Satyr-Day Night Fever

by Kiernan Kelly

  Somehow that last scenario pissed Bill off.

  Bill was many things—satyr, porn star, good dancer, bad singer—but the one thing Bill wasn't, was forgettable.

  Or so he'd always believed.

  Pulling up the long driveway that curved in a graceful arc in front of his parents’ house, Bill parked under the shade of an enormous Queen Anne palm tree.

  His parents’ home was Florida cookie-cutter style architecture—white stucco cinderblock construction, orange Spanish tile roof, surrounded by tall stately palms and lush green ferns. Hibiscus blooms, hand-sized orange and yellow blossoms, and a beautiful crepe myrtle tree heavy with clusters of pink flowers lent splashes of color to the landscaping. Out back, a rock waterfall gurgled and spilled into the small, built-in swimming pool that lay inside the requisite screen room, lawn chairs and lounges with tropical patterned cushions scattered across the pool deck.

  Inside, the house reflected his parents’ diverse interests. The kitchen rivaled that of any five-star restaurant, complete with stainless steel appliances, a huge butcher block center island, and a ceiling dripping stalactites of Calphalon cookware. It was Bill's dad's oasis, his workshop, his creative zone. With a crêpe pan in one hand and a spatula in the other, Martin Tragos could whip up fantasies that masqueraded as food, gastro-orgasms that could reduce a grown man into a whimpering bundle of ecstatic, monosyllabic grunts.

  The loft, a bright, sunny room that overlooked the living room, was Bill's mom, Sophie's, refuge. At any one time it housed the remains of number of her obsessions, which changed like the proverbial wind. One month she might be into mosaics, colorful stones and bits of glass strewn over the hardwood floor; the next might see her up to her armpits in leatherworking tools and strips of rawhide. The loft was like a graveyard of her past passions, all of which had burned as hot as her kiln for a brief time but had winked out quickly, like a candle's flame in a hurricane. Canvases of every size leaned against one wall like the remains of some thin-skinned beast. A carpet of beads, yarn, glue guns, paints, artificial flowers, and a pottery wheel surrounded his mother's workbench and easels.

  The rest of the house was decorated much like any other family home might be—comfortable furniture, throw rugs over tiled floors, photos of Bill and his parents hanging on the wall. It looked neat and tidy and, except for the mail stacked on the small table in the foyer and the newspaper left spread across the sofa, unlived in.

  Bill smiled, remembering when he had been young and the house had been strewn with roller skates, action figures, toy trucks, book bags and schoolbooks. Now that he had grown up and moved out, the house had changed to reflect the lives of the only two people who still lived in it.

  The heart of his parents’ home was his father's kitchen and the soul was his mother's loft—the rest of the house was simply a functional necessity, kept only to connect the two.

  Bill pulled off his sweat pants and shifted back into his satyr form—driving with hooves proved to be too difficult for him, especially when he was distracted, and he preferred to be in human-form when he slid behind the wheel of a car—he clopped up the short walkway to the front door.

  The door was unlocked—as usual, Mom and Dad had little concept of “security"—and Bill walked in, taking time to take a deep breath. Every house had its own “smell,” an olfactory signature unique to those people who lived within its walls. It was the ghost of their perfumes and soaps, their favored spices, their lives that over time seeped into the walls, furniture, and rugs. His parents’ house's scent was a combination of marinara sauce and turpentine, but it smelled like home and instantly soothed some the stress that tightened his shoulders.

  Home was comfort and security; home was being accepted completely for whom and what Bill was—a son, a gay man, and a satyr. Of course, he hadn't told his parents that little bit about being a porn star, but there were some things that one just didn't discuss with one's parents, even if they were liberal and compassionate people—their youngest son being Fuck Master of the Silver Screen heading up the short list.

  "Billy? What are you doing here?” Sophie cried, beaming a smile at him as she leaned over the second floor balcony. In satyr-form (his parents rarely assumed their human-forms anymore), she clopped down the stairs, pulling Bill into a fierce hug. “What a surprise! Martin! Your son is home!” she cried, not releasing her death hold around Bill's neck.

  "Mom, you're choking me here!” Bill chuckled, prying his mother's arms free from his neck.

  "Billy?” Martin stuck his head out from the kitchen and waved an oven-mitted hand at him. “Good! You're just in time for dinner. We're having Chicken Marsala tonight. Go wash up!"

  Fifteen minutes later, Bill was seated at the dining room table, a steaming plate of chicken and pasta in front of him, the delicious aroma of lemon and Marsala wine tickling his nose, and his parents'—or rather his mother's—happy chatter filling his ears.

  "So, your cousin Frita's pregnant again, and it looks like twins. I swear that girl keeps popping babies out like she's some sort of Pez dispenser. And Aunt May is just about pulling her hair out because her son Wilt—you remember Wilt, don't you, Billy? Wilt has a girlfriend who hates goats. Can you imagine? Says she's afraid of them. Poor May, they have to keep in human-form whenever he brings the girl to visit or she just about climbs the walls. Oh, and Aunt Mercy's husband—the second one, not Uncle George—has decided that he wants to sell the deli and move to the arctic or some godforsaken place—"

  "Sofie! Let the boy eat,” Martin chided, exchanging a bemused glance with Bill. Bill's mom was known for her running commentary—she talked so much that it was a wonder how she managed to eat anything at all and didn't keel over from malnutrition. Every subject, any topic; nothing was too sensitive or taboo for her to bring up at the table. Her saving grace was that she was so ingenuous—she honestly couldn't believe that anything she said was offensive or in bad taste—that it was impossible to be offended.

  "How's Mitch?” Sophie asked, after making a decidedly un-motherly gesture at her husband.

  Bill's fork froze halfway to his mouth. There it was, the question he'd been dreading; the one he knew was going to be asked but wasn't prepared to answer. “Okay ... I guess."

  "You guess? You two have been best friends practically since the womb, and you guess he's okay? What happened? Did you have a fight?"

  "Sort of. Not really. I don't know."

  "You don't know?"

  "No, I don't,” Bill sighed. “I don't know anything anymore. That's why I came home. I need to get my head together."

  His mother fell silent for a moment, and although he continued to stare at his plate, picking at the cream-covered chicken, he could feel her eyes boring into his skull.

  "Oh. Oh, Lord. You told him."

  Bill's eyes flicked toward his mother of their own accord. “What do you mean? Told who what?"

  "Told Mitch that you love him."

  "I do not love Mitch."

  "Of course you do, dear."

  "No, I don't."

  "Hon, you can fool yourself, but you can't fool Mama. You and I have no secrets. I carried you; you were a part of my body for nine months. I know you better than you know yourself. I knew the time you tried to hide your report card so that I wouldn't find out that you'd failed Algebra; I knew when you skipped school to go to that arcade across town. I knew that you were gay before you did, and I know that you love Mitch."

  "Mom! I don't—"

  "Don't lie to me at my own table, William. It's insulting."

  He fell silent. No secrets, huh? How about the one where her baby boy was a gay porn star? That was a secret he'd kept from her for three years. But about Mitch, he conceded, she was right. He did love Mitch. Sometimes she was so perceptive it was frightening. “He's straight, Mom. Remember? Wife and kids?"

  "Ex-wife. The kids have nothing to do with it. Tell me something, Bill ... did you ever ask Mitch why his marriage didn't work out?"

  "Yeah
, as a matter of fact, I did."

  "And what was Mitch's answer?"

  "He told me to shut up and pass the tequila."

  Sophie laughed, shaking her head. “There you go. I think he's got a worse case of denial than you did. You need to find him and talk to him, Bill. You need to straighten this out between you two."

  "Are you crazy? Remember Mitch? Big guy, fists like Christmas hams? He'd beat me to a pulp."

  "No, he wouldn't. Bill, you owe it to him and to yourself."

  "Damn it, Mom ... God, I hate it when you're right."

  "No, you don't, because it's why you come home. To hear me say out loud what you'll only think secretly. Right?"

  Bill nodded, unable to help smiling at the smug look on his mother's face. As far as she was concerned, she'd solved her baby boy's problem—again—and all was right with the world.

  And who knew? Maybe, just maybe, it would be.

  Then again, maybe he'd be sporting a helluva black eye to go with his broken heart after Mitch pounded him into the pavement. Either way, it was going to be interesting.

  Dinner was over, and suddenly Mitch was in a hurry to get back to town. Kissing his mom, hugging his dad, carrying a paper sack full of leftovers, he shifted into his human form, pulled on his sweats and slid behind the wheel of the Mustang feeling as jumpy as a kid about to go on a his first trip away from home—excited, scared, nervous, and practically thrumming with energy.

  Before he pulled away, Sofie leaned in the car window to give him a final peck on the cheek.

  "William?"

  "Yeah, Mom?"

  "Stop making those dirty movies. Make something I can bring your father to see."

  Yeah, sometimes his mom was downright scary.

  Chapter Five

  Bill formulated his plan of attack on the long drive back to town. The simplest, easiest way, he figured, to corner Mitch was to camp out on Mitch's doorstep, and that was exactly what Bill intended to do. Get him into his apartment, lock the door, and tell him before Mitch could knock his lights out.

  He didn't go home, instead driving directly to Mitch's, parking in front of his building in a space several doors down from Mitch's apartment. Mitch's car wasn't in the parking lot.

  Good, Bill thought, he wasn't home yet.

  Leaving the car at the curb, Bill took the soft drink he'd bought at his one brief stop at a rest area on the way home, and parked his furry butt on the front steps of Mitch's building. The paper sack of leftovers sat leaking Marsala sauce on the leather upholstery of his car, but he didn't care. He wasn't going anywhere until he'd talked to Mitch.

  Somehow he had to make Mitch listen to what he had to say.

  That was going to be the tough part, Bill conceded. He could yak his head off at Mitch, but what Mitch didn't want to hear tended to slip in one ear and float right out of the other with barely a stop in between.

  Bill didn't want to think about what he'd do if Mitch came home and he wasn't alone, but knew in his heart that it wouldn't be pretty. Somebody would be going home snatched bald-headed, and he only hoped it wouldn't be him.

  He was a lover, not a fighter.

  Although for Mitch he'd go three rounds in a steel cage with a pissed off grizzly, if that's what it took.

  A pair of headlights cut through the gloom, and Bill recognized Mitch's SUV sliding into a spot just a few feet away from where he sat on the stoop. It pulled in, sliding neatly between a BMW and a Toyota.

  Squinting to see in the dark, Bill watched Mitch heave himself out of the truck. For a moment, Bill was certain that Mitch had seen him because he seemed to freeze staring in Bill's direction. But he didn't call out to Bill or get back in the car. Instead, Mitch walked toward the stoop as if following a meandering path that only he could see.

  Oh, shit, Bill thought, he's toasted. He was also alone. Thank Olympus for small favors, Bill sighed, watching Mitch stumble over his own feet. At least I don't have to do this in front of witnesses.

  "Aw, s'you. Go ‘way,” Mitch slurred when he spotted Bill sitting on his stoop. Mitch produced the key to his apartment from his pocket, but seemed unable to slip it into the lock. The key tapped repeatedly against the door, like a small brass woodpecker.

  "Can't, big guy. Gotta talk to you."

  "I gotta pee. Go ‘way."

  "I'll wait,” Bill chuckled, taking the key from Mitch's hand. Opening the door, he allowed Mitch to lurch inside before following him in, closing and locking the door behind them.

  Mitch's apartment was reflective of the man himself. There was no one decorating style—it was a diverse mix of elements, from the black leather-and-glass modern furniture to the antiquated stereo system for his vinyl.

  Mitch didn't own a CD player, although the rest of his entertainment equipment was state-of-the-art, including a 70” television set, DVR, and a surround-sound system that would rival that of any movie theater. When it came to music, though, if Mitch couldn't spin it on a turntable then he didn't own it or listen to it.

  "Mitch, hon, that's the closet. Go in there and you'll be peeing in your tennis shoes,” Bill said, pulling on Mitch's elbow. He gently steered Mitch into the bathroom, switching on the light for him. He waited inside the bathroom to make sure that Mitch wasn't going to topple backwards into the tub.

  "Quit watching me,” Mitch grumbled, half-turning toward Bill. Luckily, Bill was light on his feet, able to sidestep the stream that suddenly arced in his direction.

  "Whoa, partner! Watch where you're pointing that thing! Mitch, you're gonna be seriously annoyed when you wake up tomorrow with a hang-over and pee-yellow walls."

  "Can't help it. Drank a lot."

  "Yeah, I figured as much."

  "Drank a whole lot."

  "I think we've established that already,” Bill laughed.

  "All your fault,” Mitch grumbled. He tucked himself back into his pants, along with most of his shirt. The tail of his shirt stuck out of the zipper like a thin, white cotton dick.

  "My fault? How so?” Bill asked, still grinning. He couldn't help it. Mitch was just so fucking cute when he was plastered. Remember why you're here, he scolded himself. Don't get caught up in Mitch's cuteness factor and blow it. Unfortunately, the use of the words “blow” and “Mitch” in the same sentence sent Bill's mind spinning into a direction that wasn't going to help him at all. His body hardened instantly.

  "You know why. You kished me. Why'd you do that, Bill?” Mitch asked, ending the question with a hiccup.

  "Me? Oh, hon ... you're a little confused,” Bill said, helping Mitch into the living room and down onto the sofa. “You kissed me, remember?"

  "No. You're wrong,” Mitch insisted. He suddenly became very animated, gesturing wildly with his arms. Bill had to duck to avoid being smacked as Mitch tried to press his point. “Why would I kish you like that? I think about it all the time, you know. If I was gonna kish you I would've really kished you, the way I dreamed of kishing you."

  Now that was an interesting little revelation.

  "Oh? You dream about me?” Bill whispered, looking up into Mitch's eyes. At least, he tried to. Mitch's eyes were a little unfocussed at the moment.

  "Fuck yeah. Almost every night, goddamn it. Pisses me off, too. Why can't you stay out of my head, Bill?

  "I didn't know I was in there, bud."

  "Well, you are, all the fucking time. Even when I'm awake. But the dreams are the worst, you know? You never keep your clothes on in them."

  Bill bit his lip as his cock overheard the conversation and poked its nosy head up, pushing against the soft material of his sweats. “Uh ... I don't?"

  "No. And you don't just sit there, either. You do stuff."

  "Stuff?"

  "You know, stuff."

  Bill swallowed hard. “What kind of stuff, Mitch?"

  Mitch's voice lowered into a theatrical whisper. “Sex stuff."

  You knew you had it bad when all a guy had to say was “sex stuff” and you nearly came in your pant
s, Bill thought. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wincing as the material of his sweats rubbed against his erection.

  "Guess you don't like that, huh?” he asked.

  "Shh ... Want to know a secret?” Mitch slurred, slapping a finger to his lips that nearly slid up into his nostril. “When I wake up, I have a hard-on. And sometimes I ... you know ... jerk off. Don't tell Bill, okay?"

  "Hon ... I am Bill."

  Mitch blinked, as if trying to pull Bill into focus. “Aw, shit! When did you get here?"

  "Okay, big guy. I think it's time for you to get to bed,” Bill said, ignoring his body's protests. He would not—repeat not—take advantage of Mitch in his current condition.

  He wouldn't.

  Much.

  Bill stood up, pulling Mitch to his feet. Mitch swayed, throwing his arms around Bill's neck. Bill had to throw both arms around Mitch's waist to keep him upright.

  "Aw, I like to dance,” Mitch said. His chin was suddenly resting on the top of Bill's head, body swaying to whatever tune was playing in his head.

  "We're not dancing, kiddo. We're going to bed,” Bill said firmly, trying to pull away. He might as well have been trying to pull the Earth out of its orbit for all the good it did him.

  "Nope. Dancing. I like this song. Righteous Brothers, 1965. Unchained Melody. You know the words? Oh, my love ... my darling ... I hunger for your touch..."

  Mitch's baritone rumbled through Bill's bones as he sang, sending shivers rippling up Bill's spine. Oh, drunken dirty dancing is so not fair, he thought as Mitch's body rubbed against his, and in all the right places. Be strong. You can do this, he told himself.

  Yeah, right.

  Bill laid his head against Mitch's broad chest, breathing in his scent, soaking up the feeling of Mitch's arms around his neck, of his heart beating steadily under his ear. Mitch's cock pressed into Bill's groin, burning him right through Mitch's pants and his own.

  Huh?

  Oh, shit.

  Mitch had a hard-on. It wasn't just a run-of-the-mill boner, either—it felt like Mitch was smuggling a steel girder under his khakis.