woods and streets of their little podunk town, and been infamous for pulling off the senior prank at their high school: releasing ten chickens into the halls on the last day of class.
Mason had always admired Kevin in more ways than could be explained by simple friendship or bromance. Kevin’s blonde hair, big brown eyes, and lithe ectomorph body had once been a source of great excitement and confusion for Mason. He often forgot it, but there had been nights in boy scouts when they had masturbated together, fantasizing about the same girls. Eventually, they stopped fantasizing and just masturbated together, staring at one another’s bodies in the dim moonlight. After that, in his earlier teens, Mason had often jerked off, fantasizing about Kevin; however, as soon as his muscular physique blossomed and girls were interested in him, he forgot all about his brief foray into the homoerotic. In college, he chalked it up to crazy teenage hormones and never ever spoke of it. He wasn’t gay, or
even bi. However, something about Chris reminded him of Kevin’s same mixture of strength and vulnerability, of boyish charm and sexiness. On the one hand, it was sort of confusing. On the other hand, it wasn’t confusing at all. His body knew exactly what it wanted, right? He was an open-minded guy. He knew theoretically that sexuality was fluid, and could change depending on different situations. Theoretically. Was this happening in practice?
Now, Chris was grinning widely, his clean, perfect rows of teeth glinting along with his big brown eyes. They were talking about their exes. Mason told a story from last year when Victoria got so pissed that she actually took a crowbar and smashed out the windows of his car. The way he told it, with growing insanity in his imitation of Victoria every time, was making Chris crack up; soon he was laughing so hard his already boyishly rosy cheeks were beet red and tears were streaming from his eyes.
Mason watched Chris’ mouth. His lips looked full and soft and moist, just the way he liked them. He stopped himself. Was he actually thinking of another dude this way? He hadn’t had feelings like this in his whole adult life. All his conflict with his ex and the chaos of the past year had really made him re-evaluate everything, and to be honest, he had found himself so tired of and even disgusted with the thought of sex with his ex that he had wandered onto some gay porn websites to get off. Nothing hardcore, just pictures of fit young guys and their hard cocks. But the feelings he was having right now, for another actual human being in the flesh? That was taking things a step further. A bit weirder.
It crossed his mind that there was something profoundly comforting about Chris. Something so open and trusting - his energy made Mason feel safe enough to - never mind, he thought, getting up off the couch. He put the thought out of his head as Chris continued to giggle. There was no chance of something like that happening, right? He was at least ten years younger than Mason, for a start, and Chris seemed like the type of guy who was into more sophisticated things and more sophisticated people: Mason wasn’t in his league. He struggled to read The New York Times, for Chrissakes: Chris was a fucking novelist. They were from completely different worlds.
As Chris raised his fingers to wipe his tears of laughter, Mason collected their empty smoothie glasses and walked into the kitchen with a sinking feeling of uncertainty.
“Hey, how about that rub down?” Chris asked, sheepishly.
-------------------- 0 --------------------
CHAPTER 10
Chris waited on the couch as Mason nodded and stepped into the back hallway. He was getting so nervous that his palms were sweaty with anticipation. What, exactly, was going to happen with this rub down? He imagined so many different scenarios as he heard Mason rummaging around and opening drawers in the bathroom.
It was taking a while. Chris looked at the walls, painted a really overwhelming but still beautiful shade of bright indigo. There were a couple photos of Mason’s daughter tacked up on the side of the fridge. God, she was adorable. Above the stereo, there was a big poster of Buddha under the Bodhi tree, wearing his orange robe and touching the earth with his right hand. It made Chris feel a little more calm, but not for long: his heart was pitter-pattering, he had butterflies in his stomach, and his mouth was dry. Why was he so anxious? He felt like he was in the dentist’s office, about to get a tooth ripped out; not like he was about to get a relaxing massage from the sexiest hunk he’d met in the last five years. Alright: what the hell was going on in the bathroom? Chris was starting to wonder if Mason was stalling on purpose, or if perhaps he was just over thinking things as usual.
“Hey,” Mason said, his deep voice startling him as he finally came back out into the living room, “Sorry man.”
“No, it’s cool. We can do it another time,” Chris said, feeling a little disappointed.
“No, we can do it right here on the couch,” Mason said.
Chris swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Here?”
“Yeah, problem is, I only got this,” he said holding up a bottle of Astroglide.
Chris couldn’t help but laugh. “What?”
“I tried to find some essential oils, but I guess I ran out. Do you mind? It’s a little weird, but I promise it works exactly the same. I’ve done it before, but, I mean with...my ex,” Mason said.
“No, no it’s absolutely fine.” Chris laughed, “It’s just the slippery oil, right?”
He tried to sound casual about it, but admittedly, it was crossing the boundary just a little more. What the hell was really going on here? Chris felt his throat tightening with hope.
Mason set the lube down on the coffee table, and then squatted by the bookshelf, removed a box of incense, and slid out one long, red stick. Chris stared at Mason’s pert butt and the exposed small of his back as he leaned over to grab a lighter and snap the flame under the tip. The top of his ass crack was just visible for a split second before he popped up.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mason said.
“W-what?” Chris asked.
“This isn’t that shitty head shop kind with a bright purple dye,” Mason said. Chris sighed as the man waved a few figure eights of curling smoke in front of the Buddha and said a little mantra.
“You know, that awful stuff you find teenagers burning: Sex on the Beach, or strawberry incense. Why the hell should burning strawberries smell good? It always smells like tie dye or potpourri mixed with hospital soap. This stuff is like nothing you’ve ever smelled. It’s medicinal grade Tibetan frankincense. It’s good for depression, anxiety, and scaring away malevolent energies, if you believe in that kind of stuff,” Mason smirked.
“No, I do actually,” Chris said, clearing his throat.
The older man sat down next to Chris; close enough that his weight sagged the couch and made their thighs press against each other.
“Ready?” Mason asked.
“Don’t I need to lie down on a massage table or a...bed?” Chris asked, nervously.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry. This is reflexology. I only need your hand,” Mason said, grabbing Chris’ right hand. Chris tried to hide his disappointment, but hey, a free massage was a free massage.
Mason scooted closer, placing Chris’ hand in his lap, just centimeters from his crotch, which Chris couldn’t help but stare at for a moment. Mason was wearing some cut-off jeans that hugged his groin and ensconced his package. For the first time, Chris really saw a suggestion of how bulging that package was. As if he had x-ray vision, Chris could see almost immediately how big the soft, fully-fleshed jewels and thick member must be, that was hidden beneath those denims. Overwhelmed with the desire to turn his hand over and grasp it, he looked up, took a deep breath of the wafting smoke, and stared at the poster of the Buddha. That’s right, he thought. Nice and cool and calm. Meditate.
Mason flipped the bottle of lube open and squeezed a dab into his hand, placing it down on the coffee table and emulsifying it between his palms.
“You see, each part of your hand,” he explained, his deep voice, making Chris' body vibrate as he began to work his lubricated thumbs into Chris’ palm, “connects to a different part of your body.”
Chris’ disappointment at not getting a full body massage quickly disintegrated in the waves of pleasure that radiated from his palm, up his arm, and into the rest of his entire body. He began to moan involuntarily in relief at the focused pressure of Mason’s fingertips pressed into the webbing of two fingers, or the pad of his thumb, or certain spots along the edge of his hand. The way Mason worked through so thoroughly, it was as if each pore of his hand was a conduit to the rest of his whole body, relaxing him from head to toe and arousing him as much as any amount of heavy petting applied elsewhere.
“This,” Mason said, sliding up and down the tips of his fingers, “connects to your head and neck. It relaxes you whenever you have one of those really tense days.”
“Like today?” Chris said, closing his eyes and relaxing.
“Exactly. And this,” he said, knuckling into the side of his hand, �
��connects to your heart.”
“Ouch,” Chris winced.
“I’ll be gentler,” Mason said, “I know it’s broken.”
“Yeah,” Chris whispered. He tried to resist it, but involuntarily, tears welled in his eyes. Just for an instant.
“Don’t worry, Chris. I won’t hurt you,” Mason said softly.
Chris wondered if he heard exactly what he thought he heard, or if he’d just imagined that. The intent, the words, the message: it made sense. They both knew it too.
“Fuck, you’re good at this,” Chris said, leaning back, closing his eyes and relaxing into the cushions of the couch.
The smoke curled, and the smell of sweet, spicy, sacred frankincense filled the room. Outside, the tropical birds sang their long and short choruses. The fan whirred overhead and the stereo switched over to another CD. This time, it was Brian Eno: a nice ambient album.
“I think it’s sweet that you’re a writer,” Mason said spontaneously.
“Really?” Chris said, surprised. Usually, people thought it was strange, or they pretended that it was cool. It sounded romantic, but most people quickly admitted that they thought it was probably a waste of time; or that, like so many writers, he was a narcissistic daydreamer who pretended that he would one day be successful.
“Yeah,” Mason said. “I think all artists are heroes.”
“Wow,” Chris laughed. “That’s a little grandiose. I dunno if I’d call myself an artist.”
“Sure you are,” Mason said softly, his voice a growl.
Mason’s hand rested on Chris’ upper thigh, centimeters from his cock. Mason could feel the warmth below it and unexpectedly, just that heat was beginning to turn him on. Reflexology was always a very intimate connection with somebody, just like any form of touch-based therapy or healing. However, Mason’s connection with Chris felt so good, so soothing, so tender, that his cock was responding as surely as if Chris was a gorgeous girl.
