EasyRory
JUB Addict
Change at Gallery Place
Chapter One
Brent met Tom on the lower level of Dulles Airport and they walked quickly to Brent's car in the close-by hourly parking lot. The older man was impressive; despite his almost fifty years; he was still good looking, still in shape, and fascinating to the younger man fresh from Alameda. Tom thought back to their one night together at the conclusion of his first trip to Washington and hoped for more nights with this man. Not old, not old at all, Tom thought; experienced was the word. All he has to do is crook his finger, and I'm in his bed.
“I hope you like the arrangement's I've made,” Brent began. “We've used this apartment before for short-term assignments and everybody has liked it. There is usually a good mix of interns and out-of-towners living on the property. What's better is it's dirt cheap, for Washington. And even better yet, it's on the Metro. You won't need a car, except maybe for weekends.”
“Brent, I was hoping, kind of ...”
“And, trust me, not needing a car is worth solid gold in our traffic. You'll be able to get to the Museum in about twenty minutes.”
“Brent ...”
“And just about any other place, too, Tom, except for Georgetown; but that's not the attraction that it used to be.”
“Brent, what about getting to your place? Does it go there?”
The older man smiled and stared resolutely at the road. “Well, I live almost in Georgetown. Some of my neighbors even call it Georgetown, although it isn't. It's Burleith, as if that's a bad thing.” Brent laughed at the difference between one side of Reservoir Road and the other. “This place were going to is in Cleveland Park. It's an old estate once owned by a woman with a lot of money and almost as many brains. It's all chopped up now and rented out while the heirs quibble about terms of sale. They've been quibbling for about thirty years, so don't worry about being on the street next week or anything. The main house is a school. Then there is a little cabin ... well, not so little, actually, and it's always rented to an up-and-coming Republican. Not sure who that Republican is at the moment, but it's always a Republican.” Brent sighed at this piece of discrimination. “Then there's a white house, little w, little h, and a huge garage, which the real estate people insist on calling a carriage house. You're in the garage. I think it's four apartments.”
“I liked your place the last time I visited.” Tom had to work to insert his comment into Brent's travelogue.
Brent continued, “It's very quiet, but still in the midst of the city. You'll be able to walk to lots of places easily and the Metro is about two blocks away, which is nothing unless it's raining. And it does rain here. Especially in the spring. So I got you a little umbrella.”
“You're ignoring me, aren't you?”
Brent was silent while he maneuvered through the Friday afternoon traffic off the Dulles Access Road and onto the Beltway. Once they were proceeding north he continued. “Yes. I figured you wouldn't want to be reminded of all the aspects of your last visit.”
“You mean the wonderful night in your bed? I've thought about that a lot.”
“Oh, Tom,” Brent said whistfully. “I'm your boss now, sort of, and that sort of thing could compromise both of us.”
“If that is your only reason, I can promise ...”
“It's a good reason; with all Washington's scandals, it's a very good reason; but also ...” Brent paused and gave Tom's hand a brief squeeze. “If we started something, I'd never want it to end. I would fall so hard for you, they'd never find my corpse.”
They drove on in silence until the Clara Barton Parkway turn-off. “This way is as good as any,” Brent said, making conversation. “There are usually three or four ways to get from here to there in D.C., all of them equally bad.”
“Brent, I want you to know, this was your decision, not mine. I was hoping to see a lot of your bedroom.”
“You will come to a party tommorow afternoon, won't you? I've invited a few associates, people you'll be working with, over to introduce our new California import.”
They drove through a twisted maze of streets and traffic until Tom had no idea where they were or what direction was north. “Alameda streets are a grid, with very few exceptions. This place is spaghetti.”
Brent chuckled and turned into an almost unnoticeable driveway. “Here we are. Your key, sir; your umbrella, sir. And see you tomorrow? Come about four. Drinks and a little dinner. Not dressy.”
Tom stood with his supersized backpack and watched Brent drive away. The 'carriage house' had four overhead garage doors down one side and a finished second story along the whole length of the building. There was a door at both ends. The closer one was marked A and B. Tom's key ring had a tag marked B.
The narrow stairway led to two doors and it seemed like a small victory when his key opened the door marked B. The apartment was surprisingly large and beat the hell out of staying in a hotel. There was one large everything room that looked out on a balcony with a view of trees. The rear of the apartment was a bedroom and a very small kitchenette with a bath in between. Tom put down his pack and flopped onto the comfortable-looking bed which showed only a few signs of previous use.
Seven o'clock Washington time was four o'clock Alameda time. Tom wasn't hungry yet, but a shower wouldn't hurt. In fact, as usual with showers, it felt great. He unpacked his toiletries and heard indistinct noises through the wall; it sounded like conversation, so he assumed he had a neighbor or two. He looked again at the bed and decided a brief nap wouldn't hurt. The rest of his unpacking could wait. The comfortable-looking bed proved to be very soothing and sleep came quickly.
Brent returned to his office, needing to wrap up a few things before ending his week. He invited his long-time assistant and one-time lover Lucky to help him decide on a minor curatorial promotion. “Lucky? What do you think about Gantry van Allen? Should we promote him?”
Lucky, a nickname which was a shortened form of his real nickname Luckless, was a most un-Smithsonian handle, whereas his real name, Leavitt Leigh, fit the bill perfectly. Two surnames neither of which gave any indication of gender was just about ideal for Lucky and the just-folks nickname gave a down-to-earth folksiness and bluff masculinity to his image. The Luckless nickname originated during his Navy days when he received orders to an undesirable job on an undesirable ship. The Navy part looked good on his curriculum vitae; the specifics about that God-forsaken LST could be and were glossed over.
“Her,” Lucky said.
“Her?” Brent probably couldn't get along without Lucky.
“I know it's hard to tell. Miss Gantry van Allen dresses like Oscar Wilde ... Talks like him, too.”
“So, should we promote Miss van Allen?”
“Yes, eventually, because she is good; but now? Do we need a tenured specialist in Eastern Indonesian iconography? You could keep the position open in case we find the Arabic calligrapher you want.”
“But we don't want to lose her?” Brent searched his memory and still couldn't quite place the woman.
“No, we don't. I think we could buff up her title for now. Director of Oceanic Aboriginal Art? Still at the director level but a broader portfolio. No money, of course. How does that sound?”
“Terrible. You think she'll like it?”
“She'll love it.”
Brent smiled at Lucky and let his eyes take in his attractive assistant. Lucky was tall, slim, once blond, and about ten years younger than Brent; his hair was now darker but still showed flashes of gold in the right light. Brent's memory of Lucky's body had the power to arouse him; the memory of his skillful versatility as a lover was equally compelling. If only we had liked more of the same things, he thought. He remembered the chilling cruel streak. Lucky liked a measure of pain, both giving and receiving. They ended their affair when Brent's gentle nature didn't do it for Lucky and Lucky's degree of kinkiness appalled Brent.
“Did you get Tom settled? You should have had somebody else do that. He'll think he has direct access to you on everything.”
“I dropped him at the garage. When I tell him he takes guidance from you, he'll be fine. He's very professional.” Brent had decided not to tell Lucky about his night with Tom, but Lucky figured it out the day after it happened. Brent always shined with a morning-after glow that Lucky never missed detecting.
Tom awoke in utter darkness and complete silence. He had no idea how long he had slept until he located his watch in the pile of clothing he had left at the side of the bed. Ouch. It was four-thirty in the morning. I'll never get back to sleep, he briefly thought. When he next woke up it was six-thirty and starting to get light. Undecided about what to do next, he lay under the cool sheets starving and naked with a huge erection.
The hunger could be ignored for a while but the erection was an intrusive reminder of how easy it had been to wake up with his last boyfriend. Stretch, roll over, grab some Listerine and lube off the night stand, and fuck Seth. Tom thought back over the months but couldn't remember Seth ever saying no. Gentle, generous Seth would welcome penetration by Tom with an eagerness born from Seth's nagging lack of self-confidence. It was a constant if not arduous effort to convince Seth that he was genuinely attractive and desirable. Fucking him seemed to accomplish the goal reliably, Tom recalled with satisfaction. I loved fucking him, he thought. Then there were those couple times a month Seth would want to be on top; those times were good, too. Truthfully, there was lots to love about Seth. But that was then, and this erection is now, Tom groaned as he got out of bed and turned on a light.
He hadn't unpacked and didn't want to wear yesterday's clothes again. He noticed a bathrobe in the small closet. It was embroidered with the name of an unknown hotel and was just a bit small, but it would do. The door to his porch, however, wouldn't do. It was locked. Ok, he thought, I'll tiptoe out the front door and see what the weather is like. The porch was not yet sunny but the other side of the building was. The day was in fact pleasantly warm and sunny. As he turned to go back in, a young man emerged from the door.
“Hi, I'm Matt,” he introduced himself. He was wearing makeup, quite a lot of very dramatic eye makeup for seven in the morning.
Another head appeared, this one without make up. “I'm Mike.”
“Twins!” Tom exclaimed involuntarily.
Matt explained his appearance saying he was leaving for the dress rehearsal of some play and Mike, in just boxers, was even less attired than Tom. Mike stayed mostly hidden behind the door.
“I'm Tom, the new guy in B.”
“We share the porch,” Mike said. “Meet me there in five minutes for coffee? It's just be getting sunny.”
Matt muttered, “Not fair, Mike,” and left.
“I can't get onto the porch. My door is locked,” Tom explained while wondering what wasn't fair.
“Take the outside stairway,” Mike called back.
“Warning: Nude Beach. Clothing optional beyond this point.”
The sign at the top of the stairs was old and weathered, probably a relic of some collegiate theft of long-ago. Mike was right about the timing; the sun was just edging over the top of the roof spilling onto the porch. Tom sat out near the railing in dappled sun and looked around his new domain. He could hear the noise of traffic not too far away and an occasional vehicle passing by closer. Otherwise, the view was a solid forest populated modestly with birds and squirrels.
Mike arrived with two mugs and a bag of pastry. “I gave you a little milk and sugar. Hope that's ok.” Mike sat and passed the mug to Tom. “You have a very nice cock.”
Tom choked on the coffee. He glanced down and saw that the bathrobe was open in the front. He had to stand to rearrange the thing to close it. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. Like I said, it's very nice. At least you gave me an opening.”
“An opening?”
“Would you like to go to bed with me?”
Tom just laughed. “You're not one to waste an opening!”
“I know. Matt will ask you the same thing. I thought I'd try first.”
“But how? … why? … ” Tom wasn't sure what to ask.
“That's ok. Forget it. But I have to warn you. Matt is more persistent than I am. And he's pretty persuasive.”
Tom's bathrobe opened up slightly again; he quickly grabbed it and held it closed. Mike noticed but didn't mention it. Instead he explained, “The thing is Matt and I have a deal. The first one to fuck the new neighbor doesn't have to do the housework.” Mike frowned. “He always wins.”
“Um, how many neighbors, exactly, has he ...”
“You'll be the fourth.”
“Who says he succeeds with me?”
Mike shrugged, “He's very persuasive. You'll see.”
Chapter One
Brent met Tom on the lower level of Dulles Airport and they walked quickly to Brent's car in the close-by hourly parking lot. The older man was impressive; despite his almost fifty years; he was still good looking, still in shape, and fascinating to the younger man fresh from Alameda. Tom thought back to their one night together at the conclusion of his first trip to Washington and hoped for more nights with this man. Not old, not old at all, Tom thought; experienced was the word. All he has to do is crook his finger, and I'm in his bed.
“I hope you like the arrangement's I've made,” Brent began. “We've used this apartment before for short-term assignments and everybody has liked it. There is usually a good mix of interns and out-of-towners living on the property. What's better is it's dirt cheap, for Washington. And even better yet, it's on the Metro. You won't need a car, except maybe for weekends.”
“Brent, I was hoping, kind of ...”
“And, trust me, not needing a car is worth solid gold in our traffic. You'll be able to get to the Museum in about twenty minutes.”
“Brent ...”
“And just about any other place, too, Tom, except for Georgetown; but that's not the attraction that it used to be.”
“Brent, what about getting to your place? Does it go there?”
The older man smiled and stared resolutely at the road. “Well, I live almost in Georgetown. Some of my neighbors even call it Georgetown, although it isn't. It's Burleith, as if that's a bad thing.” Brent laughed at the difference between one side of Reservoir Road and the other. “This place were going to is in Cleveland Park. It's an old estate once owned by a woman with a lot of money and almost as many brains. It's all chopped up now and rented out while the heirs quibble about terms of sale. They've been quibbling for about thirty years, so don't worry about being on the street next week or anything. The main house is a school. Then there is a little cabin ... well, not so little, actually, and it's always rented to an up-and-coming Republican. Not sure who that Republican is at the moment, but it's always a Republican.” Brent sighed at this piece of discrimination. “Then there's a white house, little w, little h, and a huge garage, which the real estate people insist on calling a carriage house. You're in the garage. I think it's four apartments.”
“I liked your place the last time I visited.” Tom had to work to insert his comment into Brent's travelogue.
Brent continued, “It's very quiet, but still in the midst of the city. You'll be able to walk to lots of places easily and the Metro is about two blocks away, which is nothing unless it's raining. And it does rain here. Especially in the spring. So I got you a little umbrella.”
“You're ignoring me, aren't you?”
Brent was silent while he maneuvered through the Friday afternoon traffic off the Dulles Access Road and onto the Beltway. Once they were proceeding north he continued. “Yes. I figured you wouldn't want to be reminded of all the aspects of your last visit.”
“You mean the wonderful night in your bed? I've thought about that a lot.”
“Oh, Tom,” Brent said whistfully. “I'm your boss now, sort of, and that sort of thing could compromise both of us.”
“If that is your only reason, I can promise ...”
“It's a good reason; with all Washington's scandals, it's a very good reason; but also ...” Brent paused and gave Tom's hand a brief squeeze. “If we started something, I'd never want it to end. I would fall so hard for you, they'd never find my corpse.”
They drove on in silence until the Clara Barton Parkway turn-off. “This way is as good as any,” Brent said, making conversation. “There are usually three or four ways to get from here to there in D.C., all of them equally bad.”
“Brent, I want you to know, this was your decision, not mine. I was hoping to see a lot of your bedroom.”
“You will come to a party tommorow afternoon, won't you? I've invited a few associates, people you'll be working with, over to introduce our new California import.”
They drove through a twisted maze of streets and traffic until Tom had no idea where they were or what direction was north. “Alameda streets are a grid, with very few exceptions. This place is spaghetti.”
Brent chuckled and turned into an almost unnoticeable driveway. “Here we are. Your key, sir; your umbrella, sir. And see you tomorrow? Come about four. Drinks and a little dinner. Not dressy.”
Tom stood with his supersized backpack and watched Brent drive away. The 'carriage house' had four overhead garage doors down one side and a finished second story along the whole length of the building. There was a door at both ends. The closer one was marked A and B. Tom's key ring had a tag marked B.
The narrow stairway led to two doors and it seemed like a small victory when his key opened the door marked B. The apartment was surprisingly large and beat the hell out of staying in a hotel. There was one large everything room that looked out on a balcony with a view of trees. The rear of the apartment was a bedroom and a very small kitchenette with a bath in between. Tom put down his pack and flopped onto the comfortable-looking bed which showed only a few signs of previous use.
Seven o'clock Washington time was four o'clock Alameda time. Tom wasn't hungry yet, but a shower wouldn't hurt. In fact, as usual with showers, it felt great. He unpacked his toiletries and heard indistinct noises through the wall; it sounded like conversation, so he assumed he had a neighbor or two. He looked again at the bed and decided a brief nap wouldn't hurt. The rest of his unpacking could wait. The comfortable-looking bed proved to be very soothing and sleep came quickly.
Brent returned to his office, needing to wrap up a few things before ending his week. He invited his long-time assistant and one-time lover Lucky to help him decide on a minor curatorial promotion. “Lucky? What do you think about Gantry van Allen? Should we promote him?”
Lucky, a nickname which was a shortened form of his real nickname Luckless, was a most un-Smithsonian handle, whereas his real name, Leavitt Leigh, fit the bill perfectly. Two surnames neither of which gave any indication of gender was just about ideal for Lucky and the just-folks nickname gave a down-to-earth folksiness and bluff masculinity to his image. The Luckless nickname originated during his Navy days when he received orders to an undesirable job on an undesirable ship. The Navy part looked good on his curriculum vitae; the specifics about that God-forsaken LST could be and were glossed over.
“Her,” Lucky said.
“Her?” Brent probably couldn't get along without Lucky.
“I know it's hard to tell. Miss Gantry van Allen dresses like Oscar Wilde ... Talks like him, too.”
“So, should we promote Miss van Allen?”
“Yes, eventually, because she is good; but now? Do we need a tenured specialist in Eastern Indonesian iconography? You could keep the position open in case we find the Arabic calligrapher you want.”
“But we don't want to lose her?” Brent searched his memory and still couldn't quite place the woman.
“No, we don't. I think we could buff up her title for now. Director of Oceanic Aboriginal Art? Still at the director level but a broader portfolio. No money, of course. How does that sound?”
“Terrible. You think she'll like it?”
“She'll love it.”
Brent smiled at Lucky and let his eyes take in his attractive assistant. Lucky was tall, slim, once blond, and about ten years younger than Brent; his hair was now darker but still showed flashes of gold in the right light. Brent's memory of Lucky's body had the power to arouse him; the memory of his skillful versatility as a lover was equally compelling. If only we had liked more of the same things, he thought. He remembered the chilling cruel streak. Lucky liked a measure of pain, both giving and receiving. They ended their affair when Brent's gentle nature didn't do it for Lucky and Lucky's degree of kinkiness appalled Brent.
“Did you get Tom settled? You should have had somebody else do that. He'll think he has direct access to you on everything.”
“I dropped him at the garage. When I tell him he takes guidance from you, he'll be fine. He's very professional.” Brent had decided not to tell Lucky about his night with Tom, but Lucky figured it out the day after it happened. Brent always shined with a morning-after glow that Lucky never missed detecting.
Tom awoke in utter darkness and complete silence. He had no idea how long he had slept until he located his watch in the pile of clothing he had left at the side of the bed. Ouch. It was four-thirty in the morning. I'll never get back to sleep, he briefly thought. When he next woke up it was six-thirty and starting to get light. Undecided about what to do next, he lay under the cool sheets starving and naked with a huge erection.
The hunger could be ignored for a while but the erection was an intrusive reminder of how easy it had been to wake up with his last boyfriend. Stretch, roll over, grab some Listerine and lube off the night stand, and fuck Seth. Tom thought back over the months but couldn't remember Seth ever saying no. Gentle, generous Seth would welcome penetration by Tom with an eagerness born from Seth's nagging lack of self-confidence. It was a constant if not arduous effort to convince Seth that he was genuinely attractive and desirable. Fucking him seemed to accomplish the goal reliably, Tom recalled with satisfaction. I loved fucking him, he thought. Then there were those couple times a month Seth would want to be on top; those times were good, too. Truthfully, there was lots to love about Seth. But that was then, and this erection is now, Tom groaned as he got out of bed and turned on a light.
He hadn't unpacked and didn't want to wear yesterday's clothes again. He noticed a bathrobe in the small closet. It was embroidered with the name of an unknown hotel and was just a bit small, but it would do. The door to his porch, however, wouldn't do. It was locked. Ok, he thought, I'll tiptoe out the front door and see what the weather is like. The porch was not yet sunny but the other side of the building was. The day was in fact pleasantly warm and sunny. As he turned to go back in, a young man emerged from the door.
“Hi, I'm Matt,” he introduced himself. He was wearing makeup, quite a lot of very dramatic eye makeup for seven in the morning.
Another head appeared, this one without make up. “I'm Mike.”
“Twins!” Tom exclaimed involuntarily.
Matt explained his appearance saying he was leaving for the dress rehearsal of some play and Mike, in just boxers, was even less attired than Tom. Mike stayed mostly hidden behind the door.
“I'm Tom, the new guy in B.”
“We share the porch,” Mike said. “Meet me there in five minutes for coffee? It's just be getting sunny.”
Matt muttered, “Not fair, Mike,” and left.
“I can't get onto the porch. My door is locked,” Tom explained while wondering what wasn't fair.
“Take the outside stairway,” Mike called back.
“Warning: Nude Beach. Clothing optional beyond this point.”
The sign at the top of the stairs was old and weathered, probably a relic of some collegiate theft of long-ago. Mike was right about the timing; the sun was just edging over the top of the roof spilling onto the porch. Tom sat out near the railing in dappled sun and looked around his new domain. He could hear the noise of traffic not too far away and an occasional vehicle passing by closer. Otherwise, the view was a solid forest populated modestly with birds and squirrels.
Mike arrived with two mugs and a bag of pastry. “I gave you a little milk and sugar. Hope that's ok.” Mike sat and passed the mug to Tom. “You have a very nice cock.”
Tom choked on the coffee. He glanced down and saw that the bathrobe was open in the front. He had to stand to rearrange the thing to close it. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. Like I said, it's very nice. At least you gave me an opening.”
“An opening?”
“Would you like to go to bed with me?”
Tom just laughed. “You're not one to waste an opening!”
“I know. Matt will ask you the same thing. I thought I'd try first.”
“But how? … why? … ” Tom wasn't sure what to ask.
“That's ok. Forget it. But I have to warn you. Matt is more persistent than I am. And he's pretty persuasive.”
Tom's bathrobe opened up slightly again; he quickly grabbed it and held it closed. Mike noticed but didn't mention it. Instead he explained, “The thing is Matt and I have a deal. The first one to fuck the new neighbor doesn't have to do the housework.” Mike frowned. “He always wins.”
“Um, how many neighbors, exactly, has he ...”
“You'll be the fourth.”
“Who says he succeeds with me?”
Mike shrugged, “He's very persuasive. You'll see.”
