Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

  I stood. “Ready?”

  Neil nodded, stood, and stretched.

  “Are we running back? Or walking?”

  A sheepish look of indecision crossed his face. He didn’t want to be the one to shy away from exercise.

  So I saved him the angst. “It’s getting hot. We’ve already had a good workout. Let’s walk.”

  He didn’t protest, and we strolled off at a leisurely pace, rounding the lagoon and returning to the path that led us through the vast, grassy field of the park’s floor. Without a word, we approached the wooded hillside and climbed the ravine, emerging into civilization—the quiet streets of Dumont.

  During our entire time in the park, we had encountered not even one other person, which struck me as odd. The midsummer Sunday should have been a prime date for picnics, I told myself, but still, the day was young, the heat already intense—the whole town, it seemed, had made a collective decision to hunker indoors this morning. I smiled. Churches would have a rough time meeting their quota this week.

  “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought.”

  Neil’s words broke my train of thought, but I was certain I hadn’t missed some earlier snatch of conversation. With a chuckle, I asked, “What?” We were just turning off Park Street onto Prairie.

  He paused. With a twitch of his brows, he answered, “My debt of honor.”

  Ahhh. It had been three days since I’d wowed him in the kitchen. With the troubling events that had transpired since then, I’d forgotten his pledge to outdo my inventiveness. With renewed interest, I asked, “Payback time?”

  “We need to discuss some options.”

  “Now? Here?”

  “No, at home.” His pace grew brisker as we covered the remaining block or so, and I didn’t lag behind. Heat be damned.

  Arriving at the house, we entered through the front door. (Smelling coffee, I induced that Barb had risen.) The cool indoor air shocked my damp, sun-bit skin as we crossed the hall to the stairway. Upstairs, we made a quick turn into the large, handsome bedroom that had once been my uncle Edwin’s. It was more of a suite than a bedroom, including its own bathroom, dressing room, and a screened, private sunporch beyond a wall of French doors.

  Closing the hall door behind us, I asked, “You wanted to discuss something?”

  Neil sat on a bench at the foot of the bed and began unlacing his shoes.

  “Wait,” I said before he could answer. “Let me.” Crossing the room, I sat before him on the floor. Removing his shoes, I kissed each of his knees and stroked the muscles of his calves. Feeling blessed, I paused to worship him (it was Sunday, after all). When this transcendental moment had passed, I raised my head and looked into his eyes. “I don’t deserve you.”

  “Sure you do,” he said glibly, leaning forward to bestow a peck on my forehead. “What’s more, you deserve some significant, creative payback.” He stood.

  His nylon running shorts were about level with my eyes, and I observed, with a measure of disappointment, that he was not aroused. As long as I was sitting on the floor, I removed my own shoes, setting them next to his, soles touching. “So,” I said, “you’ve been considering some ‘options’?”

  “I have.” He stepped out of his shorts and shrugged into a light cotton robe, cinching its belt. His tone turned unexpectedly serious as he told me, “You taught me something valuable, Mark.”

  Not understanding him, I stood. Touching his shoulders, I asked, “What do you mean?”

  He took my own robe and helped me into it as I slipped out of my damp shorts. Warming my chest with his hands, he asked, “Got a minute to talk?”

  “Of course.”

  He jerked his head toward the sunporch, and I followed as he opened one of the glass-paned doors and stepped out to the comfortable aerie with its white wicker furniture and floor-to-ceiling screens. Since air-conditioning the house, we hadn’t used this room often, which now struck me as a waste. Neil had found a wonderful retro-style oilcloth splashed with an oversize pattern of palms and tropical flowers; the furniture was upholstered with it, and the big windows were swagged with it, creating the impression of a garden in the treetops. From this lofty vantage point, a pleasant confusion arose: Was the room indoors or out? Even though the space was open and airy, commanding a view of the landscaped back lawn, it was also secluded and private, with no sight lines to other windows.

  The main group of wicker furniture consisted of a sofa and two armchairs gathered around a long, cushioned bench that could double as a coffee table, with trays for this purpose. Neil set these trays aside and sat on the bench, patting the slick oilcloth cushion, inviting me to join him. Shoulder to shoulder, we looked out through the trees, through the dapple of shifting shade and light. Though painted white, the room felt and smelled green.

  “You taught me something valuable,” he repeated.

  I nodded, listening.

  “During the years we’ve been together, our love has grown and our commitment has deepened, but at times I’ve gotten the feeling that our passion has waned—”

  I opened my mouth to protest, to reassure him, but he put a finger to my lips.

  “Don’t misunderstand me. During the course of any relationship, it’s inevitable: at some point, the honeymoon is over, and what’s left is the rest of your life, your shared life together. Commitment replaces infatuation. It’s natural. For some couples, it proves to be a dangerous hurdle, but for us, I think, it was simply ‘the next step.’ We’ve grown well together. And I look forward to growing old with you, Mark.” He took my hand.

  “So do I, kiddo. But you’re only thirty-five, and I’m not ready to grow old yet.”

  He smiled. “Good. That’s my point. What you taught me Thursday morning is that we don’t have to let go of the passion—not yet. In my memory and my fantasies, our ‘old days’ of hot sex have always lingered, sometimes with a certain note of longing. But the other day, in the kitchen, you managed to top anything from our past. Did you plan it, every move of it?”

  “No,” I assured him with a laugh. “It just happened. It just felt right.”

  “I’ll tell the world.”

  I nodded, reliving the pride I’d felt at the moment of his orgasm. “I noticed that you seemed to enjoy yourself.”

  “It was way beyond enjoyment.” He nuzzled my shoulder. “It was ecstasy.”

  “It was for me too—knowing I could reach you that deeply.”

  “And that’s what made it lovemaking. It was truly ‘physical love,’ not just sex.”

  I took his chin in my hand. “It was time to recapture that.”

  He nodded, kissing my fingers. “The security and comfort of our relationship had stolen some of its fire. Then zap, there you were, holding the match.” He stood, looking outdoors for a few seconds, before turning to tell me, “When I announced my debt of honor that morning, there was an element of humor to the challenge I set for myself.”

  “Why not? Sex or love—separately or in tandem—should be fun.”

  He smiled. “You’re a wise, wise man, Mark Manning. And over the days that have passed since incurring my debt of honor, I’ve arrived at a wisdom of my own. I’ve come to understand that I truly do owe you the passion of our past. What’s more, after considerable thought, I’m confident that I can meet this challenge.” He crossed his arms, grinning.

  I lolled on the bench, propping myself on one elbow. “You’ve captured my interest—and my attention. Where are you headed with this?”

  Neil paced the length of the room, lecturing, “I asked myself aloud, ‘What would Mark like? What would really do the job for him?’ Numerous possibilities came to mind. Maybe a trip alone together, the classic second honeymoon. But that seemed too ‘planned’—the moment we arrived, the pressure would be on.”

  With a grimace, I concurred, “Performance anxiety.”

  “Right. Who needs it? So then I thought, What if I confront him with the prospect of sex—”

  “Lovemaking,” I c
orrected him.

  He rephrased, “What if I confront him with the prospect of lovemaking somewhere unexpected? Somewhere off-limits, even dangerous?”

  I sat up again. Warily, I asked, “Like where?”

  “Like…one of our offices.”

  I shook my head. “Performance anxiety.”

  “Right. I knew that wouldn’t fly. Besides, having already told you about it, I could never really surprise you with it.”

  “Surprise, then, is a necessary element of the formula?” Our discussion was getting a tad academic. Facetiously, I wondered if I ought to take notes.

  “Well, yes,” he explained, as if tutoring a naive pupil. “On Thursday morning, had you told me, ‘When you return from your run, Neil, meet me in the kitchen, and if no one interrupts us, I’ll pop your load with a gym towel’—well, I doubt if the whole experience would have had the same impact.”

  I conceded, “You raise a valid point…”

  “So, yes, the element of surprise is crucial.”

  “Which means, you can tell me nothing?”

  “I can tell you plenty.” He sat next to me. “But I can’t tell you everything.”

  I ticked off, “No trips, no office sex, no performance anxiety. Hmm. Where does that leave us?”

  He tapped his noggin. “Massage.”

  My brows arched. “That’s intriguing.”

  His brows arched. “I thought it might punch your buttons.”

  “Okay, what about massage?”

  He weighed his words. “It involves a fantasy experience with an erotic masseur.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “You certainly have punched my buttons.” From what he’d told me, I assumed he’d arranged something with a service, possibly from Milwaukee or even Chicago. Some beefy guy (or guys) had been screened, approved, and hired to travel north to pleasure me (or us) in inventive ways with highly trained manipulative skills. I was already aroused, just imagining the possibilities, the configurations, the logistics. “Are the plans made yet?”

  He rose. “They are.” And he moved to the French doors.

  Trying to stall his departure, I pleaded, “Tell me more.”

  Before slipping back into the bedroom for his morning shower, he said, “Who, where, and when—those are the elements of surprise.”

  He paused to smile, and then he was gone.

  Showered, dressed, and at last ready for the day, Neil and I went downstairs together and entered the kitchen. It was around nine o’clock.

  Barb and Roxanne were both slumped at the kitchen table. Barb gulped a Diet Coke; Roxanne sipped coffee. Barb chomped on a bagel; Roxanne was slabbing one with cream cheese. Neither woman was looking her best that morning, so I refrained from commenting on their breakfast.

  “Morning, ladies,” I cheerioed from the doorway.

  “Hi, Rox. Morning, Barb,” said Neil, his greetings overlapping mine.

  They both turned to look at us, bleary-eyed. I could understand Barb’s fatigue—she was up late cleaning after the party had ended—but Roxanne’s lassitude had me stumped.

  Stepping to the counter to pour coffee for Neil and me, I blabbed, “Wonderful job last night, Barb. I heard nothing but raves all evening.”

  “Did you notice what disappeared first? My black-trumpet spread.” Barb winked at Roxanne, as if proving a point.

  Roxanne obliged, “It was fabulous,” but her voice carried little enthusiasm. If I hadn’t known better, I’d assume she’d been drinking. I’d never seen her so haggard during her sober years, but then, I rarely saw her this early in the day.

  Sitting at the table, Neil asked, “What’s wrong, Rox? I didn’t notice when you slipped away to bed. Was it late?”

  “No, actually.” With the fingers of one hand, she tried to do something with her hair, but her efforts proved insufficient. “I was tired all day, so I went upstairs well before midnight. Then I couldn’t sleep.”

  Carrying the two mugs of coffee to the table, I joined the others. “Sorry if we kept you up. I should have done something about the music.”

  “No, Mark. It wasn’t that. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “And you’ve been trying to talk to us about it.” Again I apologized, “Sorry.”

  Neil said, “If you’re in the mood, we’re all ears.”

  Roxanne and Barb glanced at each other, giving the clear impression that they’d just covered the topic that was still a point of speculation to Neil and me. Awkwardly, Barb rose from the table, saying, “I have some things to do upstairs. Need to set up my music room.”

  “Oh?” said Neil. “Sounds as if you had a productive conversation with Whitney Greer last night.”

  “Very.” Barb threw her Coke can into the trash, placed her glass in the sink. “He gave me the names of two fine clarinetists who might be willing to take me on as a student. I want to brush up a bit, though, before auditioning for either of them.” She ducked into her quarters adjacent to the kitchen, still talking, loudly. “It’s time to set up for practice and get to work.” She emerged from her room with her clarinet case, a music stand, and an armload of sheet music. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just…” And she sidled out through the hall, headed for the stairs.

  Neil and I looked at each other. I said, “That was abrupt.”

  Neil turned to Roxanne, telling her, “I got the impression she was anxious to leave.” He grinned. “Have the ladies already discussed a certain hot topic?”

  “Duh.” Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

  Both Neil and I scraped our chairs an inch closer to the table. I paused, looking at Roxanne with a warm smile. “Come on now. What’s the problem?”

  She gripped her coffee with both hands. “It’s not exactly a problem. It’s…It’s…”

  Neil asked, “It’s Carl?”

  She nodded.

  Neil and I exchanged a knowing glance. I told her, “Look, Roxanne, I know you haven’t been seeing Carl as much as you’d like lately—we’d all like to see more of him. But his office has responsibilities, and if he needs to spend time in Springfield, well, that’s part of the package. He’s not ignoring you; he’s just doing his job. I’m sure he’d prefer to spend much more time with you, but—”

  “Of course he would,” she interrupted. “That’s the whole point.” She looked at me as if to ask, What are you driving at?

  I was now a bit confused myself. Tentatively, I suggested, “If his Springfield duties are keeping you apart, and if you both recognize the problem, there must be some sort of solution—”

  “Oh, there is.”

  Neil laughed uncertainly. “Then you’re not talking about…splitting?”

  “God no,” said Roxanne, also laughing. “I must’ve been sending the wrong signals. Carl and I aren’t talking about splitting—we’re talking about moving in together.” She nodded, once, as if putting a period on her statement, then lifted her cup and sipped some coffee.

  This was not at all what Neil and I had expected. Further, this failed to explain why Roxanne had seemed so stressed. I said, “That’s terrific news, Roxanne. Are there any definite plans yet?”

  “I gave notice on my lease last week. Come September, the moving vans roll, and my life will be transported in boxes to Carl’s home on the North Shore.” As an afterthought, she explained, “His place is far bigger than mine.”

  “Fabulous!” we told her. “Wonderful!” Our words served as verbal pats on the back, and she responded with a smug, proud little grin.

  Neil frowned. “What am I missing, Rox? You came up here in a tizzy, needing to discuss ‘issues,’ but everything sounds ducky. What’s the problem?”

  She paused, pushed her coffee aside, and leaned forward on her elbows. “The problem is that I know Carl too well. This moving-in business didn’t happen quickly—it took us two years. It was debated and calculated, but ultimately inevitable. It was a big step.”

  I shrugged. “Great. So?”

  Neil touched my arm. “I thi
nk I get it. Rox has an uneasy feeling that the next step may be inevitable as well.” He turned to her. “Am I right?”

  She slowly wobbled her head—neither an affirmative nod nor a negative shake. She repeated, “I know Carl too well.”

  Growing exasperated, I said, “All right, I’ll say it: we’re talking about the M-word.” No one missed the irony in my reluctance to say the actual word.

  Roxanne breathed a tiny sigh—it sounded like a whimper. She scraped some cream cheese from her partially eaten bagel and licked it from her fingernail.

  From upstairs, I heard a few experimental notes tootled on Barb’s clarinet.

  Neil said, “Pardon the cliché, Rox, but it takes two to tango. If there’s a wedding in the works, it won’t be entirely Carl’s doing.”

  “I know that.” She flicked a ratted lock of hair from her forehead, leaving a trace of cream cheese on her eyebrow. “What scares me is this: I think I want it as badly, as deeply, as he does. If he…‘pops the question,’ I doubt that I’ll be able to say no.”

  “Then just say yes,” I told her, suggesting the obvious.

  In the pause that followed, Barb began practicing scales—slowly, but with measured precision. The distant notes wafted down the stairs and through the hall with rich sonority and glasslike purity.

  “It’s the commitment,” Roxanne told us, trying to remain calm and analytical. “Living with the guy is one thing, but giving him my life is another.”

  Neil reminded her, “You don’t have to do it at all.”

  Barb’s scales became more fluid and agile, picking up speed.

  “Arrghh.” Roxanne stood. “I know. The decisions are mine. I’m not being forced. And in fact, Carl has been remarkably patient, not the least bit pushy, no pressure at all.”

  Smiling, I told her, “You want this so bad, you don’t even recognize yourself.”

  “I know.” She dropped into her chair again. Through a pout, she said, “This isn’t me. What happened to strong-willed, independent me? I’m turning into this…mate or something, and I don’t like it.”