Dreaming of You: M/M Gay Romance

by Marina Lander

  So Phil goes. He takes his pie and his phone down to the basement, to the rec room where he and Alex used to spend the majority of their time. It’s the only place in the house where he can expect to get some privacy (nobody comes down here anymore), and it’s also, for some peculiar reason, the place with the best reception.

  Amazingly, Conrad has left him a voicemail. It’s brief, and vaguely awkward.

  “Hello, Phil,” he says. “Just wanted to say... hello. Hope you’re enjoying the holiday. Give me a call if you’d like. Um, good-bye.”

  Phil listens to it seven times in a row.

  It's possible that Conrad was calling to tell him again that their relationship is improper and they can't have sex anymore, but it seems unlikely. Who does that on Thanksgiving? Maybe he really was just calling to say hello. Maybe he wanted to hear Phil's voice.

  Calling back immediately seems kind of lame, so Phil flops into his favorite old recliner, finishes a few bites of pie and plays a game of Scrabble on his phone.

  When he finally does call back, he gets honest-to-God butterflies in his stomach waiting for Conrad to pick up. Somehow being in this room, the sight of so many nervous and fumbling teenaged moments, just adds to the feeling- the anticipation and anxiety.

  There's a horrible racket on the other end when Conrad answers, a television turned up too loud. It sounds like, but couldn't possibly be... The Jersey Shore?

  "Why is your TV so loud?" Phil yells into the phone.

  "Sorry!" Conrad yells back. "Hang on." He moves to a quieter area and apologizes again. "My sister's watching a reality program about strippers or something," he says, and Phil laughs.

  He's relieved to hear that Conrad isn't alone on a holiday. He hadn't realized until now how worried he'd been about that. Even if British people don't celebrate Thanksgiving, it was a depressing thought.

  "How was your supper?" Conrad asks.

  "Good! It was good. How was yours?"

  "Turned out rather nicely, if I do say so," Conrad says.

  "You cooked?" Phil doesn't know why he's surprised. He'd noticed Conrad kitchen at the party. It was full of complicated gadgets and spices Phil had never heard of.

  "A goose," Conrad says, proudly.

  "A goose?"

  "It was delicious."

  “Huh, did you have stuffing with it?” Phil can’t imagine Thanksgiving without stuffing.

  “Of course, we’re not heathens,” Conrad says. “How’s your brother?”

  “He’s good,” Phil says, but it’s not really the right word. How is his brother? He’s been trying to figure that out himself, during the few moments he hasn’t been selfishly obsessing over his own personal life. “He seems different. Maybe... older? I dunno.”

  “Well, I suspect he’s been through quite a lot,” Conrad says.

  “Yeah, I mean... yeah. It’s really great to see him, though.”

  “Good,” Conrad says. “I’m uh, sorry to have kept you from him...”

  He doesn’t sound very sorry. He sounds teasing, maybe flirtatious, and Phil feels himself flushing.

  “Are you?” Phil asks, because that’s the question, isn’t it?

  “Not in the slightest,” Conrad says, thank god. Phil's so relieved, he almost wants to cry. “Are you?” Conrad asks.

  “No," Phil says quickly. "No, not at all.” He touches the mark under his collar where the skin’s turned purple and mottled from Conrad's teeth and thinks, for some reason, about the lube in Conrad's desk, the rumors on "the tweeter". He remembers the fact that Conrad never took off his pants the whole time he was fucking Phil, which could mean... a lot of things.

  “Hey, listen, that, um... that stuff you said?” Phil asks.

  “Hm?”

  “About never sleeping with students? Was that true?”

  “Yes, of course,” Conrad says.

  “Then why?” Phil asks. “Why now? Why me?”

  Phil thinks he’s probably going to regret asking this. What if Conrad doesn’t really have an answer? What if he starts asking himself, yeah, why him? What makes Phil so different from everybody else? What makes him worth the risk? He’s probably pushing his luck, but he wants to know. He needs to know.

  “Fishing for compliments already?” Conrad asks, sounding bemused.

  “No, that’s not-- I just wanted the truth.”

  “Well, I dunno, Phil,” he says. “The heart wants what it wants, doesn’t it?”

  Phil’s throat tightens at the word- heart. Conrad has a heart and that heart wants him. It still seems impossible.

  “You’re really quite remarkable, you know,” Conrad says.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I mean it,” Conrad tells him. “I think you’re brilliant. And rather adorable.”

  “Adorable?”

  "Mm, what's wrong with that?"

  Phil thinks puppies and kittens are adorable. Small children.

  "It's a little condescending, don't you think?" he says.

  "Phil, I believe you are the most argumentative person I've ever met," Conrad says. Phil starts to protest, then bites his tongue. It's true, he really is a disagreeable asshole most of the time. "You're never afraid to challenge me," Conrad adds. "Even on a compliment, it seems... "

  "Sorry," Phil says. "I know."

  "No, it's all right," Conrad says. "I like that, too.

  "Do you?"

  "Indeed," Conrad says. "And then there's the journal..."

  Phil clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably.

  "You, uh-- you liked that too, huh?" he asks.

  "I found it incredibly... moving," Conrad says. Phil smiles.

  "You know, I never got it back after all that." He'd fled the scene in such a rush, he actually left the stupid thing behind again, ridiculously.

  "Yes, I know," Conrad says.

  "I hope you took it home with you so some some pervy custodian doesn't wind up reading it."

  Conrad chuckles and says, "Don't worry, I'm the only perv who'll be reading this."

  He says it like he's got it right there with him, open on his lap or something. Maybe he does. Maybe he's been re-reading it constantly since Phil left, jerking off to it. Phil shifts around again, feeling the beginnings of an erection sprouting at the thought.

  "What's your favorite part?" Phil asks.

  "Hm, that's rather difficult to say. I was just revisiting the one about my kitchen... d'you remember it?"

  Phil does remember it, he remembers it very well. It was one of many dreams he'd had shortly after Conrad's party and the aborted movie theater handjob. It was about another party at Conrad's house, but in the dream it was Phil's house, too. They were throwing the party together. Phil was slicing cocktail garnishes in the kitchen and Conrad cornered him up against the counter.

  "Mm, not really," Phil lies, because he wants Conrad to describe it to him. He wants to hear Conrad's gravelly voice purring those words into his ear. "Maybe you should refresh my memory."

  "You were chopping limes in the kitchen," Conrad starts in a low, rumbly tone, seeming to get it right away. "I came up behind you and squeezed one of them onto your neck, then sucked the juice off your skin."

  "Yeah... go on," Phil says, and starts absently rubbing at his dick.

  "You were moaning and pushing back into me, rubbing that sweet little arse against my cock."

  Phil whimpers shamelessly and starts palming himself with more purpose. He's fully hard now and suddenly desperate to get off. Sweet little arse, Conrad thinks he has a sweet little arse.

  "I kept mouthing your neck and began to stroke your cock through your trousers," Conrad says. "Eventually you turned to face me and I lifted you onto the counter so you could wrap your legs round my waist. I kissed you, wet and filthy, like I was starved for it, then started rutting against you like an animal."

  "Fuck," Phil gasps. His head thumps against the back of the recliner and he circles his hips, bucking up towards his own hand. It's almost a direct quote from his jo
urnal, the kissing and rutting part, but it doesn't sound like Conrad is reading from the notebook. It sounds like he's got it memorized.

  "There were people talking in the living room, so close to where we were, and anyone could've come in, but we couldn't stop. We couldn't--" Conrad breaks off into a long, deep groan and Phil realizes he must be doing it too.

  "Where are you right now?" Phil asks, a little breathless.

  "My study," Conrad says. Phil wants to picture it, but that's one of the rooms he's never seen. Still, he can begin to visualize it in his head- hardwood floors, oak desk, lots of books.

  "You touching yourself?" he asks.

  "Yes," Conrad hisses, and Phil rubs harder at his cock. He's getting close, really really close, and he hasn't even unzipped his pants. "Wish you were here," Conrad says. "In my lap."

  "Yeah," Phil moans. "I'd ride your cock so good. I'd-- fuck, m'gonna come."

  "Let me hear you, sweetheart," Conrad says, and Phil cries out as his orgasm hits him hard, like a punch in the chest. He says something- feels words coming out of his mouth, but he doesn't know what they are. Maybe nonsense, maybe not. Whatever he’s saying, Conrad seems to like it. He starts making this incredible growling noise, and Phil can see him clearly in his mind now, jerking that fat, gorgeous cock.

  “C’mon,” Phil says. “Come for me.”

  Right at that exact moment, the door to the basement opens and someone in heels starts clip-clopping down the stairs behind him.

  Fuck!

  “I have to go,” he whispers, quickly.

  “What?!” Conrad is incredulous, and Phil can’t really blame him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I-I’ll call you later.” He hangs up on Conrad, then grabs the ugly, crochet afghan resting on the back of the sofa across from him. He pulls it over his lap with panic, covering the small wet stain on the crotch of his dress pants.

  “You down here, Phil?” his sister-in-law calls out.

  “Yeah, yes. I’m here,” Phil says. He’s winded and a little sweaty, still trembling from the force of his orgasm. He’s going to look bizarre and possibly ill huddled under the blanket like this, but that’s preferable to the alternative. He can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe how quickly and completely he'd managed to forget where he was.

  Michelle rounds the corner and Phil sees she’s got the baby with her.

  “Was that your boyfriend?” she asks.

  “Who? My... no. What?”

  She sits on the couch and smirks at him. “Come on, there’s obviously someone.”

  Phil feels the same Pavlovian defensiveness and urge to deny that always crops up when someone starts asking questions about his life, but the truth is, he’d almost like to tell someone about Conrad. Michelle already knows more about him than just about anyone else, and he trusts her, but still...

  “No, there’s... why would you--”

  “You’re all glowy and shit,” she says. “And you’ve got a hickey.” She points towards his shoulder and Phil realizes suddenly that his shirt is partially unbuttoned, hanging open to expose the bruise. He must’ve done it without even noticing.

  “I got bit by a dog,” he says, hurrying to button himself back up.

  “Give me a break,” she says, laughing a little. Then, horrifyingly, she starts unbuttoning her blouse. As if this needed to get more inappropriate.

  “Jesus, what are you doing?” he asks.

  “Feeding my baby, dufus,” she says, then takes out her breast.

  Phil groans and covers his eyes. Luna starts making gurgly suckling sounds, and Phil really wishes he could just leave. He wishes he didn’t have a fucking come stain on his pants-how is he ever going to get out of this basement?

  “I can’t believe you’re still such a prude,” Michelle says. Phil just shrugs. “So what’s his name?” she asks.

  “There really isn’t... it’s not a big deal,” he says.

  “You got a picture?” she asks, and Phil almost laughs. He’s got a hundred, though none of them are technically “his”.

  Sighing, as though it pains him greatly, he flips through his phone until he finds one of his favorites- a nice clear shot of Conrad at an outdoor café in Amherst. Whoever took it must’ve had a good zoom lens; it looks like it was taken from right across the table. It looks like Phil could’ve taken it himself, while they were having lunch together or something. It doesn’t look like a stalker picture, so he hands it over to Michelle.

  “Holy shit,” she says. “He’s fucking hot.”

  Phil feels a stupid flush of pride.

  “I can’t believe you talk like that in front of your baby,” he says.

  “How old is he?”

  “Um... older than me. Like, thirty-five,” he guesses. He grabs the phone back from her before she can start snooping around.

  “Jeez, Phil,” she says. “How’d you meet him?”

  “He works at the school,” Phil says. It’s not exactly a lie. “Don’t tell Alex, okay?”

  Michelle rolls her eyes at him, but promises she won’t. He realizes it’s stupid and ridiculous to pretend that Alex doesn’t know. He’s pretty sure everyone knows at this point, even though he hasn’t told any of them. But that’s just the thing- he hasn’t told them.

  Back in high school, his family had seemed so fragile. He'd been afraid to add yet another "issue" to their growing list, and that's what this seemed like at the time. His father was a typically liberal defense attorney who'd brag pompously about his support of "gay rights" and other such causes, but Phil knew that politics frequently flew out the window when it came to somebody's own son. Alex had been a hyper-masculine jock, and though he'd never shown any outright homophobia, Phil had been pretty sure he wouldn't exactly be impressed to know that his brother liked sucking dick. And his mother... who ever knew what his mother would say about anything?

  He always thought he'd get around to telling them someday, but now he's an adult and it almost seems too late. He's not afraid of their reactions anymore, but he feels like he's sort of missed the opportunity, and besides, does anyone really need to know who he’s fucking at this point?

  “Aren’t you gonna wanna bring him home sometime?” Michelle asks, seeming to read his mind, as usual. “Don’t you want us to meet him?”

  “Yeah, right,” Phil says. But the weird thing is, he can almost imagine it. It’s a mortifying idea for sure, but not completely unthinkable.

  “Phil’s got a boyfriend,” Michelle sing-songs to Luna, and Phil thinks, for the first time in his entire life, yeah, maybe I really do.

  Chapter 10

  Phil has always been a fan of snow days. He's not particularly fond of snow- extreme weather of any sort tends to make him ill-tempered- but snow days are undeniably awesome. There's nothing quite like waking up, looking out the window, and realizing you don't have to do anything or go anywhere at all. It's a blank check for laziness.

  Phil wasn't planning to get snowed in with Conrad during the first blizzard of the season; it was pretty much a happy accident.

  He was driving back from his mother’s house, fully intending to be a responsible person, go home and get a good night’s sleep before class the next morning, but somewhere around the Connecticut border he got a text from Conrad. Want 2 come overt? it read, and Phil felt a sudden and fierce wave of fondness over Conrad's attempt to engage with technology, typos and all. Thinking of all the filthy, hot phone sex they’ve been having every night since Thanksgiving, and the promises made about what they’d do to each other when Phil got back in town, he sent back a quick reply in the affirmative. He really really did want to come over(t).

  The weather forecast was calling for snow overnight, but the weather forecast in Massachusetts is always calling for snow, it’s pretty much non-stop from November through March, so he didn't think much of it.

  He arrived at Conrad's house after midnight, tired and hungry, but fully prepared to be ravaged in any and every way imaginable. He was surpr
ised to find Conrad in a pair of plaid flannel pajamas, heating up leftover goose, stuffing and sweet potato casserole for Phil to eat. It was a fantastic meal- Conrad really is a talented cook- but Phil knows he would've been touched by the thoughtfulness of the gesture even if the food tasted like garbage. He realized as he was eating that it was the first time he'd been at Conrad's house since the party- the first time they’ve been there alone. It felt like a completely different place, quiet and cozy and comfortable.

  In between shovel sized bites of food, Phil started complaining about feeling stiff and sore from driving for so many hours, and Conrad surprised him again by offering to give him a massage. Phil is also a fan of massages- they are, in fact, his favorite way to de-stress- but he’d never had one quite like this before.

  Conrad took him up to the bedroom, which was pretty much exactly the way Phil imagined it would be, with a huge wood-framed bed and books everywhere. Conrad told him to strip down and get in bed, then proceeded to straddle him and start working him over with his hands and, eventually, his mouth.

  Phil lost all track of space and time- he still has no idea how long this massage went on for- and was basically reduced to nothing but a quivering mass of flesh, rubbing himself against the comforter, moaning shamelessly and begging for cock. Conrad could definitely give Xui Li over at The Giving Tree of Massage and Raki in Northampton a run for her money.

  When the sex finally happened, it was a lot different than their first time- a lot different than any time that Phil’s ever had. Back in the lab, they’d been frenzied and rough and, ultimately, in a hurry. It was incredibly hot, but over way too soon. This time it was slow and intense. Thorough. Conrad was attentive to him in a way Phil never realized he would enjoy. In fact, the idea of receiving that much attention was actually alarming to him in theory, but in practice, with Conrad, he found himself reveling in every touch. In every long, deep, possessive thrust inside him.

  It was oddly and almost overwhelmingly emotional at times; usually sex was just scratching an itch, but this... well Phil figured this was “being made love to properly”, intimate in a way that nearly made him uncomfortable, satisfying in ways he'd never imagined possible. At one point Conrad whispered in Phil's ear, "Missed you, baby" and then, later, on the verge of orgasm, "Mine, you're mine now," and Phil had felt something twisting inside him, like a clamp on his heart, at hearing those words. Ridiculously, he'd been on the verge of tears by the end of it, but he was pretty sure Conrad was in too much of a stupor by then to notice.