The Perils of Intimacy

by Rick R. Reed

  “What should I do about tonight?” Part of me wants her to tell me to call it off, to go to a meeting, to rethink things. If I’m this mixed up and afraid, maybe I should take a step back. The thought of doing that, though, is a paradoxical relief and a terror.

  But she doesn’t. “Well, seems to me you have two choices.”

  “Keep things on or call them off?”

  “No! Will you stop being so negative? So hard on yourself? The two choices you have, to me, are you can either worry about tonight or… not. You can get yourself all worked up with fear and anxiety, imagining the worst possible outcome. And working up that mental energy will probably give you just what you’re worrying about. You’ll have a shitty time.”

  “Miriam!”

  She laughs. “I know, I don’t curse. Unless it’s necessary. And it was… and is.

  “The second choice you have is to be excited about tonight. What will you make? Will he like it? Will that same magic come back when you kiss? Will the magic deepen? Will you get to second base? Third?” She snickers. “You can draw good energy tonight by anticipating it.”

  “Really, Miriam?” I have an urge to play devil’s advocate. “Either way, it won’t change how things shake out. What’s gonna happen is gonna happen.”

  “Well, mister, I happen to believe that how you think about things will shape them, but even if that isn’t true, what do you have to lose by putting your focus on a positive outcome? Worrying isn’t going to make things better, so you might as well be giddy with anticipation, and then at least you’ll be in a better mood when you open that door.”

  She’s right. I can’t change what’s going to happen by worrying. “Thanks, Miriam. You’re a lifesaver. And a sage.”

  “Ah, get out of here. If that were true, maybe I could have avoided making some of the mistakes I did.”

  “Shhh.” I try to silence her. “You know I love you. And I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “I know what you’d do.”

  “What?”

  “You’d get yourself to a grocery store pronto, because if I know you, all you have in the house is spoiled milk and some microwavable dinners. Maybe a bag of Doritos.”

  She’s right, eerily so. But I won’t give her the satisfaction. “Now who’s being negative? It just might surprise you to know there’s lettuce in the crisper, tomatoes on the counter, a couple of nice pieces of cod in the fridge, along with a delicious bottle of sparkling cider.”

  “Well, good for you! Speaking of dinner, I need to get busy rattling some pots and pans!”

  “And so do I,” I say, but know I need to get myself to the store. At least the menu’s planned….

  MARC IS prompt, arriving at 6:25. When I open the door, the sight of him nearly takes my breath away. Have you ever had that sensation? Just the sight of someone being a spark for joy? Just their very nearness ringing an alarm bell? It’s like that for me.

  He’s wearing a pink Oxford button-down he’s paired with a navy blue vest and gray cords. He looks fresh-scrubbed and optimistic. His smile is a beaming beacon, illuminating my heart.

  He looks, quite simply, delicious. Never mind what we’re going to have for dinner.

  In the short time between my call to Miriam and right now, I’ve managed to get a lot accomplished. I’ve been to the grocery store, and inspired by the fib I told Miriam, I picked up a couple of nice black cod filets and the makings of a salad—a cucumber, some grape tomatoes, a red onion, and a bag of baby romaine, already washed. I bought a bottle of an Italian vinaigrette to dress it with. The fish is already waiting on a plate on the counter. I’ll just salt and pepper it, then fry it up in a little butter and olive oil and serve it with lemon.

  It doesn’t matter what we eat anyway. Dessert is what’s on my mind, especially now that I’ve gotten a glimpse of this man. Irrational as it is, I not only lust for him—that’s the rational part; he’s a DILF, as the kids say today—but I also believe I’m in love with him.

  It’s hopeless in so many ways.

  But I let my fears of our prior association flutter out the kitchen window, which is permanently open because when they painted in here, they did it with the window open and neither Kevin nor I could ever get it to close.

  We kiss, and yup, the magic from last night is still there. It’s like a line of silken electricity connects our bodies. The kiss lasts much longer than a greeting normally would. Before I know it, our tongues are dueling and our hands are running up and down each other’s backs, exploring, pulling closer. Our breathing gets heavy. I have to restrain myself from grabbing his ass. Oh, why restrain? I grab his ass and squeeze. The action sends a wave of blood straight into my dick, which immediately becomes rock hard.

  He pulls away slightly and looks down. I have on only a pair of jersey camo shorts, and my dick juts out like a tent.

  Marc laughs a little, but I’m flattered to see that bald hunger in his dark eyes as he takes in my erection. “Happy to see me?” he whispers.

  I nod and pull him close, real close, so I can rub against him a bit. I feel a tremor course through me and realize I’m this close to coming. That would not do!

  I force myself, hard as it is—pun intended—to pull away. “If we keep that up, I’m going to pull you right into bed.”

  Marc sighs, and I look down to see our kissing has had the same effect on him. I grin. “And the problem with that is?”

  I touch his cheek and stare into his eyes for a moment before I say, “I wanted to make you a nice dinner.” I chuckle. “First. I deliberately did not pick up anything for dessert.” What he doesn’t realize, I’m thinking, is how very important this is to me. I remember the drug-filled and—for me—lust-filled night we spent together two years ago and how it was all about being a nasty pig. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! But when one of the people is fucking the other and casting an appraising glance around the bedroom, cataloging contents based on what to steal, what would be good to fence, well, it’s a memory I wish I could just cut right out of my brain. When one of the people is so high he’s unable to come, while the other person gets off within a half hour or so, there’s an imbalance.

  I want tonight to be normal. I want tonight to be sweet.

  Is that so bad? I mean, I know we’re both horny as hell and we both would have no problem jumping between my sheets—and yes, I changed ’em earlier. But it’s been so long since I’ve had a normal date with a guy. It’s been forever—if ever—since I’ve welcomed real romance into my life. I want that. I want it now.

  I push him gently toward the living room. “You go in and sit. I’ll bring you a glass of sparkling cider and some Doritos to munch on.”

  “Doritos?” He laughs.

  “Only the best here at Casa de Jimmy! They’re Cool Ranch, buddy.”

  “Oh well, then….” He moves, somewhat reluctantly, into the living room. I follow and make sure he takes a seat on the couch. I hand him the remote. “You can watch something if you want. If our dinner isn’t going to be a complete disaster, I need to work alone.”

  “I get it.” He puts the remote beside himself on the couch. “Sure we can’t have dessert first? Life is short and all that.” He eyes me, a little grin turning up only one corner of his lips. It’s sexy as hell and I’m tempted, but no. Tonight is about swapping a night from hell with a night from heaven.

  Miriam told me that heaven and hell are right here on earth, right now. And we always, always have the choice of which one we’ll live in.

  “We’ll have plenty of dessert later. I promise.”

  I run back into the kitchen. I pour a glass of cider and return to Marc with it. I hand him the glass and set down the bowl of Doritos I have in my other hand. “Don’t eat too many.”

  He smiles at me, and I can read the gratitude on his face. It warms me. Yet there’s a part of me that still wonders, when he eyes me, when the other shoe’s gonna drop and he’ll know me and remember….

  “Thanks.�
�� He takes a chip and eats it. Looks at me and cocks his head.

  “What?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. It just struck me that you look familiar.”

  It doesn’t matter that the words come out innocently enough; my stomach begins to churn. I give him what I know is a sick little grin. “I just have one of those faces.”

  Still queasy, I hurry back to the kitchen to get started on my salad.

  Chapter 8

  MARC

  ONE OF those faces? One of those faces, he tells me? It didn’t hit me until just that moment that there’s something vaguely familiar about Jimmy. Maybe it was a movement he made, a gesture or the tilt of his head, but I had that unsettling feeling we label déjà vu.

  Could I have met him before? Seen him somewhere? I scan my memories, at least the ones from when I lived here in Seattle. Could he be one of the many tricks I hooked up with when I was “playing the field” or, to be blunter, acting like a total slut?

  There were a lot of guys back then. Too many. It’s a wonder I stayed HIV negative, because I certainly wasn’t always safe.

  But even as I flip through the pages of my mental catalog of partners, Jimmy doesn’t rise to the top. No bell rings. I shrug. Put the thought away. Maybe it’s true—he simply reminds me of someone else.

  But who?

  Forget about it.

  Jimmy pokes his head from out of the kitchen. “Supper’s almost ready. You need a refill?”

  I hold up my full glass. “I’m good. It smells delicious.”

  He waves away my compliment. “Ah. It’s nothing. You want to eat in the kitchen or in here on the couch?”

  He eyes the TV, and I pick up on the fact that he probably eats most of his meals in here, in front of the television. I surmise this because I do the same thing. It’s what a lot of people who live alone do. The voices and the movement of the television, as pathetic a fact as it is, are company.

  But we don’t need that tonight. The kitchen has only a small table with two chairs, what my mom would call a “bistro set.” They’re made from molded plastic and obviously intended for an outdoor space, but their bright yellow color lends some cheer to the drab and desperately-in-need-of-an-update kitchen.

  But the real cheer in that kitchen is Jimmy. I get up to join him. “Let’s eat in the kitchen. I want to look at your pretty face across the table.”

  He snickers, and a rosy glow rises to his cheeks. I think I could love him.

  WE’RE ABOUT halfway through dinner when Jimmy says, “I shared a little bit about my growing up with you. Time to turn the tables, bud. I want to know more about you.” He raises his glass to me and sits back a little, looking expectant.

  “Dinner was excellent. That fish? Practically melted in my mouth. What did you do to it?”

  “Just sautéed it with some salt and pepper, a little butter. It helps when you start out with good, fresh fish. It does all the work, just as long as you don’t overcook it.”

  “And how do you avoid that?”

  “The cook at the diner showed me how to test fish with my finger.” He gets up and gently pokes my nose. “If it feels like the tip of your nose—that same hardness with just a little give—it’s done. You can also look at it, and when it’s just opaque, you know it’s ready. Take it off the heat a little before that point and you’re golden, because it’ll continue cooking a little bit after it rests.”

  “You should be a chef.”

  Jimmy sighs. “I’d have to go to culinary school for that. And I can’t afford it. Not even close. I barely make ends meet as it is.” He raises his eyebrows, and again I have that feeling of familiarity as I look at him.

  It fades quickly as he smiles and asks, “Why are you avoiding my question?”

  Heat rises to my face. Busted. “What question?” I ask, trying to look innocent. Even as I make the attempt, I know I’ve failed.

  “Don’t do that,” Jimmy says gently.

  I’m tempted to ask “Don’t do what?” but know I’d be pushing it and getting irritating. I shrug, eat some of the salad, which is also very good. “I don’t know. My past wasn’t very happy, but at least it was—” I stop as I ponder the right word. I don’t want to insult him. I don’t want to try to compare my so-called normal middle class life with his single-parent, growing-up-in-a-trailer one. I don’t want to sound snobbish.

  “At least it was what?” he asks.

  “Stable,” I say, letting the cards fall where they may. It hits me that I feel a little guilty about my privilege. Although we were by no means wealthy, or even anywhere close to it, I had a very normal upbringing.

  “I lied,” I said. Jimmy puts down his fork.

  “I don’t know why I said that about an unhappy upbringing. It’s not true. You just poured out to me all about your family and all the trials you went through, and I wanted to be sympathetic and not make you feel bad by coming back with my happy home.”

  “That’s stupid!” he says. “Why would you think you having a happy childhood would make me feel bad? Hell, I’m glad somebody did. Tell me about it.”

  I lean forward and give him the quick rundown of my past. I talk for much longer than I thought I—the quiet guy—was capable of. I tell him about growing up in a three-bedroom bungalow in the predominantly Jewish Chicago suburb of Skokie. How my parents had Ozzie and Harriet lives, from what I could see. “Dad was a CPA and worked downtown for an insurance company. And Mom stayed at home until I was in high school. Then she went out and got a real estate license and tried to make a go of it selling houses. But I don’t think her heart was ever in it. She never made much, and after a few years, she quit. She went back to staying at home, sold Mary Kay for a while, and then finally gave up.” I stop, feeling myself strangely sad and wanting so badly to change the subject. I see my mother at the kitchen table, an ever-present glass of red wine at her elbow, watching a little portable TV we had on the counter. It seemed she watched everything from game shows to old sitcoms to reality TV, but what I remember was the faraway look in her eyes, as though she wanted to be anywhere but where she was. Sometimes I would ask her what she was watching, and there were times when she was actually startled. “Oh, I don’t know. Some crap.”

  I feel an almost overwhelming burst of love for her—and melancholy. And I wonder what she really wanted from her life, what she dreamed of.

  I should call her when I get home.

  “But for the most part….” I lie again. “We were happy—nice Christmases, summer vacations, Bahama cruises, a road trip to the Grand Canyon, summers up at Lake Geneva at my uncle’s place.” I give Jimmy a brave smile. “Boring—but happy. So American dream.” Why am I saying this? Is there an American dream? Does anyone get to actually live it?

  Then I tell him my own little side trip in my quest to snatch up a piece of that dream for myself—the way society told me the American dream was supposed to be lived. “I was married once.”

  “To a man or a woman?” Jimmy asks.

  I hold up a finger, stopping him. “Back when this was, you wouldn’t have even thought to ask that. I was just out of college. Lisa and I were college sweethearts from sophomore year on. We were each other’s firsts, if you can believe that. And it wasn’t bad, like you’d think. I enjoyed things with her. And I think I really did love her.”

  “But then you had the big old homo thing in the back of your head?”

  “Well, that might not be the most delicate way of putting it, but yeah. The more I tried to deny I was, the harder that big old homo insisted on coming out.” I stare down at my plate for a moment and then look back up at Jimmy. “We lasted less than a year. I broke her heart. I still carry that shame and guilt around with me.”

  “You didn’t know. You were just trying to do what everyone expected of you.”

  I nod. And what he says is true, but I still can see Lisa’s face in my mind, and just seeing that image causes a stab of self-recrimination to rise up inside, like real physical pai
n, which, I suppose, it is. I know my own lack of self-acceptance really hurt her, and I wonder if I can ever rationalize my guilt for that. She was a good and trusting woman. She didn’t deserve what she got. And what she got was me.

  I don’t want to talk about this anymore. So I get up, cross to the other side of the table, and then stop in front of Jimmy. He peers up.

  “Get up,” I say softly.

  He grins. “Why?”

  “It’s time for dessert.”

  I take his hand and pull him toward where I hope his bedroom is.

  There’s no resistance.

  I WAKE later in the dark. Rain patters against the window, and I look over at Jimmy, on his back, mouth open and snoring. It feels like we’re the only people in the world. Here, with Jimmy, I feel safe and secure. The rain only intensifies the feeling.

  The lovemaking was intense.

  We went at it for what seemed like hours, getting lost in the sensation of each other’s lips, tongues. We did everything possible two men can do—and then did it again.

  I was top; he was bottom. He was top; I was bottom.

  We tasted each other’s sweat, skin, and come.

  There was one point I remember where it seemed like I went completely out of my head and I was nothing more than a huge patch of nerve endings being stimulated. I was so happy in that mindless moment of right here, right now that I wanted it to continue forever.

  Amid the groans and sighs, he whispered that he loved me, and I answered back in kind. Maybe it was too soon. I didn’t—and don’t—care. It felt so right.

  When we finished, we lay in each other’s arms, sweat-drenched, breathing hard, and feeling something beyond connection, beyond happiness.

  Bliss?

  He fell asleep first. That was just a few minutes ago. It was this beautiful letting go, and I loved the fact he was comfortable enough to do it with his head on my chest and my arms around him. I drifted myself for a few minutes, and when I awoke, we were where we are right now. Him on his back, me watching.