Out of the Box

by Don Schecter

  By the time integrated circuits and a computer-on-every-desk came along, Matt announced he was going to take a job with a contractor for a much higher salary. No one could blame him. Now in his mid-thirties, the father of two boys, Matt needed to make a move. Blake’s job was the obvious step up, but Blake liked what he was doing and wasn’t going anywhere soon. Blake was conflicted at that time, but it had nothing to do with his job; the cause was the onset of mid-life crisis. He was a gay man with hardly any experience as a gay man. He was weary of being frustrated by his own sexuality, playing pretend games to please his heterosexual companions. He had been with women—whores and prostitutes—to no great benefit, but didn’t know the first thing about sex with a male.

  Eventually, inevitably, Blake was promoted to the job Walter G. MacDonald once held. He headed six-hundred people employed in the operation and maintenance of thousands of small sophisticated computers, each of which was hundreds of times faster and more capable than the original installation he had managed. He had no hands-on knowledge of their inner workings, and very often reminded himself of his transistor-radio analogy. The difference between him and Walter G. was that Blake wasn’t afraid to delegate. His boss had taught him over the years the importance of giving people responsibility, and then trusting them to do their jobs well. The internet and packet-switching had been developed. The trick to surviving them was the ability to discern which of the Young Turks grasped a new technology, and then to lean heavily on his or her advice.

  Life may be said to run on coincidences; or that may be true only if you’re willing to take a chance when it’s offered—no matter how long you had to wait. So either by accident or design, there appeared one day in a local paper an article about a gregarious young fellow who was openly gay, “out” at work, and anxious to encourage other gays to do the same. Blake was impressed. He looked the fellow up, met him, and, through him, met other gays. He was invited to parties that led to other parties, and soon was immersed in a gay society that began each day at quitting time, and ended when he arrived in the morning, often tardy because he was forever driving to work from the direction of a new bed. In a short while, AIDS reared its ugly head, but by then Blake had managed to get in two years of relative hedonism before common sense dictated a more conservative lifestyle. He didn’t come out at work but, at least and at last, he had come out to himself.

  In his fifties, still young and vital, Blake was discovering a whole world of gay youngsters who referred to him as “daddy.” He went to lots of parties and was usually accompanied by some attractive twenty-something. At one of these events, the host introduced him to a newcomer on the scene.

  “Blake, meet Matt Knowles, he’s new to the lifestyle. See if you can make him comfortable….Matt, this is Blake Holman.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said. He was blushing. “Blake and I are old friends. I used to work for him.”

  “Splendid. Then I’ll let you two get reacquainted.”

  The two men stood with foolish grins on their faces, searching for the proper opening. “Well,” they said almost simultaneously, “this is quite a surprise.”

  “I sensed something about you the day I met you, Blake. You were giving off a different kind of vibe; I just didn’t recognize it for what it was.”

  “I was hoping I wasn’t being obvious. I guess it can’t be helped. Are you still married?”

  “Yes, happily. Two boys in high school. Honor roll, athletes, both multi-lettermen.”

  “So how did you get here?”

  “It just wasn’t enough. I tried to make contact with other guys with all that beer-guzzling, butt-slapping, sports bullshit; but I wanted more…to get closer. I adore my wife, but sometimes I get an itch that needs scratching. How about you?”

  Blake hesitated, then realized he had no more reason to hide: “I was in love with you for about ten years.” It felt good to say it out loud.

  Matt took a moment to digest that information. “And now?”

  Blake looked at Matt with a critical eye. Gray had invaded his blond waves so they no longer reflected light. He had put on weight, his chin sagged a bit. Blake noted a softness in Matt’s belly, which protruded slightly over his belt. He was a good-looking man; any woman would have deemed him a fine catch. But Blake’s gay sensibility was frozen in time and, for Blake, Matt had melted from molten to middle-aged. He took a deep breath, pressed his lips together and exhaled. He tried to sound as kind as he could, under the circumstances. “Let’s just say our time has passed. Life is full of these little lost opportunities.”

  “That’s too bad. I’ve fantasized many times about making love to you.”

  “That’s a bittersweet remark if ever there was one. That you thought of me at all makes me exceedingly happy; that it’s too late is the stuff tear-jerkers are made of.”

  “Are you with anyone tonight?”

  “Yes, that young fellow over there”…Blake glanced around the room and located his date…”at the bar.”

  “He’s coming this way. I guess I better disappear. It’s been a pleasure running into you like this. I hope we’ll see some more of each other.”

  “Same here, Matt. I wish you every happiness.”

  An athletic-looking blond, carrying two drinks, came up to Blake and gave him one.

  “Who was that lard-ass you were talking to?”

  Blake took a sip, looked long into the eyes that were just a bit too small for the handsome face, and answered wistfully, “Someone who used to look a lot like you.”

  Submission

  Part I - Playing with Fire

  1

  Conny woke chilled, the only warmth in the room radiating steadily from Alec’s body lying beside him. He raised up on one elbow and surveyed the small cheerless space, bare except for a desk and chair, and the bed they slept in. The chair back was draped with clothes, tossed there the night before when Alec stripped Conny. Alec’s robe hung over the closet door and kept it from closing.

  He looked at Alec, still sleeping, not as pretty as last night; his slack, half-open mouth breathing heavily enough to qualify as a light snore; but still pretty enough— auburn chest hair curling over the sheet—to justify sleeping with him again. A twenty-four year old man at that—a baby! Never married, no children. Who would have thought at my age one could get such pleasure from a youngster barely dry behind the ears? This was strange for Conny, used to waking up alone in a house decorated with antiques that Vera had collected over the years, and to sinking his toes into deep-pile carpeting when he got out of bed. This room was stark, the floor uncovered; Alec hadn’t even bothered to put a shade on the window.

  It was awkward sharing a bed with a man he hardly knew; yet it was thrilling, new, so full of future excitement. He could have lain there comfortably and stared at the ceiling for a few hours but, knowing sleep wouldn’t return, he slipped carefully from under the sheet and put on Alec’s robe to keep warm. He had a desire to make the room tidy, fought an impulse to wake Alec and teach him the value of neatness as a way of life.

  Not a good idea. Instead, he closed the closet door softly.

  When Vera left him ten years earlier, he knew she was doing the right thing. He was a control freak; she was fighting for independence: and unfortunately he was winning.

  Given a few more years he surely would have crushed her. She was right to take the boys with her as well. He would have connived and wheedled, and otherwise confined them until they were forced into open rebellion: tattoos, ear piercings, and dreaded long hair— not to mention drugs. Who knows where it might have ended? With his family gone, he could devote time to his business, which responded by expanding nicely. It was a good arrangement: he was able to supply the money to keep the boys in private schools, on ski slopes, and atop horses; and Vera had done a fine job bringing them up without his input.

  He gave her full credit.

  Then, after failed affair followed failed affair (some of which were plain laughable), he met, of all things, a
young man who somehow managed to break through his shell.

  Alec had gotten in like no one ever had— a bad pun, but a valid one. Conny found an equality in bed he never imagined he longed for. Alec was larger and stronger, and easily resisted all attempts of the older man to take over. Also, he seemed to know everything; whereas Conny was new to the game. Conny found, to his surprise, that being on the learning end (which he expected would be uncomfortable for him) was sexually stimulating. He saw for the first time a connection between his need to be in charge—the way he treated people—and his sexuality. This was a new and exciting concept he was eager to mine further. And that’s how he came to be barefooted, stepping into the hallway to investigate what it was like to wake up in a male lover’s house.

  Mark’s door, at the end of the hall, was closed. Mark owned the house, slept in the master bedroom, and may or may not have brought home a trick after Alec took Conny to bed. At any rate, he or they should sleep until midday.

  Effectively narrowing the passageway between the two bedrooms was a five-drawer wood file cabinet standing just where it shouldn’t be. As he slipped past it, curiosity got the better of him and he quietly eased the second drawer open to find that it was filled with magazines. He selected a clump of them and cocked the next one up so he could return them without disturbing their order. He held them close in the dim light and made out only that they were all named Drummer. Intrigued, he took the pack downstairs with him and began to thumb through them. Two hours later, he had gone through the whole drawer and was halfway through the next.

  “How do you want your eggs?” Alec asked at breakfast. He had pulled on only a pair of running shorts to keep his curly chest hair in full view.

  “Over easy.” Conny let Alec’s robe fall wide across his equally furry chest. They were trying to impress each other. “Are you into S&M?” he asked.

  Alec looked at him for a second. “No, why do you ask that?”

  “I looked through the magazines in the file cabinet while you were sleeping.”

  “Oh those.” Alec slipped two sloppily-made eggs onto Conny’s plate. “They’re Mark’s….What kind of bread, whole wheat or 7-grain?”

  “Whole wheat, thanks.”

  “He’s got a fully equipped dungeon in the basement.”

  “Really? Could I see it?”

  “I don’t think Mark would like a novice looking through his stuff. You’d have to ask him.”

  “Do you think he would show me the ropes?”

  Alec made a face. “Was that an intentional pun?” He slipped into the chair opposite and put two eggs on his own plate. He poured two cups from the coffeepot. “Now hold on, bubi…you’ve been in bed with a man just twice and you’re ready to move on to S&M? How about learning to crawl before you walk?”

  “I’d love to learn to crawl,” Conny grinned as he pushed his pun. “I may be new to gay sex, but I realize now I’ve been into S&M since I was eight, long before I knew what an erection was. I just didn’t know it existed—that you could do in real life what I fantasized about for the last…thirty-eight years. I didn’t know a magazine like Drummer existed, or that it supported a whole other culture.”

  “Eight years old? You’re blowing smoke. How can you fantasize about sex before you know what it is?”

  “All I know is that I kept a slender boy named Jimmy naked and chained to a radiator every night for years as I fell asleep. I never touched him, but it was important that he understood that his place in life was to stand by the radiator with one ankle cuffed to a pipe, awaiting my instructions.”

  “Why a radiator, for Chrissake?”

  “I dunno.” Conny shrugged. “Probably because the apartment was steam- heated….When I released him so he could move around or go to the bathroom, it was excruciatingly pleasurable to know that he would voluntarily return to be put in bondage again….He always did.”

  “But no orgasms?”

  “None I recall. And I assure you I remember my first with great clarity.”

  Alec pushed his empty plate to the side and just stared at Conny, bemused. All of a sudden he made a decision: “Why don’t you get a massage?”

  “From Mark? Great. I could ask him then. Where does he work?”

  “He has a room in a medical building up the street two days a week; he sees clients at the hotel gym twice a week, but he uses his bedroom for special clients the other days.”

  “Would this be a real massage, or a sexual one?”

  Alec shrugged. “Talk to Mark.”

  2

  Mark was small and compact like the well-proportioned models in the health magazines that Conny judged not too damning, and hence allowed himself to buy at newsstands. His body radiated energy: he was toned, limber, artificially tanned, and naturally athletic. His hair was cropped short to lend a youthful appearance to an already lined face. From a distance, one took him for twenty. Up close, even a generous man would have to peg him closer to forty.

  “Shorts on or off?” Conny asked as Mark moved about a portable massage table set up in his spacious bedroom.

  “Whatever pleases you,” Mark said in a professional manner, “but I won’t get any oil on your briefs if you take them off.”

  “Done.” Conny folded his shorts and placed them neatly on the four-poster bed atop the rest of his clothing. He perched on the side of the table. “This is a beautiful room.”

  “Thanks. Lie down on your back.”

  The bedroom took up the front half of the brownstone’s second floor. As wide as the house, it was thirty feet long. The floor at the front of the room was filled with various evergreen plants to take advantage of the light coming through an enormous triple bow window the entire row of houses boasted. A four-poster bed, decorated in frills to match the window treatment, dominated the space without filling it. There was ample room for the cushioned table Conny was lying on, a fireplace opposite the bed, an ornate rolltop desk, upholstered easy chairs in flowered patterns, and various nightstands and end tables. The thick sea-green carpet made standing barefoot a sensuous experience. The window and bed coverings were of a darker green chintz, with rose flowers peeking from the folds. It was a comforting room for a massage, and probably a great one for sex.

  Conny was not embarrassed—he was confident he had scrubbed himself clean so that he could be touched anywhere—nevertheless, he felt exposed. Lying naked, staring at the ceiling, his skin was alive as if it had eyes; he could feel Mark looking at him from a protected position behind his head, and it made his skin prickle.

  Mark rubbed oil between his hands to warm it, and applied it to Conny’s neck and arms. His long pressured strokes, practiced and self-assured, felt glorious. It was easy to slip into a kind of reverie, but Conny roused himself because he remembered he had a mission.

  “Alec says you’re into S&M,” he tossed off as casually as he could.

  Mark’s hands continued kneading. “A bit here. A bit there.”

  “And you have a dungeon downstairs?”

  “Used to. Don’t use it much anymore. I have a few kids on the street who let me fool around.” Mark never stopped stroking Conny’s arms and chest as he spoke. “One of them climbed up the outside of the house Saturday night—actually, the night you were here— and tapped at the window until I let him in. Now that was hot.”

  “Did you take him down to the dungeon?” Conny fought the dryness in his throat.

  He wanted to sound as calm and level as possible.

  “Nah! That four-poster has a purpose. I tied him to the overhead rails.”

  “Will you show me?” Conny asked.

  “What? The four-poster, or the dungeon?”

  “Not just the dungeon, what S&M’s all about. I’ve never met anyone who was into it before.”

  The table was narrow and Conny was acutely aware of Mark’s body pressing against his arms as he massaged him. He wondered if Mark was sending messages that way, if he were trying to induce Conny to touch him back. Mark moved down onto
Conny’s legs.

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” Conny wailed. Mark’s reply was unanticipated and he lost control of the response.

  “Alec and me, we talked about it. We thought we might handle you together; it could be done; but…”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t think it would work. There has to be a spark between master and slave, and I don’t sense the right chemistry.”

  “I don’t understand—what chemistry does there have to be? Just show me what’s to be done and I’ll do it.”

  “You really are a novice,” Mark said with firmness. “There is no way I could explain it to you. And that’s why it wouldn’t work. Alec and I agreed: you’d intimidate us.”

  “Tied hand and foot? How could I intimidate you?”

  “It’s a game, really. And you get to know the rules by playing. If we started, and you felt threatened, you might simply stop…or say, ‘that hurts’…or worse, giggle. That would break the spell. We’d never get anywhere. You’re too used to being boss, being in control of your own surroundings….Turn over now.”

  Conny flipped onto his belly. “So I’m too old to get started? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No. But you’re too self-confident, too smart for us. You already know us too well. I’m afraid you’d find our attempts to control you more amusing than thrilling.” Mark was rubbing Conny’s back and shoulders in deep, long strokes. Conny could feel the warmth generated by the friction. “Bottoms are not supposed to be amused.”

  Conny’s mind whirred furiously. If I’m so smart, why can’t I think of a way to turn this around? Can’t let this opportunity slip by. Gotta get back in the driver’s seat. After a few moments of frantic thought, the answer came to him. “Is there someone else…who would be willing…who could show me?”