Ravenous

by R. W. Clinger

  We analyzed the recipes both in content and practice. Coffees were shared, and such adjectives as gelatinous, bittersweet, fruity, too eggy, rich, and cinnamony were all used during our conversation. We talked about the recipes’ contents, changes that could be executed by individual users, and agreed that all three breakfast goodies had passed the Ravenous guidelines, ending up in Milo’s Kitchen Tales.

  Following breakfast, Kevin and I made love again, upstairs and on my bed. There, naked and twisted together, hard beyond anything remotely understandable, he used my flesh in remarkable ways: licking whatever he could, pinching my bottom, and heedlessly manhandling the stick between my legs, causing me to orgasm yet again.

  Then, kneeling over me, hard as granite between his thighs, he coached me, “Jack me off, Hatch. I want to explode on your chest. Do it. Please.”

  And so it was done, just as we both had wanted. We became spent in the morning hours, exploring the naked fun of sex-filled adventures with full bellies. Happy. Content. Together. The unexplainable file of erotic-driven events between a homeless man and his unyielding lover.

  As he showered and dressed, I went downstairs and poured two fresh cups of coffee, one for each of us. Unsurprised, and always unannounced, Michael entered the kitchen through the rear of the house.

  Upon his entrance, he removed one of the cups of coffee from my hands, took a short sip, grinned, and said, “You must have known I was going to pop in. I like it when you read my mind and use your soothsaying skills. Thanks, the coffee is great.”

  I didn’t know he was stopping, as usual, and told him such.

  Michael heard rustling upstairs, cocked his head upwards, looked at the kitchen’s ceiling: footsteps and a creaking door. He lowered his head and raised his eyebrows at me. “You have company?”

  I nodded. “A gentleman friend.”

  He leaned into me and inquired, “The homeless man you told me about?”

  “Yes. His name is Kevin.”

  Michael continued to whisper, “May I stick around and meet him?”

  “I’d be delighted if you did. He’s turned my life around a bit, and I really like him. We get along so well, and we have lots in common.”

  “It’s about time you found someone you can have fun with.”

  With that said, Kevin entered the kitchen in his clean street clothes and held his folded cardboard sign in his right hand.

  Michael immediately lost the color in his face. His morning smile turned upside down, his eyes widened, and he murmured something I couldn’t understand.

  Kevin played the moment off by reaching his right hand forward for a shake and introducing himself to Michael. “Good to meet you. Hatch has told me a lot about you. He says you’re a good man and a close friend. I’m sure the two of us are going to get to know each other better in the near future since you’re a big part of his life.”

  Weakly, perhaps shying away from Kevin, Michael apprehensively shook Kevin’s hand but didn’t say anything. He continued to be hard-faced, obviously at a loss of words.

  Kevin said, “Hatch has told me a lot of about your marriage with Richard. Both of you seem to be good for each other.”

  I expected Michael to say something, anything, but he didn’t. He stood solid in his position and looked dumfounded, unsure of the situation around him.

  Kevin rambled about the acute structure of man-with-man relationships and the difference between men who share friendship and love.

  Michael blocked him out, finding a seat in the kitchen. In doing so, he waved a hand in front of his face, pale and looking confused. Everything about his actions made me believe he couldn’t comprehend the situation. After seated, he asked with a waver in his tone, “Hatch, may I have a glass of water, please?”

  “Of course,” I responded.

  Before fetching the water, Kevin quickly wrapped me in his arms, pulled me against him, and kissed me. Following the punch-of-a-kiss, he released me and said, “I’ll leave you two guys alone. I have work to do.”

  Both Michael and I watched him leave, swinging his cardboard sign at his side.

  Truth told, I never did retrieve a glass of water for Michael because of his falling tone and steady glare at me.

  Once Kevin was gone, Michael exhaled, and some of the color entered his face again. Hurriedly he demanded form me, “Tell me again about Kevin. Everything you know about him. Leave no detail spared.”

  I listed off the beginning, middle, and current details of my relationship with Kevin, leaving out very few facts. Then I admitted to Michael, “I’m falling for him. The guy is sweet and charming, everything I want in a man. I could see myself with him for a very long time. Years maybe. Marriage. We get along rather well. And I wouldn’t put it past him if he admitted that he was in love with me.”

  Michael looked at the floor and shook his head. Then he made eye contact with me, unblinking. “Your friend makes me sick to my stomach.”

  Surprised by his comment, on full alert, I asked, “What are you talking about?”

  He pointed at the kitchen door with an outstretched hand. “What does he do for a living?”

  “I already told you that he’s homeless. He’s lost his job, his house, everything. I’m trying to help him out a little.” Irritation settled in my core. “Why are you judging him and me? He’s human, just like you and me. He’ll get a job someday, and a house, or whatever it is that will make him happy. He’s going through a rough time right now. I’m only trying to make it less rough for him. Who are you to judge either of us, Michael? I thought I knew you better.”

  He continued to shake his head, licked his lips. “Calm down, Hatch. There’s a lot we need to talk about. I’m not judging you or Kevin.” He paused, filling the room with silence. Then he chuckled in a rather weak manner. “Okay, maybe I’m judging Kevin a little bit. But listen. Just listen to me. I know things you need to hear. So be a good friend and listen to me. I’m not the asshole you think I am right now. Let me explain everything I know about the man I just met. Everything.”

  I listened.

  Michael still looked a little stunned: mouth open, bloodless cheeks, and eyes brimming with surprise. He pointed in the direction of the door, then at me, and asked, “Tell me you know who Kevin is?”

  I nodded, confident regarding my answer. “Kevin Balk. He used to be a music teacher. He’s had some rough times, and he’s now homeless.”

  Michael shook his head and sucked on his bottom lip. Abruptly, he said, “Hatch, you’re being played. That’s not who you think it is. He’s…”

  I stopped him, cutting off his words. “Kevin’s told me all about his history, wins, and the ugly losses of his life. We’ve become intimate over the last month, and I’m falling for him. He’s been completely honest with me about who he is.”

  He chuckled, continuing to shake his head. “He hasn’t, Hatch. By the sounds of it, you don’t know anything about Kevin Bakerton.”

  “Balk,” I corrected him. “His last name is Balk.”

  Michael was quick to remove his cellphone from a front pocket and stood. While bringing it to life, pressing a few buttons, he said, “Kevin Balk isn’t who you think he is. I’ve met him before at a fundraiser I attended with Richard. Your Kevin, the guy you’re sleeping with, is Kevin Bakerton, an award-winning doctor and professor of sociology at West Newton College. He’s been a doctor there for over fifteen years. He’s written numerous papers and articles about human studies, mostly of which consist of homelessness. The state grants the college money to process sociological experiments that Kevin runs, which I think you’re a part of, Hatch. He’s well-known for his achievements in his specialized field and has won quite a lot of attention throughout the years. I only know this because Richard’s personal friends with Hubert Nash, one of Kevin’s colleagues at West Newton. Bottom line, Kevin Bakerton, by a long shot, isn’t homeless. On the contrary, he’s someone you don’t know at all.”

  He lifted his cellular in front of my face and thu
mbed through a few pictures: Kevin dressed in a tuxedo and accepting a humanitarian science award; Kevin Bakerton posing with an oversized check of fifty-thousand dollars at some kind of fundraiser; Kevin Bakerton seated at a round table with hoity-toity deans, doctors, and scientists, all of them drinking champagne; Kevin Bakerton dressed as a homeless man, sporting a dirty pair of jeans, ripped T-shirt, and that familiar cardboard sign he carried around with him; Kevin Bakerton…

  Michael pulled the phone away, thumbed its screen for a few seconds, and returned it to my view. “This is where your homeless boyfriend lives, Hatch. It’s not too shabby if you ask me.”

  The Colonial house on Melder Street in the sister town of Templeton looked obnoxious in size: no less than four bedrooms, widow’s walk, palatial verandah, pool house and swimming pool, granite lion statues at the end of its asphalt driveway, small hedge maze behind the pool, a duck pond and fountain.

  My heart sunk to my knees, and thick ribbons of confusion circled my head. “This can’t be,” escaped my mouth. “None of this is true.”

  Michael slid his phone away and rubbed my back with one palm. “It’s the truth, Hatch. The homeless guy you’re sleeping with is playing a game of science with you. Before you know it, you’ll be Case Study Number Seven in his newly written paper or article. He’s not the guy you think he is. Kevin has lied to you since the first time you picked him off the…met him.”

  “It can’t be,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re mistaken. You’re confusing him with someone else.”

  “But it is. I wouldn’t lie to you, Hatch. You’re my best friend. Kevin isn’t who you think he is. Honestly, you really don’t know the man you’ve been sleeping with at all.”

  I felt tears begin to slide out of my eyes, and I started to sob. As fresh hurt spiraled within my chest, throbbing, Michael wrapped his arms around me and pulled me against his solid frame. He continued to rub my back, placing his head on my right shoulder.

  Then he whispered, “It’s going to be all right. I’m here for you. I understand how you’re feeling, and I’ll help you through this. I promise. I promise. I’ll help you get through this. I realize now that you’re broken.”

  * * * *

  Later that day, after Michael left…

  Before confronting Kevin about his extended lies, proving Michael’s testament true, I decided to accomplish homework. Behind the flat-screen in my home office, comfortably seated with a hot tea, my fingers and interest traveled through the Internet, one site after the next. Among those numerous pages, I had learned an entirely different Kevin Richard Bakerton.

  He was born and raised in Oklahoma City, attended Yale for six years, and obtained a degree in sociology. His parents had passed away in the early nineties due to specific cancers. His education and bachelor’s degree in hand, he moved east and worked for The Stimen Group in Pittsburgh, a bunch of overpaid men who wrote and designed sociology textbooks for college students.

  After four years with Stimen, Kevin embarked on a human behavioral studies program that concentrated on homelessness. Funded by the Hennington Scientific Behavioral Group, Kevin spent the next three years working on the streets of Pittsburgh, interviewing the homeless about their everyday lives, troubles, and gains. With his findings, he created valuable scientific papers, became dynamic in his writing field, and eventually won numerous awards in his specific genre of science. Internet pages unfolded a detailed story in which Kevin had obtained his doctorate in sociological studies, moved from Pittsburgh to the Channing/Templeton area, and was now—just as Michael had shared with me—the dean of behavioral studies at West Newton College.

  To my surprise, there was very little information on the Internet regarding Kevin’s ordeals with men, relationships, his everyday world, his homosexuality, or scandals. I did learn he was never married, didn’t have children, and was an upstanding citizen in both Channing and Templeton. Not a single site proclaimed him a monster in his field or private life. Rather, Kevin had gained a high status in his career through hard work and many charities for the homeless. In light, after reading article after article about his life, I thought him as somewhat noble, inspired to help people in need, and was notable in his specific science; a good man who could have been considered trusting, caring, and loving.

  No matter how Kevin Balk or Bakerton was looked at by the world, I loathed him for the lies he had fed me. A thick, sour taste collected within the rear of my throat when I thought of him. How dare he act like a homeless man in need, playing on my weaknesses? How cruelly he had crossed me, tampering with my life, placing me front and center in his sociological experiment! How awful it felt that he had messed with my heart, almost causing me to fall in love with him. I grew sick, recalling I had allowed him inside my bed, next to my heart, and became intimate with the man. How demeaning and enraged I became, knowing I had picked him up and off the Channing Streets, wanting to help him in his questionable state, and…

  “Fuck,” I whispered to myself, turning away from the flat-screen. “What have I gotten myself into? How did this happen? I should have known better. I’ve become a rat in his trap. His science project. Shame on me. Shame on me.”

  * * * *

  The following day, I received a text video from Jay in Buenos Aires. The thirty-second video showed a bare-chested Jay with his two buddies from Boulder Boys. Each had a beer in their hands. The shirtless trio huddled together and shared an all-tongue kiss, and then told me in unison to have a great day. The background looked as if they were on a city street, locked somewhere between stores that sold souvenirs and a fruit market. The threesome looked drunk, happy, and in love, enjoying their days away from the States, vacationing.

  Truth told, happiness was the furthest emotion from my mind and heart because of Michael’s identification of Kevin Bakerton. I couldn’t remove the chaos from my mind, caught up in facts about the man. Slumberous, not at all myself, and feeling as if a wrecking ball had smashed through my heart, splattering it against the closest slab of cement, I decided to try and prove Michael wrong, disbelieving Kevin’s identity.

  As the morning slipped into noon, I Googled everything I could concerning Kevin Bakerton. Unsurprising, he was as real as Michael detailed him.

  Of course, Kevin Bakerton could have passed as the Kevin Balk I had slept with since both men had the same aquamarine-colored eyes, blond hair, and five-eleven frames. Each picture discovered and studied proved the two could have been brothers or even twins.

  Unfortunately, after much digging, and to no avail, there was not a single article online that hinted of either man having/or being a twin. Nor were there pages of Kevin Balk’s history: the house he claimed he had once owned, his teaching position at Chertier Academy in nearby Erie, and his financial ruin. When all was said and done, a compilation of hours spent behind my computer, I couldn’t dig up a single tidbit of information on Kevin Balk, realized my failure, and felt heavy in the heart that I had not only been emotionally taken advantage of, but also physically depleted by the stranger who had visited my residence and spent nights at my side.

  Following the huge letdown, after collecting information on the man I had slept with, and just happened to be falling for, I wanted to prove to myself even further that Kevin Balk was Kevin Bakerton and end my frustration.

  * * * *

  My first intimate visit into Kevin’s world—behind his back, of course—included a road trip to his residence. Melder Street in Templeton.

  A string of Colonial-style houses decorated the narrow, cobblestone street. Lampposts, manicured hedges, hay bales, and pumpkins decorated front yards. Tall leafless oaks that resembled Halloween skeletons lined Melder, offering a Thanksgiving holiday card landscape.

  The Colonial at 5623 Melder looked no different than the others surrounding the residence. I parked two doors away, locked up the Jeep, and made my way, not to Kevin Bakerton’s front door, but around the house and into the backyard. Two gardens, a frog pond, and what looked to be a minia
ture hedge maze welcomed my arrival. There was also a pool shed and covered in-ground pool, both closed for the upcoming winter season. A rear patio with white wrought-iron furniture and access through a wide, glass door, into the house, caught my interest.

  Of course, the door was locked. That didn’t stop me from peeping inside, though. With my nose planted to the cold pane of glass and hot breath exiting my mouth, I peered into Kevin Bakerton’s world, which just happened to be a page ripped out of a Pottery Barn catalog. What I saw was a too-pretty kitchen and connecting sunroom, both obnoxiously expensive. More feminine than masculine. Definitely out of my price range. A silver-colored cat with black stripes was curled up in a ball on an island. It lifted its head, licked a paw, pretty much told me to fuck off, and then lowered its head again, falling back into its nap.

  I tried the brass knob on the door. Anyone would have. No go. Then I tried a nearby window, attempting to lift it open. Again, no go. Good for Kevin that he knew how to keep his domain secure. Who knew what kind of trash could try to find their way inside and scavenge the place? Knowing I wasn’t going to be the intruder/burglar/interloper I wanted to be, I walked around the house, discovered Melder again, then my Jeep, and drove away.

  * * * *

  After visiting Kevin’s residence, I decided more prying into Kevin’s mysterious life needed to be done. Confidant of my mission, keeping my head held high, I made the ten-plus-mile drive to West Newton College. Once there, I parked near Noir Hall, turned the Jeep’s engine off, and sat behind its wheel for the next few minutes, taking in the campus.