by Don Schecter
After his mother died, Eddie was alone. Then the heart attack brought his life away from home to an end. He retired from his profession, stopped taxing himself with the daily commute into town, and structured his life for survival. Charming, attractive, and, in some ways, elegant, he never lacked for friends who invited him along as a third or fifth wheel, and he was considered an asset at a cocktail party. He would have continued this way indefinitely, he thought, except for one madcap affair with Dave, the traveling salesman he met at one of these parties.
The man, twenty years Eddie’s junior, simply bowled him over. He told Eddie he was far too attractive to spend his life innocent of sex and proceeded to show him the ropes. He was a very good salesman, indeed.
In the two years the affair lasted, Eddie learned he had an unlimited capacity for a varied repertoire of gay sex. He hadn’t known what he was missing because he had never experienced it; and he fell in love for the first time, in gratitude for the enlightenment.
But a traveling salesman does just that: after Dave was promoted to the west coast office, Eddie got postcards from various locations, and then only cards at Christmas.
Soon Dave was just a pleasant frustration who had opened doors to rooms that remained essentially unfurnished. Eddie never regretted the liaison because it was obviously better to have loved and lost than never to have been introduced to such enjoyable feelings. Just having felt them during that two-year period proved to him that life was well-worth living.
When he wasn’t walking, Eddie spent his time sipping iced tea on his screened-in front porch, watching the passing parade, discreetly admiring the joggers from the nearby military academy who passed like clockwork in front of his house during the school year.
He judged and graded cadets on a strict scale for appearance and personality. In the heat of summer, he held out a cup of water to his favorite joggers, who would mark time in place while they gratefully gulped the cool liquid, then thank him with a wave as they moved on. He was such a constant presence that, when he missed a day because of illness or allergy, they remarked on it the next time they saw him. He developed the knack of extracting detailed information from them, in snatches, as they jogged past. By the time a handsome cadet graduated, Eddie was considered a friend.
“Hi, Fred,” Eddie called as the mailman came up the steps of the front porch on a scorcher of a June day. “Oh, sorry. You don’t look anything like Fred; I was fooled by the uniform.” Eddie opened the screen door.
“I’m Tom, sir. I work for the Postal Department in Churchville. They needed some replacements here because of summer leave, and then Fred broke his foot. I’ll be your mailman for two or three months, I guess. Just think of me as Christmas help—a little early.”
Eddie noted the change in mailman with delight. Tom was easy on the eyes, whereas Fred was a beer-bellied contemporary. “I must say, visually, you’re an improvement.”
Tom’s eyes flashed up at Eddie. A smile broke out across his face as he acknowledged the compliment. “You look pretty good yourself.”
Eddie’s eyes went skyward, as though he had just been informed his gladiolas had won first prize. “Ah, well. At my age, one does what one can.”
“Where do you work out?”
“Inside. Ritually,” Eddie added, gesturing at the door behind him. “You must spend all your spare time in the gym from the looks of you.”
“I guess I do. I’m glad somebody noticed. I don’t do much else besides work and work out,” Tom allowed.
“No friends?”
“I nursed a sick mother until she died. I guess, like a flower nipped in the bud, my time to blossom passed. I’ll have to wait for next spring, whenever that comes.”
“I did that, too. We have something in common.…And you have no family? A girlfriend, perhaps?” It was amazing to Eddie how he could slip in lines like that with a straight face. It took years of practice.
“Yeah, girls chase me. But…,” Tom’s eyes looked past Eddie into the distance, “that’s not what I want.”
“What do you want?” Eddie asked with honed sensibility.
“I don’t know.” Tom’s eyes returned to Eddie’s. “I honestly can’t say.”
A beat of silence. Then Eddie cleared his throat audibly. “Well, this is getting a bit heady for the porch steps. Perhaps, you’d like to come in and chat awhile?”
Tom woke from his reverie. “Nah, I’ve got work to do. He handed the mail to Eddie and started down the steps. “But I’ll be back every day. Nice talking to you.”
“Every day?” Eddie called. “What about Sunday?”
“That’s my day off. That’s when we can really chat.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Eddie waved the letters he was holding at Tom. “If you see Fred, tell him I hope he’s back on his feet soon.” He said it with conviction, for Fred, like Eddie, was a community fixture; but in his heart Eddie knew he would enjoy every moment of Fred’s convalescence.
In subsequent days, Eddie made increasingly knowledgeable small talk with the postman as he divined details of Tom’s life. Tom, too, had been attached to his now-deceased mother, who had been English. He bowled with the team at work one night a week, but otherwise was alone. Girlfriends hadn’t worked out for him—they wanted to get married, and Tom wasn’t sure that’s what he wanted. He read a lot because he didn’t have any friends, but he had no one with whom to discuss what he read.
By Sunday they were friends and, when Tom came by on his own time, Eddie invited him to dinner. They had a very pleasant conversation that first night about Anne Rice. Her vampire tales led easily into her soft porn stories, but Tom showed no interest.
Eddie directed him to other books he might enjoy, and introduced him to his extensive classical record collection which played endlessly in the background as they chatted. The Sunday visits became a ritual.
Tom was willing to spend long hours with him, listening to music, talking about anything and everything, but it was almost impossible to elicit information about Tom’s sex life. Tom was cautious to silent when commenting about sexual ideas.
Eddie’s passion was mystery novels which he fed Tom at a rapid rate. Many had a gay protagonist, but, although Tom would discuss the plots, he never had a thing to say concerning the lifestyle aspects. The only time he commented was when the killer trapped penises stuck through a glory hole in the men’s room by spiking them with a pin, then slipped under the locked stall’s wall, and strangled his victims while they writhed in agony.
“Ouch,” said Tom, “that must hurt.”
By the end of August, Fred was back on the job. Tom visited some more Sundays but by November the relationship had tapered off to a weekly telephone call. Eddie got Tom to share Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant with him. Dressed up, Tom’s body glowed, easily the most vital man in the room, but his eyes refused to smile and he seemed distracted. Eddie was surprised that his highly developed techniques failed to break through to what ailed Tom. Eddie thought himself relatively easy to confide in, but Tom evaded him by avoiding response. He was perfectly content to let Eddie fill the conversational void.
After that, Eddie seemed to get Tom’s answering machine whenever he called. He suspected Tom was screening his calls. Then one blustery evening about two weeks before Christmas, with a light snow falling, Eddie saw Tom trudging down the street with a seasonally overstuffed pack on his shoulder. It should have been no weight at all for a man of Tom’s physique, but Tom looked like he might not make it to the front door.
“Hey, Tom,” Eddie said to the shivering postman, “you must be coming down with something. Here, let me take that.” He reached for the heavy leather sack on Tom’s back.
Surprisingly, Tom offered no resistance. He surrendered the bag to Eddie and sat heavily on the steps without a word. “Come inside, Tom. I’ll make you a hot cup of tea. You look like you need it.”
Tom looked up at Eddie in the dimming light. Snowflakes clinging to his lashes made his eye
s look like frosted ornaments. He was on the job; a cup of tea was not what he was getting paid for; but, oh! it would be so nice to rest, to be warm and comfortable —just for a moment. He smiled despite his weariness and followed Eddie indoors.
Eddie offered Tom a chair at the dining table where he sat with his coat on. “Take that wet thing off, Tom. You’ll warm up much faster. The tea will only take a minute.”
While the water boiled, Eddie kneaded Tom’s shoulders. He was thrilled to be touching the big muscles that flanked his neck, but also aware that he was skilled at physical therapy and giving Tom what he needed. Tom moaned softly, nodding his head to work out the kinks in his shoulders, and mumbled a subdued “thank you.” The kettle whistled a response.
Eddie returned with a steaming cup which Tom doctored with sugar and milk in the English style, and, although right-handed, he lifted the cup to his lips with his left, so that his right hand was free to place on the back of Eddie’s thigh. To Tom it seemed a natural act of friendship; Eddie, unused to being touched, worried about it. He said, “That’s nice,” intending to mean the tea if Tom pulled his hand away.
Tom drank the hot liquid slowly, blowing on the surface. Then his hand moved to Eddie’s buttock, and even Tom knew it was no longer an act of friendship. He set the cup down, pulled Eddie an inch nearer, and laid his head against his firm stomach. For a long moment, they stood adjusting to the new intimacy as Christmas music on the radio played softly in the background. Eddie looked down on Tom’s blond waves and ventured to run a finger through them.
“Do you know what I want, Tom? I’d like you to come upstairs and lie down on the bed while I give you a real massage. You’ll feel better; I know I will. And then you can finish your rounds refreshed.”
Tom stood and followed Eddie up the stairs. With understanding that didn’t need words, Tom removed all his clothes without looking up. He stretched face down on the bed and waited. He was so much larger than Eddie, it seemed to Eddie his king-size bed had suddenly become smaller.
Fully clothed, Eddie sat beside Tom, warmed some oil between his hands, and began to rub the heavy shoulder muscles. To get his weight into it, he soon shifted to his knees on the bed and ended up straddling the nude form. The work was hard, Tom’s muscles bunched and knotted. As he worked on the murmuring man, he stopped to remove his sweater and re-oil his palms. He worked his way down Tom’s back causing big exhalations of pleasure. Tom’s buttocks lifted unexpectedly as he repositioned his penis beneath him.
Eddie knelt between Tom’s legs and worked his calves, and then did a really sensuous job on his feet. He asked, not sure of the response, “Will you turn over now?”
There was a pause as Tom adjusted to the inevitable. With one flex of his arms, he flipped over and exposed the rigid erection pressed against his belly. Eddie gasped.
“That’s very beautiful,” he said in all honesty.
“Please touch it,” Tom whimpered. “Please.”
Eddie willingly complied in as gentle a fashion as he was capable. Then he kissed the flaring head, and introduced it to his tongue. As he slipped the beautifully shaped erection into his mouth, he found himself thinking of Dave. Funny, he thought, it’s like riding a bicycle. No matter how long between, once you learn, you never forget.
Blond hair came into focus as Eddie’s tongue wet the full length of the rigid member. His mind entertained the fleeting impression of Deborah Kerr as she prepared for John Kerr’s first experience in Tea and Sympathy. Eddie wasn’t saving Tom from homosexuality; he was saving him from asexuality, which he had learned was far worse.
Tom’s beautiful body began to thrust as it was intended to. He thrashed wildly on the bed with Eddie hanging on with all his strength. Then Tom erupted pearly lava, and he came to rest, eyes gently closed, the pained mask of his face relaxed.
After a moment’s hesitation, Eddie stripped off his clothes and lay down next to the resting giant. Without opening his eyes, Tom enclosed Eddie in a muscular arm and they lay in silence for a time. Then, as though a clock had gone off in his head, Tom sat up, jumped from the bed and began to dress. Eddie watched with some concern.
“Don’t worry about me, Ed. I’m fine. That was great. It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time, but was afraid to ask. Now I need some time to understand what’s happening inside me. I’ll be back.”
Not prone to anticlimactic analysis, Eddie threw on a robe and helped Tom to dress.
He experienced warm satisfaction as he watched Tom fling the mail sack to his shoulder as though it were weightless. Tom gave him a peck on the cheek and said, “Thank you, my friend,” as he bounded down the steps into the dark winter night. Eddie watched after him thinking, if nothing comes of it, at least he’ll have this one night to remember.
After not hearing from him, and having the good sense to give Tom all the time he needed, Eddie was delighted on Christmas Day when Tom brought him a book as a gift.
They spent the day in warm intimacy, and Eddie demonstrated to Tom all he knew of how two men made love. Their relationship moved forward in quantum jumps, as opposed to steadily, because there were great lapses between meetings. In the meantime, Tom was getting around, going into town, meeting people. Finally, as Eddie anticipated, one day in spring Tom arrived with a friend in tow.
The two men looked happy, and Tom expressed confidence that he was ready to try living with another man. Eddie conquered a pang of envy for their happiness, their youth, their future.
“I’ll miss being with you very much,” he told Tom in private. “And I’ll be here for you as long as I’m able, whenever you need to regroup and marshal your forces.”
“I know that,” Tom said, “and I’ll always love you for it, for all you’ve done for me. You’ve made a whole man of me. I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’ll look for you again this Christmas, coming down the street with your pack on your back. Be happy. That will make me happy.”
Anguish played on Tom’s face. “I feel awful about going off like this. I love you and I need you. But I don’t know how to fit you into our lives.”
“Tom, Tom”— my Lord! that was the young man’s name in Tea and Sympathy —”think of me as you once asked me to think of you. I was just filling in until you found yourself. Think of me simply as Christmas help.”
Tom laughed. “I thought it was me, and it was you all the time.” He pulled Eddie to him, embraced him, and kissed him tenderly.
Eddie stood behind the screen of the enclosed porch waving at the two men as they walked away. “And give me a ring every now and then,” he called after them, “and let me know how you’re getting on.” They turned and waved back at him. “And you’re both welcome to drop in for a cup of tea anytime you like,” he added, but they were already too far away to hear.
Eye of the Hunter
Lying on a lounge by the pool at an oceanside hotel, facing a stocky blond Viking so that we looked across our toes at each other, I remember remarking to myself how the younger generation was lucky to feel so free to be themselves. We were at a gay square dance convention, and, obviously, neither he nor I enjoyed the sand and surf as much as sunbathing by the pool. I peered frequently over my book, through eyes half-closed against the bright sun, as a succession of youngsters, both male and female, came to joke with him, sit on the edge of his lounge, and horse around in a carefree manner.
He was every bit as attractive as I had guessed he would be when I first noticed him that morning in the registration line. At that time I only saw that his head was covered with tightly wound, dark gold ringlets that gave way to a full beard of the same magnificent curls, disappearing down the neck of his T-shirt only to reappear on his forearms: a dark blond bear, approximately twenty-five years of age. A prize to bring home to mother, I thought, as I scooped a handful of brightly wrapped condoms aptly named “LifeSavers” into my pocket from a basket at the counter.
“Gonna have a good time, I see,” the young man handling my registr
ation commented.
“I’ll certainly do my best.” I smiled back. “They’re pretty; they look like little jewels.”
“That’s to attract the eye of the hunter,” he said, “in hopes that he’ll use them.”
“I see. I’ll try to make sure they don’t go to waste.”
“Good hunting,” he called after me as I left the line.
Now that I saw all of my Viking except that part covered by red boxer swim trunks, I could tell I had assumed correctly. The hair on his beefy chest was simply an extension of his beard; the fur continued unhindered onto segments of his fingers and toes. His entire body, covered in ringlets, was darkened and dampened by the sweat pouring off his six-foot frame.
I’m pepper-and-salt, but I’m basically dark, and I can take several hours of sun. He was fair and untanned, so in the time that I watched him chatting with his friends, his skin color changed from pink to bright red. To me it looked painful—and stupid—so when he was finally alone, I spoke up.
“Are you sure you’re not overdoing it?”
He pressed a finger into his shoulder and watched the white circle he caused return to red.
“No. It’s okay. I’m doing fine, thanks. I appreciate your concern. Your tan looks great.”
His voice was a level and sincerely warm baritone. He didn’t give me the impression he knew I was trying to hit on him, and he didn’t seem at all disturbed by conversation with an older stranger. He was very much at home, easy to talk to, and we were soon exchanging confidences which explained his manner.
He came from a big family, the only gay member; mutual love and respect between his parents and all the children was taken for granted. The kids, all adult, treated their parents as valued friends, and they all enjoyed spending time together in Minnesota. He spoke of hunting, fishing, skiing, all as a family unit. He was a hairdresser in a small town west of Duluth—he only did women’s hair—and he was comparatively successful, coming into the city on weekends to immerse himself in the gay life.
