Ravenous

by R. W. Clinger

  Truth told, I thought he would seduce me that night, but he didn’t. Kevin stayed a gentleman, falling asleep in my arms while we watched a Bradley Cooper and Sandra Bullock comedy. He lightly snored, limp against me, and his chest rose and fell. He sniffled once and murmured things I couldn’t understand. I think he said something like professor, in-ground pool, and Tudor, but wasn’t sure.

  I could get used to having him around, being my companion, lover, or someone of importance. Our pieces of the world’s giant puzzle felt as if they had slipped together with ease and perfection, allowing no gaps. It just felt right to have Kevin in my life, at my side, on my sofa, snug against my chest, wherever he honestly wanted to be. It felt alive and real. Strangely withstanding.

  Did I fall in love with Kevin Balk that evening, fully dressed, weak against him? I believed so. Something strange buzzed throughout my core. Wildly. Sporadically. A strong buzzing of sorts had unmistakably heightened my nervous system. I felt weak next to him, numb, enjoying his weight against me. On me. Trusting me. Keeping me company. There was something about those moments I couldn’t clarify: how easily our bodies seemed to slip together without being intimate on the sofa; the act of tenderness and trust shared between us; the smile on his face that only grew wider as the evening progressed into night and he slept.

  Something magical happened. Something unlimited. Something eccentrically virtuous, and for all the right reasons. Was it love? Maybe. Could I label it as such, even if I didn’t believe in labels? Of course. Why not?

  Once the movie ended, I didn’t wake him. Rather, we slept together on the sofa, body against body, head to head. Just the two of us. Snoring. Sleeping. Locked together by arms and legs and hips, and maybe meeting in our dreams; those special ones you can’t remember in the morning, but you know they happened. The best dreams. Goodness. Love. It had to be love. It was.

  * * * *

  Kevin stayed through the twentieth, and we made voracious love, hungry for each other. We watched a slew of movies, exercised together, grocery shopped, ran errands, and tried many of Milo Dickerson’s recipes for his future publication/cookbook, some of which we rejected. A moment hadn’t gone by for five days without him at my side. Together, we acted like husbands who were married for a dozen years, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. Our conversations were sexy, sweet, and enlightening. Rarely were they heavy. Never did he wallow about his homelessness, loss of his house, and damage in his life.

  “You can’t get enough of me,” I told him once, naked against him, post-sexed during a windstorm.

  “You might be right,” he agreed with me. His chest rose and fell. Warm sweat clung to every pore on his body. “There’s a lot that you give me, Hatch. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me. Besides, I’m falling for you, which hasn’t happened to me in quite some time.”

  “Unbearably sexy,” I called him.

  He kissed me: long, hard, driven by lust. When the mind-blowing kiss ended, he said, “And hot for you.”

  “Only me?”

  “Only you, guy.”

  “That’s nice to know.” My mind relaxed with my heart, and I fell asleep beside him, dreaming of marriage, a long life with the man, and the happiness I believed had only occurred in fairy tales. Goodness. That’s what it was. Pure goodness that we were sharing together, wholly.

  * * * *

  October 21st offered a strong wind, a bitter temperature, and the first snowfall.

  Michael surfaced from his catch-up time with his husband. He desired a drink with me, excited to speak with me. We met at Chapters, a small bistro. The owner, Matthew Chapters, served us delicious lime-flavored martinis with extra olives.

  “You look like you’ve lost weight,” Michael said, studying me.

  “It’s from all the sex I’m having. I have a special someone in my life.”

  He laughed. “With who?” He paused and shook his head. “Dear God, please tell me you’re not fucking around with Jay. That’s the last thing I want to hear. You two are like water and oil. If you ever get with him, the world will surely implode on itself.”

  “I’m not sleeping with Jay. I’m desperate for a man, but not him. Besides, as you probably know, he’s been busy with the Boulder Boys, which he seems quite happy with.”

  “Good to know he found someone important. Stay away from Jay. He’s a heartbreaker.” He lifted his green martini to his lips, made eye contact with me that suggested he was interested in my fresh news, and sipped. Then he demanded, “So, tell me who’s in your bed these October days.”

  I grew silent, numb with emotion. Could I tell him about picking up Kevin off the streets and taking him home? Would he judge me for sleeping with, and falling for, a homeless man? Could Michael ever condone such liberal behavior?

  He looked surprised when I downed my entire drink. “Damn thirsty, aren’t you? And nervous.” He took another swig of his drink. “Look, Hatch, I know you well. This guy, whoever he is in your life, seems important. Spill your guts and tell me the details. I promise not to be an asshole with you if I think you’ve lost your mind. I’m a better friend than that. At least give me some credit.” He reached across the table and clasped one of my hands within his own. He provided it with a light and gentle squeeze. “Honestly, I’m one of your best friends, Hatch. You mean the world to Jay and me. So, tell me everything. I’m here for you. I’m listening.”

  So, I told him every detail I could: seeing Kevin on Channing’s streets with his cardboard sign; taking him home for food, a shower, and a good night’s sleep; sleeping with him the following morning; becoming his lover and getting to know the stranger, and becoming his friend.

  “I’ve fallen for him and can’t help it. It’s the strangest feeling I’ve ever had. It’s the most fucked up thing in my life, but it’s real, and I’m happy. He makes me happy.”

  He smirked after my spiel, tapped the lip of his martini glass. “You’ve been busy. Damn busy. Superiorly busy.”

  I downed another martini, semi-buzzed. “Please. Don’t judge me. Just be my friend and convince me I haven’t lost my mind and I’m doing the right thing, at least for my heart.”

  A chuckle escaped his handsome lips. “Of course, I’m not going to judge you. As I’ve already said, I’m one of your best friends. My only advice is for you to be careful and maybe take it slow. Don’t rush into anything. The last thing you want to learn is if Kevin is playing you. Maybe he’s out to get your money. Maybe not. You never know. In the meantime, keep falling for him at a slower place, have some great sex, and good conversation. If you see any red flags about his character and how’s he acting, we’ll do something at the time to end the two of you. I’ve got your back. I’ll be there for you. I promise.”

  Chapters served me a third martini, which I stared at. My eyes rose above its green hue and concentrated on Michael’s semi-smile.

  “What?” I whispered, unable to say anything else.

  “You’re a grown man. You’re quite capable of taking care of yourself. Isn’t it quite amazing how things happen and we have no control over them? I’m proud of you, Hatch. You found someone I wouldn’t dream of finding. You seem happy, maybe even in love. Who knows? Just enjoy it for what it’s worth. If it works out, then kudos to you. If it doesn’t, the old cliché will stand true.”

  “What cliché?”

  He chuckled. “There’s more fish in the sea.”

  “It’s love,” I told him. “At least it feels like love. And he calls us lovers.”

  “Maybe it is love. You never know. Labels can be messy, of course. Take it for what’s it worth. You get along with him. You have a good time with him. You don’t judge him for what he’s been through. It sounds nice, what the two of you have, so take it for a run. Ride it. Love it. Do what you want with it. Life is short, my friend, so play hard.”

  “Of course,” I replied, happy that he didn’t judge me, pleased he had taken some of his time out of his life to listen to me, and accepted my sit
uation. How comforting. How right that felt.

  That day, I decided Michael had turned out to be a good friend. No. Not true. Michael had turned out to be a great friend. True. Therefore, we had another two martinis together, talked about his faithful relationship with Richard, their private time together as husbands, and personal whatnots; just as friends do while together.

  * * * *

  Later that day, while walking next to Lake Erie in the bristling cold, Jay rambled about himself again. “My dick has been hard for days. The Boulder Boys have been all over it, every wicked chance they can get. The damn thing is going to fall off if they keep using it the way they have been and…”

  He looked happy, half smiling as he spoke, perhaps loving his time with his couple. Frankly, I couldn’t see him in any other situation, under the care of a couple, submissive in play, and having the time of his life. His continuous chatter suggested he was content in his threesome, exactly where he wanted to be. Nothing he said hinted at discomfort or boredom. Truthfully, it almost sounded as if he were falling for Robby and Kent, under their sexual hex and head over heels inside the secret confines of their relationship.

  “…so they want to take me to Buenos Aires for two weeks. All expenses paid. No strings attached. And I’m thinking I want to do it. Just for the hell of it, of course. Just for a kick or high. What do you think, Hatch? I trust your judgment and opinion. You’re a smart guy and know how to do life. When was the last time you strayed from the path of normalcy and…”

  “Buenos Aires?” I interrupted him, thinking I misheard him.

  “Yeah. Buenos Aires. It’s in Argentina. South America. You know.”

  I knew, nodding. “You trust these two men outside the country with you?”

  He chirped with a chuckle. “They’ve fallen in love with me. Not that I blame them. What isn’t there to like about me, right? I’m hot, fun, and know how to use my tight ass on their dicks and faces. Everyone wins if I end up going with them. As I said, no strings attached.”

  “Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind. You don’t need my opinion.”

  Wind blew through his hair and caused his cheeks to turn a cheery red hue. His eyes twinkled, filled with uncertain life, hinting that he had fallen in love with the Boulder Boys just as they had with him, although he wouldn’t admit such a fact.

  “You’re right. I’m going. I’d be a fool to pass on a trip to South America with two attractive men who treat me like gold. Honestly, I don’t mind being the third wheel and sucking up their attention. I’m comfortable with them. Happy.”

  I agreed with him, realizing how quickly he had changed within the last few weeks. Frankly, I didn’t think Jay had it in him to settle down in any kind of relationship, but my views about him regarding such a topic had changed. Maybe Jay Mason could fall in love and live a happy-ever-after life with a married couple. Who really knew? He didn’t. Nor did I, but damn, if he wasn’t convincing that he could.

  “I’m going with them,” he confirmed, confident. And then he joked, “So, don’t be surprised if I’m married to two men when I get back. Don’t be surprised at all, my friend. You know how spontaneous I am.”

  Of course.

  Of course.

  * * * *

  Even later that day…

  I picked Kevin up in the city with his cardboard sign. He looked helpless and alluring in the snow, posted at the familiar stop sign on Lincoln. I felt invested to help him, took him home again for a shower and shave. I wanted to feed him again, kiss him, hold him, make love to him.

  I was obviously caught up in my strange attraction for him. Confused. Mentally dismantled and challenged.

  Once back at my Cape Cod, he asked me to join him in the shower. I didn’t shower with him, though, giving him the space he probably needed, away from me. Instead, I called Melot, a French restaurant, and asked for two seats next to the lake for dinner. A snippy youth told me tables were filled through January. The call ended rather abruptly on her end of the line, and I was hung up on. What a cad! Dammit.

  Following his shower, Kevin looked desirable. I gave him a pair of jeans, polo, and dark socks. Surprisingly, he wore the same size shoe as me and slipped into a pair of leather loafers.

  I asked him, “Will you have dinner with me?”

  He nodded. “I’d like that. I’m starving. Sometimes I can’t get enough food.”

  “You eat Thai?”

  “Love it. It’s one of my favorite things.”

  We ended up at Thai-Pa restaurant a few minutes later and sat across from each other at a four-person table. Our waiter’s name was Jing: male, young, cute, and quiet. Kevin and I enjoyed noodle bowls of kao soy and num tok salads. He talked about the weather, winter coming, and how tough it was living on the streets. I talked about Jay and the Boulder Boys, which entertained him precisely the way I thought it would.

  Throughout dinner, he seduced me with his charm, smooth smile, and aquamarine eyes. I told myself I wouldn’t fall in bed with him again, under his sweet allure, but knew of my preexisting failure in that department. Falling into his good looks, I became unconditionally wooed by the man again: his soft voice, constant connection of his eyes locked to mine when he spoke, and upturned smile.

  “Do you think I could sleep at your place tonight?” he asked, finished with his meal.

  I nodded. Of course, he could. Didn’t I secretly want him to? “In the spare room. It’s always there for you when you need it.”

  He grinned, winked at me, and bulls-eyed his point. “What are my chances of sleeping in your bed, next to you, Hatch?”

  Drawn to him and having felt powerless in his company, I thought, Eleven to two. Maybe even higher, but replied with, “We’ll see what happens, Kevin.”

  “Fair enough.” He grinned and winked, probably having a deviant plan inside his mind to seduce me, as ravenous for me as I was for him, taking advantage of my hospitality, body, and other whatnots for his personal pleasure and wellbeing.

  Failure came easily. The wall of sexual intrigue fell without any effort whatsoever on my part, and his, I presumed. Our prowess for each other seemed intentional and unavoidable.

  Approximately thirty-five minutes later, we were back at my place, fully undressed, on my bed, and he was inside me, rushing his hips against my tight bottom, clawing at my sides, grunting.

  I should have been ashamed of myself. I wasn’t.

  I should have driven him to Lincoln Street after feeding him, leaving him be on his way, surviving on the streets instead of my body. I didn’t due to my own weaknesses and hunger, desiring the man like no other.

  I should have ended things—whatever things exactly entailed between us—with him and went on my way in the world. I chose not to. Sometimes I choose badly regarding pivotal events in my life. Such a pity.

  Rather, I welcomed the stranger inside my world again, and bed, and between my legs, and…now he flipped me over while still inside me, plopped my back against the warm sheet and semi-firm mattress, slid his dick as far as it would go inside my center, brushed his pubic triangle against my ball sack, leaned over me, and kissed me hard, harder, shaking my world into a thousand or more pieces, causing me to feel corrupt, dirty, and out of my mind. I melted. I half fainted. I felt as if we were the only two remaining queer men on the planet.

  The two of us became hungry for each other and driven by lust. Relentlessly, our bodies collided, fell apart, and collided again, rocking to and fro together on the bed. Moans and echoing grunts filled the bedroom as his cock slid and out of me, satisfying every carnal need.

  Truth told, I became his pet, under his weight, pummeled by him, filling his sexual appetite as he strummed his tongue along each of my nipples, held my legs apart, and thumped inside me without an awkward pause. Perspiration dripped off his torso and decorated my own, searing my skin and dissolving within my pores. He continued finding his passion by reaching for the stiff cock against my legs, grappling it with a firm fist, fingers and pal
m at work. He started to stroke the steel-like joint up and down. He smiled down at me, hypnotizing me, seeming pleased with his sexual labor.

  “I’ll make you come, Hatch. Relax and enjoy the ride. It’s the least I can do for you since you’ve opened your world to me.”

  And so it was done. Just as he had said, I relaxed and enjoyed the ride of his tight palm and fingers wrapped around my post and having the pleasure of his dick inside me, roughly and wildly gliding in and out my tight bottom, all of which caused me to find orgasm with him, weak under him, abandoning any reality of those moments, no longer having control of my thoughts or actions, his erotic and selfless prey for all the right reasons.

  As if in sync, forever drawn to each other, breathless on the mattress and sweaty sheet, we exploded together. He inside the condom that separated our naked bodies, and me inside his handy grip. Connected, panting and murmuring indiscernible words, overzealous with each other, ravenous beyond anything recognizable, we emptied our bodies of pent loads, proving our intimacy real, robust, and nothing of weakness—lovers from two different worlds and walks of life, bonded by discovered and shed passion.

  Empty.

  Sticky.

  Panting.

  Numb.

  Almost flat-lining.

  Having post-sex droplets of goo collected near my navel, I fell asleep in his fatless arms. Content there, naked man along naked man, we lightly snored until dawn, bonded, as one, weak. Perhaps immortal. Maybe. Just maybe.

  * * * *

  I awakened before Kevin the next morning and took a shower, prepared coffee, and decided to work while he slept. Three breakfast recipes were executed: eggs baked in avocado, brie and cranberry phyllo turnovers, and fruit-stuffed monkey bread. Within a half hour of my creations in the kitchen, the Cape Cod filled with breakfast smells.

  Sweet and fruity scents waved from one room to the next, climbing the stairs to the second floor. Although the cheese and cranberry turnovers recipe passed the “usage” test that Ravenous made me enforce during my cooking/baking practices, the phyllo became undercooked and unbearably mushy. My bad since I didn’t remove the treat from the oven when I was supposed to, allowing it to cook longer. No matter how limp the delight became, Kevin—wearing nothing more than a pair of my snug boxer-briefs and looking sexy as hell—woke from his dreams and enjoyed the baked badness at the kitchen’s island with me, shoulder to shoulder.