They returned to the bedroom and moved against each other’s bodies more cautiously. Liam stroked Ben off while licking his balls. After Ben shot a small but thick load of cum, Liam scooped it up in his fingers and rubbed it over his own nipples. He then knelt over Ben and took Ben’s fingers and placed them on his chest. Having Ben spread his seed on his hardening nipples was making Liam’s cock thick and fat. More pre-cum dangled from his head, and Ben raised his head so that his tongue could catch the long gooey strands. When he couldn’t take the pressure any longer, Liam moved Ben’s right hand from his nipple and had him caress the shaft of his penis.
“Get it wet with some spit,” Liam said as he could feel the skin of his penis getting raw. Ben had already warned that he did not have a drop of lubricant in the apartment. Ben stuck Liam’s dick back into his mouth and sucked it until it was completely wet. He tried again to jerk Liam off.
“Faster, you’ve got to go faster.” Liam had seen this happen too many times before. Once a guy came, it was nearly impossible to get him to pay any attention to the other half of the sex act. All they ever wanted to do was fall asleep. Liam knew that he himself was no different.
After about a minute, Liam gave up on Ben and began to masturbate. Each time he moved his hand up and down, he let the cup of his fingers inch farther along the head of his cock. The sensation caused Liam to goosepimple all over his butt and his legs. He arched his back and watched as the cum sprayed out onto Ben in long, clear ropes. Liam had closed his eyes while ejaculating and when he looked down again, he noticed that Ben had fallen fast asleep. The cum was dripping down his face and onto his neck.
MILE 7
“Wake up.” Liam pushed each word through his tightly clenched teeth. He nudged Monroe in the rib cage to further call him to attention. “We have to receive communion in a minute. Our pew is next.”
Monroe bristled as he fidgeted awake. Liam saw one of his aunts a few feet away turn to inspect the scene, and he looked at his friend intently so that there would be no misinterpretation as to what would happen next. They had not taken the long, winding bus ride out to Rockland on a frigid January day to make spectacles of themselves at this family event. Everyone in the Walker family received communion at mass. It didn’t matter how hung over or burdened by sin you were; Liam’s family prided themselves on the rigor and ritual of their religious observance. Liam had spoon-fed Monroe the rules as they roped their way through the local roads of New Jersey on the way to St. Margaret’s Church. By the time they got off in the center of Pearl River, near the intersection where the King Kone and old Fotomat used to be, Monroe had reminded Liam that this was not his first trip to a church. As they walked the half mile from the bus stop to the church (Liam knew that a relative would have picked them up but imagined they would have more than their fill of family time by day’s end), Liam tried to focus on being calm and on appreciating Monroe’s generosity. Monroe certainly had more exciting ways to spend his Sunday but understood that Liam needed the moral support to make it through another family christening—the fourth in less than two years. A sizable number even by Roman Catholic standards.
Liam inched across the narrow pew and headed into the aisle. Monroe followed suit. The walk toward the altar always stretched on forever, each step its own act of penance for the sacrament about to be received. Liam looked straight ahead and marched forward, feeling scanned by the eyes of those who knelt in prayer at either side of him. He opened his mouth slowly and stuck out his tongue as the priest made the sign of the cross and spoke the words—the Body of Christ. The image of Ben moaning as Liam took his cock into his mouth flashed fresh in his mind. Liam knew that he had not done anything in the last week to purify himself. He left that morning before Ben awoke and hadn’t spoken to him since. Every time that Liam had thought about Ben, he felt ashamed. He knew Ben wanted something from him—his time, his company, his body—and that fact made him retreat. The people he’d been with in the past had called Liam “careless” or “narcissistic” for withdrawing after moments of intimacy, but he could not handle the thought of someone expecting something from him. He would only disappoint them the way that he disappointed himself. But no one ever wanted to hear the woes and the complaints of the aesthetically and intellectually blessed. Yes, please, tell me more about everyone wanting you and your never being able to make up your mind because there are so many possibilities at your doorstep, and you never know what better prospect might be coming along down the road. The guilt burned through his hyperactive conscience like a forest fire.
When he was a teenager, he would squelch that conflagration with his weekly trips to the confessional. No matter what he had done, each week he could start anew. But Liam had not been to see a priest in almost a decade; he had gone to weekly mass with his parents steadfastly while he was living at home but dropped the ritual almost instantaneously upon starting college. It was as though he had awakened from a dream and found himself sleepwalking near the edge of the roof; he no longer felt the need to put himself under a microscope and have others judge his imperfections. But eighteen years of Catholicism proved difficult to shake. As a gay guy, he still—to this very day—wondered if his sexuality would banish him to hell. He did not know whether the sins would pile up or absolve themselves over time. Even though he had forsaken the church (at least to some degree), Liam could not help but feel unworthy—dirty even—as the priest pressed the wafer onto his tongue at his niece’s christening. Liam bowed his head and blessed himself before returning to his pew.
As they shuffled out of the church, Monroe muttered something to Liam and then walked over to a bench by some barren bushes—a spot where newlyweds might sit for photos in a warmer season. The wind picked up audibly, and Liam turned up the collar on his new Burberry coat. His sister Rachel clutched her newborn daughter close to her breast and hustled over to the crowded parking lot. It was decided that the requisite array of family photos would be taken indoors once they arrived at the party. As Liam discussed the arrangements with his mother, he noticed a plume of smoke rise from Monroe’s silhouette and craved the immediate rush that came with the first drag of a cigarette.
Liam had hoped against hope that his sister might have chosen a new venue for the party but was told that they would all be heading to the local Elk’s Lodge. Looking at his watch, Liam wondered if it would be unseemly to down a beer at a quarter past twelve in the afternoon. As everyone dashed to their cars, Liam’s mother explained that she had cleaned out the back of her station wagon to make room for “her youngest son and his friend.” Though Liam had mentioned Monroe to his parents by name on several different occasions, they invariably referred to him by the generalized “friend.” While they had begrudgingly accepted his being gay when he came out to them, his parents still seemed so inexplicably awkward as they grappled, tongue-tied, over the actual terms of his sexuality. And so the word friend now stung Liam, but he tried to write it off to the tension of the moment or the chaos of keeping track of the sensitivities of five grown children or the lack of modernity that comes with being from a completely different generation.
The uncomfortable silence in the ten-minute drive to the party provided ample time for Liam to think about the next three hours and to question introducing Monroe to his whole extended mess of a family. He took some solace in knowing that the sheer number of people—four siblings, four siblings-in-law, sixteen nieces, at least a dozen aunts and uncles, and twice that number of cousins—would create a barrier against any real or probing conversation. If history were any guide, his immediate family members would spend their time pushing the six-foot American subs and buckets of macaroni salad onto the guests while his more distant relatives would ask a question only to springboard into a vignette about their own lives, wrapped in some thinly veiled judgment about Liam’s.
“Oh, do you still live off Bleecker Street? Did I ever tell you that I had a construction job one summer right there by the corner of MacDougal? We would go for beers at thi
s bar on West Fourth—Boxers, I think it was. Liam, you ever go to Boxers? … Let me tell you, loud and dirty but there would sure be some snatch in there, bridge-and-tunnel girls all dolled up for a night in the big city. It was a great gig. Nothing like the city for a night out, but I don’t know how you live there with all the filth and noise.”
Liam had spent his whole college and post-college life trying to distance himself from this middle-class and middling existence that had been the crucible of his youth. He knew that his teeny apartment and modest salary at a magazine did not grant him any real reason to feel superior to his family, but he still felt pangs of inadequacy and self-doubt seeing himself through the suburban lens of their lives. He knew they tried their hardest, but the more they tried, the more contempt he felt; Liam hated that his family represented all that he had tried to change about himself by moving to the city and becoming cosmopolitan and urbane. He had tried to run away—but all roads seemed, always, to lead back home.
As they pulled into the parking lot of the squat Elk’s Lodge, a broad woman dressed in a long brown leather coat with a leopard print scarf scurried through the entrance balancing a small child on her left hip and a big bowl of fruit salad on her right. From a distance, Liam could not say for certain whether the woman was one of his aunts or the wife of one of his cousins. Lately all the women at these family gatherings wore their hair the same ersatz shade of yellow with loose clothing to hide the extra twenty pounds they still carried from their last pregnancy. The men were all graying early and paired creased Lee jeans with the white tube socks and tennis shoes their wives purchased for them at Sears. Liam eyed Monroe’s patchwork Commes des Garçons cashmere sweater and tweed pants and knew he was headed for a culture clash.
“Monroe Fields—suburbia! Suburbia—Monroe Fields!” Liam used the sweep of his hand to present the landscape to his party companion. He realized that despite any butterflies he was glad to have someone with whom to navigate the melee.
Liam’s mother stayed in the parking lot to fish a platter of food out of the trunk but insisted that Liam hurry in with his friend before they both caught their death from the cold. The din of Rolling Stones music and the stench of stale smoke hit Liam before he reached the back entrance of the lodge that led into the recreational room. A baby wailed in the distance. Liam remembered the layout of the room from the last family function, although now he couldn’t recall if that was his niece Theresa’s communion or his nephew Kevin’s fourth birthday party. Monroe smoothed out the pleat of his trousers as they walked through the room. Liam stopped himself from telling his friend that his appearance was utterly unimportant. He knew he had already bossed around Monroe enough for one day.
“Hey there, little brother!” The boom of the greeting came from somewhere to the left, and before Liam had the chance to fully turn, his older brother had him in a bear hug. “And who do we have here?”
Liam’s mind went blank. Standing before him in oversized khakis and a Notre Dame sweatshirt, his brother looked in sad disrepair, a house with solid foundation and a fine frame in need of some love and attention. The extra pounds had robbed his face of its angular qualities, but his clear green eyes, which were even lighter than Liam’s, still held a childlike belief that everything was good with the world. Liam wished he could reciprocate the enthusiasm by saying something, showing some honest interest in his brother, but he found himself utterly mute.
“Hi, Patrick.” Liam avoided looking his brother directly in the eye or answering his rather simple question. If given the chance, Liam knew he would start to judge Patrick, judge him for taking the simple path and never leaving their hometown, judge him for letting himself go, judge him for not wanting something more out of his life. So instead of meeting his brother’s eye, Liam took a quick survey of the room. A long card table at the far end, next to the fire exit, housed all the food. Smoke billowed out of four sterno-lit aluminum trays, which Liam assumed contained stuffed shells and ziti, and condensation formed on the bowls of bread and iceberg lettuce that sat directly next to them. The huge sheet cake anchored a fleet of helium balloons, each a different shade of pink and decorated with storks and babies. The blank white walls were dotted, here and there, with streamers and accordion letters spelling out HERE SHE IS and BLESSINGS FROM GOD. And to the right of where Liam’s brother was standing hung the only other wall decoration—a framed poster of an eagle set against the flag of the United States of America. The warning LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT was emblazoned across the bottom edge.
“Patrick, this is my friend from the city—Monroe.”
“It’s a pleasure.” Patrick gripped Monroe’s hand firmly in his own and shook it three times as if processing some important piece of information.
“So you live in the city too, Monroe? Do you live in a shoe box like my brother here? You know, I am always telling him that for what he pays in rent each year, he could put a down payment on a nice little house here in the country. Sure, there isn’t all the hubbub and action, but you can have more than one room to move around in, a yard, build some equity … a life. I guess it’s a tradeoff, right? You guys have a better commute, access to culture.”
Monroe’s mouth had opened as though he were prepared to answer each of Patrick’s questions, but Patrick quickly excused himself to run after his two-year-old son, who had made his way into the sheet cake. Before Liam had the chance to ask Monroe how he was acclimating, he felt sets of small hands grabbing at his legs.
“Uncle Liam! Uncle Liam! Look at the new toys we got for Christmas!”
The trio of toddlers clamoring for attention brandished “Super Soaker” water guns that were half their size. The children belonged to his sister Kathleen.
“Those things aren’t loaded, are they?” Liam stepped away as he spoke. “You realize those are outdoor toys and this is an indoor party, kids.”
“You talk funny,” said Harry, the oldest, and Caitlyn and Roger erupted in unison. And then the three scampered away to accost someone new with the weapons Santa had brought them.
Embracing a laissez-faire style of parenting that bordered on willful neglect, Kathleen tended to view parties as a heavenly form of day care. They were free and with so many adults around someone would surely be minding her kids at all times, plus she got to eat and drink all day long. The family joked that the only reason Kathleen married her husband, Richard, a recovering alcoholic, was to have a designated driver for life. Kathleen had moved out of the house by the time Liam started middle school, so most of what Liam had gleaned about her came from old stories of her misspent adolescence and wild early adulthood. Motorcycles and misdemeanors.
As they inspected the rest of the room, Liam whispered the words, “I warned you it would be a madhouse,” to Monroe, which he deflected with a forgiving laugh.
After settling in at a table, Liam rummaged through the cooler looking for a beverage. Surprised to see a Brooklyn Lager amongst the cans of Bud and bottles of Bartles & Jaymes, he grabbed one for himself and asked Monroe what he would like to drink.
“I’d love a glass of Chardonnay,” he said as though he had been thirsting for one since they’d left Manhattan. “But if they don’t have that then anything wine will do.”
“Unless you want a Zinfandel, I would maybe suggest a wine cooler. Lots of flavors here!”
“Surprise me.”
“Ayyyyy! You’re making me so happy. I’m loving this.” Liam turned and acknowledged his sister Evelyn, who had appointed herself chief party planner for this event given that Rachel would be taking care of her new baby. “When Liam told me he was bringing his friend, I bought these fancy beverages for the city folk. Feel free to get drunk, guys. That’s one of the benefits of bus travel—no DUI worries!”
Liam quickly drank one Brooklyn Lager and opened another. He hated to admit that the stress did dissipate with each beer that he drank. Monroe had opted for a pomegranate-raspberry wine cooler, which he sipped responsibly between forkfuls of potato salad. Rachel had
arrived and now visited from table to table with her newborn baby, who slept soundly in her arms.
“I always forget how small they are at this age,” Liam said as his sister leaned in for a kiss from her baby brother. “She looks just like Dad.”
“That’s what everyone is saying,” Rachel began, “I’m hoping it’s not just the bald head and scrunched forehead.”
“She’s beautiful!” Monroe interjected. “You should be very proud.”
“That’s so sweet of you. I’m Rachel and this little sack of sugar is Elyse. You must be Liam’s friend from the city.”
“Yes, sirree. Monroe.” He leaned down and kissed her hand.
“You’re a good friend to travel in from the city. I know that my brother hates the bus ride, so I am sure that the company was a real treat for him.”
“It was an hour … Honestly, no skin off my nose.”
“Still, this is a LOT even when you’re related to the motley crew here.” Rachel smiled at Liam as she handed Elyse to Monroe.
Liam had always had a stronger connection to Rachel than to his other siblings, having someone with whom to joke over the crazy dynamics and silly antics of big-family life had helped Liam survive the mayhem of family gatherings. Rachel and Liam were the youngest of the Walker clan and both tended to be more measured and circumspect in their views on life, which had helped to cement their relationship from an early age.
Monroe held the baby very still at a safe distance from his body, as though the tiny bundle might explode if handled improperly.
“It would take an earthquake to wake her up, Monroe. You don’t need to hold her so carefully.” Rachel threw back her head and laughed. Liam had never seen her so loose and whimsical.
“It’s been about a million years since I held one of these,” Monroe cautioned. “From everything I’ve heard, they are high on the fragility scale.”
“Please.” Rachel picked up Monroe’s wine cooler and took a quick swig of it. “Humans have survived for tens of thousands of years. We can’t be that delicate.”
The Miles Page 6
