Ravenous

by R. W. Clinger

  “I have this strange urge to take Kevin home and let him shower, eat, and spend the night in a cozy bed. What do you think about that?”

  He guffawed, waving a hand at me. “It’s one of the most foolish thoughts you’ve ever had. He could be a murderer, a rapist, or a professional thief. I think that would be trouble to the nth degree, Hatch. Don’t do it. Because if you do, you’re just asking for trouble, and the guy will probably never leave. Trust me, you don’t want your story on the evening news when he hurts you.”

  “Better safe than sorry is what you’re saying.”

  “I am. The last thing you need is a damaged man. Save yourself from the chaos and don’t get involved with him, even if he needs a place to sleep and food to eat. There are nonprofit centers in Channing that can help him. You’re a nice guy, Hatch, but don’t be too nice.”

  I understood what he was saying, downed the sixth shot, and told him goodnight, stumbling home.

  * * * *

  “You black-haired and brown-eyed beauty,” Jay said, standing above my bed and grinning down at me. “Wake up, Mr. Sleepy Head.”

  He smelled of urine, ejaculate, cheap beer, and man-sweat. Aromas one might smell on a queer frat brother. I stared through the slits of my hazy eyes and tried to concentrate on his adorable smile in the October sunlight.

  “I’m thirty-eight and need my sleep. Partying players like you live off your adrenaline and whatnots. Go away.”

  He shook my left shoulder, stirring me awake. “We have a big morning together. Get up. There’s no time to waste.”

  I sat up, showing off my hairy abs, chest, and hard nipples. To my surprise, morning wood thumped between my legs, which he fortunately didn’t tamper with while teasing me. My stomach growled, proving I had too many shots of whiskey with Michael the night before. The room spun a few times, stopped, and I blinked until my vision functioned at full steam.

  I yawned and asked, “What do you have planned for us, Jay?”

  He undressed next to my bed: blue jeans were unbuttoned and pushed down to his ankles, his T-shirt was removed and dropped to the walnut floor, and he sported a clean-shaven and well-built torso without hair. He slid black, cotton boxer-briefs down to his feet and stepped out of them, sporting a handsomely-veined cut cock approximately five inches limp, and dangling balls in a blond-furred sack.

  “Breakfast at Suzanne’s House of Pancakes. And, if you’re up to it, a workout at Pumpers.”

  I ignored his comments for the time being. “You’re naked.”

  On full alert, I thought he would climb into bed and begin seducing me. Our relationship didn’t come with those accommodations, though. My life was quite boring compared to his wild one of man-humping. I couldn’t entertain him in bed the way other men had.

  “I’m using your shower. I’ll get a fresh towel out of the bathroom closet. Get up and get dressed, then we can enjoy our morning together.”

  Sometimes, I regretted giving him a key to my two-bedroom Cape Code since he used the place as if it were his own to shower, eat, and take naps. Shame on me. Jay thought that whatever was mine, was his. Too bad for me. Whatever, though. Good friends were hard to find. I guess I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I preferred keeping him in my life, happy with the terms of our strange arrangement.

  He turned around and started to walk to the bathroom, showing off his bulbous bottom to me: beautiful, tight, perfectly tan, and fuckable.

  Although we were both single, and Jay just happened to be one of the most porn star-handsome and hardcore chiseled men of Channing, beyond anyone remotely conceivable that I had known of, I didn’t see us as boyfriends, lovers, or husbands, just as he didn’t. One simple reason prevented such a romance from flourishing between us: Jay Mason liked dick a little too much, from any man (or men at the same time) he could get it from. Riding cock was his keen game, a perfect power bottom, and attending queer orgies his hobby. He would never settle for a guy like me, perhaps finding me bland. To my knowledge, he never had boyfriends or lovers. His busy life consisted of numerous dick-rides at rowdy parties, one-night stands with men of all ages, and endless amounts of pornographic sex that probably ended up on the Internet.

  Over his right shoulder, he called out, “You can take a shower with me if you’d like, Hatch. I promise not to start anything with you.”

  “I’m good. I’ll wait until you’re done.”

  “Fair enough,” he said and vanished inside the bathroom.

  * * * *

  Pamela’s House of Pancakes on Brodner Street in downtown Channing had a line out the door and half way down the block. Jay and I agreed to bypass the place, purchasing fruit smoothies at a food truck approximately two blocks away.

  The city awakened while we walked to Pumpers. Autumn wind twirled, and crackling leaves blew around our feet. The temperature hung at sixty-eight degrees, and the bright sun warmed our bodies. Soon the snow would fall, and winter would come with a slap of cold. For now, we’d just have to enjoy the comforting chill in the air and a soothing goodbye to summer.

  Jay proceeded to tell me all about his previous night with the Boulder Boys:

  “It was just the way I like it: lots of drinks, some dancing, wine and cheese. Then our clothes came off, and Robby sucked my dick while Kent banged my ass. What a time. I couldn’t handle it. They used me up just the way I wanted to be used up. None of it was a disappointment.

  “Kent’s dick was the size of a skyscraper, and my ass hurts and stings a little this morning. Although Bobby’s cock was smaller, he had balls that hung to the floor, always a turn-on for me. Together, approximately four hours at their place, they jacked me off three times. No shit. I’m not lying. Never has that happened in my life. What a time it was, Hatch. The best. The only thing that was missing was a camera to film our moves. Queers would pay good money to watch the three of us fuck.

  “It was Robby who wanted me to spend the night with them, which I did. I even surprised myself because it’s something I never do. I slept between the naked pair on their king-size bed. Then I left their flat this morning and immediately came to your place for a shower. Kent sprayed me down with enough cum to flood the entire city of Channing.

  “If they asked me to do it again, I would. In a heartbeat. I wouldn’t even have to think about it.”

  I told him, “Good to know you had a great time. Threesomes and orgies have always been your favorite gigs. It sounds like you had a blast and enjoyed yourself.”

  Frankly, it was the truth. I couldn’t remember the millionaire’s son not attending such sexual events, using his daddy’s money to travel around the United States to bust a load with a brood of sexy porn stars from Los Angeles, horny cowboys from Stockton County, Oklahoma, or handsome soccer players from Miami. Jay Mason was always planning a fuck-time with a bunch of guys, partying for a living with his dick and his relentless libido.

  “It’s my life…happiness. I’ll never settle down with a guy. We both know it’s not for me. Never. Showing off and using my dick and ass with men is what I do and enjoy. But you already know this.”

  I did. Some would have labeled Jay a slut, gigolo, or man-whore. I didn’t. Instead, I thought of him more as a needy cock-traveler of the world, invited to ultra-rich estates to be banged or have his dick sucked. Someone who was just having fun in life, with very little responsibilities, discovering his wild sexual side and living wild and carefree days, uninhabited.

  Michael called Jay immature, somewhat of a half-truth. Honestly, I just think Michael was jealous of Jay and how the rich playboy had an impromptu life and numerous one-night stands.

  Side by side, Jay and I walked to Pumpers, sometimes bumping shoulders. The day was bright and warm, October’s dryness almost at its peak. We sucked on fruit smoothies and continued to chat.

  I wasn’t surprised he brought up the wedding.

  “You’re going as Michael’s date since Richard’s out of town, right?”

  I nodded. “And Michael told you
that you’ve been hired to bartend because you know how to make drinks.”

  He chuckled. “It will be fun. I want to see how many guys I can pick up. My goal is six. Do you think that’s too high?”

  “Not for you, Jay. I’d bet you can get the attention of ten or more men with your good looks and charm.”

  “Thanks, pal. I knew you always had my back as a friend.”

  * * * *

  We eventually ended up at Pumpers, an almost all-gay gym with beefsters walking around in too-tight shorts and colorful tanks. Male nipples were hard. Bodies were toned. The typical men who worked out at the gym had nicknames like Rough, Tank, Beef, Track, Block, and other odd references/labels that described their muscular frames and no-fat bodies.

  Others who frequented the gym were pretty boys like Jay, and a few geeks like me who tried to look like famous actors but never really would. Although it was a judge-free zone for all attendees, I sometimes received a quizzical look or sideways glance from some meathead that asked the question, “What are you doing in a place like this, wimpy?”

  Top-of-the-line equipment filled the gym: cycles, weight-lifting stations, Smith machines, treadmills, and dip bars. On the second floor was an Olympic-size track, and in the basement was a pool. Membership fees had raised by five percent at the gym in the last year, but with all the new equipment and specialty items offered, no one seemed to mind since the place was always busy.

  As Jay lifted weights, man-handling almost two hundred pounds, I cycled. To my right was a middle-aged woman with a wrinkled neck and bandana folded around her skull. Cartoonish cats covered the bandana. She wore headphones, blocking out the world, and was probably listening to the soundtrack to Cats.

  To my right cycled a kid around twenty: flimsy with no chest, no hair, and glasses. Somewhat handsome. Not cute. He resembled Michael Phelps, minus the athlete’s frame.

  Before I realized it, Phelps was hitting on me, attempting to pick me up with the line, “You’ve got some great tone in your thighs.”

  I lied to him and said, “Thanks for the compliment, but I have a boyfriend.”

  He playfully winked at me. “You ever think about of cheating on him? The two of us can get naked in the shower and jack each other off. What do you say?”

  I enjoyed his forwardness, but rolled my eyes; sometimes my only form of expression when flabbergasted, annoyed, and whatnot when communicating with men. Then I ignored the kid.

  When Phelps realized I wasn’t going to get his rocks off in the gym’s shower, he left my side and headed downstairs for a swim, probably in search of a new man to play with. Good for him.

  Approximately twenty feet in front of the row of cycles sat a half dozen weight benches and machines. I watched the universal dance of sexual attraction unfold right before my very own eyes. Jay eyed up a muscular ginger from toes to head. Then Ginger eyed up Jay, probably mentally undressing my easy friend. What transpired was nothing short of interesting. The men lifted weights together, smiled, and discreetly brushed each other’s nipples with fingertips, fondly caressed each other’s shorts-covered packages with straying palms, and carried out heavy eye contact that could only suggest one thing: sex.

  Before I realized it, Jay and Ginger quit lifting weights and vanished behind a door marked with a large and quite visible red-and-black sign that read: Employees Only.

  I knew the room housed extra gym equipment not currently being used on the floor. Everything from puffy mats to buckets of chlorine for the pool. And I also knew the door locked from inside, sealing Jay and his sexy ginger off from the world where they could provide each other with body rubs, licks, bites, sucks, and all the X-rated actions two hot and horny gym dudes can perform together when no one like me is watching.

  After studying their sneaky exit from the gym’s main floor, I decided to head upstairs, run a few laps around the track, shower, and go home. Work needed to be done, and I had every intention of testing a few more recipes for Ravenous, attempting to get ahead in my lengthy project instead of further behind.

  * * * *

  That afternoon, alone, unbothered by both Jay and Michael, I tested six recipes for Milo’s Baking Tales, all of which were successful. Such recipes included Milo’s Fudge and Cream Pudding Cake, Greek Rice, Pork Tenderloin and Cabbage, Bagna Cauda, Creamy Artichoke-Parmesan Dip, and last but certainly not least, one of Milo’s favorites, a three-cheese fondue.

  Afterwards, while I sipped a strong drink, both Michael and Jay separately bothered me, calling my cell.

  Michael’s rushed voice almost caused my ear to bleed. “The cake is fab-u-lous! The guests at the wedding will love it, Hatch! Since Richard is away, you’re still going with me, right?”

  “Of course. I’ve always loved weddings and receptions.”

  “Good. Good. Good. You can meet me at St. Bartholomew at twelve-thirty tomorrow afternoon. The reception at Caoir’s will follow the service.”

  I told him, “Good. Good. Good,” back in comfort, finalizing my commitment to attend his brother’s wedding and reception with him.

  Jay’s call ended up being less dramatic, although interesting. “You’ll never guess in a thousand years where I’m at.” His tone sounded slurred, which told me he’d been drinking or was numb and high on some type of dangerous street drug; the extraordinary and dangerous life of an irresponsible man who had a shitload of money.

  “Probably not.”

  “Baltimore,” he said, laughing.

  “What are you doing in Baltimore, Jay?”

  “You recall the hot and steamy ginger I picked up at the gym this morning?”

  I tried not to show surprise in my voice, but it was inevitable. “Of course. What about him?”

  “He fucked me in the supply closet at the gym. His brother owns the place, and he was visiting Channing. After we had some raw sex, he asked if I wanted to see his hometown of Baltimore. We jumped on the first plane. So, here I am, inside his Mt. Washington condo, spent from his cock and hospitality.”

  “Tell me you’re safe, Jay?” It came across more like a question than a comment.

  “I’m relaxed and very safe. We’re high on Jane and sexually spent. When he wakes up from his nap, he’ll probably bang me again. But something tells me he’ll want to ride my Durango. He has a hungry and needy look in his eyes.”

  Reckless. Childish. Without any sense of accountability for himself whatsoever. Jay Mason knew how to have fun. Half of me envied the guy and his antics. The other half proved proud of my choices and uneventful way of life, fully responsible for me. Who knew which passages and outcomes of our lives were right, since a textbook called The Everyday Guide of the Modern Day Gay Man’s Life didn’t exist.

  “Tomorrow,” I told him, which came across as more of a scolding. “You have the bartending gig to do for the wedding. Don’t forget.”

  “I’ll be there, pal. Don’t worry. Ginger has a few more things he wants to do with my body. Then I’ll be home, dressed, and ready for the reception and its drunken guests.”

  I believed him.

  I didn’t believe him.

  Who knew if he would show for his gig? Only time would tell, of course.

  “Be safe, Jay. See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” he whispered, his voice dropping off, distant, probably passing out from his binge of sex and Jane with his discovered ginger.

  Dead air. Nothingness. The call had ended.

  * * * *

  St. Bartholomew Chapel could have easily been designed by Henry Moore because of its curiously curvy structure. Three mushroom-shaped buildings were placed together: the rectory to the far right, small private school to the left, and the chapel in the center. A leaning cross constructed of what looked like cement decorated the chapel’s rounded roof. Inside, cement pews looked more like something at the Guggenheim in New York City as opposed to a Catholic church: U-shaped, slanted to the right, and granite pieces of furniture that looked uncomfortable. Red-and-black ribbons and white
roses accented the pews. Guests of the bride and groom sat on either side of a narrow and weaving aisle that resembled the yellow brick road in The Wizard of Oz.

  Being single, I only assumed that marriage was like a long and adventurous hike to a distant place called Oz. Munchkins, witches, fairies, and flying monkeys offered the ups and downs of such an escapade. Kudos to Tony and Theresa for giving their lives to each other and attempting the great feat of couplehood through matrimony.

  I couldn’t see myself taking on such an adventure yet, but I was quite sure my heart, and mind, could both abruptly change regarding such a topic if a certain Prince Charming on a white horse (one who looked very similar to Ryan Reynolds) in the kingdom of Happiness swooped me up and made me his. Until then, I simply sat back in the oddly-shaped pew, grazed my left shoulder to Michael’s right one, and enjoyed the ceremony between to the two lovers/actors at center stage, performing their heartwarming vows and the beginning stages of a life meshed together as one.

  Teary-eyed and somewhat sobbing, Michael leaned into me and critiqued, “Aren’t they a beautiful couple?”

  To tell the truth, which I didn’t share with my best bud and date for the day, the bride had a few extra pounds around her center, fake eyelashes that didn’t exemplify her look, and hard nipples, which I’m sure every guest viewed. As for the groom, he could have passed as Michael’s twin, handsomely striking, a gentleman under God’s view, and not at all bashful.

  Although scheduled to be twenty-five minutes long, the ceremony between Mr. and Mrs. Risk had taken almost forty. Once vows were shared and the new couple kissed, the end came, and people started leaving the chapel, following the bride and groom out.

  Caoir’s, the chosen place of the newly-wedded Risks’ reception, just happened to be in walking distance from the chapel. Less than three blocks. All cement sidewalks. Very little exercise for those who simply wanted to leave their vehicles parked at the chapel. The place resembled something gothic: minimal lighting, lots of maroon-colored draperies hanging down from the ceilings, candelabras on Chippendale-like tables, organ music from black-and-white vintage horror movies, and the strong aroma of sage. Had I not known any better, I would have guessed Michael’s brother and his new bride were vampires, relishing blood instead of wine.