ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
As Mike drifted off, he heard a bus pulling down Fullerton, and he felt Ben sink back onto the mattress. Timidly, Ben reached for him, and to encourage him, Mike pressed himself into Ben and took his hand, and the next thing he knew it was morning.
Ben’s long hands.
Life had been lonely enough, especially the stretch of years he didn’t care to talk about. Michael loved waking up like people in the movies, with the sun in his face, coming through his window, even if he was about to get up and shut the blinds. He loved waking up in Ben’s arms, long and strong, powerful and gentle, with the bridge of Ben’s long nose pressed into his back. He loved when Ben came all the way down here for him and spent the night in his apartment. He loved Ben’s stuff lying around, his pants, his socks, his comic books.
He remembered the first time he’d gone to a comic book store with Ben. It was in Boystown, not far off Belmont, with high ceilings, wood floors and inward people, and Ben had browsed the racks telling him all about manga and the difference between a graphic novel and a comic book compilation, and he had loved it because Ben loved it and he was such a nerd and he felt tender to him because by then they’d been sleeping together for a month and his bed sheets smelled like Ben and the Old Spice Ben wore, because he was kind of an old man, scented the little apartment off Fullerton regularly. After all that talk, Ben hadn’t bought anything that day, and as they left, Mike said, “Can you really do that?” and Ben shrugged and said, “You can do all sorts of things.”
They walked Clark Street hand and hand and Mike had never felt owned, never felt like he belonged to someone. He was a treasure, and it was pleasure for his hand to be enfolded in Ben’s large one, and Ben asked where they should go to lunch and Mike shrugged and said, “Shwarma sounds nice,” because he’d heard of it but never had it, and he wanted to be a man of the world.
He thought of those things as he lay still half asleep, naked, his body heated and clothed by Ben’s naked body, Ben’s long arm draped over him, Ben’s long hand in his, Mike tracing with fascination his fingers, running over the bumps of his knuckles the lines in them. His answering machine was flashing, and Mike stretched and thought to kill two birds with one stone, closing the shade and checking messages. Ah, three stones—though that was never a phrase—and make the coffee before climbing back into bed with the sleeping Ben Forrester.
“Hello, Michael,” it was Swann Portis sounding formal. “I just wanted to call to say we are back in town, and we would love for you to call back. We will be here all morning, and if you don’t get to us, well then we may call you from Evanston tonight. Around 7:15. Cheers.”
Mike almost forgot he was nude as he stood before the phone, hip cocked, tongue rolling in his mouth. Ah, that was clever. Swann was always clever. Doug would have told Swann everything and Swann being Swann, he would have had no judgment, but he would have had advice, and he would have told Doug he couldn’t very well call himself. He could, but it might be awkward. So Swann had called saying we, we, we, meaning Doug was back. Doug wants to talk to you at 7:15.
Mike moved to the kitchenette and rinsed out the coffee pot, looking at Ben over the divider between the two rooms. Ben made him feel like the innocent person he wanted to be. Even when they were fucking. Even when it was rough and dirty, there was something Catholic school and simple about Ben. The whole reason they were a couple was because of that. One night stands sat badly with Ben, and the idea of being friends with benefits or anything like that was off to him. If you liked and cared for someone, and you were fucking them on a regular basis, of course he was your boyfriend. And because Mike wanted to be like Ben, what made sense to Ben made sense to him too.
He poured the water slowly into the reservoir of the coffee maker, listening to the ripple and glug of it’s flow. He made sure to stop at the six cup mark.
If being with Ben made him feel like the innocent Midwestern Catholic school boy he wanted to be, then the thing about even the mention of Douglass Perrin, was that it instantly made him the person he really was, and that person he had been ashamed of, but now, as he returned to bed, he realized he was beginning to love himself. Michael feared that person a little, and wasn’t sure he always wanted him around. But he would hold tight to him because it was, after all, the actual him, and it was that him that never really stopped yearning for Doug.
Ben’s long hands.
Life had been lonely enough, especially the stretch of years he didn’t care to talk about. Michael loved waking up like people in the movies, with the sun in his face, coming through his window, even if he was about to get up and shut the blinds. He loved waking up in Ben’s arms, long and strong, powerful and gentle, with the bridge of Ben’s long nose pressed into his back. He loved when Ben came all the way down here for him and spent the night in his apartment. He loved Ben’s stuff lying around, his pants, his socks, his comic books.
He remembered the first time he’d gone to a comic book store with Ben. It was in Boystown, not far off Belmont, with high ceilings, wood floors and inward people, and Ben had browsed the racks telling him all about manga and the difference between a graphic novel and a comic book compilation, and he had loved it because Ben loved it and he was such a nerd and he felt tender to him because by then they’d been sleeping together for a month and his bed sheets smelled like Ben and the Old Spice Ben wore, because he was kind of an old man, scented the little apartment off Fullerton regularly. After all that talk, Ben hadn’t bought anything that day, and as they left, Mike said, “Can you really do that?” and Ben shrugged and said, “You can do all sorts of things.”
They walked Clark Street hand and hand and Mike had never felt owned, never felt like he belonged to someone. He was a treasure, and it was pleasure for his hand to be enfolded in Ben’s large one, and Ben asked where they should go to lunch and Mike shrugged and said, “Shwarma sounds nice,” because he’d heard of it but never had it, and he wanted to be a man of the world.
He thought of those things as he lay still half asleep, naked, his body heated and clothed by Ben’s naked body, Ben’s long arm draped over him, Ben’s long hand in his, Mike tracing with fascination his fingers, running over the bumps of his knuckles the lines in them. His answering machine was flashing, and Mike stretched and thought to kill two birds with one stone, closing the shade and checking messages. Ah, three stones—though that was never a phrase—and make the coffee before climbing back into bed with the sleeping Ben Forrester.
“Hello, Michael,” it was Swann Portis sounding formal. “I just wanted to call to say we are back in town, and we would love for you to call back. We will be here all morning, and if you don’t get to us, well then we may call you from Evanston tonight. Around 7:15. Cheers.”
Mike almost forgot he was nude as he stood before the phone, hip cocked, tongue rolling in his mouth. Ah, that was clever. Swann was always clever. Doug would have told Swann everything and Swann being Swann, he would have had no judgment, but he would have had advice, and he would have told Doug he couldn’t very well call himself. He could, but it might be awkward. So Swann had called saying we, we, we, meaning Doug was back. Doug wants to talk to you at 7:15.
Mike moved to the kitchenette and rinsed out the coffee pot, looking at Ben over the divider between the two rooms. Ben made him feel like the innocent person he wanted to be. Even when they were fucking. Even when it was rough and dirty, there was something Catholic school and simple about Ben. The whole reason they were a couple was because of that. One night stands sat badly with Ben, and the idea of being friends with benefits or anything like that was off to him. If you liked and cared for someone, and you were fucking them on a regular basis, of course he was your boyfriend. And because Mike wanted to be like Ben, what made sense to Ben made sense to him too.
He poured the water slowly into the reservoir of the coffee maker, listening to the ripple and glug of it’s flow. He made sure to stop at the six cup mark.
If being with Ben made him feel like the innocent Midwestern Catholic school boy he wanted to be, then the thing about even the mention of Douglass Perrin, was that it instantly made him the person he really was, and that person he had been ashamed of, but now, as he returned to bed, he realized he was beginning to love himself. Michael feared that person a little, and wasn’t sure he always wanted him around. But he would hold tight to him because it was, after all, the actual him, and it was that him that never really stopped yearning for Doug.
END OF CHAPTER ELEVEN
