Blink

by Rick R. Reed

  It made sense, and I felt myself being tempted.

  Alison called a second time that morning to remind me that tomorrow night she had her taxes class downtown and would be spending the night at my place. Where should we go for dinner? Or did I want to order in? Pizza?

  The devil on my shoulder shut up.

  CHAPTER 4: CARLOS

  HE WANTS to meet me! I walk to school in a kind of daze, a joyful daze, but feeling like my surroundings are shadows, flashes of light, and blurs. It’s hard to remember my lesson plan for the day, the meeting I have with the vice principal, Sister Mary Michael, during my free period, any of that stuff. Hell, I have to think about which turns to make on my route to the school.

  He wants to meet me!

  I never thought it would happen. I could tell, right from the first, that he was gay and looking at me with more than passing interest. Men don’t hold their gazes on other men for as long as he did without something being up. But I also saw the shame and, yes, terror in his eyes as he forced himself to look away.

  I came to think he was just another deep-in-the-closet homosexual (note that I did not say gay man) and that his attraction for me was at odds with how he felt about himself. I’ve met his kind before—they were the ones you might meet up with in a bar and bring home. They were okay until the moment they came. Then they couldn’t get away fast enough.

  More’s the pity. A guy that adorable should not go wanting!

  I was really shocked—and thrilled—when he got off the train behind me this morning. It was like some kind of wish fulfillment come to life. I knew I was grinning like an idiot as we took each other in. I couldn’t help it, though. I was just so damn happy. Even if he had just gotten off the train to tell me he needed me to stop giving him the eye, which I feared in some dark recess in the back of my mind, at least I would get the chance to talk to him.

  But that wasn’t what he said. And his grin was as stupid and joyful as mine. There was this charge passing through us that I can’t describe in any other term other than electricity. I wanted to hug him right there on the platform, but I knew it would probably send him off screaming in the other direction.

  He asked me to meet him at an ‘L’ stop in Evanston, which I assume will lead to a “stop” at his place in Evanston. Tonight. I can’t believe this is really going to happen.

  I walk to school in the balmy breezes of early spring wondering what I should wear, what it will be like to talk more with him, to get to know him. The dirty part of my mind contemplates what it would be like to touch him, to caress him, oh hell, to taste his tongue in my mouth. Would he have a big dick? Cut or uncut? Would he be more top or bottom? Although I favor the former, I don’t care. I’d do whatever he wants and love it all.

  It’s not until I’m going up the front stone steps of St. Phil’s that I realize I don’t even know his name.

  I laugh.

  By tomorrow, I think, all of that will change. I’ll know who he is, what makes him tick. And most importantly, what he looks like naked. I grin.

  Life is good.

  I DRESS carefully for my meeting, wanting him to just look at me and think no other guy can compete. Should I be casual? Preppy? In the end, I settle for simple, a pair of old Levi 501s that I can allow myself to admit I really like because they show off my basket to such good advantage. The jeans grip me as though they were tailor-made, emphasizing not only the bulge between my legs but also my ass and thighs, the denim worn and faded in all the right places. On top I wear a simple white button-down oxford cloth shirt. My Nikes or cowboy boots? I opt for the latter. More butch. Besides, they make me even taller, and I think whatever-his-name-is will like that.

  No cologne. I have some Ralph Lauren Polo in the medicine cabinet, but you never know if a guy will hate it or love it. But you can be sure he won’t object to just a nice clean smell.

  And I made sure I was clean. Everywhere.

  I grin as I set out.

  This evening, I just know, will be life changing.

  CHAPTER 5: ANDY

  WE HAD agreed to meet at the South Boulevard ‘L’ stop on Chicago Avenue at seven o’clock. The sunny morning was a distant memory now, since the temperatures had dropped during the day and gray clouds had rolled in over Lake Michigan. Now, as I paced opposite the ‘L’ stop, a light drizzle, more of a mist really, began to fall.

  I was fifteen or twenty minutes early. I didn’t want to miss him and studied each train that stopped, wondering if he would be on it. I stared at every commuter as he or she hurried by and got a few glares in return.

  He was five minutes late, but I saw him as soon as he exited the station. Even though the area beneath the ‘L’ tracks was hidden in shadow, I knew it was him. It was as though my heart was drawn to him and just his dark form called to me. You know the hokey scene in some cheese-ball romance movie, where the two lovers run to one another across perhaps a field of daisies? Yeah, that one. It should always be in slow motion and accompanied by swelling violins.

  That’s the kind of crap my body was urging me to do once I laid eyes on him. That’s what I had to steel myself with every fiber of my being from doing. Just the sight of him affected me physically—my heart rate went up, my extremities tingled with something akin to electricity, and my breath quickened.

  My mind went blank. I quickly forgot the note, folded into quarters in my jacket pocket.

  I watched as Carlos, as I would soon learn his name to be, waited for the light to change. He spotted me when it turned green, and a smile, very much like the joyous one on the platform that morning, lit up his face.

  He hurried to reach me, breaking into a fast trot.

  And then he was standing before me. Neither of us spoke. Maybe he was at a loss for words. And I have to confess my power of speech had deserted me, taken flight at the mere prospect of Carlos hurrying toward me.

  Finally it was Carlos who broke the silence. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be here. I was picturing an empty street the entire ride.”

  “Really?” I asked, doing what I thought was a pretty convincing impression of sounding shocked.

  “Yeah,” Carlos said, staring down at the damp sidewalk and rubbing the pointed toe of his cowboy boot into the gravel collected there. “I really thought that image in my head of a deserted street would come true.” He laughed.

  “Well, it didn’t.” I smiled.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  We stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed like several minutes. The air had a nip to it that night, and the cars rushing by made a hiss on the wet pavement. The rain coming down harder, I guess, is what snapped us both out of our reverie.

  I reached into my pocket and felt the note there. Just touching it sent a frisson of fiery heat through me as my conscience rose up to chastise me. My gut clenched, and an inner voice told me to just pull the note out, hand it over, turn, and walk away.

  Dramatic, yes. The right thing to do? Yes again.

  But could I do it? No.

  Carlos and I dashed through the rain the several blocks to Sheridan Square, the little beachfront street at the end of South Boulevard. I lived there in a tiny studio—just a room, really, once a maid’s quarters for the large three-bedroom, lake-facing apartment across the hall.

  With trembling hands I took out my keys and fitted them into the lock of the heavy gray-painted wooden door at the back of the building. Like burglars or conspirators, we headed, dripping, up the creaking wooden back stairs.

  At the top of the steps, in the shadows gathered there, Carlos turned and reached out to pull me close. I thought my heart would burst as our bodies, clothes soaked from the rain, melded together. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the moment I first laid eyes on you,” he whispered.

  I wanted to tell him I’d hoped for the same thing, even though I had never had the courage to articulate the desire, even to myself. And I wasn’t able to get my tongue and mouth to work together to voice them now. I was t
oo nervous. “Just kiss me already.”

  He did. It wasn’t a tentative kiss. It was hot and full of passion, our tongues dueling. Carlos grabbed the back of my head to pull me closer, even though that wasn’t possible. My dick was a steel beam in my pants, and I knew it was already leaking.

  I had to get him inside—in more ways than one. I think, back then, I was so young and so hungry for this moment that all my blood rushed straight to my cock. I was pretty much brain-dead. I could think of nothing but the heat of his body and wanting more.

  What does a starving man feel when he sees a feast laid out before him?

  I unlocked and opened the door. My single bed was only a few feet away, pressed up against the rain-smeared window. I didn’t turn the light on, and the room had a yellowish glow from the alley streetlight outside. The rain tapped against the glass, insistent. I listened to the sounds of our breathing.

  “Hey,” he said as we stepped inside.

  “Yeah?”

  “My name’s Carlos. Carlos Castillo.”

  I laughed. “I suppose it would be nice to know each other’s names before we take things any further.” That’s what I said, but my heart and dick didn’t care about names. They just wanted to get on with things.

  “I’m Andy.” I took his hand and led him farther into the room. I guess we had said enough, because the next thing I remember is hurrying to get out of our wet clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. I looked over as Carlos pulled off his white briefs, and his cock, long, thin, and uncut, snapped back up to his belly, freed from its confines.

  Instinct took over, and I dropped to my knees. I grabbed his ass and pulled him to me, swallowing him down with one fluid movement. He moaned and buried his fingers in my hair. His hips thrust against my face, and I savored the heat and the slight salty taste of him, the musky aroma of his crotch. I was amazed I wasn’t gagging or biting him accidentally. I didn’t have much experience, but this was a moment I had longed for so long that I think instinct simply took over—I knew what to do.

  He pulled away sharply, holding tight to the base of his cock. “Sorry,” he whispered, looking down at me. “I don’t want to come already. And you’ve got me so excited.”

  He bent down to grasp me under my armpits and pull me to my feet. He began kissing me again, roughly, hard. He maneuvered me to the bed, and when my knees hit against the mattress, I went over, pulling him down on top of me. The sensation and heat of him against my naked body threatened to cause me to erupt, but somehow I managed to contain myself, kissing him back and rubbing my hands over his body everywhere I could reach, reveling in the silky smoothness of him.

  I was lost in the feel and heat. All the guilt, shame, and self-hatred I’d heaped upon myself vanished in that instant, replaced by a searing desire. In that moment I think I realized that I had never understood I could feel like this—transported, the eagerness for connection so strong it blotted everything else out.

  With Alison, the sex had always been wonderful, no question. It had always felt good—how could it not? But there was always a sense in the back of my head during our lovemaking that I was taking a test. Our climaxes assured me of a passing grade.

  Plus there was the fact that, while I’d never fantasized Alison was another man, I had fantasized I was. A butch, manly guy, someone I admired. That was something I’d never chosen to examine too closely.

  There was none of that now. There was only the essence of this man, our bodies pressed together in one continuous line of silken electricity, our lips and tongues melded together like they were one hungry orifice. This, I thought, is what it should feel like. Natural. Real. Following instincts….

  It was also magic. It’s weird to think back at the paradox of that moment—how I was so completely of my body, yet lifted out of it, the sensations coursing through me like some sort of ephemeral gift.

  I had moved my legs up the side of him as he stretched out on top of me, instinctively knowing to bring the soles of my feet up to his shoulders so entry would be easier for him, even though I had never gone this far with any man before. And yet now I wanted it more than anything. I was starving and hadn’t even realized it.

  He paused for a moment, breathless, his dark eyes taking me in. A swatch of yellow light fell across his face. He panted, “Do you have lube?”

  For a moment, I didn’t know what he was talking about. Yes, I was that inexperienced. Then it came together in my lust-addled brain. I bit my lower lip and shook my head. “No. No, I don’t have any of that.” I wondered if this was where things would end. Worried, I clung to him.

  He brought his mouth down to my ear, kissing it first and then whispering, “We need something. I have a feeling you don’t have a whole lot of experience.”

  I pushed his head away, holding it between my hands so I could look at him. “Am I that bad?” I asked.

  “No, you’re that good, baby. And I want it to be real good between us.” He sighed. “Perfecto.” He grinned. “What about Crisco? You got any of that in your little kitchen?”

  An image of the red, white, and blue can flashed in my head. I wanted to laugh. What were we going to do? Make biscuits? I slid to my side to get out from under him. I knew the stuff was greasy, slippery, and what he had in mind. It said very much for my naiveté back then that I didn’t know what was common knowledge for most gay men—that Crisco was a common lubricant.

  As I stood on shaky legs, the phone rang. “Oh good Lord,” I whispered. I looked over my shoulder at Carlos, as though he could tell me what to do, how to respond.

  “Do you need to get that?”

  My mind went right to Alison and her call of the other night, wondering where I was. I couldn’t let it happen again.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll make it quick.” I took the three steps it required to get to my phone and silence its ringing. “Hello,” I said, voice quaking because I had the irrational idea for just a second that the caller could see into the room and witness what I was doing.

  “You never write. You never call.”

  It was my mom. My dick drooped, and I glanced over at Carlos, waiting on the bed. His dick still rose up from its mass of black curls, poised and waiting. He smiled at me. He made it wiggle, once, twice. The light from the window bisected his body, one half yellowish and the other almost hidden in shadow—the lower half, forbidden. It seemed unreal that he was here, in my room. He was like something I had fantasized come to life, both a dream come true and a nightmare.

  “Oh, Mom. What sitcom did you steal that line from? Or are you listening to that old Allan Sherman album again?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was silent for a minute, and I pictured her sitting on the little padded stepstool we had in our kitchen in East Liverpool, just beneath our white wall-mounted phone. The clash of what I was doing while picturing her face—her olive skin, big nose, and curly dark hair that spoke of her Sicilian heritage—was more than uncomfortable. It was sickening. But I tried to breathe, to get through this weird and awkward moment she had no idea was taking place. “Anyway,” Mom said, trotting out the question that usually opened our phone conversation, “what are you doin’?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and couldn’t help it. A single panicked laugh escaped me. I wanted to say something like “If you only knew” or just blurt out the truth.

  I could never do that. Never, ever. I was the only son in the family—my two sisters bracketed me, one much older, the other much younger—and the only one so far to continue on after high school to college. I was the golden boy, even if my coloring mirrored my mother’s. The one everyone was so proud of.

  The upcoming wedding was like the icing on the cake of that pride. It had been all the family talked about for weeks.

  If you’ve ever experienced deep-seated guilt, the kind that rises up with a nauseating sense of self-revulsion, you’ll have some idea of what went through me just then. The ardor and passion I had felt only moments before vanishe
d like an errant puff of smoke in a strong breeze. I sat down on the carpeted floor, worried that my legs could no longer support me.

  Carlos looked over at me, cocking his head with concern. His dick began to droop too. Mine had pretty much retreated into its shell.

  “You there?”

  “Oh, sorry, Mom, I was just distracted by something on TV.” I leaned forward to snap my little portable on so I’d have some noise to bolster my lie. Hill Street Blues was just getting started.

  Carlos shifted on the bed and pulled a sheet over himself. The flickering images from my little portable black and white I’d had since college reflected over his face.

  This was a mistake. A horrible mistake.

  “Well, is everything okay with you? How’s the job? And more importantly, how’s the wedding planning coming along? The witches want to know if they need to bake cookies.” The witches were my mother’s aunts, Congetina and Sarah, Sicilian immigrants who had raised her when her own mother passed away from cancer at the tender age of twenty-eight. Witches was a term of endearment.

  Back in high school, I had been in a few plays—Harvey, The Front Page, West Side Story—and now I’d have to really call on my very limited thespian skills to get through this conversation. What I wanted to do was cry. But I had to keep my tone light and my voice from shaking. Her question about her aunts was an issue we had gone round and round about for weeks.

  In our Sicilian family, it was traditional for the women to get together and bake Italian cookies—pizzelles, sesame loaves called giuggiulena, little chocolate raisin balls glazed with pastel-colored hues—and my wedding, even if it would require bringing the cookies all the way to Chicago in July, was no exception. Yet this was an issue that didn’t gibe with Alison’s wealthy North Shore family, who were planning a lawn reception with a string quartet and a helicopter to carry the bridal party to and from the wedding.