Gio obviously couldn’t help himself and laughed. “All’s fair in love and getting off between men, isn’t it?”
“Less talk and more hand work. Get the job done,” Steve requested, snapping his boner against his flat stomach, ready for whatever his lover had in sexual store for him.
Seconds later, he stared up at Gio’s furry chest, the cords that lined his neck, and into almost-black eyes. Both of Gio’s hands wrapped around his eight-inch piece of timber, working the meat up and down.
Gio started to talk dirty, whispering, “Shoot a fountain for me, man. I want to watch your dick blow. I’ll jack it until you cover your chest with some gunk. Do it.” His handy motion was abrupt and speedy as one minute turned into four…five…six…seven minutes, pushing Steve over his sexual edge.
Steve could barely breathe under Gio’s labor. He thrust his hips up and down, gasped, felt his head spin in every direction possible, and whimpered. “Jesus, you’re good at that. I can’t get enough of it.” Fortunately, he didn’t hear the muses from the meadow carrying out their singsong gig. The bedroom was quiet all except for his grunts and groans, and squeaks from the queen-size bed, rocking under their weight, providing a comfy ride.
Perspiration covered his forehead and chest as he heaved upwards, downwards, upwards again, screwing Gio’s palms and fingers. Elation buzzed through his core as the two men worked together. Steve closed his eyes, welcomed a dark room, gritted his teeth.
“Almost there. Keep up the good work.”
“Shoot it, man. Come for me. Spray it out. I’m dying to watch you bust a load.”
As if on cue, Steve rushed his hips upwards one last time and felt flushed in his cheeks. A flood occurred at the top of his cock, emptying his balls of his thick load. Although he usually came in dribbles, spiraling white juice flung out of his dick’s head in long arcs, and a gusher happened on that snowbound morning.
“More,” Steve whispered as coagulated man-liquid now oozed out of his erection and rolled down and over Gio’s fingers and the length of Steve’s dick. The slow-moving erection took all but a few seconds. His breath became lost, his consciousness faded, and…
* * * *
The Meadow
“It’s a wishing well.” Gio leaned over the stone structure and staring down into its cavernous and rounded shape. “Can you see the gold doubloons at the bottom?”
Steve couldn’t, but he heard the muses around him again, closer this time, as if they were standing directly behind him.
“Douuuu…bloooons at the bottttt…ommm.”
“There’s a dozen or more down there.”
The wishing well, as Gio called the decoration in the meadow, sat opposite the tallest tree; a massively round Redwood that was higher than two hundred and fifty feet, Steve guessed. Two stone beams opposite each other held up a fern-laden and sloped roof. As Steve leaned over the waist-high wall, he determined that the well looked thirty feet deep, or slightly deeper. Its sublevel surface sparkled with a rainbow of colorful water: swirling reds, illuminating greens, and light blues. Fishbowl-sized sandstones constructed its walls, creating a perfect circumference. Its interior sounded as if it were purring, hollowly reverberating like a cat.
“Is it alive?”
Gio chuckled. “Of course, it is. Aren’t all wishing wells alive? How do wishes come true if they’re not?”
True, Steve thought. Very true.
“Feel on the inside of your loincloth. You should find doubloons in a small pocket.”
To Steve’s surprise, there was a tiny pocket near his left hip. Inside, he found three smooth and warm doubloons.
“You only need one. Save the others for later wishes. It’s time to make a wish.”
Steve slid one doubloon out of its cozy nest and held it up in front of his eyes: gold and shiny-bright; the same size a rare fifty-cent piece that he could run across in Low Hollow upon his travels. It had a Thor-looking bearded man on one side, and an embossed picture of the meadow on the opposite side.
“Turn around,” Gio requested.
Steve listened.
“Now close your eyes.”
Steve listened again.
“Hold the doubloon over your right shoulder, think of a wish, and toss it into the well. I advise you to think hard, with all your heart, with passion, or the wish won’t come true.”
Steve almost hurt his eyes, holding their lids closed. He felt his temples and his nose wrinkle. His heart thumped within his chest, and he held his breath. He thought…thought…thought…and wished Gio would love him forever, long into eternity. And then he tossed the coin inside the wishing well with a quick wrist action, releasing its smooth surface.
He heard the doubloon tink…click…tink…click off the well’s stone interior, falling and falling, until it reached the pool of water below where it made a plunk sound and zigzagged through the clear water, to the bottom of the well with its other wishes.
Finally, Steve turned around and looked into the well. Swirls of greens and bright yellows decorated the pool’s surface.
“Your wish is the well’s command. Good for you.”
“I wished…”
“Stop!” Gio barked, raising three fingers to Steve’s mouth, stifling the man. “If you tell me, your wish won’t come true.”
A nod from Steve followed. “I understand.”
“Good then. Let me show you the waterfall.”
As Gio turned, heading west inside the meadow, Steve continued to glance down and in to the well. This time what he saw caused him shock, and he couldn’t pull his gaze away. No longer were there green and bright yellow swirls. Rather, the pool’s surface cleared and became a colorful set of three, short motion pictures, one after the next:
The picture showed Gio and Jeffrey Clef riding in Gio’s Xterra. Heavy snow blew against the vehicle’s windshield. A green-and-white sign read Buffalo—23 Miles, flashing on the pool’s surface. Clef sat in the passenger’s seat, his window cracked just a sliver at the top. Clef turned his head in Gio’s direction, mouthed something that Steve couldn’t make out. Steve watched Clef undo his seatbelt and slide to his left, meeting his shoulder with Gio’s. Steve saw Clef’s handsome grin grow from ear to ear. Then Clef placed his left hand on Gio’s right, inner thigh and…
The pool’s surface flashed silver, light blue, and a second motion picture started. Steve watched the Buffalo River—green-blue with a tint of brown—rush southwestward bound—and then vanish. The cameraman zoomed in on a cheap motel room with a king-size bed, small bathroom, desk, and reading lamp, cracked glass in a triangular-shaped window. Two pair of men’s white boxer-briefs lay on the hotel room’s floor, side by side and crumpled in balls next to one of the desk’s chipped legs. The camera panned to the bottom of the bed and performed a close-up of the balled sheet, and two pair of men’s feet tangled together. The camera panned in one of the ankles, showing Steve a familiar lemon-shaped birthmark the size of a dime. Gio’s ankle. Gio’s birthmark. The other pair of feet belonged Clef and…A third motion picture was immediately viewed inside the wishing well. Clef’s bare and sweaty chest was exposed: nipples hard, blond, and perspiration-covered hair between his firm pecs, sweaty and lined abs, semen (Gio’s?) next to his divot of belly button. Clef was smoking. Not a cigarette. Something stronger. Something illegal in New York and…
“Jesus Christ,” Steve whispered, shaking his head. His stomach pummeled to his feet, and his left temple started to throb. Steve didn’t realize that it was bleeding.
In the distance, heading west through the meadow, Gio called out, “Are you coming? The waterfall needs our attention!”
Steve was happy to turn away from the wishing well. Happy to rid his view of the horrible and short movies he had seen on the pool’s surface at the bottom of the well. Happy that stopped the madness and nonsense, filth, and disgust. Happy…
* * * *
Low Hollow
“Steve, did you pass out?” Gio panted in bed, next to Steve
. He stared down at Steve, shock on his face. “You did, didn’t you?”
“I’m not sure what happened.”
Steve looked around the bedroom, coming to and pulling out of that faraway and unknown place in his subconscious that he had called the meadow. He saw familiar things again inside the room: Gio’s gold wristwatch on the dresser, reflecting in the dim light, a gift from Steve to him the summer before last while they visited Italy for a week; a photograph of the two of them bare-chested, on vacation again in Naples, Florida, sunbathing along the Gulf; a plastic hanger on the doorknob to his left, looking lonely, ready for use.
“Jesus, I have to be more careful with you.” Gio climbed off the bed and fetched them both towels for cleanup because they were sticky and sweaty. He tossed one to Steve. “I really think you should see a doctor. Maybe that coffee table injury damaged you more than we both know.”
“I’m fine. Really, I am.”
“You don’t know that. You have a degree in music, not head injuries.”
Steve didn’t want to argue with him about the topic of his tumble, mostly because he thought Gio was right. He should see a professional at a hospital, but he didn’t want to admit such a detail to himself, or to Gio. Nor did he want to carry the process out, consuming too many hours of his time being probed, pinched, and powerless under a doctor’s care when he could be practicing his violin for his next performance at Grand Lunoit.
Instead, he wanted to talk about what he had seen in the wishing well at the meadow: pictures or visions of an unfaithful and betraying Gio with Clef. Steve wanted to know if such devious and heartbreaking actions were true. Was Gio having an affair with Clef? Were the two lovers behind his back, being sexual demons, ruining Steve’s relationship with Gio?
It was easy for Steve to roll over on his side and be spooned by Gio after cleanup. But it wasn’t easy for him to ask his boyfriend, whispering and feeling sick to his stomach, “Can I ask you something strange?”
“Of course. Anything.”
Steve gulped down saliva at the back of his throat, nervous. He closed his eyes, just because, having no real reason, and asked, “Is there something going on between you and Clef?”
Gio chuckled. He squeezed Steve against his naked form, pulling Steve as close to him as possible. “What makes you ask that?”
“You’re answering a question with a question.”
A sigh escaped Gio’s mouth, which Steve felt at the back of his neck: warm, soothing, hair-lifting. “I’m…I’m not sleeping with Clef. I’d never do that. We’re coworkers. Hell, we’re barely friends. Besides, I don’t find him remotely attractive. You’re my man. The guy I want to spend the rest of my life with. I’m trying to get you to marry me almost every day. Just because you won’t doesn’t mean I’m messing around with someone else, particularly with Clef. I love you, Steve Quaver. I think you already know that. You’re the only man I’ll ever love. You have to believe me when I say that. Clef means nothing to me. Nothing.”
“The meadow,” Steve whispered, his tone falling into silence.
“What is the meadow? What are you talking about? It’s your head again, isn’t it? You’re thinking and saying crazy things now. You asked me about Clef because you hit your head on the coffee table.”
Steve pulled away from him and lay on his back. He felt Gio’s arm as it wrapped around his center. The man’s forearm gently pressed against his abs, and Gio’s elbow covered his navel. “It could be the fall. I’m not sure. I don’t know.”
“As soon as we get shoveled out, I’m taking you to a doctor. Don’t try to convince me differently.”
“You’re probably right. I need to see someone.” Steve brushed fingers along the back of Gio’s limp arm, grazing their tips against the fine black hair. “There’s a place I need to tell you about.”
“What place?”
“It’s going to sound strange to you. It’s strange to me.”
“Don’t hold back, babe. Tell me everything. You know we don’t keep secrets from each other.” Gio paused, justifiably deflated. He cleared his throat and eventually whispered, “Are you going to Sabner Park again?”
Sabner Park, Steve thought.
A horrible place. Hell on Earth for him, mainly for his head and heart. So Ling, another violinist, one of the best in Steve’s opinion, frequented the park, picking up guys. Steve knew his friend went home with the men, mostly middle-aged and overweight lonely perverts. So had a good time with the fellows, getting exactly what he wanted from them. Sometimes, he even spent the night with the pickups.
Unfortunately, So ran into the wrong guy, Oliver Hammond. A professional butcher from Massington Street. So picked up Hammond and went home with him. The two men messed around. According to the Low Hollow police report, and the Low Hollow Reporter, So was decapitated in Hammond’s house on Massington. Hammond toted So in two parts to the park and dumped him under a pine tree. Hammond was caught three days later and pleaded insanity. When Hammond hung himself in his jail cell, waiting bail, no one in the Low Hollow community felt sorry for him, including Steve.
Steve took So’s death hard. His grieving became unending. He walked to Sabner Park almost daily after losing his friend. He sat on the same park bench for hours, felt misplaced and bewildered there, in his world of relentless pain, caught day after day. A month went by like that. Two months. Three months. Eventually, Steve’s mind and heart came around, and he turned to his music for repair. Now, before he played the violin, each and every time, he thought of So. Never failed. A smile spread across his face, proving he would never forget his friend and loving So until the end of his days. Friendship was like that, Steve learned, loving those who are alive and those who were lost. Always. Until the end of time.
“I’m not going to Sabner Park. I haven’t been there in about seven months.”
“And I’m not having an affair on you, as I’ve already said. Clef is just a friend. Nothing more. Trust me when I say that.”
“I trust you,” Steve responded.
“Good. Now, believe what you just said.”
Steve did trust him, with all his heart, mind, and body. Everything that Gio was. It’s why he stayed with the man. Always. It’s why they were lovers, even if they weren’t married.
* * * *
Low Hollow
The morning turned chaotic for Steve. It had started off just fine: two cups of coffee with the morning news. He enjoyed a Dean Koontz chapter of the author’s current bestseller that he was slowly getting through, and he luxuriated in a hot shower.
Maybe Gio was having a worse day. At least Steve thought he was, since the guy ran out of cigarettes and was having withdrawal for some nicotine.
Disgusted, Gio complained to him, “I’m hiking the three blocks to Go’s Gas and Stop for some cigs. You relax. Don’t do anything. I’ll be back in less than a half hour.” Gio snagged his cellphone off the bedroom dresser before leaving. He tucked the phone inside his winter jacket and added, “Call me if you need me. I won’t be far away. I should have known to stock up on a pack of cigarettes before the storm hit, but I’m only mortal.”
“Don’t be long. Maybe the two of us can watch four movies today. What do you say?”
“I think I’d like some binging with you, Steve. Good idea. I’ll try to make it quick.”
Quick to Gio was like the One-Hundred-Year War. Never ending. Lost time. Gio couldn’t be gone for a few minutes. He liked to chitchat with just about everyone he bumped into: a patron at the convenient store, the stranger behind the counter, or someone shoveling snow. Conversations always entailed the weather or something personal—usually a compliment—that he shared with a passerby he didn’t always know. Good talks, Gio called them. Short talks that mattered.
“Just don’t take an hour. I might be passed out again. The last thing I want you to do is find me unconscious.”
“I promise to be fast.”
Right, Steve thought, knowing otherwise.
In the meant
ime, while Gio walked the few blocks to do his errand, Steve thought about reading but couldn’t keep his concentration on a word, sentence, or a paragraph. Nor could he practice his violin, feeling pain in his left temple. When he sat down in front of the flat-screen, watching just a few minutes of a bare-chested Ryan Gosling in a movie, he decided to stop, saving his television time with Gio, once his lover returned from his snowy travels.
He paced then, mostly around the living room, counter-clockwise. And he mumbled things to himself regarding the meadow he kept dreaming about. Such a strange place he didn’t understand, and probably wouldn’t. The meadow reminded him of William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, poetry in motion. The comedy was one of his favorites, and he had seen it on Broadway once, back in the day when he attended college, long before Gio came into his life. He understood the play well: sleeping spells, dreaming, a play within a play, a wedding, and other events that enchanted Steve. He thought of finding his massive, hardback book of Shakespeare’s plays, but couldn’t remember where he had placed it last. So much for having a solid mind. Of course, he could have looked for the tome, but whatever, feeling lazy.
Boredom. The state of feeling…
“Like shit,” Steve whispered to himself, ready to pull out his hair. “The state of feeling like committing suicide. Purgatory. The place and time between life and death.”
He continued to pace. And pace. And pace. Then he looked out the window and viewed Tone Street. Lots of snow out there. Too much. Mounds of the white stuff. No…piles. And it probably wouldn’t melt until 2019.
“Better give it a hand. Why not? What else do I have to do?”
He dressed, deciding to shovel-out, a term used widely by Low Hollow residents next to Lake Erie. A local term used after a snowstorm. Steve stepped into Timberland boots and tied them up. He pushed arms through a heavy winter jacket, covered his head in one of Gio’s many ball caps, and accessorized with gloves and a scratchy scarf. Thereafter, he fetched the heavy-duty shovel from the garage and went to town on the packed snow, inches massed on inches. Too much snow. Bundles.
The Mix of Us Page 3
