Ravenous

by R. W. Clinger

  Two bars sat opposite each other on either side of the reception hall. A very dapper Casey Affleck look-alike manned one of the bars, while, low and behold, Jay Mason manned the other, politely and professional serving drinks of choice to the many guests.

  Centered between the bars sat Michael’s five-tiered masterpiece and the bride and groom’s personal table.

  I praised my best friend’s work and whispered into his ear while holding his chin, “You outdid yourself on the cake. I absolutely love it. I’ve heard the guests whispering how stunning it is.”

  He grinned, proud of his work. “I hope it tastes as good as it looks.”

  “I’m sure it will.”

  Dinner was served on imported, Noritake plates from Japan: watercress salads, orange duck, vinaigrette green beans splashed in a lemon sauce, a choice of pilaf rice or double-baked potato, and champagne for adults in crystal glassware. Children were served milk in plastic tumblers.

  Of course, Jay didn’t last all evening as a bartender, just as I suspected he wouldn’t. Following toasts, dinner, cake, and the bride’s first dance with her fresh hubby, Jay picked up a bald jock with stumble-into green eyes. He sidled up to me after his encounter with the professional soccer player, tugged on one of my elbows, and begged, “Cover the bar for me, Hatch. I’ll owe you one. Whatever you want. I want the bald guy inside me. Right now. Please. Please. Please. Help. Me.”

  I submitted to his pleading and ass craving, not that I really had a choice since he was so goddamn adorable while doing it. In the end, I played bartender for the rest of the night, helped get Michael completely crushed on Kamikazes, had a few drinks myself, and ended up driving Michael home at the end of the night. I tucked him in for the night as if we were boyfriends instead of best friends who lived down the street from each other.

  Then I left his abode, creeping away in silence, headed to my own place. I showered and climbed into bed. Pleased with the day’s events, happy for Tony and Theresa Risk, I closed my eyes, drifted off to sleep, and dreamed about Jay having some heavy-duty sex with his soccer player, ball-handling behind closed doors, somewhere inside Caoir’s.

  * * * *

  The following day could have been spent in bed, doing nothing. Although I had scheduled the day off, assuming I would be suffering from a headache and body aches from drinking too much at the wedding reception, I worked. Unexplained energy seeped into my system, and I found myself in the kitchen for more than six hours, testing four recipes: cherry and nutmeg cookies, pine nut- and apricot-stuffed chicken, barbecue tenderloin quesadillas, and molten lava cake. Three of the four recipes passed. Unfortunately, the molten lava cake, lacking chocolate appeal and becoming a mud puddle of yuck, ended up in what I had labeled the damaged recipe file, preventing it from being showcased in the final copy of Milo’s Kitchen Tales.

  I wasn’t surprised Jay and Michael hadn’t contacted me all morning and afternoon. Jay, I presumed, was somewhere between a handsome man’s legs, once again exploring his sexual journey. As for Michael, I believed he was suffering from a major hangover that consisted of vomiting, concentrating on his bedroom spinning, and a pounding headache. Because of diligent work regarding the aforementioned recipes, I kept to myself, knowing that when the pair surfaced from their personal events, each would reach out and contact me, either calling my cellular or entering the Cape Cod at free will.

  That evening, following a late afternoon nap and light dinner, I found myself on Lincoln Street again, this time in search of caramel macchiato latte at one of my favorite downtown coffee shops, Grounds. A coffee shop called Bean There was in walking distance from my house on Heshner Street, but Grounds’ coffee, rich and refined tasting, better assisted and fulfilled my addiction.

  Sometime before seven in the evening, as the heavens filled with ominous, earth-ending thunderstorms, lightening, and some minor flooding, I stopped at the corners of Lincoln and Dise. Unsurprised, a drenched Kevin stood there with his sign in hand, its Sharpie-printed letters bleeding together. He grinned, perhaps happy to see me. I do believe it was the first time I had noticed his good-looking smile: fully white and straight teeth, no gaps, real. He wore dirty, rain-wet jeans, a grease-stained T-shirt, and a jean jacket that had seen better days. Well-used, off the Goodwill rack boots protected his feet from the storm, maybe keeping them dry. A navy ball cap rested on his head, shielding his beautiful eyes and nose from the wet.

  Strangely, I felt drawn to the man. The questionable and changing physics of the world pulled us together in its mysterious and unknowing way. A sense of magnetism had taken over me because of him and for him. Not only did I find Kevin intriguing and eye-catching for all unfamiliar reasons, I thought of him as needing my help, one who bizarrely was reaching out to me for food, money, a place to sleep…something…since I had randomly and frequently bumped into him, again and again.

  I pulled over to the curb as close as the Jeep could get, flicked on its four-way flashers, and opened the driver’s side window. Then I called out, “You’re soaked, guy. This storm is going to make you catch a killer cold.”

  His handsome grin grew wider, and he semi-yelled through the pouring rain, “A man’s gotta make a living through rain or shine.”

  Without thinking, spontaneity taking over my mind. “Get in. I’m sure you need a break from the rain.”

  Without a challenge, he circled the front of the Jeep and climbed inside. “You’re a risk-taker, Hatch. I could be dangerous. The last thing you probably need in your life is to be mugged and end up on the evening news.”

  “I’ll take my chance with you. My intuition is telling me you’re a good man.”

  He nodded: confident, large grin, sexy. “I like a man who takes chances.”

  I wanted to reach out and wipe the grime away from his cheeks. Then I wanted to fulfill some kind of bizarre desire for the unkempt stranger and kiss him, bridging our worlds together as one.

  I asked, “You hungry? I’m sure you are. The rain always makes me hungry.”

  “I’m always looking for my next meal. Street life is like that. My stomach never stops growling.”

  “And you have nowhere to sleep tonight, right?”

  “The shelter might be available on Hind Street, but it’s after seven and is usually filled by now.”

  Off the cuff, no longer using the brain cells God had provided me, I blurted, “How would you like some food in your stomach and a warm bed tonight?”

  Rather abruptly, keeping his stare locked on mine, he said, “I’m not a hustler. Even homeless guys have limits.”

  “That’s not what I want from you, Kevin. Human to human, I’m reaching out to you, offering you the basics of survival, a food, and bed. What do you say?”

  He thought of his opportunity for a handful of seconds, silent and dripping wet from being on the curb with his sign. Strangely, he looked in the side view mirror, possibly in search of witnesses to his presence inside my Jeep, maybe going over his next crime scene within his mind. He and I were the only two on Lincoln, which gave him the perfect opportunity to take advantage of me.

  “You’ll set me up a hotel with a restaurant?”

  That wasn’t my intention whether he realized it or not. “I was thinking about driving you to my house, feeding you, and letting you spend the night there.”

  Silence consumed the Jeep’s interior.

  He looked at me.

  I looked at him.

  “So, I get it. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I understand how unsafe this concept is for the both of us, but as you said, I’m a risk-taker. Something tells me you can also be one when you want.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured, settling into his seat and becoming comfortable. “And God bless you for giving me a warm bed and food tonight.”

  * * * *

  The idea of fetching coffee slipped my mind now that Kevin sat beside me. He smelled like a sewer, staring into the rainstorm through the windshield. The thick stench of shit, body swea
t, grease, and grime filled the Jeep. Honestly, I couldn’t breathe and opened my window about two inches. Quickly, I turned on Reshner Way and headed home.

  Short drives are sometimes potent, and you can learn things about people, whether homeless or not, when in their company. They feel pressured to talk because of the uncomfortable state of silence, and the beginning stages of companionship begins to build between the pair.

  “Tell me about your family,” I said to Kevin.

  “Parents passed away. A younger sister lives in Nashville. I also have an older brother who works for the government. He lives in Brussels and…”

  He told me much about his life within those few minutes of travel: thirty-five-years-old, taught the saxophone at Chertier Academy in nearby Erie, a professional and uppity institute for gifted children who played music. He also used to travel from city to city with a jazz band called The Mellows, lost some gigs over a coke habit, used to own a house in Pittsburgh until it went into foreclosure three years before, all thanks to the coke, not married, and no kids. A few serious relationships through the years.

  “How long have you been homeless?”

  “Almost three years. Right after the bank took my house. My friends and family were tired of me spending nights on their couches, so I took to the streets.”

  Of course, he asked about my life, and I provided him with the spiel of working for Ravenous for the last dozen years and testing recipes for cookbooks.

  “Never wanted kids. Never married. Currently, I’m single, looking for the right guy to settle down with.” I pulled up to 539 Heshner, parked, and pointed to the Cape Code. “Here’s where I live. My best friend Michael Risk lives six doors down. He’s married and rarely gets to see his husband since Richard flies all over the world, working.”

  He looked at the tiny house, maybe studying its planter boxes beneath the four windows, navy shutters, splash of white paint, stamp-size green front yard, and the narrow, cobblestone walkway to the front stoop. “Nice place. Looks like the one I lost.”

  I wanted to tell him I was sorry about his suffrage, but maybe that’s not what he wanted. Instead, I said, “Let’s go inside. Food and a hot shower are calling for you. Plus, I can wash your clothes.”

  He didn’t argue, climbed out of the Jeep, and walked through the falling rain towards shelter, his temporary home, just for the night.

  * * * *

  I fed him first because he looked malnourished. Leftover pasta, meatballs, and salad were at the front of the refrigerator, among other leftovers. He sat at the quartz bar in the kitchen, eating, plowing through the food like an animal, one forkful after the next. Before I realized it, his plate was empty. I asked if he wanted a second helping, which he obliged, woofing it down just as quickly as the first.

  Perhaps feeling dehydrated, he downed one glass of water after the next. No ice. I asked if he wanted a soda pop.

  “I have diet, regular, or something fruity.”

  “No soda,” he mumbled, still eating, plowing through the second helping, his dirty hands and mouth busy.

  “How about some wine or a beer?”

  He shook his head, a string of spaghetti hanging out between his lips. He sucked the string down and said, “I don’t drink. It’s not my thing.” He rifted, apologized, and continued to eat.

  * * * *

  Had I saved his life? I doubted it, feeling that if I hadn’t fed him, someone else would have come along and provided him with provisions to survive. Welcoming Kevin inside my home didn’t make me a hero or noble, just human. Besides, the act of providing him with food and a place to stay for the night was all about him, not me. Anyone could have reached out to him and supplied him with a kind hand, offering some type of help for his survival. None of that evening was about me. Honestly.

  After he ate, enjoying three full helpings, I showed him his room, opposite mine on the Cape Cod’s second floor. “It’s small, but will do the trick.”

  He scanned the room’s many blues, three windows, and tiny closet. A narrow bed sat near one of the windows; both had seen better days. Next to the bed stood a night stand with a digital alarm clock and reading light. Underneath one of the windows was an assortment of paperbacks and hardbacks on two wooden shelves. He walked over to them, hunched down, and began reading their titles.

  “I see you like Robert Riley.”

  “He’s one my favorites. Love his work. I met him a few times in Pittsburgh when visiting the city. Nice guy. Quiet.”

  He started fingering copies on the shelf and pulled out an oversized paperback called Become the Man by Jake Harding. He showed me the semi-naked jock on the front of the book and read its subtitle, “Sixteen gay erotic tales.” Then he looked up at me He gently pushed the book on the shelf where he had found it.

  He stood, left out an almost silent rift. “You have a boyfriend, Hatch?”

  “Not recently. I dated a guy a few years ago. Weston Highlander was his name. English. Pompous. Fun at times. He pretty much devastated my heart after eighteen months together.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  I stood near the spare bedroom’s door, leaning against its framework, comfortable there. “I’ll give you the abridged version. He worked in finance. New York. Boston. London. Philadelphia. That’s where we met. Philly. We danced and drank too much at a queer bar called Giovanni’s. I told him I was from a little town next to Lake Erie. He wanted to see it. Before I knew it, we were in bed together. He stuck around for a month, two months, eighteen months. He often traveled back to London to visit his family. What I didn’t know? He had a husband of seven years who lived in London, near Big Ben. I was his side dish during that time period. He used me up and…the details were ugly. I kicked him out of my life and haven’t spoken to him since.”

  “Damn. That was a blow for you, wasn’t it?”

  “Honestly, I survived. My heart healed, and I moved on.”

  “Any boyfriends since Weston?”

  I shook my head. “No way. The right guy has yet to come along. I’ve had a few flings, but that’s about it.”

  “I get it. We all become heartbroken at points in our lives. Same thing happened to me. I was living with a guy named Philip for four months during the last year I owned my house. He was in the Air Force. Nice guy, or so I thought at the time. We were just starting to get serious when coke took over my life. Then I lost my job at Chertier, money, and my house. Philip ditched me, claiming he didn’t love me and wasn’t going to support a drug addict. It ended fast and brutally.”

  “I’m sorry about all that,” I told him, unable to imagine what he had been through. Everyone had frequent ups and downs in their lives, but his sounded severe and rocky.

  He admitted, “We make our own choices. Mine weren’t the best for me. Sometimes misfortune happens in our lives because of our own doings.”

  I didn’t object to his comment. Nor did I add to it. Instead, I simply changed the subject, needing a lift in atmosphere and tone between us. “What do you say you get a shower?”

  He agreed, smiling.

  * * * *

  I shouldn’t have watched him showering, but did. Shame on me how I became caught in his soap-and-rinse show, intoxicated by his skin, dirty-blond hair, and attractive body. In my opinion, although thin in every way, the stranger was beautiful and handsome under the shower’s spray: rolling a bar of white soap over his hairy chest and shoulders; gliding it between his legs and along his privates. I peered helplessly through the crack between the bathroom’s wooden door and its frame, eyeing the naked man behind the transparent shower curtain as he was busy at work: washing, rinsing, washing, rinsing.

  Drama in my life. Excitement. Such handsome thighs, rounded shoulders, and flat stomach. Such alluring nipples, pert and soapy. An edible stranger. Perfect in so many ways.

  I couldn’t help licking my lips, ravenous for him. I couldn’t help rolling one of my palms over my clothed chest, down to the area between my legs. I couldn’t help squeezin
g the hardening and pulsing mass there. I couldn’t help…

  That night, October roaring outside the Cape Cod, driving wind in bothersome spheres, new and empty seasonal branches clicking against the abode’s cedar siding, Kevin and I slept in different rooms, opposite each other. Although physically distanced from me, separated by walls, floors, and doors, I imagined him beside me.

  Snuggled there, man next to man, naked, he licked one of my earlobes and whispered, “Be careful, I don’t want to hurt you, Hatch. I’m dangerous. We both know this.”

  Then one of his hands, flush against my skin, rolled down and over my muscled chest, against my navel, and to the center of my most personal area. Once there, he grappled my dick in his hand, provided it with pressure, and began rolling its excess skin up and down.

  He begged me, “Kiss me. I’ll get you off while our mouths touch.”

  I let him…but only in my mind. My hand stayed busy, and my imagination ran away from me. I tried to keep quiet, huffing and puffing on the bed, stroking myself off. Ooze eventually spurted out of my cock and decorated my chest. Helplessly, I became spent, smiling, and soon fell asleep.

  * * * *

  The next morning

  Cold rain splashed against the Cape Cod’s windows as an angry wind traipsed down from Canada and across Lake Erie, chilling Channing. Not that I minded since the handsome and homeless stranger walked into the kitchen with nothing more than a cotton towel pulled tight around his waist.

  As I prepared sausage, eggs, and toast at the stove, I studied him yet again: more fit than emaciated, finely tangled golden-brown hair between his rounded pecs, narrow hips, minimally cut abs, perfectly dented navel circled in hair. Had I not known any better, I oddly surmised his chest had recently been trimmed. Perhaps, though, once again, my mind was only toying with me.

  “Your…your clothes…I completely forgot to wash them,” I stammered, continuing to study his semi-nakedness.