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Change at Gallery Place

Chapter Twelve


The trio finished interviewing Tin Man's candidate and faced a quandry. They had interviewed five people and found four perfect choices for three jobs. Both Janice and Charles, the insiders' picks, were perfectly competent and seemed compatible. Doug, Lisette's fellow student, was competent as well as unattractive, which, from Tom's point of view, was an asset in a situation full of straight women. Shelly, Tin Man's choice, was eccentric in looks and dress but equally promising. Only the G.W. student had been a disappointment.

“Should we treat it like musical chairs? The last person to arrive tomorrow is out of luck?” Lisette was already calculating the odds on who would arrive late. “I bet it's Shelly Burningbush. She seemed a little slow off the blocks. And why would you change a perfectly decent name like Bernstein to Burningbush?”

“What if we divide the hours by four and hire them all as part-time?” Tom proposed. “That way if one is a dud we don't have to recruit. We could just put the other three on full time and dispose of the corpse.”

“Don't tell them the plan. You could trigger assassinations,” Gantry joked.

“You're probably right. It'll be our secret.”

Lisette made an X on her lips and placed her hand on her heart. “Plans inside of plans. I'm going to put this in my CIA application.” Gantry and Tom both looked at her, unsure of whether she was joking.

Lucky called and Tom put him on a speaker. “Hope you don't mind being public. I've got a pile of stuff in my hands.” It was a very small pile, the five interview files, and Tom winked at his co-conspirators.

“I wondered when you were going to make your choice.” Lucky tried not to sound overly eager but failed.

“We've made it.” Tom offered no details.

“Um, good, then ... When are you giving them the news?”

“There's good news and bad. We're going to take four of them; the guy from G.W. didn't seem like a fit. We're going to start out with a thirty hour week, though. I think the three of us need the extra time to audit their work, at least initially. No point to an inventory if it isn't a good one.”

“Thomas, it's really a pleasure working with a professional. I think you're the best outside contractor we've ever had.” Lucky didn't mind buttering people up. You never knew when it might pay off; and, besides, it didn't cost him anything.

Tom looked at Gantry as he turned off the phone.

“He's on the phone to Janice now, giving her the news and taking total credit for her hire. He'll like Shelly, since she is an apparently straight woman. And he'll like the guys, neither one being much competition for the gals.” Gantry paused and sipped her coffee. “And I think he actually likes you, Tom. He's not a complete idiot.”

“Oh, wow. This is all going into the application. Gantry, you should think about a different line of work.” Lisette smiled in admiration.




“What about gay marriage, Rawson? Are you against that?” Matt felt he had to address the political issues he thought were important. Rawson was so close to perfect, otherwise. They sat on the sofa in the dacha.

“Gay marriage? I don't know. It's not my issue.”

“How can it not be your issue?” Matt asked, sounding almost exasperated..

“I don't plan to get married,” Rawson stated, as if that answered the question.

“It's an arbitrary and pointless denial of rights, whether or not you plan to exercise them. It's a discriminatory and unequal application of the law.” Matt was unable to understand Rawson's density on the point.

“We could pass a law giving everyone the right to fly, but what would that do for you if you're not a bird? That's the way the opponents think. They just don't think gay marriage is a real concept. It would be like gluing paper wings on a turtle, throwing it off a building, and hoping for the best.”

“That's absurd. They're religious nuts.” Matt was disgusted.

“I'll admit that the opposition seems to have religious motives and I don't think the arbitrary morality of one religion or another should ever rule the political process. Western history says that mixing religion and politics is a disaster.”

“So, isn't that a reason to ...”

“It's like capital punishment, Matt. It's just not my issue. I don't care which way it goes. I'm not persuaded by the moral arguments of the case – for or against.”

“So your not opposed to gay marriage; you just don't give a shit?”

“Most of the laws regarding marriage were written to protect children and dependent spouses. If gays are going to adopt children – and they are doing so – I believe those children should be protected, just as the children of a straight couple are protected. If one partner in a gay relationship is dependent on the other, and that is their agreement, then there should be some definition of that partner's rights. So I can see a legitimate need for some legal arrangement; but I don't care whether that arrangement is called marriage or not.” Rawson picked up Matt's hand and held it gently, admiringly, feeling the strength and the warmth as Matt squeezed back.

“Hmm … Well, alright. I guess that isn't so bad. But what about all those right wing religious nuts? That's what I don't like.”

“All extremists are totalitarian at heart, whether they call themselves left or right. To me, the only sensible path is the broad middle. I consider myself a centrist.”

“So Mike's right ... as usual. You're not really Republican.”

“I say that I am, and I agree with them on most economic issues. You can't get hired in this town unless you declare one way or the other. Maybe in the future I can shed the label, but I don't have enough of a reputation yet.”

Matt lay his head on Rawson's shoulder. “I didn't mean to interrogate you.” He felt Rawson's kiss against his hair. “And I need to show you I think about more than my career in pornography.”

“It wasn't pornography, Matt; just poor taste on the director's part. You can ask me anything. If I can't explain myself to you, I probably need to work on the explanation more.”

“I'm very comfortable with you. Not just the sex part. I mean all of it.”

“I don't want to push too hard, Matt. You know I'm nuts about you, but I think I'm a little ahead of where you are.”

“I'm catching up, Sunny.” Matt looked up at Rawson and welcomed the kiss.

Matt knew he had a huge crush on Rawson and that the sex was the best he'd ever known, but would it go beyond that? He wasn't sure and shouldn't even have joked with Mike about 'falling in love'.

He felt Rawson sucking on one of his fingers and looked at him. Totally relaxed, lying back on the long sofa, Rawson was sucking on Matt's index finger as if it was candy. Matt straddled Rawson's thighs and sat looking into his eyes.

“I had an Indian friend who said we should meditate looking at our reflections in each other's eyes ... that our expressions would tell us what to do next. No, Sunny. You're still looking at me. Let my face melt away and look at your own face in my eyes.”

“All I see is you.” Rawson pulled Matt closer and kissed him.

Things flowed naturally from there. They didn't need any tantric meditation. Matt helped Rawson pull his shirt off and threw it on the floor in a pile with his own and then went back to exploring with his mouth and hands. He listened to Rawson moan when he sucked on his nipples. Rawson stretched his body out and Matt could feel the developing erection grow. He slid to the floor and knelt between Rawson's thighs. They exchanged a glance that amounted to permission and Matt undid Rawson's belt, waist band, and zipper. He reached into the plain white boxer's but couldn't work Rawson's cock free. He impatiently and roughly pulled at the clothing. Rawson lifted his hips to help and the clothes slipped down his legs and off easily. Matt placed his hands on Rawson's thighs and leaned forward.

The swelling cock bounced with each beat of Rawson's heart. Matt took it in his hand and squeezed, forcing what looked like a dewdrop from the head. He licked, tasting the salt; and then licked more wetting the shaft before taking it into his mouth. He heard Rawson sigh and felt his legs tremble with growing tension. Matt held the now rigid cock in his hand stroking slowly while he lapped at the tightened testicles, making the scrotal skin wrinkle as it pulled even tighter. Matt continued licking, covering everything in front of him. He felt more precum ooze out, wetting his hand, making it slick as he continued stroking the straining cock.

Rawson gasped with surprise when Matt raised his legs and moved lower, licking and sucking, probing until he reached the pucker.

“OK? OK if I do this?” Matt asked.

“Anything ... anything,” Rawson was breathing hard in anticipation of the unknown. “Are … are you gonna fuck me?”

“If you ask me to,” Matt smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring and then resumed rimming.

“You can, if you want.”

“No. You have to ask.” Matt wet a finger and massaged Rawson's hole while he resumed sucking his cock. Rawson seemed really close to cumming so Matt dialed things back. He lay on top of Rawson's torso and looked at him, seeing the barely focused eyes searching his own. A gentle kiss, another, then a harder kiss with a little bite at the end. The words were barely audible, made with breath not sound, “Fuck me.”

“I can't hear you.”

“Fuck me,” Rawson said aloud, more urgently.

“No.” Matt went back to kissing him and then licked his nipples.

“Why not?”

“You don't know what you're asking for. It hurts.” Matt wet a finger and gently pushed it into Rawson's asshole.

Rawson grimaced, sucked in a breath, and held it trying to contain the pain he was feeling.

“See? I told you. It hurts.” Matt pulled his finger back but not all the way out while Rawson gasped trying to get used to the intrusion. His legs fell limply to the floor and Rawson's ass closed tightly on Matt's finger. Matt pushed and pulled gently, causing a stimulus from presence and pressure without actual friction. “My cock's a lot bigger than that finger.”

“I want you, Matt. I really do.”

“I know you do, but you're not ready yet. We need some lubricant. I don't want to rip you up on your first try.” Matt withdrew his finger and moved up for more kisses.

“What kind of lubricant?”

“Anything that will make my dick smooth and slick. It will be lots easier for you.”

“I have some pre-lubed condoms,” Rawson offered.

“Not good enough for the first time,” Matt cautioned.

“Why are you being so careful? Why don't you just do it? I'll survive.”

“You would, but I don't want to just use your ass to jack off in. I want to make you like it and I definitely don't want to hurt so you'll never try it again.” Matt explained.

“Matt, your dick isn't that big. I'm not going to need surgery when we're done,” Rawson sounded impatient and then suddenly uncertain. “Will I?” he questioned.

Matt didn't answer him; instead he resumed sucking on the unsatisfied cock and left Rawson's ass untouched.

“Wait!” Rawson got up and went into the bathroom. He reemerged after a few seconds and said, “Come to bed.” Matt climbed in with him and with a big smile Rawson produced a small tube. “Cortisone cream. How's that for a lube? It would heal any damage done – all in one step.”

“Lie face down,” Matt said and proceeded gently, massaging and kissing. He rolled on the pre-lubed condom and smeared a lot of the CortAid cream onto and into Rawson's asshole. He lay on top of Rawson and maneuvered his cock into position.

“You're heavier than I thought,” Rawson said a little nervously. He sucked in his breath as Matt penetrated; but the discomfort was manageable. A big slick cock somehow wasn't as bad as the finger had been. “Go ahead, do it, Matt.”

Matt began a gentle motion. In. Out. It felt great and his passion increased. “This position should be easiest for you. I get the least penetration this way.”

“I don't want the least penetration,” Rawson said. He wiggled out from under Matt and rolled over. “I want you in me.”

Missionary position produced pain but also passion. Matt came first and then stroked Rawson off. Rawson came while Matt's softening cock was still inside him. “Lie still,” Matt whispered and went to get a towel. He returned to the bed and wiped up the remains. “I don't think I've ever seen this much come.” He folded the towel so the wetness was inside, put it on the floor, and crawled back into bed alongside his amazed partner. “It gets better,” Matt promised.

“It was pretty damn good,” Rawson said. “It was amazing coming with you in me. I had no idea how good that would be.” Rawson resisted getting sloppy telling Matt just how good it had been. He kept things clinical. “A couple of nights with you have done more for me that a year's worth of counseling. You could charge money.” He said no more and let his body tell the story as he pulled Matt against him for the night.

“You can read my mind, can't you?” Matt asked. Rawson just hugged him tighter briefly in answer. “You know how happy I am in your bed.” Matt hugged back.

Happy, he says. That'll do for now, Rawson thought.


Phil woke up tangled in sheets, blankets, and body parts still attached to Ace. It was almost midnight. Ace groaned and rolled over as Phil put his feet on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. It was strange being at Ace's apartment; he had stayed there only one other night when they had gone to the Patriot Center to hear the Kings of Leon. There was nothing wrong with the bed, nothing that Phil could put his finger on. It was the fact that Ace was in it.

We just don't hit the same ball, he said to himself; and it's too bad because Ace is really into me. I wonder if a bust-up will bust up the band. Oh, well, we're not getting anywhere anyway, playing for beer and tips. He turned and looked at Ace. He's really huge, Phil thought, looking over the six feet and three inches. He always has to have his feet uncovered; Phil smiled at the sight. And he loves me. It's going to hurt him. He turned away and thought about getting up. It's not that late; I could walk to Georgetown and then get a bus; I can make it to my place.

Phil jumped with a start when Ace's arm wrapped around his waist. “Where do you think you're going?” Ace asked, pulling Phil back into bed. Ace smothered Phil's answer with a kiss and proceeded to fuck him. It was an efficient, thorough, and fairly quick procedure; the romance was all on Ace's side of the equation. “If this isn't love, it's the next best thing,” Ace said relaxing at the conclusion.

It isn't love, Phil thought, but it's a very good thing. Phil snuggled against Ace, his demons quieted. The bed felt more comfortable, the blanket wasn't as heavy, and Ace had a nice cock. “Are you still hard?” Phil asked as played with Ace's still somewhat stiff dick.

“I could be ... maybe ... if we hadn't already fucked each other ... if I weren't dead tired ... if you sucked me a little.” Ace yawned without serious interest in seeing what would come next. Phil did suck a little but nothing happened. Ace's cock continued to soften as Ace fell back asleep.

Phil lay on the pillow ready for sleep himself. Then he heard the muffled buzz of his phone. He stood naked in the bedroom and got it out of his jacket pocket. “Come tomorrow night at 9,” Art said. “Got a surprise 4 u.” Phil didn't respond; he was working the next night. He needed to think.
 
And our boys and gals are back!

Just enjoying all of the developing relationships and situations.

It will be interesting to see how things develop - minus Art would be even better.
 
Chapter Thirteen


It was late and they had just finished dinner. “Let's stop at the bar for a night cap. Want to?” Lucky was being as charming and solicitous as he could manage. Janice had no illusions regarding Lucky's intentions and was willing to be charmed and solicited.

“Ok, but just one. You don't want me falling asleep in the middle of anything.” It was a blatant reference to what Janice expected and Lucky hoped would come next. Janice carried a small purse in front of her in both hands, carrying it that way made the neckline of her top gap a little, inviting glances. Lucky looked like he wanted to dive in. Janice smiled and pretended not to notice the close inspection of her black brassiere.

She sat at the crowded bar and Lucky stood by her side. The Guards had begun its life as an expensive saloon, a relatively quiet place whose prices kept the teenaged hoards roaming Georgetown focused elsewhere. In recent years, as its clientele aged, it offered a more and more serious menu. Four seats away there was a well known senator being treated to something brown in a glass by a man wearing the lobbyist's blue suit uniform. Another face at the bar looked familiar, but Lucky couldn't come up with a name, somebody in the media, he guessed. It was that kind of a place.

The small glasses of port arrived with a small plate of cheese bits. “So, again, congratulations on the new job, Janice.” Lucky raised his glass. He looked into her eyes and then down into her top. He quickly caught himself, but it was too late. Girls know when they're being scoped out.

Janice smiled and clinked glasses. “I truly appreciate what you have done for me. I've dusted my last harvester.” She would have done anything to get out of her menial job in an exhibition hall of antique agricultural equipment. A decent dinner was in fact more than she expected Lucky to offer. She crossed her legs and let her knee press against Lucky's thigh.


Phil was finishing their early and only set of the night with disappointment; they were warming up a nonexistent crowd for some new punk group. “We are so much better than these creeps,” he told Ace as they put away their guitars. “Look at them! Nobody dresses that way anymore.”

“The people drinking do. They look like Seattle fifteen years ago.” Ace accepted Idylls of the King's lesser position. “Hey, thanks,” he said as the one guy who had been listening to them fed the tip jar.

“You make the band, you know, Ace? Ok if I call you Ace? I could listen to you all night.” The little bit of fan worship brought a bigger grin to Ace's face. ”Can I buy you a drink?”

Ace looked at Phil who answered with a why-not shrug. Phil pulled out his phone and texted “couldn't make 9 howz 10?” Art immediately returned, “10 is ok.”

Phil planned for a quick uncomplicated fuck with Art while Ace cultivated his fan. Fuck Ace, Phil thought and then realized that he was a little jealous. At least Ace has a fan; that's more than I have, he thought as he walked to his apartment. He dropped his guitar and headed for Art's place immediately. Ok, he thought, to hell with a shower, he gets me a little stinky tonight. Jeez, look at all the cop cars, DC is hopping for a Tuesday. As Phil got to Art's building, a young man in cuffs was led out by two cops. A third cop stopped Phil.

“Can I see some ID, please. Do you live here, sir?” The Washington police were skilled at being polite while making sure you knew they didn't mean it.

“No, I was going to visit a friend,” Phil said. He handed his New Jersey driver's license to the cop.

“Which apartment?” the cops demanded.

“The guy's name is Art, in 302,” Phil replied.

“Marty? Here's another one,” the cop called to one of the men who had led the young man out in cuffs.

Phil was taken to the Second District Police Station in a closed van. The station house was on Idaho Avenue, close enough that walking would have been more efficient. He was alone in the van and uncuffed. The ride was uncomfortable and he banged his head twice on the side of the van. The officer observing him laughed.

“Ride 'em cowboy! A different kind of ride, huh?” The officer laughed again and then repeated, “Real different!” With a rubber-gloved hand he pulled a long dildo out of a bag marked 'Evidence'. “I gotta say, I don't know how you guys can do it ...” Phil said nothing and braced himself for the next traffic maneuver.

At the station house, he filled out an identification form and then sat on a bench waiting to be called for questioning. The young man he had seen in handcuffs was sitting, waiting at the other end. Phil nodded and the guy quickly looked away. “No talking!” the desk officer warned.

“Mr. Gonzalez?” someone called.

“Con-SAL-lace” the young man offered a phonetic correction. He rose and was shown to a room.

A woman sat down next to Phil. “Mr. Philip Scott? Can I confirm your address on Wisconsin Avenue? … And you are employed at The Sports Outlet on Connecticut?”

“I also play in a band at the Amateur Hour on Wisconsin south of Calvert.”

“I know the Amateur Hour. What band?”

“Idylls of the King, we're a Kings of Leon cover band.”

She looked at him hard. “Yes, guitar and vocals. I recognize you. Ok, thanks. You'll be called for questioning shortly.”

Phil took a deep breath and waited.


Tom sat with his feet on the rail of his shared porch, sipping an iced tea and watching his neighbors in the trees.

“Hey, cutie!” Debbie came up the stairs with something red to drink in her hand. “What's up?”

“I'm watching the birds. Either they are super-organized in a way I don't understand or half of what they do is a complete waste of energy.”

“They probably don't see it that way,” Debbie said, sitting in an adjacent chair. “Worry one is whether something is going to kill them right now and worry two is where can I find water within fifteen minutes. Worry three, and it's way down the scale, is how is my family doing. And somewhere in the back of their heads is a dissatisfaction with winters in Florida.”

Tom laughed out loud and grinned a welcome to Debbie. “Home alone?”

“I was writing down some weaving patterns. It helps to do that alone.”

“Warp and woof?”

“Warp and weft, is the current term. I'm trying to incorporate some different materials in the cloth.”

“Like …?”

“Copper wire, in this case.” Debbie explained the application and then paused. “A pregnant pause, as they say,” she commented on her silence.

“You have my attention.” Tom took her seriously.

“Would you mind if I consider you as a possible sperm donor?”

It was Tom's turn to pause and then he continued, “I'd rather have you consider me as a possible father of your child. I'm assuming it would be your child.”

“Yes, mine and Al's. I was trying to be clinical about it – so you wouldn't feel trapped or anything … because we don't want that. We'll take all responsibility. We'll make it legal and everything.”

“I want to say yes. I know you and Al will be great moms. But I'm probably going back to California in a few months. I don't know if I could just walk away.”

“Divorced fathers do it all the time,” Debbie countered.

“Yes, I know …”

“Mike is the other possibility. You two are the best guys we know. If you both say yes, I don't know how we'll choose between you.”

“You could have two children - or even more, I guess, if you wanted.” Tom suggested.

Debbie smiled to herself. “I can't get Al to think that far ahead yet. Could you fill out a medical form and give a blood sample to our doctor? No commitment; just a test?”

“Sure. I'd be glad to. That's the easy part. What about doing the deed? Do we need to …?”

“Turkey baster.”

“I think you have a misconception about how much semen guys produce,” Tom joked.

“I was referring to the method, not the actual device. Did you know I was married for a couple of years?” Tom shook his head. “He meant well. We were too young and I was pregnant. Then I had a miscarriage and we drifted apart. My fault, I guess. He really did try.”

“Debbie, I want to say yes. I really do. But I'd want to know the kid. I'd want to help.”

“I told Al you'd say that. Just the test, ok? Here's the doctor's address and phone number. She said any morning around 8 would be fine for the test. Ummm … and you should be prepared to leave a sperm sample.”

“I have to fuck the doctor too?” It took Debbie a couple of heartbeats to laugh.


Lucky was not distracted by the Audi's charms as he crossed the Roosevelt Bridge at an illegal speed. He hoped tonight's date with Janice would go better than the last.

“Maybe you just don't like women.” Janice's words tortured him. His angry retort prompted her explanation. “I don't mean that you're gay. Just that you probably like a deeper connection than a casual hook up. Why don't we take it slower … get to know each other more … You're very attractive, Leighton.”

Leighton, for God's sake! She sounded like his mother. His failure to perform with Janice echoed his disappointing night with Jasmine and before that with Gantry. He tried to remember his last truly satisfying sex and couldn't. Thoughts of Brent surfaced unbidden and Lucky banished them. I was young and he took advantage, Lucky rationalized. A little voice in his head whispered, “Once or twice is a youthful mistake. You spend six months in his bed every night.” Lucky turned up the radio and squeezed his cock. Fuck, he thought; that was ten years ago. It was meaningless.

He showered and changed into a dark shirt and a sport coat. What about a pocket square? He took it out of his drawer and Lucky remembered the night that Brent had given him the paisley silk gift. He quickly refolded the square and put it back in the drawer. I should throw that damn thing away, like the pictures, he thought.

Janice was ready and waiting in the glass lobby of her apartment. She quickly hopped into his car and complimented him on the jacket. She had a very pretty smile and a genuine manner. Jasmine could learn a thing or two from Janice, he thought.

They drove to the Old Angler Inn which was up the Potomac on the Maryland side and had a reputation for being a romantic trysting place. The reputation was an old one and so were the romantic trysters who doddered in, some using walkers. “I guess this place isn't what it once was,” Lucky said glumly.

“I bet the food is reliably good.” Janice was an optimist with nothing to lose. They were seated at a window. “Oh, Lucky … it is a pretty place. Look at the river. Founded in 1860, the menu says.”

“So were the patrons,” Lucky said, looking around the room. Half of the dozen tables were filled with geriatrics. “Look at the diamonds on that woman. No wonder she can't sit upright.”

Janice ordered a white wine to go with Lucky's vodka martini. After a few sips of his huge drink Lucky relaxed and admired his companion. The lighting of the room and the cut crystal glass refracted the burnt yellow of the wine onto Janice's face in a very alluring way and Lucky told her so. “The yellow doesn't make me look jaundiced?” she asked and her lightness further mellowed Lucky's mood.

“No, not at all. You look quite beautiful this way.”

Later they lay in Janice's bed. “No, just relax,” Janice whispered. “Don't rush anything.” She gave him a very pleasant and very slow hand job. The orgasm crept up on Lucky and he was astonished when he suddenly lost control and spurted all over himself. The mood, the vodka, and the need came together. He didn't complain as Janice scooped up the droplets on her fingers and made Lucky lick them clean. Lucky continued down the oral road and repaid Janice for her efforts. “Oh, that was nice,” she told him. “But ...”

“But?” Lucky queried.

“But you have to go. I need a good night's sleep for my new job tomorrow.”

Lucky got back to his place without even thinking about the drive. He was delighted with the evening and glowed with the memory of Janice. As he hung up his jacket a photo fell out of the side pocket. It showed a happy couple at a restaurant; it showed Lucky kissing Brent's cheek as they both laughed. Lucky remembered that Brent had fucked him for the first time before they went out that night and fucked him again when they got back. He quickly picked up the photo and stuffed it in his drawer with the pocket square.

He had kept the photo in case he ever needed it, if things with Brent ever reached an impasse that called for extra persuasion. Instead the photo shook him, mocked him, and humiliated him, ruining the rest of his night. The vodka buzz turned into a small nagging headache; his mood soured as he felt reproached by the modesty of his success; and his cock rose in response to memories he couldn't shake. He got up and retrieved the photo. He tore it into tiny pieces and slowly let them fall from his fingers. As the wind blew the last fragments out of his fingers he realized he was naked and freezing on his balcony. He quickly returned to bed. And then he got up and took some aspirin. And then he began masturbating, stroking the beast that wouldn't let him sleep. His frustration grew when couldn't come and he couldn't sleep. And then he noticed the first signs of dawn.

He got up, dressed, and looked at “Treasures of the Tretyakov,” a book Brent had given him before their trip to Moscow. It had been a wonderful trip. Lucky found a breakfast menu from the Metropol Hotel marking the chapter on icons. He remembered that breakfast perfectly. Lucky went into his pullman kitchen and made himself some eggs; he wished for a spoonful of caviar to put on them. He was feeling sorry for himself again.


Phil arrived home from his police interrogation knowing next to nothing about why he had been questioned. He told them he was paying a social visit and had no business relationship with Arturo Chang, as the police identified Art. Without much prodding, Phil admitted the sexual basis of their connection. The officer questioning him seemed disgusted at this and left the windowless room. Another officer had soon come in and resumed the questioning. Phil admitted there was an element of kink in the relationship. He expanded that into an explanation of the exotic condoms and dildos. The explanation was as concise and ungraphic as he could make it. The officer seemed interested in the details - professional, but interested. Then Phil admitted the fisting session and Art's promise of 'something else.' He told the officer that he had gone to Art's that night in expectation of finding out what the 'something else' was.

The officer dismissed Phil with the suggestion that he might be called for more questioning. “Why? What are you trying to find out?”

“We're not exactly sure,” the officer said. “We're responding to a complaint. Mr. Chang and some money are missing.”

Phil questioned him but the officer gave out no more information. He didn't act mysterious or duplicitous; it seemed that he honestly didn't know anything more.

As Phil was leaving the station house, the young woman asked when he was playing next. “Tomorrow night. We go on second, around ten. It's an early closing; we'll be done by midnight.”

As he passed the Zebra Room, the young man who had also been questioned approached him. “We need to talk!” he whispered urgently, with no trace of a Spanish accent. “Tomorrow. Here. At closing.”

Phil watched Mr. Con-SAL-lace hurry down Macomb Street in the direction of Massachusetts Avenue. He turned right onto 38th Street and disappeared walking toward a parking lot.

Phil was shaken. He went in the Zebra Room and ordered a beer. Two. Three. Nothing happened and the music soon became annoying. He went to his apartment and showered carefully as if he could wash away his memory of the night, of Art, and of Mr. Con-SAL-lace. He couldn't. He got into bed and shivered, waiting for his body to warm the cold sheets.

Ace arrived. He was a little drunk and stumbled while taking off his jeans. He giggled and posed naked for Phil, flexing his muscles. “How d'you like me now?”

“Turn the light out and get in bed,” Phil said impatiently.

“Okey-dokey,” Ace giggled again. There was no spoiling his mood. “What did you do tonight, hot man?” he asked with a kiss.

“Nothing,” Phil replied and kissed him back.
 
Arturo Chang, purveyor of rough sex and who knows what else?
Missing, along with some money. Did the Tong catch him?

It's really too bad Phil can't be happy with Ace.

Lucky - the eternal scum bag. I know, you've said what he is, before. User and abuser - he and Art would make a consummate pair.

And our best bud, Tom - always the responsible one. Certainly interested in the possibility of being a father - but really being a father, not a mere sperm donor. And always with a sense of humour.

Thanks.
 
Chapter Fourteen

“Nothing?” Ace asked. “All night? You did nothing?”

“No, nothing. You want to fuck me or not?” Phil asked hoping to distract Ace.

Ace's hands were running over Phil's body. “It's getting to be a real question, huh, Philly? Who gets fucked?” Despite Ace's coin toss possibility, based on his aggressiveness and erection, it was going to be Phil tonight.

Phil relaxed in the warmth of Ace's body, happy to avoid further discussion of his evening and content to let Ace take charge, hoping to lose himself in the thrall of tonight's version of his usually undemanding partner, eager to forget about his earlier activities.

“Well, I didn't do nothing,” Ace said. “That guy I had a drink with?” Ace's speech was slurred both by the drink and Phil's cock in his mouth.

“A drink? One drink?” Phil challenged Ace's version of the story.

“Ok, a few drinks,” Ace amended. Ace moved up and held Phil, just looking at him and smiling.

“What?” Phil asked nervously, throwing one leg over Ace, reminding Ace of what he was supposed to be doing.

“What, he asks.” Ace giggled again barely able to contain himself and at the same time squirting some lube on his cock. “You ready?” For a moment Ace seemed eager for sex and talk at once but then the sex urge won out. A little selfishly he entered Phil fast and began pumping away, straight missionary, long strokes, stretching and arching his body as he thrust again and again, neglectful of Phil's needs.

Phil didn't mind being neglected when Ace was doing it this way; he was getting long-dicked just the way he liked it. Ace was zoned out, totally in his own head, determined – and fucking with an edge of aggression. Ace's weight pinned Phil to the bed and shook him as he rammed each stroke in. Phil's eyes closed and he was swept up in the sex, the pounding, the flickers of pain, the melting passion as he opened completely. Ace went faster, breathing harder, trying to bury himself in Phil. He came suddenly and shouted “Nashville!”.

Phil's orgasm never arrived but he felt very much alive and satisfied anyway. Ace buried him in kisses separated by the city's name. “Nashville,” Ace concluded, drawing out the word.

“What exactly have you been drinking? Tennessee sour mash?” Phil asked good naturedly.

“He wants us to make a demo in Nashville next week.”

“Who?”

“The guy I was drinking with. He's a freelance A&R man willing to finance a demo. He's been scouting the area for talent and he said he liked my singing. I told him I sang best when you were part of the set and so he wants us both to make a demo.”

“Ah, YOUR singing … So you're the genius Simon and I'm Garfunkel, the talentless guy with bad hair who sings harmony and keeps you from getting lonely on stage.”

“No, dummy, you're the inspiration. I love you, plus you have half the ideas. And you always sing good harmony. And you do fuck like a happy bunny sometimes. Like tonight. I wish that was all the time. And WE are going to make a demo!” Ace squeezed the breath out of Phil with the exuberance of his hug. “And I think I'm going to fuck you again. You didn't come the first time. Of course, if you want to fuck your partner, the genius, well, that's ok too. Sweet Philly, I just want to make you happy. And then I want to make a demo!”

Ace's kisses had never really stopped since the first “Nashville!” and his reviving cock found its own way back into Phil's well-prepared hole. Ace always loved it when they came together effortlessly, almost automatically; he felt their bodies were made for each other. The parts fit with exact precision. Perfect cocks. Perfect asses. This time Phil came too. It was the end of a perfect night for Ace, as sleep closed in.

Phil lay back and then, feeling too warm, he edged away from the heat coming off Ace's body. Lying in the dying glow of spent passion, he pondered the true meaning of brains-fucked-out. If only the effect lasted longer; if only brains would stayed fucked out. Maybe that's what love is. Somebody fucks your brains out permanently. No, Phil decided, nobody's that good. He stretched and then hugged his pillow, hoping that he could fall asleep before Ace started snoring. Then, involuntarily, Gonzalez words echoed, “Tomorrow … At closing.” How am I going to get rid of Ace tomorrow night, he wondered. Then in his mind he pictured Gonzalez, slowly undressing him. Dark nipples, definitely. Sensitive. Uncut, probably, not too hairy, maybe only semi-hard, a little problem with wood, only gets rock hard right before he comes or when he gets fucked. Yes, a tight ass, he doesn't get fucked much, but he loves it with the right guy, I could be that guy, I could make him beg … Phil rolled over and felt Ace's ass, soft but firm, yielding and available. He applied the lube and tried for insertion, but Ace wasn't cooperating. Ace was passed out. Shit ... Tomorrow …


At seven-thirty in the morning, Mike and Tom sat at the table in Mike's kitchen filling out their medical forms. “I had pretty bad acne. You think I should list that?” Tom asked.

Mike laughed, “No, but I'm going to put down that I'm a twin. I think they like to know that even if it doesn't matter.”

“This sperm sample thing … how do they do that? Syringe?”

“God, I hope not,” Mike screwed up his face and squeezed his knees together. “I guess we beat off into a cup or something.”

Changing the subject, Tom inquired, “Matt is …?”

“Staying with Rawson, I guess. They're funny together. Funny good, that is. Neither one can completely believe whats happening. Matt's at the dazed and confused stage; but I think Rawson's head-over-heels.”

“You sound like an expert,” Tom commented.

“Not really. Once maybe. But any idiot could see what's going on with Rawson and Matt.” Mike didn't seem disposed to elaborate.

“I thought I was in love a couple of times. It turned out I was pretty much alone in my thinking.” Tom signed the form and folded it into thirds.

“Is California full of idiots?”

“No. Well, some. Why?”

“You'd be easy to love.” Mike finished his form and went for a jacket. “Ready?” he asked.

“Let's do it. Then I really need to get to work. We have new people today.”

The doctor's office was just west of DuPont Circle on New Hampshire, a location convenient only for local residents. At eight on the dot, they turned in their forms and then waited for further instructions from a severe looking nurse. After making them wait what seemed like an endless five minutes while she read over their forms, she said, “All right we need blood, urine, and semen samples. Come with me, please.”

They sat next to each other for the blood and then took turns in a bathroom for the urine sample. Tom came out first with the little bottle filled professionally and precisely to the measurement line. Mike came out with a silly grin holding the bottle filled right to the top almost at arm's length. “In case they spill some,” he said to Tom. The nurse didn't think that was funny and was further annoyed that the bottle was dripping wet.

“Alright, now for the semen sample.” She handed them another pair of little bottles. “You can use those two rooms. She handed them each what had to be reading material inside a large manila envelope . “Please hurry, if you can. The regular patients will be coming soon.”

With sheepish grins at each other Tom and Mike entered the two little rooms. Tom expected the reading material would be something the nurse would find arousing, something like People magazine or a Crate and Barrel catalog. Instead, there were two catalogs, Victoria's Secret and Undergear, and a number of hard core magazines, selected with the goal of satisfying most preferences.

Tom dropped his pants to his knees and began stroking his limp dick. He glanced at the reading material and found his mind off track, wondering if he'd ever need a bathing suit in Washington. That thought was getting him nowhere, so he thought back to his little crush on Darren. Thoughts of Darren, however, meant dwelling on a frustrating almost-affair. He thought of Devon, a matchless lover, if you happened to be a size queen, but remembering Devon's death was a disturbing distraction from the business at hand. What finally worked was overhearing Mike's minor commotion in the next cubicle: thumps on the floor, bumps on the wall, panting, and finally a cry of “Archimedes!” That got Tom hard and he soon filled the little bottle appropriately without help from any ancient Greeks.

As they walked toward the Metro station, Tom asked, “Archimedes? What's that about?”

“When he made his 'eureka' discovery he was supposed to be taking a bath. I always assumed he was jacking off in the tub and the eureka meant he was coming. To cover his embarrassment, he told the other Greeks in the bath he had conceived a method to measure volume, which he had actually discovered the day before dropping a grape into his wine.”

Tom laughed and loved the charming way Mike had of gradually letting people in on revealing, personal things about himself. “If I start figuring in your theories, I want to be warned, please,”

“Ok, consider yourself warned. By the way, the carpet layers are having a garage reunion party on Friday. It should be fun. We've had some great people live there.” The crowd of the Metro ended most conversation and they stood silently during the crowded ride until they parted at Gallery Place.


Lucky turned up the radio to hear Beethoven's battle theme from Wellington's Victory as he prepared to conquer Washinton. The Audi blasted its way across the bridge, rolling over the regiments of commuters with a hum of power that transmitted itself to Lucky's cock. He squeezed himself in the ponderous rhythms of the symphony. “Yes, victory!” he shouted at the traffic in triumph as he turned into the underground garage.

“Morning, Mr. Leavitt,” the guard called out.

“Good morning … uh … I'm sorry, I don't know your name.” The guard told Lucky his name. Yes, that's it. Good morning, Mr. Adamson,” Lucky announced genially as he waved and drove to his parking space.

Mr. Adamson smiled to himself and made a mark on the wall of his booth with a wooden pencil. “Asshole.” Seventeen times he had told Lucky his name over the years.

Blissfully unaware of how little things lead to revolutions, Lucky half jogged to his office. Ah, the magic of a pretty woman, Lucky thought. What it can do for you! Passing Brent's office he caught sight of his boss with a feather duster.

“Brent, what are you doing?” Obviously, he was dusting a side table.

“Alistair is coming for a visit.” Brent hummed as he buffed up his already clean office. “He's here for a provenance discussion at State and he's worried.” Brent hummed some more. “As well he should be. Half the British Museum was stolen from somewhere else. And the current administration probably supports returning anything iron to Egypt.”

Lucky could imagine Brent in a tutu as he whirled through the office. It wasn't a pretty sight. He tried to block out the vision. “Egypt?”

“Or whoever invented iron. Wasn't it Egypt? Maybe the Hittites. They were clever people.” Brent was preoccupied with Alistir's visit but suddenly zeroed in on a thought. “Bring Tom Kearny to the office about eleven, ok? I want Alistair to see what he's doing.” He buzzed a number, “Mr. Dragon of the British Museum will be here at ten thirty. Could we have a Type 3 tea service at that time, please? … Yes, thank you.” Brent returned his gaze to Lucky and liked the expression he saw. “No one will call you Luckless today. You look bubbling yourself.”

“Yes, thanks. I had a pleasant evening.”

“A new one, Lucky? You do go through them. 'Like sands through the hourglass, so are the women of your life.' I'm not criticizing, mind you. Not an employee this time, I hope.” Brent smiled indulgently, for he really did like Lucky, and the women were rarely a serious problem.

No one could understand Brent's tolerance for Lucky's behavior, except Alistair. Brent had once confided to Alistair that faithfully, for about six months, Lucky was his. “He may be a great actor, Alistair, and then again he may not be. But I will always believe that for six months the boy loved truly me, body and soul. He was too young to be so convincingly a liar.” Alistair's reply was uncharacteristically foul-mouthed; but Brent believed what Brent believed in all things Lucky.


“Al?” Debbie called into the bedroom. “I talked to Tom. He and Mike are getting tested today.”

“Are you sure you want this baby?” Al asked as she stuffed a wallet and some money into her jeans.

“For the nine thousandth time, no I'm not sure; I worry and get cold feet now and then. But I will want a child eventually. Why not now? We're not getting any younger.”

“We're not getting any richer, either.”

“We have enough. We're better off than when we were living in Boston.”

“Boston … if it isn't a colonial quilt, what would they know?” Al's annoyance with Boston proceeded from the fact they actually had to produce some fake colonial quilts to earn any money and at one point for six months they actually did lay carpet for Sears. It was not a good couple of years, Boston; but they were newly together and happy about that part.

Washington was very different. Tastes were much more fluid in Washington because of diversity and also because of uncertainty. Washington was all politics and policy; and, beyond that, people from every background, most of whom were the first really successful people in their families' histories, didn't trust their own tastes. They were easily swayed by the cultural dicta of anybody who didn't wobble wearing high heels or mispronounce Pouilly-Fuissé.

Al and Debbie, with Ann as junior partner, were in fact doing very well financially. Their decorating business specialized in custom fabrics and textiles for country houses. Stretching the term 'country' to include the McMansions erupting in suburban horrors like Potomac and McLean, they found lots of business. They were doing well enough that they had the time and money to be creative artists doing a fellowship at the Renwick. A child, however, might focus their efforts more on money-making. This possible outcome didn't bother Debbie, but Al still had hopes for a more creative life, more art and less craft.

“There's still that one little thing with Mike. You know ...” Debbie tiptoed around the issue and then hit it head on. “He insists on a traditional conception.”

Initially, on hearing Mike's requirement, Al was indignant but gradually she mellowed and then eventually came to think Mike's preference was actually funny. She still felt the need to protest imagined horrors of the brutal ravishment of her lover; but a little ravishment in a good cause wasn't such a big price to pay.

“That little prick ...” Al began, playing her role.

“Al, he's not little. The baby would be good sized.”

“What? You've seen his … his penis thing?”

“No, I mean he's tall – a good height. That would be nice for our child, if it's a boy.” Al wasn't putting her usual vehemence into the debate and Debbie smiled to herself knowing she was winning. Besides, Mike did have a nice 'penis thing'; that bit of heredity wouldn't hurt the baby either.

“So the question becomes whether you want to fuck Mike or Tom.” Al had to throw up another objection. “You'll be getting quite the work out. You don't want to fit in your ex-husband? Is there time for him?”

“Honey, it'll just be ten minutes. A clinical procedure. They're nice guys or we wouldn't even be thinking of it. But … it's meaningless beyond getting a baby.”

“So you would consider your ex-husband! I knew it!” Al wondered if she was going too far bringing up Martin. Debbie's ex-husband did show up on occasion and she seemed to have a soft spot for him still. She knew she was in the clear when she saw Debbie wink in that special way. Al tried to remember if she had washed the dildo after the last time. Ajax up the woo-hoo was no way to start the day.


Alistair was impressed with Tom's project and software. The presentation had gone smoothly and Lucky was totally supportive. Sometimes Lucky could be a little disparaging of work he wasn't responsible for. Brent felt that everybody had his best foot forward; despite their long friendship, there remained an element of competitiveness with Brent and Alistair.

“That was impressive. We've something like it, but it's not so well developed. And I like the idea of an international software standard,” Alistair said. “I'm looking forward to visiting his shop.” That last part came as a surprise to Brent.

“You want to see Tom's office? Well, it's in a warehouse a few blocks from here.”

“Yes. He's going to take me. Presently, if you don't mind,” Alistair said, smiling.

Brent saw the twinkle in his eye. “Alistair, I like that young man. Don't you molest him.”

“Brent! When did I ever molest anyone?”

“Me, for one. Every chance you got!”

“You loved it.”

“But Tom is … well, I like him. No, not that way. Alright, once that way. He's a fine young man and you're … more ...”

“Depraved? Corrupt? Licentious? Libidinous? Not to mentioned diseased? Decrepit? Crepuscular?”

“Crepuscular?” Brent asked wondering how something like a drink at sunset might matter. “Are you a vampire, too?”

“I just like the word. It sounds wicked. Its meaning should be changed to something nasty.”

“Mr. Dragon?” Tom knocked at the open door. “Are you ready?”
 
Rory,
A very fulfilling chapter -
Other than Phil needs to come to grips with his insanity. He and Ace work together - maybe not quite as balls to the wall, no holds barred passion as he dreams about, but that's not real life, either. Ace loves the guy. That's obvious.
I hope Ace fucks the bug up Phil's ass out of it, so they can be happy.

Lucky had a good time and is enjoying his orgasmic ride.
All of which bodes well for Tom and the possibility of taking their product global in a big way.

And, Mike or Tom - who will the father be? Mike insists on "traditional" insemination? lol. Is that for the quality of implantation, or a quick lay or three until the seed takes?! Take the Carriage house/Garage "relations" to the next level. And what about Tom, if he becomes the chosen one?

Then, back at the Smithsonian, and continuing on with the presentation and impending tour . . . quite the colourful self-descriptors our new acquaintance from across the pond has!
:wave: ..| :D :=D:
 
Chapter Fifteen


Lucky sat listening to Tom pitch his database system to Alistair. His eyes wandered over to Janice, who winked at him and then turned her attention back to Gantry. Gantry had acted very professionally when Lucky arrived, like an old but never very close acquaintance. That was nice of her, Lucky had to admit. Damn, he thought. Alistair is up to his old tricks. He watched Alistair's pencil fly over the page.

Tom's efforts at engaging explanation seemed to be going to waste. Alistair was in another world, doodling on a large piece of paper. It was both distracting and disconcerting for Tom, but he soldiered on, explaining the commonalities as well as the differences between his application as it ran at museums in Berkeley, Palo Alto, and now Washington. “So that, Mr. Dragon, in a nutshell is our system. It's fully scalable and shouldn't suffer any performance degradations provided the server is matched to the size of the user community.” Tom paused and waited expectantly for questions.

“Could you go over the part where you offer custom doorways? I wasn't sure I got the point of it.”

“Of course,” Tom answered and restated how the database could interface with other systems. He wasn't sure Alistair got or even cared about any part of the system, but this was a billable hour and Alameda loved it when he ran up the “other assigned tasks” item.

“Thank you,” Alistair said when Tom finished his explanation. He tore a page off his oversized pad and handed it to Tom. “A little souvenir of this pleasant meeting.” The paper contained a handsome sketch of Tom, apparently sitting in front of what might be a laptop. The head and shoulders were detailed; the rest of the sketch suggested an office. A little dragon figure in the corner was his signature.

“Thanks, Tom. I hadn't seen the full impact of your system before; I understand the possibilities much better now.” Lucky was being generous in his praise; his comment drew a surprised glance from Alistair.

“I'm glad to have had the chance to show off a little, gentlemen. We're all proud of the system. Do you have time to meet our new staff members?”

“Other pressures, I'm afraid,” Alistair demurred and Lucky nodded. They gathered up the briefing books Tom had put together and left.

“Well, that was something ...” Tom said to Gantry and Lisette. “I'm not really sure how it went. How are the newbies doing?”

“There seems to be a Janice-Lucky connection in place,” Gantry said showing no emotion. “Charles is bright and capable. I'm glad he's gay; he's very attractive and way too young for me.”

“A little young, maybe, but teachable, Gantry,” Lisette said. “Shelly's a whiz. You'd think she designed the system herself. And Doug is cranking out the work, but his homely little heart isn't in it, I don't think. That doesn't mean he'll do a bad job; but I think he may be the one we lose.”

“This is Tom,” Tom said into the interrupting phone. He nodded to Gantry and Lisette and they went back to their desks. “Yes, they just left … about five minutes ago, Brent … Well, it was a little odd. I don't think Mr. Dragon listened to a word I said; he looked at his note pad all the time I was talking and gave me a drawing of myself when it was over.”

“Ah, an Alistair Dragon original,” Brent commented. “Those are very special. When you have a chance, bring it to my office. If Alistair's star shines a bit more brightly, in time, that drawing may be worth a nice price. You should feel complimented; he doesn't do those for just anybody.”

Brent's “when you have a chance” meant now. Tom rolled up the drawing and slid it into a carrying tube. Just before lunch, he showed the drawing to Brent.

“Very nice; he has caught your likeness very well I think. Let me show you mine.” Brent extracted a similar sized paper from a large drawer. “Would you turn off the overhead lights?” he asked Tom. Brent adjusted the window blinds to further dim the room. He laid the drawings side by side as Tom returned to the desk.

Tom looked at the drawings. The sketch of Brent must have been some years old; Brent looked very young. “Now,” Brent said, “Let me show you something … “ He shined a short square flashlight on the drawing of himself. “It's a version of ultra-violet light.”

Tom's mouth fell open. The drawing, which showed a bust of Brent in a setting that suggested an artist's studio, changed. It became a nude of Brent lying on a daybed; it was a very rapturous, post-orgasmic Brent, displaying an erection streaked with semen. The nude fully incorporated the original drawing. As Brent flashed the light on and off, both versions looked fully realized as individual but radically different drawings

“That was exactly what I saw in you the night we were together,” Tom said. “I don't know how old this drawing is, but you are the same.”

“I'm not, but it's nice of you to say so. Are you ready to see what he did to you?”

Tom's eyes never left the table. He nodded and Brent moved he light. Tom's head and shoulders turned into a version of Rodin's Thinker. The drawing was of a hunky nude sitting and pondering a computer. Nude and handsome he was; but his cock lay between his legs. It was soft and suggestive, not rampant and sexual as Brent's image was. Tom blinked in disbelief.

“And that is a perfect rendition of you - the way people see you.” Brent flashed the light on and off letting Tom appreciate the skill of the artist.

After a few minutes of looking at both drawings, Brent opened the blinds and ended the viewing. “So save that drawing, Tom. As far as I know, there are only a couple dozen of these drawings. I believe they will become as iconic as Hockney or Warhol in a few years.”

“How does he do it? How does he do the invisible part?”

“Nobody knows what the eye of an artist sees, except as the vision is reflected in his work. But he does it. Technically he just switches pens, but how he sees what he's doing, I don't know. And he doesn't know either. He says he sees it but knows it isn't there. Some eye-brain abnormality? Who knows?”

“He makes me look awfully good.”

“Tom, you are awfully good. Without being pretty, you are one of the sexiest people I've ever seen. That fact you don't believe it is part of your appeal.”

Tom rerolled the drawing and left. As he walked out of the office suite, Lucky's secretary watched him go past. “Whew!” she said to Lucky and fanned herself with her hands. “Isn't he something!”


Phil sort of lied. He told Ace he was going to get some arrangements from an archive at the Library of Congress for them to work on for the demo. “I'll be late, Phil. You know how inefficient that place is. Wait, wait, wait … the reading room closes at midnight, but then there's copying at Kinko's and all that. I'll be super late.”

Phil, in fact was going to do all those things but he expected to complete them by nine. He would be super late, but not because of any backlog at Kinko's. He had other plans.

Close to two o'clock, he sat nervously at the Zebra Room, slowly shredding a paper coaster that advertised Bud Light, trying to make his beer last, and waiting for Gonzalez.

“Let's go,” Gonzalez whispered. Phil never saw him come in, he just heard the urgent whisper in his ear.

“Where are we going?” Phil asked as they left the bar.

“Not far. Art's place.”

“Why? Is he back? Uh … Gonzalez?”

“Call me Serge.” The former Gonzalez pronounced it Sair-gay.

“Very Hispanic,” Phil couldn't help himself. “This isn't the way.”

“Back door. I think the cops are watching the front door. We'll walk around the block first.”

“Won't they be watching both doors?”

“DC cops,” Serge said as if that explained everything.

They walked quickly without talking. Phil gauged that Serge was his size; he might have a chance in a fight. Serge's trousers and a long-sleeved shirt didn't reveal any ominous bulges. I guess he could have a knife strapped to his leg or something, Phil thought; Hispanics liked knives, didn't they? What about Russo-Hispanics?

They entered the rear parking lot of the building next to Art's and then climbed a low fence. Once in the correct parking lot they walked briskly to the back door. Serge produced a key that worked and they entered the building. They used the stairs instead of the elevator. Serge put a finger to his lips after Phil carelessly let the stairway door slam. They walked to Art's apartment and the key worked again. They entered. There was a slight smell of stale poppers in the air.

“What are we doing?” Phil whispered.

“I'm seeing if Art's story checks out. For one thing we're supposed to be clones of each other.”

“Dude!” Phil pointed to his own face and then Serge's. Even in just the light from the street they looked radically different.

“In every other way. In every important way,” Serge said. “Same height. Same build. Same ...” He let his actions finish the sentence. He grabbed Phil's cock and gently squeezed, feeling for size. “Same cock, too, it feels like. See?” He took Phil's hand and put it on the front of his pants, letting Phil judge for himself.

“Yeah? So?” Phil felt Serge's cock respond to his touch.

“You like getting fucked. So do I. And Art liked fucking us.”

“Again … so what?” Phil demanded defensively.

“The trouble was … he was a little lacking in the dick department. He knew he wasn't what we were really looking for.”

“I thought he was plenty hot.”

“You wouldn't have after another time or two.”

“Yeah, well ... I do get bored easily,” Phil admitted.

“So he had some ideas about what we could do together.” Serge's tone became more gentle.

“The three of us?” Phil couldn't help sounding eager.

“He wanted to see if there was a way for two guys to fuck each other. Unzip your pants, I want to compare dicks.”

“Isn't that kind of what twelve year old kids do?” There wasn't enough light for Serge to see Phil roll his eyes at the idea but Phil could see Serge open his own pants.

“Get me hard,” Serge demanded as he popped the buttons on Phil's jeans.

After a little mutual masturbation, Phil commented, “Totally different. You're uncut.”

“About the same size, though … length and thickness I mean,” Serge guessed. “So … is it true that you mostly like getting fucked?”

“I guess. Yeah, it is,” Phil decided truth wouldn't hurt anything.

“Me, too; it's the only way I can come.”

“You sure about that? You like what I'm doing to you right now, don't you?” Phil was stroking Serge's hard cock.

“Yeah, but I won't come. You'd have to fuck me.”

“I can do that, if you want,” Phil offered.

“No, that's not why we're here. We're looking for something else. Something Art was making ...”

“Ah, the famous 'something else' that Art talked about. What is it? Exactly what are we looking for?””

“I'm not sure … Just start looking … for anything that might work.” Serge backed away and zipped up. “Ooow,” he complained as he stuffed his still erect cock into his pants.

They began the search in the bedroom, which was darker than the room that faced the street. It was hard to see. The closet contained nothing but clothes, shoes, and a small suitcase. Phil unzipped the cloth suitcase and found a collection of dildos.

“Dildos, but nothing special about them,” he called to Serge. “Wait. Here's a double headed one. Interesting, but I'm not sure how to use it.”

“Ideally, you need a third person, who can piston it back and forth between the two guys who are on the ends. Or girls, I guess,” Serge explained.

“Dude, you should write a manual.” Phil continued going through the closet and then stopped. “My cock is still hard, you know? Is yours?” Phil made it an invitation.

“Keep looking.” Serge didn't want to be distracted from his search of dresser drawers.

“Nothing in the closet,” Phil said. He came up behind serge and cupped Serge's ass in his hands. Serge didn't object even as he bent over to check the lower drawers. His search was unsuccessful.

“What do you think we're looking for? Any ideas at all?” Phil enjoyed feeling Serge's ass. “I gotta tell you, you're built for fucking … you're just right.”

“It's gotta be something like that double dildo Some way the two of us could get fucked at once,” Serge speculated.

“Serge?”

“What?”

“I gotta tell you I thought you were gonna kill me or something. I had no idea what this was gonna be tonight.”

“You're an idiot. How could we fuck each other if I killed you? Art, now there's your killer. Art smile watching us die if it would get him off.” Serge changed the subject. “Let's look at those dildos again.”

“How did I know you wanted sex? You could have wanted to kill me.” Phil opened the suitcase of plastic and rubber oddities.

“Then why did you decide to meet me?”

“I … uh … well … I kind of ...” Phil had no answer.

“I can see we're getting no where,” Serge said. “I'm gonna have to fuck some sense into you.”

“I thought you only bottomed,” Phil said as Serge's push sent him back onto the bed.

“I only come if I'm bottoming. I fuck just fine – from your point of view.” Serge got the lube out of Art's night stand and turned back to Phil. Phil was already naked and smiling.


“Will you marry me?” Rawson asked, out of breath.

“No, of course not.” Matt gasped; his look said a crazy person is asking me questions practically in the middle of my orgasm.

“Just testing. Making sure you're listening to me.” Rawson slowly withdrew his cock and moved to Matt's side. “Why did my computer open on the Morris Mechanic Theatre website?”

“There's a small company in Baltimore that was trying to mount a production of 'Henry V.' But they can't get up the money to reopen that theatre.”

“A 'Henry V', huh? No nudity in that one.”

“Well, in this version, there was going to be a flashback to Prince Hal's younger days. It would ambiguously suggested that Prince Hal and Fluellen were lovers as young teens. Misha Medoff and I were being considered for the parts. The nudity was problematic because ...”

“Matt, your next role should be a voice-over for a fried chicken or something. You don't have to take your clothes off at the drop of ...”

“I have to actually get cast in some kind of part in order to do anything, Rawson. Are you going to get touchy over incidental nudity? That's what it would have been in this play.”

“No. I'm going to get touchy because you are a capable actor and you don't need to pander to fruitcake directors who only want to exploit your body. You might as well strip at the Omega.”

“Rawson, you rascal. What do you know about the Omega?” Matt was surprised Rawson knew about the gay strip club; he was sure Rawson had never been there.

“Oh, Matt. Don't joke. You're so good and you want to throw it away on trash.” Rawson held Matt tight and was relieved to feel little kisses on his neck; he was afraid that he had overstepped, that Matt would feel threatened by his interference. “Never mind. If you want to have sex on a float in the gay pride parade, go ahead. I'll still marry you.”

“You heard about that? I was in drag. I thought nobody would recognize me.”

Rawson felt a physical ache for Matt. It never seemed to stop since they began sleeping together. A co-worker had noticed it at work. Rawson rolled onto his back and put his hands behind his head on the pillow. Matt snuggled up close alongside.

“Maybe I should go back to school and try something else. I could be a … a … a marine biologist, that's what I could be.”

Instead of informing Matt that US schools were turning out thousands of marine biologists a year to meet the demand for about a dozen, Rawson said, “You'd be the best marine biologist since Jonah. ”

“Did you know there's some kind of octopus that has a detachable penis?” Matt attempt at humor still sounded discouraged; trying to make light of his unemployment wasn't working.

“Poor octopus. What if he damaged it? Or misplaced it? I tried celibacy and it sucks, believe me.”

Matt smiled and kissed Rawson. “What am I going to do, Rawson? I can't sit around on my ass much longer waiting for Matthew Warchus to call. The garage apartment shines. I'm getting on Mike's nerves. I'm getting on your nerves.”

“I have no nerves left. I think you fucked them out of me, Matt. I'm so laid back these days I could ignore a troop of gay Marines bivouacked on the porch. You're not getting on my nerves.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don't. The only thing about you that bothers me is that you aren't happy.”

“Except I am happy. I love being here when you get home. I love sleeping in your bed, not the sex, just being with you. Yes, the sex is great, too. But I'm not … not what?” Matt pondered. “I'm not house husband material.”

Rawson took Matt's unhappiness seriously. A degree in English with Shakespearian acting experience, he thought. Ok, not much acting experience, but in Washington one night with a flop was still verifiable experience – you could legitimately put in on your resume. He pulled Matt to his chest and wondered what he could do.



Tom's phone rang and he went into the bedroom looking for it. He almost never got a call in his apartment. Maybe it's Rory, he thought. Private caller said the useless message. “This is Tom,” he answered.

“Tom, it's Lucky. What about playing hookey tomorrow? It's the opening game, Nats versus Astros. Want to go?”

“We'll freeze our asses off. It's supposed to be forty-five degrees tomorrow. The Nats will lose.”

“Of course, we'll freeze. Of course, they'll lose. Want to go?”

“Hell, yes, I want to go.”

“Great. I can't go at game time, but I can at two. We'll only miss an inning or two, ok?”

“I'll be ready, Mr. Leavitt.”

“Call me Lucky. I'll pick you up.”

A ball game? Call me Lucky? Call me blown away, Tom thought. What has inspired this burst of camaraderie?
 
Rory,
I read this and wrote up a comment last night - I've been having some major issues getting into JUB and being able to have a PM Reply or thread Post finish processing the past couple of days.

I don't know if it's JUB, or FireFox 4 - maybe it doesn't like multiple tabs for the same place open - buddy list, main thread, PM/reply on occasion.

In any event -
Alistair certainly is a unique person - with an intriguing artistic talent. (And maybe X-Ray eyes?!)

Lucky is also changing - maybe seeing Tom in a new light - based on him wanting Tom to blow off an afternoon of work for opening day at Camden Yards, one can only wonder if Lucky is starting to swing back the other way in his tastes in the sack???

The review of the four new recruits with his "senior" staff in interesting, too.

Phil - and Ace, with a side trip to meet Serge Gonzalez - your typical bottom Russian Latin. At the scene of a crime. Digging through all manner of sex toys - the classic double ended dildo - of which I've read a fair amount in another Story - Trevor's Year, by Tantiboh - so I have memories of that tale to draw from in "fleshing out" this one. Is Phil going to get the stones to ask Ace if he'd like to try a 3-way to heighten their relationship? Dangerous territory - potential hot results, but whether orgasmic or burn baby burn, who can tell?

Matt and Rawson - there is a relationship that has a lot of potential - will they ever get past Matt's insecurities and Rawson's fatalistic attitude toward his past? How can Rawson help Matt break into legitimate theater, and become all that he has to potential to become? This thread intrigues me; I definitely want to see happiness in more than one area here.

Thanks for the update and, again, my apologies for not having my post take earlier.
 
Chapter Sixteen


The workday was over. Freshly showered, Brent sat at home in a bathrobe and sipped a scotch. He asked Charles how his first day had gone. “Do you feel like I'm forcing you into white slavery at the museum?”

“Brent, I'm an 'escort'. That used to be called white slavery.”

“Are you technically an escort if I've bought all your time?”

Charles knelt in front of Brent and nuzzled his cock. “Am I technically an escort if I'm not earning my money? I take some pride in my profession, you know. Have to deliver a good product.” He parted Brent's robe and put his talented tongue to work. “Have to keep the client happy.”

Brent took a big swallow of the scotch and Charles asked, “Can I have a sip?” He moved up and kissed Brent, pulling a taste of the scotch into his own mouth.

“That's MacAllan 18. You shouldn't be drinking it second hand. It's too good for that. Let me pour you some.”

“I just wanted a taste – it's much better than Listerine as a breath freshener.” Charles went back to sucking cock like the pro he was.

Brent felt the warmth of Charles' shirtless body between his legs. He glanced down at the boy and was incredibly aroused at the sight. He wasn't a boy, of course; but he looked like one, smooth skin, a fresh unspoiled look. What a beautiful fantasy! Except he wasn't a fantasy. “Oh! … Oh my God!” Brent thrust into Charles' mouth, making him gag as the semen spurted. Charles hung on and took every drop. The orgasm was intense, but short-lived, one of the disappointments of getting older.

“Your cum tastes like scotch,” Charles grinned. “I definitely like the MacAllan.”

Brent wanted to repay Charles but the young man wouldn't hear of it. “No, that was just welcome home sex. You get the big prize tonight. Later, after dinner.”

Charles' version of making dinner didn't involve a lot of actual cooking, but the microwave got a workout and the result was tasty and surprisingly healthy. As Charles worked, Brent resumed the questions about work.

“It was interesting. Everybody was very nice … and patient with me. I don't know nearly as much about art as the rest of them.”

“But you're bright and our collection is focused. You won't have to learn that much. The Asian stuff is well classified and the American stuff … there isn't that much of it.”

“There's maybe more than you think. Probably a lot of stuff that you're not interested in. Gantry called it crap.”

“Yes, that's part of the Smithsonian's problem. People donate crap and politically we can't tell them no. We have to wait until they're dead to move it. There's a bunch of it, huh?”

“Half the warehouse, Gantry said. Tom is going to propose to you that you leave some of it uncatalogued to save money.”

“He's killing his own business saying that.”

“I don't think he cares. He figures that you'll think more of his company if they can save you some money. Um, different subject. Have you noticed how hot he is? You want snow peas tonight?”

“Yes to the hot part. Yes to the snow peas.”

“Do you ever say no?” Charles pushed a lock of hair off his forehead and got some plates out of the cupboard.

“No. Not to you.” Brent watched Charles stretching to reach to top shelf of the cupboard and wished he had Alistair's talent with drawing.



They froze their asses off and the Nationals lost by 2. “The Red Porch is open. You want to have a drink while the crowd clears?” Lucky asked.

“Sure, I'm not in any hurry.”

By the time they got to the Porch, beer and peanuts were the only choices left and the staff were anxious to go home. “This was fun today, Lucky. Thanks for the invitation.”

“The tickets were free. And I wanted to get to know you a little. You're doing a good job. I guess I already told you that. Don't want to sound gushy.”

“Thanks again. I also appreciated you comments in front of Alistair Dragon.”

Lucky chuckled. “I'm not sure he even heard me. You had his complete attention. That's kind of why I asked you here.” Lucky paused and looked into his glass for advice on how to proceed but got none. He plunged ahead. “Tom, everybody likes you. Girls get all hot and bothered and you're not even straight. And they know it! Alistair would have taken you home to England if he could have.”

Tom sputtered at the comment and Lucky continued. “I don't have that affect. Not on women at all. To be honest, I was hoping to pick up some pointers on how you do it. But … you don't even try. It's just natural with you ... You're very easy to like.” Lucky signaled for two more beers.

“I don't know what to say. I think you're selling yourself short. Brent likes you. He pretty much loves you like a son. And Janice is not exactly sticking pins in a doll named Lucky. And Gantry – yeah, I know you used to be together – she doesn't hold a grudge.”

“But what gives you the instant connection you have with people? How do you do it?”

“I don't really know; but I know I'm better at it than I used to be. A couple of big things happened in my life. I failed to perform with a woman I had been panting for and, after blaming everything but the phase of the moon, finally figured out that it was my fault not hers. That was a minor thing, really, but it rearranged my head in a major way. And then the first guy I ever really liked was killed.”

“My God! Killed! Maybe I'm not envying you so much.”

“So when things don't go right, I first look to see if it's my fault. And I try to treat people the way I would if I might not see then again. Hmm, that sounds as if I don't give a shit. I mean I try to treat people as if I might never have the chance to be nice to them again. That still doesn't sound right. I'm not explaining very well. It seems to work, except my love life sucks at the moment.”

“But you could have anybody – man, woman, or … what-have-you.”

“I don't want just anybody. Yeah, I mess around now and then; but I'm looking for more than casual sex and not finding it.”

Lucky consulted his beer glass again. “I guess the other guy's grass always looks greener … until you look close up.” Lucky cleared his throat and picked another subject. “When I took Alistair to the airport he asked all kinds of questions about you. Not a steady stream, but he kept coming back to you. Maybe you'll be hearing from him.”

A waiter stopped at their table and asked if they wanted another round. “It's up to you, you're driving,” Tom said.

“See … just like that. Some guys would have told me not to have another, but you left it up to me to make the choice while reminding me that I'm driving. That was a pretty cool way to do it.”

“So are you having another or not?” asked the waiter impatiently.

“No thanks,” Lucky said. He paid the bill and they left.

They were half way to Cleveland Park when Lucky said, “I don't want to eat alone tonight. Do you want to stop for food?”

“Why don't you come to my apartment? Some girls, at least one of whom is straight, are having a little get together. The food is always good.”

“Everybody else is gay? What am I getting into?” Lucky laughed, not objecting.

“Not everybody, but a lot. It's up to you.”

“Tom, um, I'm not that, uh, innocent. Right after college, I messed around with three people. These were people who … could help me professionally. Two of them were men. There isn't much that's going to shock me.”

“What was in those beers? Lucky, why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want to be honest with somebody and I figure I can trust you. And, to be honest, it's not much of a secret. Most of the people who have been around a few years know.”

“People like Brent?”

“Brent was one of the two guys I messed around with.”

Tom had no idea what to make of this turn in the conversation, but felt he had to comment on something. “Did you feel that? That vibration?”

“The engine does that,” Lucky explained. “Sometimes it vibrates just right and gives me a hard on.” Lucky actually blushed at the admission. “I shouldn't be telling you that,” Lucky laughed.

“That's a nice feature!” Tom said, “I was thinking more that one of the cylinders is misfiring; but I'm no expert. It's something to ask about next time you get it serviced.” Tom stole a quick glance at Lucky's pants and said, “Maybe Audi should advertise that. Is that a pencil in your pocket or did you just get out of an Audi?”

Lucky grinned and decided there was nothing he couldn't tell Tom. “I think I could confess murder to you and you'd find a way not to blame me.”

“Some things ... no, I'd blame you.”

Lucky, following Tom's directions, pulled the Audi into the winding driveway of the Macomb Street estate, and parked on the garage apron. He had to rearrange his cock when he got out of the car. His Audi erection had never lasted this long before. At least Tom didn't notice, he thought, as he watched Tom walk up the stairs in front of him.



“Man that was close. I thought we were ….”

“... toast,” Phil completed Serge's sentence.

They had dressed in a frantic haste and left Art's apartment via the fire escape after they heard footsteps and conversation in the hallway. It didn't sound like cops, it sounded like people who were about to call the cops after hearing noises coming from a supposedly sealed crime scene.

They got to Phil's apartment and in the light Serge noticed Phil's souvenir. “You swiped the dildo?”

“There's something unusual about it. I couldn't see well enough at Art's. See? It's got these strange bends in it. What's that about?” Phil looked at Serge with an expression of intellectual curiosity.

“You look like a scientist,” Serge laughed. “A mad scientist. You should be in Rocky Horror.”

Phil laughed, too, and put on an eastern European accent. “I svear, Igor, he came to me in zee moonlight … He promised me t'ings … And he gave me zis fucked-up dildo … Vhat am I to do viss it?”

“You could shove it up your ass, I guess. Kind of the obvious first choice.”

“But look at the bends in the ends. What are they for?”

Absorbed in their problem, the two didn't look like men bent on discovering new dangerous perversions; they looked like a couple of college guys engaged in some juvenile prank. Phil saw the difference first. “Serge?”

“What?”

“Want to finish what we started.” Phil gave him a quick kiss.

“Dude ... kissing?” Serge recoiled. “No kissing. I'm not gay!”

“Not gay,” Phil repeated. “Sure. Tell me your an extraterrestrial and I'll believe that, too.”

“I'm not gay.”

“You just happen to like having kinky sex with guys a lot.”

“At first, Art paid me. I can only come if my ass is being stimulated. I can't get chicks to do it. I mean, some will, but it costs money and I don't have it. And then … he didn't want to pay me and … I was horny ...”

“You were gonna fuck me, back at his apartment. Explain that.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn't have enjoyed it. I wouldn't have come. I just wanted you to focus.”

“You got hard when I touched you.”

“Yeah, so ...”

“You were willing to do what Art wanted … with me, I mean.”

“I get so horny … and the only way I get off … I was desperate.” The frown on Serge's young face made him look even cuter to Phil. The frown slowly turned quizzical. “What? You're looking at me funny.”

“Art was going to make us do bad stuff, some kind of bad stuff. Are you still that desperate?”

“What do you mean?”

“This dildo for example.” Phil held the object in front of him. It was about two feet long with a progressively bigger curve from the center to the ends. “We could … if you want to … we could ...”

“...try the ride?” Serge finished Phil's thought.

“I'm willing,” Phil said hopefully.

Their sex started conventionally enough in Phil's bed with a little sucking. Serge was quickly rigid. “We are a lot alike,” Phil said, coming up for air. “I always figured that guys with sensitive nipples ...”

“... liked getting fucked,” Serge said. “It works for me.”

“Me, too,” Phil echoed. “Serge, before we get started … ”

“Let's just do it, huh? Do we have to talk about it?” There was that cute frown again.

Phil was very generous with the lube. The two ends of the dildo and their two assholes were dripping with slickness before he began. Phil inserted the dildo in himself first and a problem was immediately obvious. With Phil lying on his back, the thing curled radically around him. It wasn't going to be easy for Serge to join the action. Serge tried lying on top of Phil and backing into the available end, but the end of the dildo came nowhere near his ass. He tried a standing-leaning-straddling position over Phil and that almost worked, but it ached to keep his knees flexed and the bed wasn't stable enough to really get the slick rubber prong into his ass.

After a couple of attempts Serge gave up and lay alongside Phil, playing with the dildo stimulating Phil very nicely. The light dawned.

“I get it! We should both be sitting up and leaning back a little. Serge, get the cushions off the
chairs and build us a little hollow here. I'd help you , but I'm ...”

“... all fucked up, so to speak,” Serge spoke.

Serge returned to the bedside with his erection starting to droop a little and four cushions under his arms. He propped up Phil against the cushions and the utility of the dildo became obvious. He stood in front of Phil and then sat down slowly as the dildo entered him. Phil watched the changing expressions on Serge's face as the dildo inched its way deeper. His erection regained its rigidity and a drop of precum dribbled down the exposed head. Phil held Serge by the waist to steady him as he lowered himself. Serge's eyes opened and he looked at Phil.

They sat facing each other, staring, each impaled, with their legs interlaced, their asses so close to each other that their balls touched and their erections rubbed. Each movement of one caused the dildo to move in the other. And the curve was perfect for prostate stimulation.

They hugged each other to stay in position and squirmed on the dildo driving each other crazy with need. “Fuck me!” was the common cry. And it was just as if they were fucking each other. “Are you close? I'm getting close!” … “Come with me!” … “You ready??” … “AAAAHH!” … “NOW!” They clung to each other as they came, every motion heightening and reinforcing their pleasure.

“Serge ...” Phil gasped, holding his near-clone against himself.

“Oh, man … I've never ...” Serge had no words for the feeling. “I never even touched my cock!”

Phil sighed. He ached to kiss Serge, but had to be satisfied with the pleasure of holding him. Just as the moment was ending and they would need to untangle themselves, Phil's eyes got big.

“Wow, wow, wow … I've got it! I know what we missed! That wooden bench! If you turned it upside down, the legs would be back rests and it's the right length and width … We gotta go back!”

“Right now?” There was a whine in Serge's voice. He didn't want to move.

“No, not right now. I don't think I could walk right now, anyway.”

Serge was still taking deep breaths. “What I don't get is if this is so spectacular for us, what was Art's angle? What was he gonna get off out of this?” Serge rested his head against Phil's shoulder. “He's the kind who liked to see men suffer.” Serge's voice acquired a musicality.

“To tease 'em! Thrill 'em. To torture and to kill them ...” Phil joined the song. They laughed at themselves. “Is his delight they say,” they sang in concert.

“What are we doing?” Phil said, thinking that a musical duet was a pretty gay ending for straight-guy Serge.

“Hard-hearted Arturo had to have an angle ...” Serge mused. “What … what was it?”

“You sing,” Phil announced. “And you're good. I should have known. Is your name really Serge?”

“Yes, it is. Not Gonzalez, though.” Serge smiled and asked, ”How do we dismount, Tonto?”

“Carefully, Kemo Sabe. Very Carefully.”




Alistair Dragon arrived at his little house in East Anglia a little after noon. Alistair liked to tell people, especially Americans, that he lived in Little Snoring, although the house was on the coast and much closer to Wells-next-the-Sea. It had been a decent flight on Virgin Atlantic, but completing the trip home turned into more trouble than he wanted and there had been little snoring on any leg of the journey.

I should have stayed in town, he told himself more than once, but it was Friday and the cottage in Norfolk was where he wanted to spend the next few days. Norfolk was where Edmund lived and near Edmund was where Alistair liked to be, even in the dicey April weather.

To their friends Alistair called Edmund 'my right honourable lover' and as the second son of a second son of a second son Edmund had some slight claim to a distant relative's title. “We're the poor Howards,” he told anyone who asked. “His Grace wouldn't know me from Adam.”

Alistair pulled his medium size suitcase over the threshold and left it at the door. He was exhausted and decided to lie down for a couple of hours immediately. Edmund was coming for dinner and he didn't want to fall asleep face down in the soup. He lay back feeling a little dizzy and waited for sleep. Suddenly he was up and dashing for the bathroom. He almost made it. He lay on the floor, soiled and in pain. The pain was unlike anything he had ever known. And that was where Edmund found him.
 
'Affect' should of course be 'effect'.#-o

Proofread a half-dozen times and still ...
 
Rory,
Lucky bares all to Tom, Tom, the piper's son, in the hope of - what?
And, does Lucky really want to get his mis-firing TT fixed?!

Brent and Charles present an interesting pair, indeed.
Is Brent trying to help Charles find "honest" work, so they can become lovers, instead of a "rent boy" relationship?

And, Phil and Serge and orgasmic delight - now let's go get the wooden bench for true nirvana?! And, what about the missing Ace? Are they going to figure out what Art had in mind for himself, and invite Ace to fulfill that role?

And, what happened to Alistair? Severe gastrointestinal pains - did he swallow baggies of drugs to import to home and have them leak? Does he have cancer?
Is he alive or dead, and how will his lover find him?

You have a way of keeping us on the line, setting the hook in new and exciting ways.
:=D:
 
And, what happened to Alistair? Severe gastrointestinal pains - did he swallow baggies of drugs to import to home and have them leak? Does he have cancer?
Is he alive or dead, and how will his lover find him?

:=D:


Dry your :cry: I haven't seen the test results; but I'm pretty sure it isn't cancer. Probably just some nasty memento mori, one of those insults an aging body presents from time to time.

FWIW, "Memento Mori" by Muriel Spark is a great book.
 
This amazing story has so far run into sixteen chapters over three pages and yet it has gained no star rating. Why do people read this and not take the trouble to give it stars?

Come on guys - give Rory a break and give him a star rating!
 
^That does not mean that SOME of us haven't rated the story, only that critical mass of 10? raters haven't voted.
 
Chapter Seventeen


Lucky sat looking at a book in Tom's front room while Tom changed to lighter weight clothing. At one point Lucky glanced into the bedroom at Tom's mostly undressed form highlighted by the late day sunshine and shadows. He's gorgeous - wouldn't you know, Lucky told himself. Lucky turned back to the book but the words danced in front of him. He thought about their earlier conversation and called to Tom, “I'm going to get something for the hosts. Be right back.”

“Use the porch stairs, Lucky. And, by the time you park and all, you might as well walk.”

As Lucky got to the bottom of the stairs, the carpet layers' extended-cab pickup pulled into their parking spot. Lucky's quick appraisal was a lumberjack, a girl-next-door, and a mystery woman with possibilities. His conclusion based on the threesome was that buying something for the hosts would not be as easy as he thought. Wine? Beer? Food?

A flower shop with an attractive window solved his problem; ten each red and white tulips made a pretty bouquet. Ten? What happened to a dozen? Lucky wondered if the shop was on the metric system and then decided the shop probably sold ten for the former price of a dozen. Philistines are lurking even in Cleveland Park flower shops, he thought, remembering that Gantry had once called him a Philistine over some second-state etching that he liked.

The girl tending the cash register looked very attractive in a floral apron; she alternated between seductive and efficient. The minute Lucky thought she was going to proposition him she turned efficient, wrapping the tulips and processing his credit card in almost a single movement. She handed him his receipt and said, “We are getting in some wild roses next week. Thursday, I think.” It sounded like an invitation; the look in her eyes was captivating. Visions of wild sex in a meadow arose. Before he could reply she turned briskly to the next customer, “I have your order ready, Mr. Takahashi.” She almost bowed, a geisha in gingham. Lucky didn't mind the price of the tulips, which was extravagant, and walked back to Tom's with a smile on his face.

“Wow! The woman in the flower shop!”

Tom smiled, “Al told me she's married with four kids. She sells a lot of flowers.”

“Can you learn something like that? She's ...”

“A born saleswoman. I think my boss Rory is that way. She probably knows the effect she has on people … men … lesbians … But I don't think it's calculated.”

“There aren't any shops where I live. I have to drive everywhere.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Arlington, off Route 50. One of those red brick apartments they built a bunch of in the 50's.”

Tom was surprised. Gantry said Lucky always told people he lived “near the Watergate.” Truthfully, the north end of Arlington was near the Watergate if you didn't mind swimming the Potomac to get there. “Well, DC has its disadvantages, too. There are a couple dozen restaurants nearby, but no good hardware store.”

They began their short walk to Apartment D and met Rawson and Matt coming from the dacha. “I had no idea this place was so … interesting,” Lucky whispered.

Tom gave Lucky a little rundown on the residents, which served to depress Lucky's mood. “Everybody is an artist,” Lucky said, aware that his status as a bureaucrat was diminished.

“I'm not. Mike's not,” Tom said. “And they're not all successful, not yet, anyway. Matt was in a really bad play. Naked Shakespeare. They closed in the middle of the first performance.”

“Naked? Really?”

“Stark. The whole first act - and there was no second act. People laughed and walked out. Matt took it pretty hard.”

“Unbelievable. But at least he had the balls to do it. I don't think I could.”

Mike, three other guys, and one more girl rounded out the group. The strangers to Tom were former residents of his apartment, Terrible, Richie – with his girl friend Maggie, and Zack.

Terrible had a wild look that explained his full name: Terrible-horrible-awful Smith. “Yeah,” he said to Tom and Lucky, “The name? I used to have a drinking problem.” He chugged a full longneck and called to Al, “Any more Heurich's, beautiful?”

Al arrived with a fresh bottle and a coquettish manner that Tom had never seen before. “Just for you, cutie.” She handed the bottle to Terrible and explained to Tom and Lucky, “We had a little thing. Don't ask why. It ended badly.”

“The only bad thing was that it ended,” Terrible said, swigging down half the bottle.

“The boys, Terrible. Remember all those little boys?” Al reminded him.

Terrible shrugged, “They weren't THAT little. Students, weren't they? Some of them?” He laughed and finished the bottle. “I'm gettin' another.”

Al shook her head and said again, “Don't ask. I went briefly insane. Why are you looking at me that way?” she asked Lucky.

Lucky shook himself out of a little fog and said, “You're quite beautiful.”

From a certain point of view, Al was beautiful. She looked like a very pretty boy, not effeminate, just very pretty with a charming smile. “Oh my God, another one,” Al laughed and pretended to brush Lucky off, but no one ever really objects to an honest compliment. “You're pretty cute yourself,” she answered and went to help Debbie with the table.

After another round of remember-the-time-we-etc. stories, the old and new friends loaded plates at the buffet and sat at two tables. As they finished eating, Al called for silence and said, “I want to know what you three miss most about life in the garage. We'll start with Terrible while he's still able to talk, more or less.”

Terrible thought for a minute and then stood. “I miss Mike. We should have had a great love affair and we didn't. My fault.” Terrible paused and it was obvious he meant every word. He toasted Mike with his beer bottle. “My fault, never yours. I miss you every night.” Terrible slumped back into his seat and drained the bottle. “Al, sweetie ...” He waved the empty bottle at her.

“Moving along,” Al temporized, “Something more upbeat. Richie?”

“Well, I miss Mike too, but for different reasons. See, I thought I had this little crush on him ...”

Mike groaned, “Richie ...”

Richie's friend Maggie gasped, “What? You what?”

“After a bunch of frustrating nights, I finally put the moves on him.” Mike buried his face in his hands. “And we did it.”

“My GOD!” Maggie gasped. “You never told me …”

Mike was blushing, looking at Richie unable to imagine what he would say next.

“It was almost perfect. I actually loved it. But I say almost perfect … as in not quite … Mike, you proved to me that I'm straight. But, I promise you, if it's ever just you and me on a desert island, buddy, you won't have to worry about cold nights.” Richie raised his glass to Mike and sat down.

Maggie was shocked into silence. What is there to say after your boy friend tells the world he almost likes guys better?

“Well,” Al sounded astonished, “What more can we hear?”

Zack stood nervously. He was a shy painter of exuberant street scenes. He fussed with the cuff of his sleeve. “Um ...” He took a sip of wine; he coughed a little. He looked directly at Mike. “I was so in love with you. And I never had the nerve to say so. I'm sorry.” He sat down and took a big gulp of the wine and then took another.

“Mike?” Al asked. “What have you got to say for yourself? You sure kept all this quiet.”

“All I know is I'm going to bed alone tonight,” Mike tried to make a joke.

“No, you're not,” Debbie said. “Sorry, Tom,” she winked at the guy who came in second in the baby-maker contest..

Matt cheered and Rawson clapped. Ann smiled and Tom gave a thumbs-up. “What?” Lucky asked.

“Tell you later,” Tom whispered.

There was final round of drinks and then the party began to breakup. Walking down the stairs, Lucky heard Matt ask Mike, "You fucked them all???" and Mike replied, "Not Maggie."

“Man, not a dull moment!” Lucky said to Tom. “You have to tell me what Debbie was talking about.”

“Debbie wants a baby and she couldn't decide – 'til tonight - between Mike and me for the father.”

Amazing, just fucking amazing, Lucky thought as he drove home. The day and the night had opened his eyes. My life seems so gray and dull, in comparison. I don't know how they ever get out of bed… there's this sexual tension all the time … Tom's amazing. Al's amazing. Debbie – laying it all right out there. The twins, my God! Tom's body … Lucky again envisioned the dusk's light and shadows now revealing, now hiding a near-naked Tom ... He gulped and felt his Audi hardon beginning. Man. I'm so horny, he thought. He could still feel the warmth and pressure of Tom's good-night handshake. He wondered if it was too late to call Janice as he turned onto the Roosevelt Bridge.

If he had been looking in the rear view mirror, he probably could have seen the first wisps of smoke; but maybe not. It was dark and the wind on the river was stronger than usual. It was blowing the gathering billows to the east. He wondered why cars were honking at him. The sudden eruption of flames from under the hood explained why. He braked frantically and jumped out of the car. It looked like a small oil refinery was on fire as flames and thick black smoke rose from the Audi. The heat forced Lucky to a distance helpless to interfere.

The firemen arrived in a few minutes and did their job quickly.

“Do you keep this car at the beach?“ one fireman asked. “Whew! Salt air will do a job on metal. It looks like half the fuel injection system was corroded. You were lucky there wasn't an explosion. Lucky!” the fireman laughed. “Lucky's your name, too, right?.” He laughed again. “You're very lucky tonight. The tow truck should be here soon. Do you know where you want it taken?” Lucky shrugged. “I guess it doesn't matter anyway. The thing looks totaled.”



“I'd tell you to go fuck yourself, but it looks like you figured that out!” WHAM! The door slammed with a splintering crash followed by the heavy tread of feet pounding down the stairs.

The black dildo glistening with lube, had been the center of attention in the bedroom until Ace stole the show. Naked Serge lay in the morning light looking questioningly at naked Phil. “I guess that didn't go well.”

“That was my boy friend. He always makes a big deal out of things,” Phil said, idly waving the dildo slowly back and forth.

They heard the footsteps reverse and come back up the stairs. The door opened and Ace reentered the bedroom. He saw Phil's erection and snorted. He grabbed a guitar and smashed it on the dresser. It took two swings to finish the job. Without a word Ace turned and left, closing the door almost gently.

“He gave me that for Christmas.”

“Too bad, dude. It looked like a nice one.”

“It was a Gretsch. Great sound.” Phil sounded wistful.

So … are we gonna do this or not?” Serge pointed to Phil's erection and then to his own.

“Hmm, yeah, I guess, Why not?” Phil shrugged and then became more interested. “Lie back, I want to put it in you.”

There wasn't a lot of trust in Serge's eyes. “Ok, but nothing weird ... no kissing.”

Serge leaned back against the piled up cushions. Phil stroked and then parted his thighs, enjoying the sight of Serge's wanton arousal. “You're a hot one,” he praised, continuing to enjoy the compelling view. “You beg to be touched, just the way your balls hang is so inviting,” Phil said and Serge's cock began leaking as Phil tried different touches, soft caresses. Phil's hands started on Serge's knees and worked north. “How old are you?” Phil asked, feeling the light dusting of hair on Serge's trembling thighs.

Serge was already panting, “Old enough.” Phil eased the slick black intruder up against Serge's pucker and prodded gently.

“You ready?” Serge nodded. “All lubed up?” Serge nodded again. Phil watched Serge's asshole slowly yield, opening as he pressed the head of the dildo harder.

Serge was breathing shallowly, little panting breaths reflecting minor pain and major expectation as the black beauty penetrated. Suddenly, it was over. “Aaaaah!” Serge gasped and came before Phil got more than a couple of inches into him. Serge thrashed and spunk flew. “Oh, shit, I'm sorry,” Serge panted. “I don't know what happened.”

“You came. That's what happened. Kind of a hair trigger, huh?” Phil was scooping up cum on his fingers and forcefully feeding it to a mildly resisting Serge.

“I don't usually cum like that,” Serge said, swallowing the last of his load. Phil spotted a drop of cum on Serge's balls and licked it off himself. “Oh, shit.” Serge trembled and reflexively hugged Phil's head, holding him motionless. “Easy, man! I'm really sensitive after I come.” Phil licked his dickhead and he trembled again forcing out the last drop of semen.

“You're just a healthy young man. Very young, huh?” Serge again ignored Phil's age question and went into the bathroom. Phil watched his ass as he crossed the room and decided young kids don't have asses like that. Nothing he did with Serge would be called statutory rape in any jurisdiction.

Serge came out of the bathroom and timidly looked for Phil in the empty bedroom. “Here's why he didn't slam the door the second time,” Phil called, trying to force the door back onto its hinges. He succeeded well enough for the moment; the door closed.

They stood naked in the living room. Serge broke the silence. “If you want to wait a little, we can try again.”

“Places to go. Things to do,” Phil said, declining the offer. “But tonight, we should go after Art's bench. The dildo's good, but I'm curious. Gotta know. Inquiring minds and all. You up for it?”

“Can we try it out?” Serge was interested in the result, not the process.

“There's a price.”

“What's that?” Serge asked as Phil came closer.

“You have to kiss me. Right here.” Phil turned his head and indicated a precise spot on his left cheek. There was no response. “I'm waiting,” Phil teased and then felt the gentle pressure of soft lips. “There. Was that so bad?”

Serge said nothing but didn't look happy about the kiss. Phil's hands were on him. “See this? We're not completely identical. You're slimmer than I am. And less hairy. But your nipples are bigger. And if I tweak them a little ...” Serge sucked in his breath as Phil twisted the tender nubs.

“Ah, Phil,” Serge sighed, letting Phil have his way. “Yes.”

Phil watched Serge's eyes shut and his mouth fall slack. He made Serge gasp again when he took his cock in hand and Serge thrust his pelvis forward. I could get away with kissing him right now, Phil thought, his lips are parted, he's breathing heavily, he's rubbing his cock up against me. Abruptly, Phil backed away, leaving Serge hanging. “Get dressed, Serge. I gotta go to work. We can finish this tonight.”

He went into the bedroom leaving Serge hard, gasping, and eager for the night. They dressed and went out into the bright morning sun. “See you tonight?” Phil asked. Serge nodded and walked south on Wisconsin. Phil decided to be late for work and followed, lagging a block back. Serge crossed Massachusetts Avenue walking quickly. He continued past Garfield Street and then, without looking around, turned abruptly into the Russian Embassy. “What next, Serge Whateverthefuckski?” Phil whispered to no one in particular.



“We can't be certain until after the colonoscopy, Mr. Dragon, but from your description I'd guess it's colitis. An ulcer in your intestine. What might seem like sudden onset isn't at all uncommon. There probably were signs, but you didn't recognize them.”

“But, doctor, colitis … I've heard of it. Nobody ever described it like this. I collapsed onto the floor and I honestly didn't care if I died. The pain was ...”

“You're not going to die any time soon. The disease is incurable; and, if it progresses, there could be problems, but nine times out of ten it's a long-term condition you learn to live with. Especially at your age. Fifty ...” The doctor consulted his chart. “Fifty-four. Incurable, I say, but in time the symptoms will most likely abate somewhat. The meantime can be quite an adjustment. You will have painful and urgent diarrhea, but there will be remissions. It will probably interfere with your work since you will not be able to trust your bowels; but there are ways to work around that. You may not want to eat, and you need not eat your usual meals, but you will need basic nutrition and hydration.” The explanation continued but Alistair didn't hear all of it.

The good things, the light at the end of the tunnel in the doctor's ten minute explanation did not sink in, but the ghastly possibilities detailed in the written material Alistair was given were appallingly horrifying and sounded worse than a death sentence. The vivid descriptions of bowel destruction and the gruesome minutia of associated surgeries were more lurid than a horror film.

The following day Alistair addressed his condition. “Edmund, I could end up wearing one of those bags, with my intestines falling out … They call it prolapsing. What a benign way of saying one's innards will end up on the floor.”

“Alistair, it won't be that bad. Do you want some soup? Some beef tea?”

“I don't want to eat again. Ever. Yesterday ten minutes after I drank water, I was in agony and on the toilet for an hour. Water even! It's not worth it. I'm going to bed.”

“I'll leave some breakfast for you. All you'll need to do is reheat the tea. I have to meet my morning class but I'll be back sometime before one. The University of East Anglia can bloody well do with out me for a day or two.”

“Will you sit with me while I fall asleep?”

“Delighted. You want me to read to you?”

“Brent gave me a book of poetry by Wallace Stevens. There. On the dresser. He was happily married and worked all his life for an insurance company. Americans are so off-hand about things. Read 'The Emperor of Ice Cream' to me.”

The pain was less without food and the poem was short. Alistair echoed a line and chewed on the words 'concupiscent curds in kitchen cups.' The trace of a smile came and he asked Edmund to read 'Sunday Morning' next. Sleep came during the second verse.

When he awoke in the morning, Edmund was gone. A breakfast was laid out in the kitchen. There was a small juice, a few slices of toast long gone cold, and some brewed tea in an electric kettle. Alistair decided he had not yet fallen so low as to reheat tea and made a fresh pot. He felt weak, but the pain was gone

He ate a bit of bread and butter and drank a half cup of tea and then dashed for the toilet, where he spent half an hour in agony. Eventually, with great effort he navigated the twenty feet, returning to bed, still cramping. The pain came unpredictably in huge waves of varying intensity and showed no signs of stopping

“I love you, Edmund, but I don't think I can stand this. Not for you and not for me.” He spoke aloud but found no comfort hearing his own voice in the empty room. He wept and then reprimanded himself. “Tears are for others.” He lay back as relaxed as the cramps would permit. Life's only remaining mystery was how long death would take. His body already felt like some burdensome alien parasite which had fastened onto him. It would be no trouble to give it up, just walk away, leave everything. And then another wave of pain came. He felt dampness. The pillow was wet from his sweat or his tears or both. He felt unbearably hot and cold enough to shiver at the same time. Eventually, he slept. The sleep came from exhaustion for there was no relief from his symptoms that morning.

Edmund returned as he said, a little after noon and found Alistair sleeping. He sat in the room and read until Alistair woke again. “How do you feel? Any improvement?”

“Breakfast didn't go well. Not at all well, Edmund. The medicine isn't working.”

“Give it a little time. In fact it's time to take two more pills.” Edmund gave Alistair the pills with a glass of water and smiled as he took them. Alistair returned a weak smile and lay back on the pillow. Almost immediately the cramps returned as bad as before. Alistair was shaken, convulsed by spasms trying to empty his stomach. A small amount of dark liquid came from his mouth but the convulsions didn't stop.

I mustn't let him see me cry, Edmund thought.
 
Rory,
Another intriguing installment.
Quite the reunion of the garage gang.
Mike has been quite the man in demand!
And now, one more time - with a helluva'n end result.

Lucky - eyes opened to others' lives, and boom, his car, his new joy.

Things went about as expected when Ace found Phil and Serge in flagrante with the double ended dildo.

Serge - a resident of the Massachusetts Avenue between Dupont Circle and American University set, eh? Das Vidanya! Who is this person who calls the Embassy of Russia home?

And, back in the UK, our poor bastard Alistair faces what currently feels like a fate worse than death. Edmund trying to be strong for his lover.

This was an extremely emotive chapter, Rory.
 
Damn, this story's hard to write - much harder than the Alameda ones. :(

Maybe I'm attempting too much. I'm not complaining, gentle readers - I just though that you would like to know.
 
Rory,
You've got a lot going on, with a whole new cast of characters, in a city whose dynamics are anything but straight forward.

We're enjoying your hard work, immensely.
 
Chapter Eighteen


Phil got back to his apartment early after an abbreviated six hour shift at the Sports Outlet. His boss announced a decision to close earlier on weekday nights. Too many people are learning to play sports in street clothes, he complained. “We haven't sold two jock straps in two months.”

Phil stripped to his boxers, flopped down on his bed, and closed his eyes. I'm not going think about a reduced paycheck now, he decided. He wondered how tonight's nine o'clock session with Ace would go. There were several songs they sang together. On the one hand Ace had always been forgiving; but, on the other, he'd never actually caught Phil in bed with someone else before. Hard dicks and a dildo were hotter buttons with Ace than Phil had expected.

Plus Serge is such a cutie, Phil thought. Just how the hell old is he anyway? He had no trouble getting a beer in the Zebra Room and they're pretty careful about that stuff. He's got to be twenty-one; but he looks so young. Phil's hand rubbed his chest and paused over a nipple. He felt the familiar tightening in his groin. So easy to just ... And then a noise!

“Serge!” Phil rose up on his elbows.

“Hope you don't mind … You left the door open.” Serge sat on the side of the bed and removed his shoes and socks. “You didn't say what time, so I stopped early in case ...” He was out of his shirt and jeans. He stood there in odd looking boxers, winked, and then dropped them. “I was thinking about you,” he said explaining his semi-erection. He climbed onto the bed and lay alongside Phil. “You're not saying anything.” Serge turned Phil's face to the windows. “Right here?” He kissed Phil's cheek on the spot Phil had indicated the day before. “Now I've doubled your pay. Right?”

In the afternoon light Phil could see that Serge's body was more mature than he had thought; his arms and legs were hairier and, although he couldn't see it, he felt a nice fuzzy butt.

“You're still not saying anything. Is something wrong?”

There's that cute frown again, Phil thought. “No, nothing's wrong. You just surprised me.”

“Good surprise? Bad surprise?”

“Good surprise,” Phil admitted.

Serge sighed and lay his head on Phil's shoulder. His fingers traced patterns on Phil's chest. “Your nipples are getting hard,” he announced. “I can see them get all tight and pointed. Mine don't do that.”

“No? ”

“Mine just sort of … get a bump in the middle. They don't pucker up.”

Phil rolled Serge onto his back. “Let's see.” He used his mouth and teased Serge into a reaction. “It's a little puckered up. Your dick, though … that's rock hard and I haven't touched it.”

“You can, if you want.”

“Oh, I want. Believe me, I want.” Phil did his best, but his best didn't get Serge any closer to coming. Serge seemed contented with the action, but Phil could tell he wasn't really feeling it. Not until he fingered Serge's ass. That made all the difference. It triggered groans and thrusts as Serge attempted to fuck Phil's mouth.

“Serge?” Phil asked, pausing the action.

“What?” answered a panting Serge.

“If you're not gay, why are you so eager to ...”

“Gay sex is better than no sex. Way better. I get so horny. And you're a decent guy. I don't mind doing stuff with you.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to try out Art's machine.”

“Machine? It has no moving parts.”

“A simple machine. A lever. A ...what do you call it? A kleenah? A thing that's bigger on one end than the other? Like a piece of cheese?”

“A cleaner? A cleaner? A piece of …? Oh, you mean a wedge.”

“Yes. A wedge. I want to try that wedge. When can we go get it?”

“I think we should wait for dark. And I have a gig at nine. That will take maybe two hours. So, eleven?”

“Not 'til then?”

“You could try it yourself, I guess. But it would be risky. Eleven is late enough that there won't be many people around and early enough that it shouldn't alarm people in the building.”

Serge paused to consider that and the cute frown turned into a smile. “It's a while until nine. We could make sure the dildo still works.” His eyebrows rose in question.

Serge's smile was cute, too. Not a line on his face, not a wrinkle around his eyes, not much of a beard. How old IS he? Such inviting lips. Phil ached to kiss him. He settled for fucking him at one remove, spreading his legs, greasing up his hole. “Serge, my cock is a simple machine, too, you know.”

“I like the dildo Phil. Oh, yeah! Mmmm. Go it a little slower.” Serge looked rapturous as Phil began the dildo insertion.




At noon, after a difficult morning trip to work on public transport, Lucky rented a Zipcar for a couple hours. He hadn't taken the bus and Metro to work in years and had forgotten what it was like. Expensive for one thing. “How can poor people afford to do this?” he asked a bewildered and uncomprehending Asian on the Metro. And dirty for another. He felt as if he needed a shower before he even got Farragut Square, where the better dressed people got off and some desperate cases got on. He felt grimy and sweaty by the time he got to work and it was only eight-thirty.

The gesture was overly dramatic, but, when he got to his outer office, he fell to his knees and with fists raised, he cried out, “As God is my witness, I'm never taking the God-damned Metro again!”

The secretary smirked, “Oh? Trouble, Mr. Leavitt?”

“Not exactly 'Gone With the Wind' in scope, but, yes, trouble. Can I get you anything? I'm going for a coffee.”

The secretary was flabbergasted. Lucky had never offered her the correct time before. “A regular with milk and two sugars?” She fished for some money.

“Never mind, Lois. I've got it.” Her name was Louise, but she accepted the offer with thanks.

He returned with the coffees and asked her where she lived. “Brookland, near Catholic U.”
In reply to Lucky's “How do you like it?” she said, “It's convenient and safe. Well, relatively safe. The Metro really isn't that bad, once you get used to it.”

“So live near the Metro is your advice?”

“My advice?” Lucky had never asked Louise's opinion of anything before. “Yes, I guess it is. Live near the Metro and a good supermarket. The rest is easy.”

Shortly after noon he aimed the Zipcar north and began looking at apartments near the Zoo. The chatty agent at the Kennedy Warren, a huge old place, seemed to know the whole city. She sniffed at Georgetown locations. “Since they rerouted the Pennsylvania Avenue traffic, you can't survive there and work in town without a full-time driver.” She disparaged upper Wisconsin Avenue as a “vast necropolis.” Friendship Heights? “Well, the better apartments are in Maryland, of course, and you know what that entails.” Adams Morgan? “I assume you own a gun?” Capital Hill? “Such unattractive people live there, and parking's impossible.” Southwest? “So … sterile. There really nothing there.” Sixteenth Street? She just looked at Lucky as if he had lost his mind. “Well, that's such a … miscellaneous neighborhood. Kalorama would be better, as long as it's west of Connecticut.”

The only thing she didn't mention was the problem with the Kennedy Warren. It was it was equidistant between two Metro stops and convenient to neither one on Washington's frequent rainy days. Lucky was discouraged and went back to work.

“Her name is Louise, not Lois,” Brent told him. “Every place in Washington has its drawbacks and many are severe. Guns, while illegal, are not uncommon. I keep one, a police 38, quite deadly at short range.”

“Would you really shoot … ?” Lucky couldn't believe Brent had a gun.

“Probably not. Alas.” Brent looked heavenward. “Good luck in your search. Have you considered a house? They're not a bad choice.”



Edmund finished doing another washing of bed linen and underwear. Colitis was not a pretty disease at all. Alistair had been stoic before the colonoscopy and afterward reported that the sedative had been quite pleasant; he had scarcely noticed the people cramming a television camera up his bum. Way up, it seemed.

“Edmund, it was like the Paris sewers. It went for miles. Except the Paris sewers are in much better repair than my intestines.” Alistair announced his condition with more fascination than concern. “If I were the Paris sewers, I''m certain I'd be condemned. Inside I looked like a burn victim. Quite ghastly, impossible to believe, really. ”

Edmund was relieved that Alistair was almost jolly about his condition. “You got to watch the whole thing?”

“Not all of it, but some, I think. Those marvelous drugs made time seem very elastic. Doomed is what I am, but it's not the worst way to go, I suppose.”

Edmund thought that shitting and puking yourself to death was very much the worst way to go but kept that thought to himself. “So things are looking up?”

“No, my love, they're not. But there is a hint of predictability to the pace of my decline.” Alistair dashed for the toilet at that point and returned to bed looking ashen pale. The pain was plain on his face. “My mouth is so dry and I'm terrified even of water. Would you like to read some more? Maybe Housman? He takes a benign view of death and I'm not an 'athlete dying young', thank God.”

“Alistair, Housman's tragedy is so studiedly noble I can't stand it. What about something with a plot? I have a Michael Frayn book, supposed to be quiet funny.” And soon enough, they were laughing at the couple from town renting a place in the country next to a minor aristocrat who might or might not be mad.

“ 'Headlong' is right. The perfect title. Seriously-trendy gays instead of the married couple would have been funnier, I think. Reminds me of myself moving here, before I had you to keep me out of trouble. Out of trouble and very much in love.” Alistair smiled at the memories.

Edmund finished the chapter and looked at Alistair asleep. “I wish you a good night,” he whispered.

“Don't worry, my love. I'm not going to die tonight,” Alistair answered.




Tom waited until the carpet layers got home. “Wonderful party. Great food, Debbie.”

In answer to the unasked question, Al spoke up, “She's been pissing on test strips all day. I told her it's too soon to tell, but she's frantic to know.”

Debbie excused herself saying she wanted to talk to Mike. “She's going to try again, if Mike's willing. She thinks it will double her chances,” Al explained.

“I wish you both luck. Can I ask a question? You've lived here the longest.” Al nodded and Tom proceeded. “Would the owners rent out Apartment C? Why is it empty? The reason I ask is Lucky, the guy I brought to dinner, is looking for a place in the District.”

“To answer both questions, I'm not sure. It's always been empty as far as I know. I heard a story that something bad happened there, but I don't know any details or even any rumors. But, Tom, do you want your boss living there? So close? Liable to ask you to clean his bathroom?”

“I'm a month into a six-month contract. We're probably going to finish early. He won't be my boss for long. And according to a person I trust, he has just shown his first signs of being human. She thinks we should encourage him.”

“What do you mean? I'm not sure I want to live next door to a sub-human.”

“So far he has worked to advance himself without worrying much about what happened to other people.”

Al laughed. “Is that all? Washington is full of people like that. I wouldn't have any clients if disqualified all the selfish, scheming pricks in town. Lucky, was it? I didn't get to talk to him much, but he seemed polite at least. And the flowers were … are beautiful.” She pointed to the cheerful vase of tulips on the dinner table. I guess you could ask the agents. Don't ask John, though. Ask Miriam. I think she's paid according to the income the place generates.”

Debbie came in looking disheveled. “That was fast!” Al laughed.

“He's very single-minded about things. Not uncaring.” She smiled. “Just efficient. I bet he's a good engineer.”

Tom went back to his apartment and called the agents. He was too late and left a message for Miriam. Then he knocked on the next door to see if Mike wanted to do something about dinner; he should have worked up an appetite. “Matt!” he said to the smiling man who answered. “Is Mike here, too?”

“You're full of questions. No, he isn't. What's up?”

“I was looking for somebody to eat dinner with. You want to go out?”

“Thanks, but I'm cooking. I mean Rawson is cooking and teaching me to cook. Come eat at the dacha.”

Tom declined saying he had something else to do and was in a hurry. He returned to his apartment in shock. Who fucked Debbie? It had to have been Matt! Was Debbie so excited she couldn't tell the difference? Would Matt really do something like that? What if she is pregnant? Who is the father? Do twins have the same DNA? Man, it was never like this in Alameda, he thought.



Spent, exhausted, sweaty, smelly, if smelly is what you call the odor of two guys' fresh cum, Phil and Serge eased themselves off the curving ends of the dildo Serge was still eager for more. “So, I'll see you at eleven? And we can go for the bench?”

Phil put his hands on Serge's shoulders. “I can't talk yet,” he said. “Wait a sec.”

Serge smiled and gave him a kiss. It was gentle but lingering, full on the lips. It made Phil want more.

“You don't kiss. You're not gay.” Phil was mystified again. What was this boy doing?

“You've more or less fucked me three times. What's a kiss if you like it?” Phil got his second kiss. He tried for a third, but Serge backed away. “We need to save something for tonight.” Serge's voice was full of promise.

What a sweet kid. What a beautiful body. Phil was consumed by thoughts of Serge as he changed and walked downhill to his showdown with Ace. Mass Avenue … Garfield Street … What is his story? How can I ask? I don't want to ruin great sex over a dumb question. Fulton Street ... What if he wants a piece of cheese up his ass? What if he does? I can handle that. Edmunds Street … What did he call it? A cleaner? Phil laughed as he approached the embassy. A well-dressed man exited the gates. “Excuse me, sir. What is the Russian word for a wedge?”

The man was impatient but replied, “клина.”

“Could you repeat that, please?”

“клина.“

“Cleaner?”

“Close enough,” the man said and walked briskly away.

Fuck me, Phil thought as he entered the bar.

“Fuck you!” the drummer shouted angrily. “That's what Ace said. 'Fuck you!' Meaning you, dickhead! We are now a three man band. And we will suck without Ace singing with you.”

They did suck. The audience was polite enough not to boo, but getting ignored by a bunch of beer swilling ex-frat boys, when you're giving your best, was almost as bad.
 
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