Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

  I poured coffee into an outsize Chicago Journal mug (old habits die hard), sat at the table, and opened the Register, skimming the front page. There had been no overnight changes to the layout I’d approved at yesterday’s late-afternoon editorial meeting—the world, it seemed, was as quiet as the house.

  “Christ, it’s hot already!” said Neil, rattling the back door open, then closing it behind him with a thud.

  I grinned. “Told you so.” Raising my cup, I offered, “Hot coffee?”

  He answered by throwing at me the white gym towel he carried, damp with his sweat. Bare-chested, he’d taken off his T-shirt before leaving the house, hanging it on a coat hook near the door. He now grabbed the shirt and started blotting himself with it. The indoor air felt suddenly icy against his wet skin—his nipples were erect.

  “Here,” I said with a laugh, getting up, “let me swab you down. Keep the shirt dry—you’ll need it.”

  We met in the middle of the room, where I took the T-shirt from his hands, set it on the counter, and began drying him with the towel. He could easily have done this himself, but he understood that I wanted to perform this duty—it was a labor of love. So he stood passively, watching without speaking as I worked my way down his body, starting with his hair, his neck, then his chest, where I paused to warm his nipples with my tongue. Had anyone walked into the room, we’d have presented a tableau at once erotic and ridiculous: he, the architect returned from a run, standing buffed, sweaty, and near naked in the kitchen, wearing only silvery nylon shorts, cracked white-leather cross-training shoes, skimpy ankle socks; and I, the freshly groomed publisher of a small-town newspaper, hunkering before him in a crisp white shirt, jaunty yellow-and-gray-striped tie, perfectly creased gabardine slacks, spit-polished cordovan oxfords.

  Like a wet, fleshy tether, my tongue bridged the gap of this unlikely union, this spontaneous melding of animal and intellect. The taste of him shot past the essence of coffee that lingered in my mouth. On the surface of his skin, salt drawn from his body excited my senses and made me want more of him. Squatting lower, I reached behind him to mop his back, stopping at the waistband of his shorts. Then I dried his legs, working up from the ankles, again stopping at his shorts. Nuzzling his crotch with my chin, I felt the warm lump of his erection, moist against my face. Looking upward, glancing past the contours of his chest, I asked, “Where’s Barb?”

  “It’s Thursday—farmers’ market this morning.” He traced both index fingers over the tops of my ears. “She was headed for the park while I was coming back.”

  That would keep her busy for the few minutes I needed, so I pulled down his shorts and helped work them past his shoes. His penis bobbed blindly for me in the cool air, but I resisted the temptation to provide its warm target. Instead, I slid the towel between his legs and finished the job of drying him, first his testicles, then his butt. The course nap of the terry cloth aroused Neil all the more, so on an impulse, I drew the towel between his legs again, holding its opposite ends taut, in front and behind. Lifting, I began pulling the towel back and forth, sliding it first up his crack, then up past his testicles, again and again, as if flossing his groin.

  At first Neil laughed. Then he moaned. Then he fell silent as he widened his stance, squeaking his treaded soles on the kitchen floor. Crouching a bit, he rocked his hips, countering the direction of the towel, riding out a fantasy that I could not envision but was happy to stimulate. He looked down at his penis, by now painfully engorged, then stared into my eyes, woozy and amazed, mutely begging me to finish what I had started.

  It wouldn’t take long. Guiding the head of his cock along my tongue toward my throat, I was unprepared for its heat, its rocklike rigidity, its sheer size. I had sampled his arousal countless times, but this was unprecedented, a happy new plateau, so to speak. While nursing this bit of manly wonder that had taken root in my mouth, I whipped the towel one last time through Neil’s cheeks, its million tiny terry fingers teasing a million tiny naughty nerves. In the same instant, his rocking stopped, he tensed, and then—rapture. He grabbed my hair, I grabbed his buttocks, and together we drained him of the sort of ball-busting, mind-bending orgasm rarely enjoyed by men old enough to vote. (The onset of adulthood has its other rewards, such as drinking, travel, and discretionary income.)

  Neil, remember, is pushing middle age, and I’m already there. What’s more, this was in the kitchen, on a weekday, with me fully dressed. All in all, I felt pretty damn proud of myself.

  “That was inventive,” Neil told me with a soft laugh, still catching his breath. His words had the grateful ring of sublime understatement.

  I stood, pressing his nakedness against my clothing, loving the touch of him. “My pleasure, kiddo.”

  He finger-combed my hair; I was again office-ready. “Seriously,” he said, “that was incredible. Four years together, and it just gets better.”

  I kissed him deeply, letting him taste a bit of himself in my throat.

  He picked up his shorts and stepped into them. “You’ve raised the bar considerably, Mr. Manning.” He tucked himself in with some effort, still showing a considerable bulge. “I owe you one.”

  “You owe me nothing,” I assured him while moving to the sink. Tossing my necktie over a shoulder, I leaned to rinse my mouth with a fistful of water.

  “I mean,” he explained, stepping behind me and pulling my hips to his, “I owe you some equally creative lovemaking.”

  Intrigued, I asked over my shoulder, “A debt of honor?”

  “Precisely. This will take thought and preparation and possibly some scheming. But the debt will be repaid.” Then he patted my butt, telling me, “I need to run upstairs and put myself together.”

  “Aww,” I pouted, turning to him, “keep me company. Have some coffee.” I picked up his T-shirt from the counter and handed it to him.

  “Sure.” He pulled the shirt over his head, first popping that beautiful shock of mussed hair through the top, then working his sinewy arms through the sleeves. The body of the shirt dropped over his shorts, just concealing the lump.

  The back door cracked open. “Any coffee left?”

  “Come on in, Doug,” I called. “We were just sitting down.”

  And in strolled Douglas Pierce, sheriff of Dumont County. He had befriended me during the week I moved to town and had since become an important news source for the paper. Over time, his friendship with Neil and me grew warmer, and we entered each other’s circle of closest confidence. Letting himself into our kitchen that Thursday after his morning workout (his hair was still wet from showering at the gym), Pierce repeated a routine we had come to expect and enjoy. As usual, he carried a large, fresh Danish kringle he’d fetched at a downtown bakery, adding it to the other pastries on the table.

  “Christ, it’s hot,” he said, echoing Neil’s earlier entry-line while removing his sport coat, draping it over the back of “his” chair. As our chief elected law enforcer, he chose not to wear a uniform, but street clothes, and I’d long admired his skill at assembling a tasteful business wardrobe. He even passed the scrutiny of Neil’s design-trained eye. As these observations might suggest, the Dumont County sheriff is gay. Sitting, he took an appreciative look at Neil approaching the table in his nylon shorts—there was a carefree bounce to my partner’s step. Dismayed, Pierce asked, “You’re not going running out there, are you?”

  “Finished already. Just the usual four miles.” As Neil sat, I joined them at the table with extra cups.

  Pierce continued to appraise Neil’s attire, observing, “But you look so fresh, so …energized,” a clear reminder that, at forty-six, he’d risen through his department’s ranks as a detective.

  Neil and I glanced at each other, each stifling a laugh.

  Pierce looked quizzically at each of us, back and forth. “What’d I miss?”

  “Nothing,” we blurted in unison, feigning innocence but sounding guilty.

  Pierce sat back, crossing his arms, shaking his head. “You g
uys…”

  Neil leaned forward. “Have some coffee, Doug.” And he poured for all of us.

  We spoke of the weather (no relief in sight), the food (any form of Danish being preferred over any form of bagel), and the news (not much).

  “Yeah,” said Pierce, “it’s been a quiet summer. Usually, when the weather heats up, things can get a little dicey, but so far so good.”

  Neil wiped his mouth, laughing. “Come on, Doug. When was the last major crime wave that embattled your department?”

  Pierce smiled, swallowing coffee. “Point taken. The mean streets of sleepy little Dumont are hardly an urban war zone. Thank God.”

  Neil and I nodded our accord. While munching a flaky slice of kringle, though, I wryly noted, “Try putting out a daily paper sometime, and you’ll come to appreciate a modicum of mayhem. When the local garden club makes page one”—I tapped the front of that morning’s Register—“you’re in trouble.”

  “Don’t forget,” said Neil, “the Dumont Players Guild is mounting a world premiere tomorrow night. There’s a story—play it up.”

  “Glee Savage has it covered,” I told him. “That story’s where it belongs—in features. My news sense tells me that Teen Play won’t make the front page.”

  “Not even when your own kid is in it?”

  “Especially when our kid is in it.”

  “Oh, wow,” said Pierce, “I almost forgot—how’s Thad doing with the play?”

  “Neil and I saw last night’s dress rehearsal, and Thad was terrific. I hate to admit it, but Denny Diggins may have a minor hit on his hands.”

  Neil added, “Thad has really grown into his role—both of them, actually. I’m glad he decided to give community theater a try this summer. The school plays have been great for him, but it’s important to get beyond that and learn to work with adults on a production,”

  I nodded. “Thad has grown in recent months, and not just as an actor. I was surprised by his maturity last night—especially during the ‘incident.’ ”

  That caught Pierce’s attention, but before he could ask about it, Neil said, “ ‘Incident’ aside, Thad’s maturity was evident all evening. When I used to be involved in theater, a director once told me how every production seems to have its ‘pillar’—a cast member who earns the respect of the entire company by setting an example and inspiring the others. Clearly, Thad is that pillar, that leader. Last night during intermission, when he was obviously drained by act one and the fight scene, what did he do? Instead of goofing off with his pals and guzzling Mountain Dew, he chose to squire his ‘parents’ around, make introductions, and help out stuffing programs.”

  “That surprised me,” I admitted, “not only that Thad was stuffing programs, but that the programs needed stuffing. The print shop could have done all the collating and bindery work—for a price, of course. The Players Guild must really be strapped to take on grunt work like that.” Shaking my head, I uncapped my pen and made a note to write the group a check.

  “Back up,” said Pierce. “What about the ‘incident’?”

  Neil and I glanced at each other. Though proud of the way Thad had handled it, we were more embarrassed than angered by Jason Thrush’s homophobic crack. But Pierce had asked—and he would be sensitive to our mixed feelings. Neil told him, “Thad’s costar sounded a distinctly sour note during intermission.” Then Neil related the whole “boy toy” incident, including Thad’s threat: “Keep it up, Jason, and you may not live till opening night. Remember, I’ll be waiting in the wings.”

  Pierce seemed surprised, exhaling a soft whistle. “Tough stuff.”

  “No,” I explained, “it was clever, Doug. Thad was paraphrasing the last line from act one. He simply substituted Jason’s name for the character’s name, Ryan.”

  “Ahhh,” said Pierce with a laugh. “Kids.”

  I agreed. “Just adolescent horseplay. One minute, there’s a major blowup; the next, it’s forgotten.” These words were meant to assure myself as well as Pierce. After all, the grand total of my child-rearing experience barely topped eighteen months.

  “Come opening night,” said Pierce, “all will be well, I’m sure.”

  Neil asked him, “You’re still going, aren’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it—Friday and Saturday. Roxanne is coming up, right?” Pierce was referring to Roxanne Exner, an attorney friend of ours in Chicago. Even after Neil and I moved north, she continued to visit regularly, sometimes making the four-hour drive for business reasons, but usually motivated only by friendship, as was the case that coming weekend.

  Neil answered Pierce, “Yes, Rox is driving up on Saturday to see Thad in the starring role. Tomorrow night, Thad plays the smaller role, but it is the premiere, so the rest of us had better be there—you, me, Mark, and Barb.”

  “Where is Barb?” asked Pierce, looking around the room as if she might be hiding in a corner.

  “Farmers’ market,” I told him. “She likes to shop early—to find the best stuff, I guess. She’s got her hands full getting ready for the cast party here at the house on Saturday night. I offered to get a caterer, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “She’s certainly the strong-willed type—a far cry from old Hazel.”

  We joined him in laughing at this comparison. Hazel Healy had been the Quatrain family’s longtime housekeeper, her tenure dating from the birth of the eldest of my three cousins, all of whom she helped rear, including Thad’s mother, Suzanne Quatrain. When my uncle Edwin died, Hazel remained in the service of the house’s new owners, and when I myself acquired the house on Prairie Street, she helped me settle into it. Though she was efficient, hardworking, and loyal, I did not try to dissuade her from her decision to retire, announced within weeks of my arrival. She was getting frail, after all, and her eyesight was failing. Florida made sense for her. As for me, her retirement made sense because, frankly, I didn’t like having her around. She was old, not only in her years, but in her rectitude and her outlook. She was piously Catholic, with a myopic morality and a small-town attitude to match. She was judgmental and stiff, addressing me only as “Mr. Manning” or, worse, “sir.”

  Barb Bilsten, at forty, was not only younger, but…well…

  Barb Bilsten was walking through the back door at that very moment.

  “For God’s sake,” she whined, juggling several bags of produce, “do you suppose one of you three able-bodied fairies could give me a hand with this crap?” As we all shot to our feet, she continued, “No—don’t bother—sorry for asking—I can handle it myself.”

  Neil sat again, laughing, but Pierce and I foisted our aid upon Barb, each carrying a couple of bags to the counter as she closed the door and removed her sweatband, visor, and a heavy pair of three-hundred-dollar Chanel sunglasses, festooned with gold hardware. She had dressed for the heat in much the same attire as she typically wore around the house—running shoes with baby-blue puffball anklets, baggy white Bermudas, and a pink Lacoste polo shirt worn a tad too tight for her top-heavy endowment. “Christ, it’s hot,” she announced, slapping her wallet and sungear on the counter.

  “So I’ve heard.” I glanced into the shopping bags and saw corn, tomatoes, green beans—the usual summer cornucopia—as well as an array of unnameable, trendy vegetables of exotic extraction. Some were downright grotesque; it was unsettling to think they had grown in Wisconsin soil. “What on earth are you making? We’re having a houseful of kids, remember.”

  “And I suppose you want me feeding them shit? Wait and see—this is delicious and wholesome.”

  I hate the word wholesome. “Maybe we should just order pizza.”

  “It’s under control,” she assured me. Case closed.

  Pierce asked, “Am I invited?”

  “Well, sure,” Barb, Neil, and I chorused. “Of course, Doug.” It hadn’t even occurred to us to specifically invite Pierce—our home was always open to him.

  “You’re part of the extended family, Sheriff,” Barb told him, tweaking his e
ar. She was cooling down. “And besides, we may need you on Saturday. If the little bastards get rowdy, you can legally off’m with your Uzi.” She pointed to the small revolver Pierce sometimes carried in a discreet (I daresay tasteful) shoulder holster of burnished tan leather.

  We laughed. Barb was just being mouthy—she loved the little bastards. But I was also amused by something else she’d said. She had called us an “extended family,” meaning the five of us: Neil, me, Thad, Barb herself, and even Pierce. Funny. None of us were related, except Thad and me, who were only second cousins. Still, the crowd on Prairie Street had indeed taken on the feel and dynamics of a family.

  From the table, Neil asked, “Barb, have you had breakfast yet? Join us.”

  “Thanks. I think I will.” As Pierce sat down again, Barb went to the refrigerator and pulled out a can of diet cola, the only liquid other than alcohol that ever passed her lips—I’d bet she brushed her teeth with it. Getting a glass from a cupboard for her, I sat at the table as Barb joined us. She popped the can and filled her glass.

  Neil freshened our coffee and passed her the platter of picked-over pastries, offering, “Have some.”

  She noticed, as I knew she would, that the bagels were untouched. She asked everyone, “What’s the matter? You don’t like Jew food?”

  I would normally bristle at such a comment, but as Barb herself was Jewish, she could say such things with impunity—and often did.

  On behalf of all present, I explained, “My disaffection for bagels has nothing to do with their origin. The point is, I just don’t like them. They’re tough. They’re tasteless. And here in the Midwest, where most of us were not weaned on them, we’ve been slow to acquire a yen for them—in spite of the now ubiquitous strip-mall shops that try to make them more palatable while offending purists by stuffing the damn things with blueberries and all manner of whatnot. Ultimately, though, eating a bagel is like trying to eat a sponge.” I crossed my arms, resting my case: “They’re not doughnuts, Barb, and never will be.”