The Original Gay Porn Community - Free Gay Movies and Photos, Gay Porn Site Reviews and Adult Gay Forums
-
Welcome To Just Us Boys - The World's Largest Gay Message Board Community
In order to comply with recent US Supreme Court rulings regarding adult content, we will be making changes in the future to require that you log into your account to view adult content on the site.
If you do not have an account, please register.
REGISTER HERE - 100% FREE / We Will Never Sell Your InfoTo register, turn off your VPN; you can re-enable the VPN after registration. You must maintain an active email address on your account: disposable email addresses cannot be used to register.
Change at Gallery Place
- Thread starter EasyRory
- Start date
rocabar
Contra Spem Spero
I would like to hear more about them, if at all possible- Y'all have brought me this far, and I'd kind of like to know what happens.
However, if they bore Y'all, then write them out, I guess...
Thks!
Rory,
Well, I finally got a chance to read your latest installment of our boys' lives in all arenas.
As for our erstwhile customs inspectors, I'd enjoy hearing more about them, and their shipboard and port activities.
Tom and Alfred, redux - I can hear the bliss in both of their voices. Alfred's mentor struck me as underwhelmed with his new recruit's demurred response to "tea".
And, the slightly more senior recruit of the same mentor definitely appeared to be doubtful as to Alfred's qualifications at the interview.
Here's to Charles haveing a wonderful life, and Brent the baboon getting his lonely just desserts. What a nimrod, to put it politely.
Tin Doll Tyndall may be more than a little "surprised" when he finds out he's the latest and greatest on XXX whores and bores.
Lucky and Mike definitely seem to be hitting it off - Mike just got the electrifying experience of his life.
Thanks for the installment and the details.
Well, I finally got a chance to read your latest installment of our boys' lives in all arenas.
As for our erstwhile customs inspectors, I'd enjoy hearing more about them, and their shipboard and port activities.
Tom and Alfred, redux - I can hear the bliss in both of their voices. Alfred's mentor struck me as underwhelmed with his new recruit's demurred response to "tea".
And, the slightly more senior recruit of the same mentor definitely appeared to be doubtful as to Alfred's qualifications at the interview.
Here's to Charles haveing a wonderful life, and Brent the baboon getting his lonely just desserts. What a nimrod, to put it politely.
Tin Doll Tyndall may be more than a little "surprised" when he finds out he's the latest and greatest on XXX whores and bores.
Lucky and Mike definitely seem to be hitting it off - Mike just got the electrifying experience of his life.
Thanks for the installment and the details.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
OK, based on the overwhelming demand (two requests) we'll keep an eye on what Phil and Alex are up to.
[Insert blatant tease.]
It's hard to say; but I think there's trouble ahead.
[Insert blatant tease.]
It's hard to say; but I think there's trouble ahead.
With international intrigue being involved, how could it be anything but?!
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rory had just put away his cell phone when Tom met him for breakfast. “I can't get John. He's not in his room and he doesn't answer his cell.” Rory was mystified but not concerned. “He's a big boy; I guess he can take care of himself. The trouble is I don't know what to do today without his details. Do you manage the project or does BFL?”
“I bet it goes the way Alistair wants, no matter what the contract says. Rory, about winding up the Smithsonian job, can I do that next week? I kind of made plans for this weekend.”
“Another baroness?”
“No. His name is Alfred Booth. He's an accountant in Norwich.”
“Where-wich?”
“It's a town near Alistair's place. An hour and a half by train.”
“Well, sure. You can pretty much do anything you want. The company will change its name to Tom Kearny Inc. if you get us any more business. Mark thinks you're our ace.”
“Mark … the CEO? I didn't know he knew my name.”
“He not only knows your name, I think he's planning to name his next kid after you. On that subject, you probably should get yourself a financial adviser. Your option account is getting big.”
“Yeah, well, those option things need years before they mean much.”
“Tom, as long as the company keeps doing well, you are holding some very valuable assets. There are tax consequences. You need professional advice. Remember Mark ... from our lacrosse games? He's good at that kind of stuff.”
“Rory, come on … a couple thousand shares? Is that what they call those option things?”
“It's serious money, I'm telling you … Oh, shit! What happened to him?” Rory rose and addressed the arrival. “John! You look like you slept in the street!”
John looked bemused and poured himself a cup from Rory's coffee carafe. He turned to Tom. “Your friend Fred? I met her at BFL. We're engaged.” He sipped the tepid brown liquid. “You gay guys don't get to have all the fun. This coffee sucks.” He signaled the waiter.
“She offered to marry me, too,” Tom laughed. “Um, you need to zip your fly.”
“Zipper got broken … happened during the detailed negotiations. Did you know she has a drawing of you in her office?”
Tom blushed. “Is it just me … or …?”
“Just you, unless you count the dragon. She tells people it's a concept for a future Harry Potter sequel.”
“Uh, John. What about the contract?” Rory inserted.
“Contracts … zippers … dragons … Isn't anybody going to congratulate me on getting engaged?” John poured himself a fresh coffee from the pot the waiter brought.
“Congrats. Now what about the contract?” Rory persisted.
“We form a joint venture with BFL. They own fifty-five percent; we own forty-five. Our equity is our software, on which we also get a royalty stream for five years based on installations. They contribute capital, premises, and personnel. Tom is Chief Technical Adviser. I'm on the Board of Directors and we get to name two others, out of seven total. Fred is the Chairman. Here's the contract, if you want to read it.” He pulled a thick file from his briefcase.
“John … this looks like a pre-nup.”
“Oh ...” he took back the package and looked for another. “Here, sorry. Wedding jitters.”
“Wedding? You're not divorced yet!”
“Soon, though. A month I think.” John turned to Tom. “What's your silly grin about?”
“I understand the zipper part; but what happened to your underwear?”
John could explain the zipper, but there was no way to tell them his underwear had been commandeered by Fred to clothe a goat. He rearranged his trousers as best he could and said he was going to his room to change clothes.
“Haven't you ever felt that way?” Tom asked Rory with a smile.
“I guess when Tim and I first got together … It's an all-new John. He always seemed like such a straight-arrow legal nerd. He looks like a kid - all flustered with his dick practically hanging out.”
“That's exactly how I feel about my accountant in Norwich.”
Six passengers boarded the Isadora in Cleveland and then eight more in Detroit before the ship turned and headed eastward to Gdansk. As far as Phil and Alex could tell, the American passengers were immigrants or children of immigrants from eastern Europe. A genial, social-security collecting bunch spending some of their hard-earned retirement savings on a trip to the old country. The Cleveland passengers didn't bother disembarking in Detroit. The ship was docked in Ecorse, a very uninviting, industrial setting, and just for one night.
One of Phil's roommates, Boryslaw, the guy who had commented on his ass, invited Phil to go ashore for a drink. The evening would not be a sparkling one; the guy's English was rudimentary and Phil's Polish was non-existent. The invitation involved a lot of hand signals and pantomiming, but the point was made. The bar was just off the gated pier area. After the brief walk, they had a couple of beers and listened to some rapper song coming from an ancient jukebox. Boryslaw made singing motions and, based on Phil and Alex singing once in the crew's lounge, said, “You better.” Phil thanked him and they lapsed into silence. Boryslaw eyed a tired-looking, middle-aged waitress and said, “I fuck now.” He and the waitress disappeared into a back room, leaving Phil with the bartender for company.
“You want me to call another girl? She can be here in a couple of minutes. Is black ok with you?”
“I'm good,” Phil said. “I just joined the crew in Cleveland. Not desperate yet.”
“Your first trip out?”
“Yeah. I'm a waiter for the passengers and a singer. The entertainment's pretty limited.”
The bartender sized up Phil. “Figures. You don't look like a sailor.”
“I was singing and playing in a band in the east. We broke up. Gotta eat.” Alex had warned Phil not to mention he was from Washington. It raised flags. “I'm hoping the tips are better than the pay.”
“Another Stroh's?” The bartender gave Phil a cold long-neck and busied himself doing the things bartenders do, lwashing glasses in water that probably hasn't been changed since Noah and wiping the never-quite-dry bar.
Boryslaw emerged from the back room. He tossed back three shots and washed the last down with a beer. Then he said, with the tone of an order, “We go.”
The bartender never looked up. He just said, “Good luck, singer boy.”
They got back to the room on the Isadora and prepared for bed. Phil was getting used to sleeping in his underwear, something he didn't like doing. He noticed Boryslaw was naked. Had he slept naked before? Or was he just a little drunk? Phil couldn't decide. When the lights were out, Boryslaw walked to the door and locked it. “We fuck now.”
Phil wasn't given a choice. Boryslaw could effortlessly dominate him as he demonstrated by ripping Phil's boxers off and throwing him into his bed. Phil decided to lie back and accept what he couldn't change.
There was no hint of affection. Boryslaw rejected the missionary position and roughly rolled Phil over and jammed his cock in. He held his hand over Phil's mouth preventing any noise. Still, Phil grunted in pain. He realized this fuck was going to be worse than he expected. And it was.
Spit for lube didn't prepare Phil for Boryslaw's cock. It wasn't so long, but it was thick and rock hard. The waitress hadn't even taken the edge off Boryslaw's demands. Straight fucking, in and out and hard. After a couple of minutes, Phil accepted the pain and felt himself go weak. Boryslaw sensed the end of resistance and took his hand off Phil's mouth, letting him breath. This move let him hold Phil's waist with both hands and pound him harder.
It took longer than Phil expected, but eventually he heard Boryslaw's breathing get ragged. With a couple of massive thrusts, Boryslaw came. Aside from the heavy breathing, he was quiet about it and Phil decided the worst was over.
The worst was over but the fucking wasn't. Boryslaw kept pumping. It was slower this time but just as deep and almost as hard. He was relentless and unvarying in his tempo. Phil whimpered again and Boryslaw hushed him with a “Shhh” instead of a hand over his mouth. Phil kept his moans to a minimum as the fucking continued. Just when it was getting to feel a little good for Phil, Boryslaw gave up whatever he was going for and roughly pulled out. He said something in Polish that didn't sound sympathetic, unlocked the door, and moved to his own bed. When Phil heard Boryslaw's gentle snores begin, he lost it; but he kept his sobs as quiet as he could.
It's not like I haven't been fucked before, Phil thought. And it's not like I haven't liked it a little rough some times. What hurts so much this time? Why can't I stop crying? The fact that he absolutely didn't give a shit? The fact that I'm just a receptacle? Is this going to happen every night? Should I have fought more? What am I doing here?
When Phil heard the third occupant enter the room, he did his best to stifle his sobs. The third occupant undressed quietly in the dim light from his desk lamp and noticed Phil's condition. “Boryslaw?” he asked, making fucking motions with his hands. Phil nodded. “Only one, maybe two times, then we be in Polska. He see wife.” The diesel engineman turned out the light and was quickly asleep.
“You look like shit!” Alex said in the morning. “What happened?”
“Uh … I went out drinking with Boryslaw. Too many beers, I guess.” Phil couldn't bring himself to admit what had happened and didn't know what else to say. “We went to a bar outside the gate. It seemed harmless. All he did was have a few drinks and fuck the waitress.”
“You look like the waitress fucked you!” Alex said, shaking his head. They now had fourteen passengers; their service duties were more work than they expected. Breakfast went for three hours and they had seven double cabins to clean and search.
The carpet layers complained that taking the roof off the garage had made their air conditioning ineffective. Al announced this to a sweating Lucky who needed no reminder of how hot the weather was.
“Do you and Debbie want to use Tom's apartment? I bet he wouldn't mind. Ann could stay with Mike and me. Or the Museum could pay for hotel rooms for all of you until the roof is back on. It should be only a couple of days.”
Al was taken aback by Lucky's instant sympathy and proposed solutions. I don't know why people thought he was superficial and unconcerned with what went on around him, she thought. He's almost as insidious with his charm as Mike.
Al herself had acquired a reputation for being a man-hater when she first came out. Everybody goes through some version of militancy on the differing paths to self-acceptance; but Al's way involved being brusquely rude to anyone with a penis. After a while, she tamed her feelings. The proximate motivation was the loss of a few contracts from men who were affronted, although she told herself that she really needed to be kinder to people in general. In time, for her basic bent was gentle, that reason became the real one. In Lucky's case, she actually liked him quite a lot. He has never once checked out my boobs, she thought when she thought about it. Just that one compliment about my eyes, and lots of people tell me that. He's so civilized. And interesting, too.
“You think?” she asked. “A hotel would be a pain for just a couple of days, but sharing would get us cool nights and make sleeping so much easier. And it would only have to be at night. I can't work if I don't get a good night's sleep.”
“You call Ann and Debbie and I'll call Tom and Mike,” Lucky suggested.
Al was on her phone immediately. She bent over slightly for the illusion of privacy as people tend to do when they're talking on the phone and Lucky briefly checked out her boobs. Let's face it, all men check out all boobs whether or not they have motives beyond general appreciation. Al was intent on her conversation and failed to take explicit notice of Lucky's attention. Subconsciously, however, she was aware of it, as all women are, and his glance registered as a subliminal compliment, reinforcing her fondness for Lucky.
The contract inventory work for the Freer was finishing up. It was tantalizingly close to completion, but that last one percent always seems the hardest. Consequently Brent still saw Charles now and then. He realized the mistake of the breakup and ached to have the young man back. The ache had a specifically physical component; Charles seemed more attractive than ever and Brent's dick sent him constant messages whenever Charles' ass was in sight. The psychic ache had a different cause. Realizations of mortality had become increasingly frequent in Brent's life. Was that a thin spot on the crown of his head? Was he getting a little thick in the middle? He used to get admiring glances from men and women both. They were fewer now, and especially fewer from men.
None of this had anything to do with loving Charles. It had everything to do with Brent's regard for himself. Brent didn't love Charles – he was right about that; but he convinced himself that he did. That was easy, convincing himself. Convincing Charles was another matter.
“Sure you miss the sex and the convenience, Brent. But you don't miss me, not really.” That was Charles answer to Brent's first attempt at reconciliation.
“How do I like my coffee? Who's my favorite artist? See? You have no idea.” That was what Charles said the second time.
“You're getting pathetic. You're humiliating yourself. You'll regret it and then you'll blame me for it. Let's just move on, Brent.” Three strikes and normally the batter is out; but Brent couldn't give up. He needed some advice but there was no one around to give it.
Feeling forlorn, he drove out to the garage. He climbed the stairs to Apartment C and looked in. The interior dividing walls had been removed. He could see almost the whole apartment from the entry door. Silhouetted at the porch door, he saw Lucky and Mike, apparently shirtless, in each other's arms.
“I couldn't do this without you,” Lucky said. It echoed slightly inside the bare walls.
“I wouldn't want to do it without you,” Mike answered.
Brent couldn't tell if they kissed. It might have been just a closer hug. The physical details didn't matter; the love was obvious. They walked out into the dappled sun of the porch. There in the light the kiss definitely happened and it was touchingly sweet. The beginnings of Lucky's erection showed through his jeans, Mike caressed and encouraged it. Brent was embarrassed by his spying.
“Lucky?” he called out. He watched the two smile at each other. Mike took his hand off Lucky's cock and then they separated. Lucky sat at the picnic table to hide his erection.
“Out here, Brent!” he called back.
Neither Lucky nor Mike showed the least concern over what Brent may have seen.
“Oh, no!” Alfred said on Wednesday. “Not Saturday. My boyfriend is coming for the weekend.”
If George Glover was surprised about the boyfriend, he hid it well. “You have to go, Alfred. Huxley has been known to dismiss people who don't 'enter in'. He expects us all to be there. It's only for the afternoon. Three hours at worst.”
“Do we call him Alwyn?”
“We call him Mr. Huxley. He gets familiar with us. We don't get familiar with him. Can you swim?”
“Yes. Why?”
“He likes swimmers.”
“So that's how that went,” he explained. “George said I am obliged to show up,” Alfred related to Dylan. Dylan had invited him to The Castle for a drink after work, but Alfred vetoed The Castle. They were at a moderately busy, undistinguished downtown pub.
“So sad; but still three hours isn't that bad for a command performance. You don't suppose Tom has a friend, do you?”
“Tons, I bet. All in the US.”
Dylan sighed. “Another weekend alone.”
“Why don't you go to London?”
“You mean because London's full of people needy enough to fuck me?”
“Dylan, shh ... I think the girls at the next table heard you. No, because London's full of people with diverse tastes. There are probably a thousand within six blocks of the train station who'd be glad for a young man like you.”
“The thing is I have a giant cock and nobody ever suspects. I'd get it out, but no one ever asks.” The girls giggled.
Alfred had to smile; and Dylan couldn't care less who heard him. “How big is giant, would you say?” Alfred asked.
Dylan held his fingers up not all that far apart and then explained. “This much bigger than you can possibly take.” Dylan went back to Alfred's concern. “You know I could show Tom around a bit ... the local sights ... while you're off communing with the other accountants.”
“There are no local sights.”
“Where's your civic pride? There are myriad local sights. There's that armless man who jumps rope … when he can find turners … the Banham Zoo ...”
“Three lemurs, a moth-eaten penguin, and a stuffed house cat and it's half-way to London.”
“Alright. I could take him to lunch and walk him around. Build him up so he can stuff you all night.”
“Actually, that's not a bad idea.”
A girl from the next booth came up to their table. “You … um, you two … are gay?”
“That depends. Why do you ask?”
“Well, my friend China … she thinks her boy friend might be gay. And she was wondering what you would think.”
“Why does she think that?”
“Can we join you?” Alfred and Dylan moved toward the wall and the three girls joined the booth. After introductions, the conversation resumed.
“Why do you think he's gay?”
“He doesn't like to have sex very often.”
“Details.”
“Twice a week at the most. And he's only nineteen.”
“Gay isn't the only possibility,” Alfred suggested. “Maybe he's seeing someone else. When you do get together, is it good?”
“China, maybe Alfred's right. He used to hang around that fish vendor in the van. He could be having it off with her.”
“He hates the smell of fish. Yes, it's good, Alfred. I think it's good ... I don't really know that much about ...” China was flustered
“That could account for him not liking oral too much, right? The smell?” the seemingly innocent Andrea asked.
“He dyes his hair,” China added.
“Not good,” Dylan said.
“He dyes it black,” Marie frowned. “How gay is that?”
“Not too,” Dylan smiled. “Where does he work?”
“He's an assistant in a florist shop.”
“In Europe there are two straight florists, I believe. Both of them live in Belgium – with each other. But they swear they're straight.”
“Can we buy you a pint?” China asked. She didn't need to repeat her offer. “Would you like to meet him?” She buzzed the young florist on her cell and asked him to join the group.
Another pint later the bar got more crowded. The music was pretty good and the girls were good-natured fun. Dylan caught sight of the guy he had crossed paths with on the street in front of The Castle last Sunday and been in love with seventeen or was it eighteen days ago. He wondered if Alfred remembered. The guy was approaching their booth.
“Dylan, Alfred, this is Crispin, my boy friend. Sit down, Cris. I need to make a little trip to the loo.”
Cris sat next to Dylan and then sat much closer when China returned. Out of sight he put his hand on Dylan's thigh and squeezed briefly. When Dylan gave a little squeeze back, he felt the warmth of Cris's thigh against his own. It was a very close thing when Dylan and China both made a cock grope. Cris adroitly intercepted their hands and made the groping all about them.
Alfred sensed something was going on when the people opposite him suddenly weren't talking. To fill the gap he proposed to Andrea and Mavis that an after-work drink should become a regular thing and got an immediate agreement from everyone at the table.
“I like knowing two gay guys,” China said.
“I'd bet you know more than two,” Dylan winked.
Rory had just put away his cell phone when Tom met him for breakfast. “I can't get John. He's not in his room and he doesn't answer his cell.” Rory was mystified but not concerned. “He's a big boy; I guess he can take care of himself. The trouble is I don't know what to do today without his details. Do you manage the project or does BFL?”
“I bet it goes the way Alistair wants, no matter what the contract says. Rory, about winding up the Smithsonian job, can I do that next week? I kind of made plans for this weekend.”
“Another baroness?”
“No. His name is Alfred Booth. He's an accountant in Norwich.”
“Where-wich?”
“It's a town near Alistair's place. An hour and a half by train.”
“Well, sure. You can pretty much do anything you want. The company will change its name to Tom Kearny Inc. if you get us any more business. Mark thinks you're our ace.”
“Mark … the CEO? I didn't know he knew my name.”
“He not only knows your name, I think he's planning to name his next kid after you. On that subject, you probably should get yourself a financial adviser. Your option account is getting big.”
“Yeah, well, those option things need years before they mean much.”
“Tom, as long as the company keeps doing well, you are holding some very valuable assets. There are tax consequences. You need professional advice. Remember Mark ... from our lacrosse games? He's good at that kind of stuff.”
“Rory, come on … a couple thousand shares? Is that what they call those option things?”
“It's serious money, I'm telling you … Oh, shit! What happened to him?” Rory rose and addressed the arrival. “John! You look like you slept in the street!”
John looked bemused and poured himself a cup from Rory's coffee carafe. He turned to Tom. “Your friend Fred? I met her at BFL. We're engaged.” He sipped the tepid brown liquid. “You gay guys don't get to have all the fun. This coffee sucks.” He signaled the waiter.
“She offered to marry me, too,” Tom laughed. “Um, you need to zip your fly.”
“Zipper got broken … happened during the detailed negotiations. Did you know she has a drawing of you in her office?”
Tom blushed. “Is it just me … or …?”
“Just you, unless you count the dragon. She tells people it's a concept for a future Harry Potter sequel.”
“Uh, John. What about the contract?” Rory inserted.
“Contracts … zippers … dragons … Isn't anybody going to congratulate me on getting engaged?” John poured himself a fresh coffee from the pot the waiter brought.
“Congrats. Now what about the contract?” Rory persisted.
“We form a joint venture with BFL. They own fifty-five percent; we own forty-five. Our equity is our software, on which we also get a royalty stream for five years based on installations. They contribute capital, premises, and personnel. Tom is Chief Technical Adviser. I'm on the Board of Directors and we get to name two others, out of seven total. Fred is the Chairman. Here's the contract, if you want to read it.” He pulled a thick file from his briefcase.
“John … this looks like a pre-nup.”
“Oh ...” he took back the package and looked for another. “Here, sorry. Wedding jitters.”
“Wedding? You're not divorced yet!”
“Soon, though. A month I think.” John turned to Tom. “What's your silly grin about?”
“I understand the zipper part; but what happened to your underwear?”
John could explain the zipper, but there was no way to tell them his underwear had been commandeered by Fred to clothe a goat. He rearranged his trousers as best he could and said he was going to his room to change clothes.
“Haven't you ever felt that way?” Tom asked Rory with a smile.
“I guess when Tim and I first got together … It's an all-new John. He always seemed like such a straight-arrow legal nerd. He looks like a kid - all flustered with his dick practically hanging out.”
“That's exactly how I feel about my accountant in Norwich.”
Six passengers boarded the Isadora in Cleveland and then eight more in Detroit before the ship turned and headed eastward to Gdansk. As far as Phil and Alex could tell, the American passengers were immigrants or children of immigrants from eastern Europe. A genial, social-security collecting bunch spending some of their hard-earned retirement savings on a trip to the old country. The Cleveland passengers didn't bother disembarking in Detroit. The ship was docked in Ecorse, a very uninviting, industrial setting, and just for one night.
One of Phil's roommates, Boryslaw, the guy who had commented on his ass, invited Phil to go ashore for a drink. The evening would not be a sparkling one; the guy's English was rudimentary and Phil's Polish was non-existent. The invitation involved a lot of hand signals and pantomiming, but the point was made. The bar was just off the gated pier area. After the brief walk, they had a couple of beers and listened to some rapper song coming from an ancient jukebox. Boryslaw made singing motions and, based on Phil and Alex singing once in the crew's lounge, said, “You better.” Phil thanked him and they lapsed into silence. Boryslaw eyed a tired-looking, middle-aged waitress and said, “I fuck now.” He and the waitress disappeared into a back room, leaving Phil with the bartender for company.
“You want me to call another girl? She can be here in a couple of minutes. Is black ok with you?”
“I'm good,” Phil said. “I just joined the crew in Cleveland. Not desperate yet.”
“Your first trip out?”
“Yeah. I'm a waiter for the passengers and a singer. The entertainment's pretty limited.”
The bartender sized up Phil. “Figures. You don't look like a sailor.”
“I was singing and playing in a band in the east. We broke up. Gotta eat.” Alex had warned Phil not to mention he was from Washington. It raised flags. “I'm hoping the tips are better than the pay.”
“Another Stroh's?” The bartender gave Phil a cold long-neck and busied himself doing the things bartenders do, lwashing glasses in water that probably hasn't been changed since Noah and wiping the never-quite-dry bar.
Boryslaw emerged from the back room. He tossed back three shots and washed the last down with a beer. Then he said, with the tone of an order, “We go.”
The bartender never looked up. He just said, “Good luck, singer boy.”
They got back to the room on the Isadora and prepared for bed. Phil was getting used to sleeping in his underwear, something he didn't like doing. He noticed Boryslaw was naked. Had he slept naked before? Or was he just a little drunk? Phil couldn't decide. When the lights were out, Boryslaw walked to the door and locked it. “We fuck now.”
Phil wasn't given a choice. Boryslaw could effortlessly dominate him as he demonstrated by ripping Phil's boxers off and throwing him into his bed. Phil decided to lie back and accept what he couldn't change.
There was no hint of affection. Boryslaw rejected the missionary position and roughly rolled Phil over and jammed his cock in. He held his hand over Phil's mouth preventing any noise. Still, Phil grunted in pain. He realized this fuck was going to be worse than he expected. And it was.
Spit for lube didn't prepare Phil for Boryslaw's cock. It wasn't so long, but it was thick and rock hard. The waitress hadn't even taken the edge off Boryslaw's demands. Straight fucking, in and out and hard. After a couple of minutes, Phil accepted the pain and felt himself go weak. Boryslaw sensed the end of resistance and took his hand off Phil's mouth, letting him breath. This move let him hold Phil's waist with both hands and pound him harder.
It took longer than Phil expected, but eventually he heard Boryslaw's breathing get ragged. With a couple of massive thrusts, Boryslaw came. Aside from the heavy breathing, he was quiet about it and Phil decided the worst was over.
The worst was over but the fucking wasn't. Boryslaw kept pumping. It was slower this time but just as deep and almost as hard. He was relentless and unvarying in his tempo. Phil whimpered again and Boryslaw hushed him with a “Shhh” instead of a hand over his mouth. Phil kept his moans to a minimum as the fucking continued. Just when it was getting to feel a little good for Phil, Boryslaw gave up whatever he was going for and roughly pulled out. He said something in Polish that didn't sound sympathetic, unlocked the door, and moved to his own bed. When Phil heard Boryslaw's gentle snores begin, he lost it; but he kept his sobs as quiet as he could.
It's not like I haven't been fucked before, Phil thought. And it's not like I haven't liked it a little rough some times. What hurts so much this time? Why can't I stop crying? The fact that he absolutely didn't give a shit? The fact that I'm just a receptacle? Is this going to happen every night? Should I have fought more? What am I doing here?
When Phil heard the third occupant enter the room, he did his best to stifle his sobs. The third occupant undressed quietly in the dim light from his desk lamp and noticed Phil's condition. “Boryslaw?” he asked, making fucking motions with his hands. Phil nodded. “Only one, maybe two times, then we be in Polska. He see wife.” The diesel engineman turned out the light and was quickly asleep.
“You look like shit!” Alex said in the morning. “What happened?”
“Uh … I went out drinking with Boryslaw. Too many beers, I guess.” Phil couldn't bring himself to admit what had happened and didn't know what else to say. “We went to a bar outside the gate. It seemed harmless. All he did was have a few drinks and fuck the waitress.”
“You look like the waitress fucked you!” Alex said, shaking his head. They now had fourteen passengers; their service duties were more work than they expected. Breakfast went for three hours and they had seven double cabins to clean and search.
The carpet layers complained that taking the roof off the garage had made their air conditioning ineffective. Al announced this to a sweating Lucky who needed no reminder of how hot the weather was.
“Do you and Debbie want to use Tom's apartment? I bet he wouldn't mind. Ann could stay with Mike and me. Or the Museum could pay for hotel rooms for all of you until the roof is back on. It should be only a couple of days.”
Al was taken aback by Lucky's instant sympathy and proposed solutions. I don't know why people thought he was superficial and unconcerned with what went on around him, she thought. He's almost as insidious with his charm as Mike.
Al herself had acquired a reputation for being a man-hater when she first came out. Everybody goes through some version of militancy on the differing paths to self-acceptance; but Al's way involved being brusquely rude to anyone with a penis. After a while, she tamed her feelings. The proximate motivation was the loss of a few contracts from men who were affronted, although she told herself that she really needed to be kinder to people in general. In time, for her basic bent was gentle, that reason became the real one. In Lucky's case, she actually liked him quite a lot. He has never once checked out my boobs, she thought when she thought about it. Just that one compliment about my eyes, and lots of people tell me that. He's so civilized. And interesting, too.
“You think?” she asked. “A hotel would be a pain for just a couple of days, but sharing would get us cool nights and make sleeping so much easier. And it would only have to be at night. I can't work if I don't get a good night's sleep.”
“You call Ann and Debbie and I'll call Tom and Mike,” Lucky suggested.
Al was on her phone immediately. She bent over slightly for the illusion of privacy as people tend to do when they're talking on the phone and Lucky briefly checked out her boobs. Let's face it, all men check out all boobs whether or not they have motives beyond general appreciation. Al was intent on her conversation and failed to take explicit notice of Lucky's attention. Subconsciously, however, she was aware of it, as all women are, and his glance registered as a subliminal compliment, reinforcing her fondness for Lucky.
The contract inventory work for the Freer was finishing up. It was tantalizingly close to completion, but that last one percent always seems the hardest. Consequently Brent still saw Charles now and then. He realized the mistake of the breakup and ached to have the young man back. The ache had a specifically physical component; Charles seemed more attractive than ever and Brent's dick sent him constant messages whenever Charles' ass was in sight. The psychic ache had a different cause. Realizations of mortality had become increasingly frequent in Brent's life. Was that a thin spot on the crown of his head? Was he getting a little thick in the middle? He used to get admiring glances from men and women both. They were fewer now, and especially fewer from men.
None of this had anything to do with loving Charles. It had everything to do with Brent's regard for himself. Brent didn't love Charles – he was right about that; but he convinced himself that he did. That was easy, convincing himself. Convincing Charles was another matter.
“Sure you miss the sex and the convenience, Brent. But you don't miss me, not really.” That was Charles answer to Brent's first attempt at reconciliation.
“How do I like my coffee? Who's my favorite artist? See? You have no idea.” That was what Charles said the second time.
“You're getting pathetic. You're humiliating yourself. You'll regret it and then you'll blame me for it. Let's just move on, Brent.” Three strikes and normally the batter is out; but Brent couldn't give up. He needed some advice but there was no one around to give it.
Feeling forlorn, he drove out to the garage. He climbed the stairs to Apartment C and looked in. The interior dividing walls had been removed. He could see almost the whole apartment from the entry door. Silhouetted at the porch door, he saw Lucky and Mike, apparently shirtless, in each other's arms.
“I couldn't do this without you,” Lucky said. It echoed slightly inside the bare walls.
“I wouldn't want to do it without you,” Mike answered.
Brent couldn't tell if they kissed. It might have been just a closer hug. The physical details didn't matter; the love was obvious. They walked out into the dappled sun of the porch. There in the light the kiss definitely happened and it was touchingly sweet. The beginnings of Lucky's erection showed through his jeans, Mike caressed and encouraged it. Brent was embarrassed by his spying.
“Lucky?” he called out. He watched the two smile at each other. Mike took his hand off Lucky's cock and then they separated. Lucky sat at the picnic table to hide his erection.
“Out here, Brent!” he called back.
Neither Lucky nor Mike showed the least concern over what Brent may have seen.
“Oh, no!” Alfred said on Wednesday. “Not Saturday. My boyfriend is coming for the weekend.”
If George Glover was surprised about the boyfriend, he hid it well. “You have to go, Alfred. Huxley has been known to dismiss people who don't 'enter in'. He expects us all to be there. It's only for the afternoon. Three hours at worst.”
“Do we call him Alwyn?”
“We call him Mr. Huxley. He gets familiar with us. We don't get familiar with him. Can you swim?”
“Yes. Why?”
“He likes swimmers.”
“So that's how that went,” he explained. “George said I am obliged to show up,” Alfred related to Dylan. Dylan had invited him to The Castle for a drink after work, but Alfred vetoed The Castle. They were at a moderately busy, undistinguished downtown pub.
“So sad; but still three hours isn't that bad for a command performance. You don't suppose Tom has a friend, do you?”
“Tons, I bet. All in the US.”
Dylan sighed. “Another weekend alone.”
“Why don't you go to London?”
“You mean because London's full of people needy enough to fuck me?”
“Dylan, shh ... I think the girls at the next table heard you. No, because London's full of people with diverse tastes. There are probably a thousand within six blocks of the train station who'd be glad for a young man like you.”
“The thing is I have a giant cock and nobody ever suspects. I'd get it out, but no one ever asks.” The girls giggled.
Alfred had to smile; and Dylan couldn't care less who heard him. “How big is giant, would you say?” Alfred asked.
Dylan held his fingers up not all that far apart and then explained. “This much bigger than you can possibly take.” Dylan went back to Alfred's concern. “You know I could show Tom around a bit ... the local sights ... while you're off communing with the other accountants.”
“There are no local sights.”
“Where's your civic pride? There are myriad local sights. There's that armless man who jumps rope … when he can find turners … the Banham Zoo ...”
“Three lemurs, a moth-eaten penguin, and a stuffed house cat and it's half-way to London.”
“Alright. I could take him to lunch and walk him around. Build him up so he can stuff you all night.”
“Actually, that's not a bad idea.”
A girl from the next booth came up to their table. “You … um, you two … are gay?”
“That depends. Why do you ask?”
“Well, my friend China … she thinks her boy friend might be gay. And she was wondering what you would think.”
“Why does she think that?”
“Can we join you?” Alfred and Dylan moved toward the wall and the three girls joined the booth. After introductions, the conversation resumed.
“Why do you think he's gay?”
“He doesn't like to have sex very often.”
“Details.”
“Twice a week at the most. And he's only nineteen.”
“Gay isn't the only possibility,” Alfred suggested. “Maybe he's seeing someone else. When you do get together, is it good?”
“China, maybe Alfred's right. He used to hang around that fish vendor in the van. He could be having it off with her.”
“He hates the smell of fish. Yes, it's good, Alfred. I think it's good ... I don't really know that much about ...” China was flustered
“That could account for him not liking oral too much, right? The smell?” the seemingly innocent Andrea asked.
“He dyes his hair,” China added.
“Not good,” Dylan said.
“He dyes it black,” Marie frowned. “How gay is that?”
“Not too,” Dylan smiled. “Where does he work?”
“He's an assistant in a florist shop.”
“In Europe there are two straight florists, I believe. Both of them live in Belgium – with each other. But they swear they're straight.”
“Can we buy you a pint?” China asked. She didn't need to repeat her offer. “Would you like to meet him?” She buzzed the young florist on her cell and asked him to join the group.
Another pint later the bar got more crowded. The music was pretty good and the girls were good-natured fun. Dylan caught sight of the guy he had crossed paths with on the street in front of The Castle last Sunday and been in love with seventeen or was it eighteen days ago. He wondered if Alfred remembered. The guy was approaching their booth.
“Dylan, Alfred, this is Crispin, my boy friend. Sit down, Cris. I need to make a little trip to the loo.”
Cris sat next to Dylan and then sat much closer when China returned. Out of sight he put his hand on Dylan's thigh and squeezed briefly. When Dylan gave a little squeeze back, he felt the warmth of Cris's thigh against his own. It was a very close thing when Dylan and China both made a cock grope. Cris adroitly intercepted their hands and made the groping all about them.
Alfred sensed something was going on when the people opposite him suddenly weren't talking. To fill the gap he proposed to Andrea and Mavis that an after-work drink should become a regular thing and got an immediate agreement from everyone at the table.
“I like knowing two gay guys,” China said.
“I'd bet you know more than two,” Dylan winked.
Rory,
You did say trouble was ahead for Phil and Alex - and Phil's certainly been on the receiving end of that.
Lucky and Mike are doing well - and Lucky's been quite resourceful in coming up with ways to keep the ladies all happy right now, too.
Meanwhile, Tom and Alfred may have a bit of a rocky road just ahead with the boss.
Interesting goings on all around, including on Tom's financial front.
Thanks!
You did say trouble was ahead for Phil and Alex - and Phil's certainly been on the receiving end of that.
Lucky and Mike are doing well - and Lucky's been quite resourceful in coming up with ways to keep the ladies all happy right now, too.
Meanwhile, Tom and Alfred may have a bit of a rocky road just ahead with the boss.
Interesting goings on all around, including on Tom's financial front.
Thanks!
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Thirty-Five
“You put me on the Internet?” At first Tyndall didn't think too much about it; in fact, he got a bit of vicarious fun from knowing his image and actions were inspiring enough masturbatory ejaculate to float a battleship. It wasn't until he convened a workshop in clay modeling that he was hauled up short.
“Wait! Mr. Arnstein! You … you're Tin Doll, yes?” said a young man.
“Tyndall is my first name. Use it if you want. Now, mixing in the pigment is an important step. You don't want to alter the characteristics of the clay.” He resumed his lecture and when the class was over the young man approached him.
“I just wanted to thank you for your videos. I feel like I know you so well. You're like a big brother. You changed my life.”
“You're welcome,” Tyndall answered, not completely sure what the young man's point was.
“I used to be so afraid to even take my clothes off. You changed all that. There you are in high definition, having a great time, showing it all off, and looking good. You're a hero to us guys with small dicks.”
“Small dicks?”
“Well, yeah! Shelly's always talking about your, uh, penis and the advantages of being small. Don't you watch your own shows?”
“Er, no.” Tyndall went home and immediately logged onto Shelly's website. All he saw were teaser images and promises of more if he paid what seemed like a fortune to join.
Tyndall had learned not to make assumptions with Shelly; historically, the ultimate reality had always turned out to be so much worse than what she lead him to expect. After the end a pleasant dalliance that evening he confronted Shelly. “I thought you were just showing us having a good time. Do you add your own commentary?”
“It's acting, Tyndall. It's entertainment. It doesn't mean anything.” Shelly's defensiveness set off alarms in Tyndall's head. “It's just a little commentary to help the viewers along with whatever they're doing while they're watching.”
“Shelly, you know exactly what they're doing while they're watching.”
“I guess. Not all of them though. Some are admiring you. You should read the feedback. You're very popular with guys, considering it's a straight site.”
“Tell me about your commentary.”
“Well, the initial shot goes out live … as were doing it, just like ten minutes ago. You know, I have to compliment you. You're getting better and better at making my little bird sing.”
Tyndall zeroed in on his initial question. “The initial shot goes out live. Then what?”
“Then we edit it and add some commentary. It becomes an instruction video for people less experienced than you are.”
“Who edits it? Who comments?”
“Well, Ma does a lot of the editing, but I do the comments.”
“Your mother edits your fuck scenes. Sure, why not? Can I see? The web site wouldn't let me on.”
“Are you sure you want to? Sometimes it's a little upsetting for me to watch myself. You might feel like that, too.”
“I want to see.”
“Ok, but read some of your fan mail first. Guys really like you – in a good way of course.”
Tyndall paged through some commentary. A typical email exchange went, “Sexy Shelly, had to write to say I love your sessions with Tin Doll. The guy is so super straight in a funny way. He makes the big dick guys look boring. I don't want to say he's clueless, maybe just a little … well, you know – you're the one he's trying to fuck. He loves every second he's with you and even when he fucks up the fucking, he's working that three-incher for all it's worth. It's good to watch a guy with a dick even smaller than mine having a great time and eventually getting you both off. Keep up the great work, Frank the Four-incher.”
Shelly answered saying, “Sweetie, the big dick guys ARE boring, plus they're usually very selfish and that's a total turn off for me. When Tyndall gets it wrong, at least he doesn't draw blood and we can try again. Eventually he gets it right and we both get off. A small dick guy who takes his time is the best. Keep it up, Love, Shelly.”
“See, Tin Doll, the subscribers love you. You're a hero to thousands. And my comments … remember it's supposed to be entertainment.”
It was painful, as Shelly had predicted, for Tyndall to watch an edited scene. Shelly's commentary was insulting and demeaning; it made him look like a complete idiot with a tiny dick with the only good thing being a constant erection. She called it a dicklet, a cockette, a mini-wang, a hairy mushroom, half a hotdog, and more. Each scene ended with her maneuvering Tin Doll into massaging her groove with his tiny messenger of love. It was a form of clitoral stimulation that she said was virtual masturbation with more fun and a little companionship. She always emphasized what a good time Tin Doll had and how, after lots of instruction, she got him to 'do it right'. Tyndall was present in about a third of the archived scenes; and, based on viewers' scores, they were the most popular on the site.
Tyndall felt degraded. He couldn't understand why guys liked watching Shelly make a fool of him.
“Now don't get all crazy,” Shelly said. “You are very popular. People like you. They sympathize. They watch your failures, and you know they're not really failures, and they learn. In the end you have a good time and you give me a good time. How is that degrading? You perform well. The guys like you. I like you. Even Ma likes you.”
“Are you making lots of money off me?”
“The site revenue is growing since you started appearing.”
“Again, with your MOTHER? Really? She's totally familiar with everything we do?” Ma's involvement seemed the least appealing part of things to Tyndall.
“Ma's a realist. She makes the best of what comes along; and here you are.”
Tyndall went home and thought about these things. He used Shelly's password and watched some more scenes. He read more viewers' comments. He got his dick hard and then looked at it in a mirror. He paused, looked critically at himself as he stroked; it's not THAT small, he told himself. Yes, it is, another voice in his head said. His balls were pretty big, but that just made his dick look even smaller. A misfortune of life, he thought; but everything worked and worked well.
He shrugged at his mirror image, satisfied with his rigid erection and spoke to his penis. “Hey little guy, I think I liked it best when she called you a cockette.” He returned to the monitor and jerked his cock, watching Shelly spread her legs wide for him. He came precisely when his image on the screen did. It was messy, but an amazing turn-on and immensely satisfying.
Rory, accompanied by John and Tom, reviewed the terms of the two contract proposals with Alistair and representatives of BFL, one of whom was a former husband of Fred. Strictly speaking, the contract between Rory's company and BFL didn't concern the British Museum, so Alistair didn't comment. He did comment on the contract between the Museum and BFL.
“I'd like to see a verification test of interoperability with other international sites before acceptance of the system. In fact I want it to be a condition of acceptance.”
When the contracts were signed and the Americans were returning to the Mad Hatter, John said, “You know what Alistair did with that interoperability test, don't you? He essentially guaranteed future foreign sales for us.”
“Future foreign partners, too. We won't have full control of the product.”
“If the foreign guys change the product, they assume liability. We're protected.”
“Maybe, John, but I want the reputation of our product - and it is always OUR product – to be protected. We'll expand based on this contract's performance.”
“So dump it all on Tom's shoulders, huh?” John replied.
“It'll work.” Tom sounded very determined.
Once at the hotel, John peeled off to change and meet Fred leaving Rory and Tom alone. Rory had an hour to kill before his afternoon flight home. They ate a snack in the all purpose bar and dining room. “Would you have guessed a couple years ago, that we'd be sitting here today?” Rory sounded a little awed by his as well as Tom's success. He looked at Tom again. “What are you doing?”
Tom was unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it open to show his t-shirt that read “I Work for the World's Best Boss.”
“How many times have I told you to get rid of that?” Rory laughed.
“I'm never getting rid of it. Actually I have several. One for every day of the week.” There was something like love in Tom's voice.
“Fuck,” Rory muttered and blinked away a tear. He said goodbye to Tom and went to his room to pack.
Tom punched a number into his cell. “Alfred, I know it's only Thursday, but I'm done for the week. How would it be if I caught a train today? And Alistair wants us for lunch on Sunday. Ok?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.”
“I asked only two questions.”
“So you have an extra answer if you think of any more. What train? Hurry!”
“I can make the four o'clock. It gets in around five-forty-something.”
“I'll be there!” Alfred promised.
At four forty-five Alfred joined Dylan and Cris at what they now thought of as 'their pub'. The girls weren't expected until five. As he approached the booth he could see under the table that Dylan had one shoe off and his foot was resting in Cris's lap.
“You two! I can see what you're doing. So can anyone else who's got his eyes open.”
“Cris is demonstrating a foot massage technique. What's wrong with that?”
“Tell it to China,” Alfred said. “My problem is ...”
“Now we get to it,” Dylan said. "YOUR problem ...”
“My friend Tom is arriving a day early and I haven't made any plans. What do I do?”
At that moment the girls arrived, preventing any answer. After they got settled and drinks arrived, the question was asked again.
“Use my place,” Dylan volunteered.
“Where will you go?”
“He could stay with China and me,” Cris volunteered.
About a half hour later, with Dylan's latch key in his pocket, shaky with nerves, Alfred saw Tom walking toward him. Alfred could swear that a phantom spotlight was shining on Tom as he strode down the platform. Everyone else in the station faded to gray obscurity. Suddenly shy, he was barely able to say hello.
“You met Vernon, did you?” Fred asked John.
“Yes. He seems like a good guy. He has your interests at heart.”
“He had better have; he works for me. Was it disconcerting for you, John? Meeting one of my ex's?”
“Which husband will I be?”
“The fourth. Are you going weak in the knees on me? I promise you it's going to be fun. You'll have a very good time.”
“While it lasts … “
“I honestly expected all my marriages to last. This one as much as any of the others.”
Her sexual allure shut him up and he wallowed in her eager embrace. John was in his mid-thirties and not naïve about his situation. He was a plaything for a woman used to getting her own way. One of his friends had begun a similar affair and referred to himself as a walking, talking vibrator. John couldn't get the phrase out of his head. He knew that the minute he failed to please her he would be history, a footnote in the life of a successful business tycoon who happened to be a demanding woman. Riding the back of a dolphin who could drown him at any moment, he was determined to enjoy the ride. Whatever happened, it would beat the hell out of a ho-hum second marriage somewhere in deepest East Bay San Francisco suburbia. A British baroness! Nobody else from Walled Lake, Michigan could make that claim.
He wondered if his position representing his current employer could be compromised by his pending marriage. If Fred's company wanted something contrary to the interests of the Alameda company, what would his vote be?
“But, darling man,” Fred asked, “how could our positions possibly diverge? The two company's prospects coincide perfectly in the joint venture.”
John could think of dozens of ways their prospects could diverge, but soft thighs and lubricious writhings postponed further consideration.
The ship was on a two day run from Detroit to the Welland Canal. The Isadora's diesels motored with maximum economy over a distance that could have been covered in half the time. The leisurely pace was governed by the backup of ships waiting to transit the canal that connected Lake Erie and Lake Ontario.
“Isn't there a shortcut?” Phil asked Bork Jepsen, the Danish deck officer and chief source of Phil's growing nautical knowledge.
“We could go over Niagara Falls. That would be fast, but it would damage the cargo,” he answered. Jepsen took an interest in Alex and Phil. He told them that they let him practice his English.
After an exciting first night, the second night out of Detroit Boryslaw kept to himself. He said something in Polish that Phil didn't understand and had gone immediately to sleep. Phil felt quiet relief and was soon asleep as well. Five in the morning came much earlier than he was used to.
At five oh five he met Alex in the galley. “You look much better than yesterday. I was afraid you were sea sick. That would be a bitch, working on a ship for the next few weeks.”
“I'm fine. Did the passengers drink a lot last night? Maybe they won't get up until ten.”
The passengers, about half of them and mostly men, were up with the dawn. They wanted to watch the Isadora traverse the eight locks of the Welland Canal, which would take all the daylight hours. For the first lock, they enjoyed juice, pastries, and coffee on deck. The real breakfast came next. The view from the dining room windows of the passing Canadian shore was entertainment enough until they got to the second lock. By then most of the passengers had eaten and were back out on deck for the second lock.
Phil and Alex left the buffet in place for stragglers and began cleaning staterooms. The passengers, based on their baggage contents, had little of interest beyond prescription medicines. Phil admired a large supply of oxycodone in one room and wondered if a pill or two would be missed. In case Boryslaw fucks me again, he rationalized; but he decided no. After finishing three staterooms he met Alex in a passageway and shrugged.
“Nothing interesting, so far.”
“Same here,” Alex answered.
After refreshing the breakfast buffet line, they moved to the crew's rooms. Alex did the officers' staterooms and Phil did the three-man rooms, his own first. He entered and found Boryslaw in his underwear, dressing, fresh from a shower. Reflexively, he recoiled. Boryslaw looked at him and made no move. He said, “I drink. Den I fuck. Pryzkro mi, Feel.”
Phil nodded, not entirely sure of Boryslaw's meaning. He emptied the wastepaper basket, swept the floor, and, when Boryslaw was finished shaving, wiped down the lavatory sink and mirror. As he prepared to go to the next room, Boryslaw called his name. “Feel? Ok?”
“Ok, Boryslaw.” Phil answered, not sure if he had just accepted some apology or agreed to get fucked again.
Alex and Phil worked together again cleaning up the remains of breakfast. Alex didn't ask, he just raised his eyebrows in question. “Nothing,” Phil told him. “Just one foot locker half-full of … I guess, vodka.”
“The chief engineer and Jepsen both have locked closets. Otherwise nothing,” Alex quietly shared.
After the fourth lock passage even the most fascinated passenger was bored. They came readily to lunch and then retired to the deck or to their rooms. The ship's officers sometimes ate with the passengers, although there was a separate dining room for the all the crew. This distinction wasn't for reasons of caste. The officers were expected to socialize with the passengers, although sometimes, if they didn't have time to change clothes, they ate with the crew. For the regular crew, there were usually language barriers that prevented much fraternization.
Jepsen explained to his table that the ship would proceed directly to Montreal as its last port on the western side of the Atlantic. He recommended to one photographer their passage through the Thousand Isles for scenic enjoyment. “It's like driving a huge ship through people's back yards – the river is that narrow.”
Phil and Alex both worked in the passenger dining room, where there was table service – semi-Russian style. The fixed starter, soup, and limited-choice main courses were served sequentially, although a dessert buffet was available throughout the meal. Decorative, but non-functional samovars dispensed tea and coffee. Wine and beer were also available. The two young men worked like dogs for the hour allotted for lunch service.
“Don't worry,” the cook told them. “They always eat like hogs for the first day or two, then they taper off. Then some will get seasick.” The cook took pleasure from the sea sickness. It reduced his workload, too. Broth and Saltines were an easy meal to prepare.
The ship had a small library for the use of anyone, passenger or crew. It was on the honor system. Anyone who wanted to signed out his own book. Phil glanced at the check out slips. “Russian Furniture – The Golden Age” was checked out to an indecipherable signature over a month ago. That meant either some previous passenger had - what? - stolen it? - or a crew member had checked it out and still had it. Bork Jepsen had checked out “Baltic Steamships of the Early Twentieth Century”; his writing was predictably neat and precise. Phil couldn't find a match for the other signature among the remaining checkout slips.
Dinner was a repeat of the lunch rush hour and then, after cleaning the tables of all but drinks, Phil and Alex got out their instruments. The passengers were increasingly becoming increasingly acquainted with each other and the music was welcome. As Dimitri had predicted the German songs were popular as were the Country and Western choices. One of the passengers volunteered and led his table foursome in singing “Da Wird die Sau Geschlacht” which was a rousing rustic piece with slightly bloodthirsty lyrics that involved sausage making. The music warmed up the room and after an hour, the singers retired to the deck, leaving the passengers to get better acquainted. They still had to clean up when the lounge service closed for the night.
“Arrrr, matey, how'd you like day three?” Alex asked, making the most of their break.
“I haven't been so tired since … ever. You?”
“Given that the average age of the passengers is about seventy, they'll probably go to bed early,” Alex stated with more hope than assurance.
“Da Wird die Sau whatever was a pretty good song. We should learn it.” Phil hummed the melody.
“There the sow is slaughtered, there the sausage is made in beautiful, grand Holstein-land. Sometimes they sing it at football games in Hamburg.”
Which reminds me … what does 'pryzkro mi' mean?”
Alex laughed, “I don't know. It's not Russian, but I think your accent is getting better. Where did you hear that?”
“One of my roommates said it to me.”
They were alone on deck and in the shadows. It was tempting. There was a quarter-moon shining on the lake waters. They could hear laughter from the passengers. Just a tiny kiss. Alex took the opportunity and then knew if he did it again he would want more.
“Don't stop,” Phil said.
“We can't do this. It's a small ship. We'll get caught.”
“So what?” Alex could hear the need in Phil's voice.
“Dimitri said ...”
After another brief kiss, initiated by Phil, Alex pulled away.
“No one saw us, Alex.”
Tom echoed Alfred's shy approach. He wanted to say so much and yet nothing came, which was untypical for Tom. He looked carefully at Alfred and whispered “You haven't changed.”
“It's only been four days, Tom.”
“Four days too long.”
They walked to a bus stop but Alfred changed his mind and they took a taxicab. He gave the driver an address just off Northside, a road improbably located on the east side of town. The Circle Anglia housing area was spartan but attractively laid out; but its appearance was hardly noticed by either man. They entered Dylan's leasehold and Tom lost his patience. He swept Alfred into his arms and asked, “Where's the bedroom?”
“I don't know. I've never been here before.”
Tom didn't stop kissing him and settled for a sofa near the door. He began undressing Alfred and then stopped. “Is this ok? Am I rushing things?”
“If the drive from town had been any longer, I'd have jumped you in the taxi.”
They helped each other with buttons and pullovers and soon enjoyed the warmth of skin to skin contact. “My God! Your willy's all wet. Did you come already?” Alfred asked.
Tom kept kissing and said, “I'm so happy to see you. I think I started creaming on the train.”
“I brought some stuff,” Alfred said, picking a paper bag off the floor. “We should find the bedroom.”
Two naked men, one carrying a sack of condoms and lube, began looking for a bedroom. They found two closets, a kitchenette, and a bathroom.
“The floor will be perfect,” Tom said.
“Ah!” Alfred found the trick to opening the sofa into a small double bed.
“Cozy,” Alfred said, once they were settled against each other.
“Why would we want anything bigger?” Tom asked and gently pushed his knee between Alfred's thighs. Alfred responded by opening his legs wide and pulling Tom onto him.
“I've wanted you every night. Don't make me wait.”
Sheathed and greased, Tom entered him slowly, watching Alfred's initial grimace turn to open-mouthed pleasure. The intervening days vanished and the two picked up where they had left off on the last Sunday's morning. Alfred came very quickly, disappointing both of them, since Alfred needed a while to recover.
“You want to play gin rummy?” Tom joked.
“No, I want to worship your body while you tell me what happened this week.”
“Ok, mmmm. Keep doing that,” Tom watched Alfred suck his cock. “After I left you, I was on the train and a little girl got sick. Blew lunch all over her mother. The mother was pissed, said she does it all the time.” Alfred was chuckling, disrupting his rhythm, but Tom kept on. “Train sick every time, she said. They had been to the shore, I guess, and mom left the kid with a terrified looking old lady who if figured lightning can strike twice she would be the proof. And it did. And she was. But the kid only got her shoes. Then the mom returned and ...”
“Shut up! You're wrecking my concentration.”
“If you're going to give me orders, you have to kiss me. My feeling get hurt easily. You English are so insensitive.”
“Insensitive? I come if you touch me!”
“Yes … about that … let's see if you can come again.” Tom switched and began giving Alfred a blow job.
“I need more time, Tom. Sorry ...”
Tom moved up so they were face to face. He held Alfred's limp cock firmly at the base and said, “I don't think you do. I think you're faking.” A couple of kisses on the mouth, then a couple on Alfred's nipples, then more sucking followed; and Tom said, “There. I knew it.” He kept the pressure on Alfred's cock, using his fist like a ring to trap the blood flow. He licked the exposed glans and then sucked it until it was fiery red. Alfred groaned with pleasure and he maintained his erection without assistance.
He went limp again, when Tom started fucking him, but erections are tricky. With a little stroking it came back in time for Tom's orgasm. Tom planned that they would come together for his repeat, but his timing was off and Alfred fired first. It was like that most of the night, the shared lovemaking. First Tom would try something, then Alfred would. There were no more orgasms until a final outpouring in the early morning.
Tom slept most of the time while Alfred was at work on Friday. So did Alfred. He could barely keep his eyes open wading through box after box of old, dusty stock and bond certificates and then screen after screen of modern computer-certified account balances. George covered pretty well for him and nudged him a couple of times when his snoring got loud.
He hurried back to Dylan's studio apartment, called a bed-sitter in the UK, as soon as he could and hopped back in bed for a real nap. Tom let him sleep for a while and then they resumed. It wasn't until Friday night that they got it right, and that was a total reversal. Tom was the one who came, while feeling Alfred's cock spurt inside him.
Late on Friday they went out shopping for essentials; Alfred had supplied enough lube but they were out of condoms. “We weren't well-coordinated until Sunday morning at Alistair's. We just need more practice,” Alfred said as they walked to a store on Pound Lane.
“We'll get it right. We have all day tomorrow.”
“Um, we don't, not completely. I need to go to a party at my boss's house tomorrow afternoon; but it's only for three hours. Dylan said he'll show you the sights while I'm at this dull business thing. I'll be back in time for dinner.”
“For dinner? That's not what you'll be back for. If this place weren't so crowded, I'd give you a sample now.” One elderly Sainsbury customer overheard and got a fit of coughing when Tom loaded two boxes of condoms into the trolley and asked, in his California accent, “Be honest, dude. Do I fuck you too much?”
Alfred shared a glance with the woman and said, “Scotland.”
Tom watched the woman scuttle away and commented to Alfred, “If she's gonna hang around the condoms, she should be ready for stuff like that.”
“You put me on the Internet?” At first Tyndall didn't think too much about it; in fact, he got a bit of vicarious fun from knowing his image and actions were inspiring enough masturbatory ejaculate to float a battleship. It wasn't until he convened a workshop in clay modeling that he was hauled up short.
“Wait! Mr. Arnstein! You … you're Tin Doll, yes?” said a young man.
“Tyndall is my first name. Use it if you want. Now, mixing in the pigment is an important step. You don't want to alter the characteristics of the clay.” He resumed his lecture and when the class was over the young man approached him.
“I just wanted to thank you for your videos. I feel like I know you so well. You're like a big brother. You changed my life.”
“You're welcome,” Tyndall answered, not completely sure what the young man's point was.
“I used to be so afraid to even take my clothes off. You changed all that. There you are in high definition, having a great time, showing it all off, and looking good. You're a hero to us guys with small dicks.”
“Small dicks?”
“Well, yeah! Shelly's always talking about your, uh, penis and the advantages of being small. Don't you watch your own shows?”
“Er, no.” Tyndall went home and immediately logged onto Shelly's website. All he saw were teaser images and promises of more if he paid what seemed like a fortune to join.
Tyndall had learned not to make assumptions with Shelly; historically, the ultimate reality had always turned out to be so much worse than what she lead him to expect. After the end a pleasant dalliance that evening he confronted Shelly. “I thought you were just showing us having a good time. Do you add your own commentary?”
“It's acting, Tyndall. It's entertainment. It doesn't mean anything.” Shelly's defensiveness set off alarms in Tyndall's head. “It's just a little commentary to help the viewers along with whatever they're doing while they're watching.”
“Shelly, you know exactly what they're doing while they're watching.”
“I guess. Not all of them though. Some are admiring you. You should read the feedback. You're very popular with guys, considering it's a straight site.”
“Tell me about your commentary.”
“Well, the initial shot goes out live … as were doing it, just like ten minutes ago. You know, I have to compliment you. You're getting better and better at making my little bird sing.”
Tyndall zeroed in on his initial question. “The initial shot goes out live. Then what?”
“Then we edit it and add some commentary. It becomes an instruction video for people less experienced than you are.”
“Who edits it? Who comments?”
“Well, Ma does a lot of the editing, but I do the comments.”
“Your mother edits your fuck scenes. Sure, why not? Can I see? The web site wouldn't let me on.”
“Are you sure you want to? Sometimes it's a little upsetting for me to watch myself. You might feel like that, too.”
“I want to see.”
“Ok, but read some of your fan mail first. Guys really like you – in a good way of course.”
Tyndall paged through some commentary. A typical email exchange went, “Sexy Shelly, had to write to say I love your sessions with Tin Doll. The guy is so super straight in a funny way. He makes the big dick guys look boring. I don't want to say he's clueless, maybe just a little … well, you know – you're the one he's trying to fuck. He loves every second he's with you and even when he fucks up the fucking, he's working that three-incher for all it's worth. It's good to watch a guy with a dick even smaller than mine having a great time and eventually getting you both off. Keep up the great work, Frank the Four-incher.”
Shelly answered saying, “Sweetie, the big dick guys ARE boring, plus they're usually very selfish and that's a total turn off for me. When Tyndall gets it wrong, at least he doesn't draw blood and we can try again. Eventually he gets it right and we both get off. A small dick guy who takes his time is the best. Keep it up, Love, Shelly.”
“See, Tin Doll, the subscribers love you. You're a hero to thousands. And my comments … remember it's supposed to be entertainment.”
It was painful, as Shelly had predicted, for Tyndall to watch an edited scene. Shelly's commentary was insulting and demeaning; it made him look like a complete idiot with a tiny dick with the only good thing being a constant erection. She called it a dicklet, a cockette, a mini-wang, a hairy mushroom, half a hotdog, and more. Each scene ended with her maneuvering Tin Doll into massaging her groove with his tiny messenger of love. It was a form of clitoral stimulation that she said was virtual masturbation with more fun and a little companionship. She always emphasized what a good time Tin Doll had and how, after lots of instruction, she got him to 'do it right'. Tyndall was present in about a third of the archived scenes; and, based on viewers' scores, they were the most popular on the site.
Tyndall felt degraded. He couldn't understand why guys liked watching Shelly make a fool of him.
“Now don't get all crazy,” Shelly said. “You are very popular. People like you. They sympathize. They watch your failures, and you know they're not really failures, and they learn. In the end you have a good time and you give me a good time. How is that degrading? You perform well. The guys like you. I like you. Even Ma likes you.”
“Are you making lots of money off me?”
“The site revenue is growing since you started appearing.”
“Again, with your MOTHER? Really? She's totally familiar with everything we do?” Ma's involvement seemed the least appealing part of things to Tyndall.
“Ma's a realist. She makes the best of what comes along; and here you are.”
Tyndall went home and thought about these things. He used Shelly's password and watched some more scenes. He read more viewers' comments. He got his dick hard and then looked at it in a mirror. He paused, looked critically at himself as he stroked; it's not THAT small, he told himself. Yes, it is, another voice in his head said. His balls were pretty big, but that just made his dick look even smaller. A misfortune of life, he thought; but everything worked and worked well.
He shrugged at his mirror image, satisfied with his rigid erection and spoke to his penis. “Hey little guy, I think I liked it best when she called you a cockette.” He returned to the monitor and jerked his cock, watching Shelly spread her legs wide for him. He came precisely when his image on the screen did. It was messy, but an amazing turn-on and immensely satisfying.
Rory, accompanied by John and Tom, reviewed the terms of the two contract proposals with Alistair and representatives of BFL, one of whom was a former husband of Fred. Strictly speaking, the contract between Rory's company and BFL didn't concern the British Museum, so Alistair didn't comment. He did comment on the contract between the Museum and BFL.
“I'd like to see a verification test of interoperability with other international sites before acceptance of the system. In fact I want it to be a condition of acceptance.”
When the contracts were signed and the Americans were returning to the Mad Hatter, John said, “You know what Alistair did with that interoperability test, don't you? He essentially guaranteed future foreign sales for us.”
“Future foreign partners, too. We won't have full control of the product.”
“If the foreign guys change the product, they assume liability. We're protected.”
“Maybe, John, but I want the reputation of our product - and it is always OUR product – to be protected. We'll expand based on this contract's performance.”
“So dump it all on Tom's shoulders, huh?” John replied.
“It'll work.” Tom sounded very determined.
Once at the hotel, John peeled off to change and meet Fred leaving Rory and Tom alone. Rory had an hour to kill before his afternoon flight home. They ate a snack in the all purpose bar and dining room. “Would you have guessed a couple years ago, that we'd be sitting here today?” Rory sounded a little awed by his as well as Tom's success. He looked at Tom again. “What are you doing?”
Tom was unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it open to show his t-shirt that read “I Work for the World's Best Boss.”
“How many times have I told you to get rid of that?” Rory laughed.
“I'm never getting rid of it. Actually I have several. One for every day of the week.” There was something like love in Tom's voice.
“Fuck,” Rory muttered and blinked away a tear. He said goodbye to Tom and went to his room to pack.
Tom punched a number into his cell. “Alfred, I know it's only Thursday, but I'm done for the week. How would it be if I caught a train today? And Alistair wants us for lunch on Sunday. Ok?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.”
“I asked only two questions.”
“So you have an extra answer if you think of any more. What train? Hurry!”
“I can make the four o'clock. It gets in around five-forty-something.”
“I'll be there!” Alfred promised.
At four forty-five Alfred joined Dylan and Cris at what they now thought of as 'their pub'. The girls weren't expected until five. As he approached the booth he could see under the table that Dylan had one shoe off and his foot was resting in Cris's lap.
“You two! I can see what you're doing. So can anyone else who's got his eyes open.”
“Cris is demonstrating a foot massage technique. What's wrong with that?”
“Tell it to China,” Alfred said. “My problem is ...”
“Now we get to it,” Dylan said. "YOUR problem ...”
“My friend Tom is arriving a day early and I haven't made any plans. What do I do?”
At that moment the girls arrived, preventing any answer. After they got settled and drinks arrived, the question was asked again.
“Use my place,” Dylan volunteered.
“Where will you go?”
“He could stay with China and me,” Cris volunteered.
About a half hour later, with Dylan's latch key in his pocket, shaky with nerves, Alfred saw Tom walking toward him. Alfred could swear that a phantom spotlight was shining on Tom as he strode down the platform. Everyone else in the station faded to gray obscurity. Suddenly shy, he was barely able to say hello.
“You met Vernon, did you?” Fred asked John.
“Yes. He seems like a good guy. He has your interests at heart.”
“He had better have; he works for me. Was it disconcerting for you, John? Meeting one of my ex's?”
“Which husband will I be?”
“The fourth. Are you going weak in the knees on me? I promise you it's going to be fun. You'll have a very good time.”
“While it lasts … “
“I honestly expected all my marriages to last. This one as much as any of the others.”
Her sexual allure shut him up and he wallowed in her eager embrace. John was in his mid-thirties and not naïve about his situation. He was a plaything for a woman used to getting her own way. One of his friends had begun a similar affair and referred to himself as a walking, talking vibrator. John couldn't get the phrase out of his head. He knew that the minute he failed to please her he would be history, a footnote in the life of a successful business tycoon who happened to be a demanding woman. Riding the back of a dolphin who could drown him at any moment, he was determined to enjoy the ride. Whatever happened, it would beat the hell out of a ho-hum second marriage somewhere in deepest East Bay San Francisco suburbia. A British baroness! Nobody else from Walled Lake, Michigan could make that claim.
He wondered if his position representing his current employer could be compromised by his pending marriage. If Fred's company wanted something contrary to the interests of the Alameda company, what would his vote be?
“But, darling man,” Fred asked, “how could our positions possibly diverge? The two company's prospects coincide perfectly in the joint venture.”
John could think of dozens of ways their prospects could diverge, but soft thighs and lubricious writhings postponed further consideration.
The ship was on a two day run from Detroit to the Welland Canal. The Isadora's diesels motored with maximum economy over a distance that could have been covered in half the time. The leisurely pace was governed by the backup of ships waiting to transit the canal that connected Lake Erie and Lake Ontario.
“Isn't there a shortcut?” Phil asked Bork Jepsen, the Danish deck officer and chief source of Phil's growing nautical knowledge.
“We could go over Niagara Falls. That would be fast, but it would damage the cargo,” he answered. Jepsen took an interest in Alex and Phil. He told them that they let him practice his English.
After an exciting first night, the second night out of Detroit Boryslaw kept to himself. He said something in Polish that Phil didn't understand and had gone immediately to sleep. Phil felt quiet relief and was soon asleep as well. Five in the morning came much earlier than he was used to.
At five oh five he met Alex in the galley. “You look much better than yesterday. I was afraid you were sea sick. That would be a bitch, working on a ship for the next few weeks.”
“I'm fine. Did the passengers drink a lot last night? Maybe they won't get up until ten.”
The passengers, about half of them and mostly men, were up with the dawn. They wanted to watch the Isadora traverse the eight locks of the Welland Canal, which would take all the daylight hours. For the first lock, they enjoyed juice, pastries, and coffee on deck. The real breakfast came next. The view from the dining room windows of the passing Canadian shore was entertainment enough until they got to the second lock. By then most of the passengers had eaten and were back out on deck for the second lock.
Phil and Alex left the buffet in place for stragglers and began cleaning staterooms. The passengers, based on their baggage contents, had little of interest beyond prescription medicines. Phil admired a large supply of oxycodone in one room and wondered if a pill or two would be missed. In case Boryslaw fucks me again, he rationalized; but he decided no. After finishing three staterooms he met Alex in a passageway and shrugged.
“Nothing interesting, so far.”
“Same here,” Alex answered.
After refreshing the breakfast buffet line, they moved to the crew's rooms. Alex did the officers' staterooms and Phil did the three-man rooms, his own first. He entered and found Boryslaw in his underwear, dressing, fresh from a shower. Reflexively, he recoiled. Boryslaw looked at him and made no move. He said, “I drink. Den I fuck. Pryzkro mi, Feel.”
Phil nodded, not entirely sure of Boryslaw's meaning. He emptied the wastepaper basket, swept the floor, and, when Boryslaw was finished shaving, wiped down the lavatory sink and mirror. As he prepared to go to the next room, Boryslaw called his name. “Feel? Ok?”
“Ok, Boryslaw.” Phil answered, not sure if he had just accepted some apology or agreed to get fucked again.
Alex and Phil worked together again cleaning up the remains of breakfast. Alex didn't ask, he just raised his eyebrows in question. “Nothing,” Phil told him. “Just one foot locker half-full of … I guess, vodka.”
“The chief engineer and Jepsen both have locked closets. Otherwise nothing,” Alex quietly shared.
After the fourth lock passage even the most fascinated passenger was bored. They came readily to lunch and then retired to the deck or to their rooms. The ship's officers sometimes ate with the passengers, although there was a separate dining room for the all the crew. This distinction wasn't for reasons of caste. The officers were expected to socialize with the passengers, although sometimes, if they didn't have time to change clothes, they ate with the crew. For the regular crew, there were usually language barriers that prevented much fraternization.
Jepsen explained to his table that the ship would proceed directly to Montreal as its last port on the western side of the Atlantic. He recommended to one photographer their passage through the Thousand Isles for scenic enjoyment. “It's like driving a huge ship through people's back yards – the river is that narrow.”
Phil and Alex both worked in the passenger dining room, where there was table service – semi-Russian style. The fixed starter, soup, and limited-choice main courses were served sequentially, although a dessert buffet was available throughout the meal. Decorative, but non-functional samovars dispensed tea and coffee. Wine and beer were also available. The two young men worked like dogs for the hour allotted for lunch service.
“Don't worry,” the cook told them. “They always eat like hogs for the first day or two, then they taper off. Then some will get seasick.” The cook took pleasure from the sea sickness. It reduced his workload, too. Broth and Saltines were an easy meal to prepare.
The ship had a small library for the use of anyone, passenger or crew. It was on the honor system. Anyone who wanted to signed out his own book. Phil glanced at the check out slips. “Russian Furniture – The Golden Age” was checked out to an indecipherable signature over a month ago. That meant either some previous passenger had - what? - stolen it? - or a crew member had checked it out and still had it. Bork Jepsen had checked out “Baltic Steamships of the Early Twentieth Century”; his writing was predictably neat and precise. Phil couldn't find a match for the other signature among the remaining checkout slips.
Dinner was a repeat of the lunch rush hour and then, after cleaning the tables of all but drinks, Phil and Alex got out their instruments. The passengers were increasingly becoming increasingly acquainted with each other and the music was welcome. As Dimitri had predicted the German songs were popular as were the Country and Western choices. One of the passengers volunteered and led his table foursome in singing “Da Wird die Sau Geschlacht” which was a rousing rustic piece with slightly bloodthirsty lyrics that involved sausage making. The music warmed up the room and after an hour, the singers retired to the deck, leaving the passengers to get better acquainted. They still had to clean up when the lounge service closed for the night.
“Arrrr, matey, how'd you like day three?” Alex asked, making the most of their break.
“I haven't been so tired since … ever. You?”
“Given that the average age of the passengers is about seventy, they'll probably go to bed early,” Alex stated with more hope than assurance.
“Da Wird die Sau whatever was a pretty good song. We should learn it.” Phil hummed the melody.
“There the sow is slaughtered, there the sausage is made in beautiful, grand Holstein-land. Sometimes they sing it at football games in Hamburg.”
Which reminds me … what does 'pryzkro mi' mean?”
Alex laughed, “I don't know. It's not Russian, but I think your accent is getting better. Where did you hear that?”
“One of my roommates said it to me.”
They were alone on deck and in the shadows. It was tempting. There was a quarter-moon shining on the lake waters. They could hear laughter from the passengers. Just a tiny kiss. Alex took the opportunity and then knew if he did it again he would want more.
“Don't stop,” Phil said.
“We can't do this. It's a small ship. We'll get caught.”
“So what?” Alex could hear the need in Phil's voice.
“Dimitri said ...”
After another brief kiss, initiated by Phil, Alex pulled away.
“No one saw us, Alex.”
Tom echoed Alfred's shy approach. He wanted to say so much and yet nothing came, which was untypical for Tom. He looked carefully at Alfred and whispered “You haven't changed.”
“It's only been four days, Tom.”
“Four days too long.”
They walked to a bus stop but Alfred changed his mind and they took a taxicab. He gave the driver an address just off Northside, a road improbably located on the east side of town. The Circle Anglia housing area was spartan but attractively laid out; but its appearance was hardly noticed by either man. They entered Dylan's leasehold and Tom lost his patience. He swept Alfred into his arms and asked, “Where's the bedroom?”
“I don't know. I've never been here before.”
Tom didn't stop kissing him and settled for a sofa near the door. He began undressing Alfred and then stopped. “Is this ok? Am I rushing things?”
“If the drive from town had been any longer, I'd have jumped you in the taxi.”
They helped each other with buttons and pullovers and soon enjoyed the warmth of skin to skin contact. “My God! Your willy's all wet. Did you come already?” Alfred asked.
Tom kept kissing and said, “I'm so happy to see you. I think I started creaming on the train.”
“I brought some stuff,” Alfred said, picking a paper bag off the floor. “We should find the bedroom.”
Two naked men, one carrying a sack of condoms and lube, began looking for a bedroom. They found two closets, a kitchenette, and a bathroom.
“The floor will be perfect,” Tom said.
“Ah!” Alfred found the trick to opening the sofa into a small double bed.
“Cozy,” Alfred said, once they were settled against each other.
“Why would we want anything bigger?” Tom asked and gently pushed his knee between Alfred's thighs. Alfred responded by opening his legs wide and pulling Tom onto him.
“I've wanted you every night. Don't make me wait.”
Sheathed and greased, Tom entered him slowly, watching Alfred's initial grimace turn to open-mouthed pleasure. The intervening days vanished and the two picked up where they had left off on the last Sunday's morning. Alfred came very quickly, disappointing both of them, since Alfred needed a while to recover.
“You want to play gin rummy?” Tom joked.
“No, I want to worship your body while you tell me what happened this week.”
“Ok, mmmm. Keep doing that,” Tom watched Alfred suck his cock. “After I left you, I was on the train and a little girl got sick. Blew lunch all over her mother. The mother was pissed, said she does it all the time.” Alfred was chuckling, disrupting his rhythm, but Tom kept on. “Train sick every time, she said. They had been to the shore, I guess, and mom left the kid with a terrified looking old lady who if figured lightning can strike twice she would be the proof. And it did. And she was. But the kid only got her shoes. Then the mom returned and ...”
“Shut up! You're wrecking my concentration.”
“If you're going to give me orders, you have to kiss me. My feeling get hurt easily. You English are so insensitive.”
“Insensitive? I come if you touch me!”
“Yes … about that … let's see if you can come again.” Tom switched and began giving Alfred a blow job.
“I need more time, Tom. Sorry ...”
Tom moved up so they were face to face. He held Alfred's limp cock firmly at the base and said, “I don't think you do. I think you're faking.” A couple of kisses on the mouth, then a couple on Alfred's nipples, then more sucking followed; and Tom said, “There. I knew it.” He kept the pressure on Alfred's cock, using his fist like a ring to trap the blood flow. He licked the exposed glans and then sucked it until it was fiery red. Alfred groaned with pleasure and he maintained his erection without assistance.
He went limp again, when Tom started fucking him, but erections are tricky. With a little stroking it came back in time for Tom's orgasm. Tom planned that they would come together for his repeat, but his timing was off and Alfred fired first. It was like that most of the night, the shared lovemaking. First Tom would try something, then Alfred would. There were no more orgasms until a final outpouring in the early morning.
Tom slept most of the time while Alfred was at work on Friday. So did Alfred. He could barely keep his eyes open wading through box after box of old, dusty stock and bond certificates and then screen after screen of modern computer-certified account balances. George covered pretty well for him and nudged him a couple of times when his snoring got loud.
He hurried back to Dylan's studio apartment, called a bed-sitter in the UK, as soon as he could and hopped back in bed for a real nap. Tom let him sleep for a while and then they resumed. It wasn't until Friday night that they got it right, and that was a total reversal. Tom was the one who came, while feeling Alfred's cock spurt inside him.
Late on Friday they went out shopping for essentials; Alfred had supplied enough lube but they were out of condoms. “We weren't well-coordinated until Sunday morning at Alistair's. We just need more practice,” Alfred said as they walked to a store on Pound Lane.
“We'll get it right. We have all day tomorrow.”
“Um, we don't, not completely. I need to go to a party at my boss's house tomorrow afternoon; but it's only for three hours. Dylan said he'll show you the sights while I'm at this dull business thing. I'll be back in time for dinner.”
“For dinner? That's not what you'll be back for. If this place weren't so crowded, I'd give you a sample now.” One elderly Sainsbury customer overheard and got a fit of coughing when Tom loaded two boxes of condoms into the trolley and asked, in his California accent, “Be honest, dude. Do I fuck you too much?”
Alfred shared a glance with the woman and said, “Scotland.”
Tom watched the woman scuttle away and commented to Alfred, “If she's gonna hang around the condoms, she should be ready for stuff like that.”
Rory,
I saw this, Grand chapter last night, but knew I needed more time to read it than my consciousness level allowed for.
Plus, there were too many distractions last night.
Great update on our UK connection - Tom & Rory are a great team on work- Tom knows how to embarass Rory, that's for sure.
And, Tom and Alfred - young love and boundless passion.
Phil and Alex - the boys are going to need someplace to have some quiet alone time. Maybe the drunken "kielbasa" carrier will feel enough remorse to help the boys out. (Yes, I used Google Translate to see exactly what he said).
John and Fred - an odd couple with potential disaster in the boardroom in the making.
And then there's Tin Doll - awakened! Not sure how I'd feel about the situation if I were in his position, either. There is a bit of an exhibitionist in our innermost id's, though, so maybe I'd get over the Hump, and go for the gusto - AND a cut of the $$$.
Great fun installment.
I saw this, Grand chapter last night, but knew I needed more time to read it than my consciousness level allowed for.
Plus, there were too many distractions last night.
Great update on our UK connection - Tom & Rory are a great team on work- Tom knows how to embarass Rory, that's for sure.
And, Tom and Alfred - young love and boundless passion.
Phil and Alex - the boys are going to need someplace to have some quiet alone time. Maybe the drunken "kielbasa" carrier will feel enough remorse to help the boys out. (Yes, I used Google Translate to see exactly what he said).
John and Fred - an odd couple with potential disaster in the boardroom in the making.
And then there's Tin Doll - awakened! Not sure how I'd feel about the situation if I were in his position, either. There is a bit of an exhibitionist in our innermost id's, though, so maybe I'd get over the Hump, and go for the gusto - AND a cut of the $$$.
Great fun installment.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Ok, you cheated ... but our seafaring duo Alex and Phil still DON'T know what he said. It just might matter in a future chapter.
Usually, if I use foreign words, I provide a translation or at least a sense of the expression within a sentence or two, but the meaning wasn't important to the immediate action. [A good editor would probably tell me I'm making sense only to myself here.]
Many thanks to rocabar and zemc87 for the kind words.
Rory,
The "Feel? OK?" questioning made me sense that's where he was headed, except for the work looking like a Cyrillic bastardization or Prick followed by Feel - as in grab my cock and start stroking it!
The "Feel? OK?" questioning made me sense that's where he was headed, except for the work looking like a Cyrillic bastardization or Prick followed by Feel - as in grab my cock and start stroking it!
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Thirty-Six
“I got the part. I don't know if that's good or bad.” Lucky showed Mike the postcard that informed him that rehearsals would begin the following week.
“Notice it doesn't say which part. Notice also that the rehearsals are in an apartment, not an auditorium.” Mike wanted to warn of Rex's tricks without diminishing Lucky's excitement, which was modest enough already. Lucky acted more intrigued than delighted with the promise of the postcard.
“Still, it's an ego boost to be chosen at all,” Lucky said with minimal enthusiasm. “You, however, are a much bigger ego boost for me.” Lucky thanked Mike with a kiss; a little exploration told him Mike was responding. The sex was always much better if he gave Mike a preview.
“It is. You could go have a look. No harm in that.” Mike face was flushed in reaction to Lucky's attention.
“I'd rather just have a look at you.” Lucky opened the top button of Mike's oxford cloth shirt and teased his throat with light nibbles. “Let's get you out of your work clothes.”
“I'm kinda sweaty, Luck. Maybe I should take a shower first.”
“I like you sweaty.”
Mike sighed with a combination of resignation, acceptance, eagerness, and lust. “Lucky, you know just what to do to me.” Lucky got Mike's shirt off and gave him a gentle push back onto the bed. “I must be pretty simple. You had me figured out in about ten minutes.” His voice was husky with passion as Lucky removed his socks.
“You're not simple,” Lucky tugged off Mike's khakis. “You're fascinating. You make me want to try everything I've ever heard of with you. Lean back on your elbows.”
That action meant Mike's cock was right in Lucky's face. Right where Lucky wanted it. He held it, licked it, kissed it, and then looked up at Mike's face. Mike pulled him off his knees and onto the bed.
“Get your clothes off. One of us is getting fucked. Your choice.” Mike reached into Lucky's waistband and squeezed his ass for emphasis. “You or me? How about both? You and then me? Or me and then you? What about me and then you and then me?” Mike had worked Lucky's pant down and their cocks ground together. He was panting both from the effort and from the excitement.
“Lucky ... I love ...”
“OH, for GOD'S SAKE! Don't you two ever quit?” Matt spun on his heel and hurried out of the room. “I came to see if you got a rehearsal invitation. Lucky, I mean. Did you?” he called from outside the bedroom door.
“Matt, come back in an hour. And knock when you do,” Mike ordered.
“Jeez ...” they heard Matt mutter and then the apartment door closed.
“Now then … where were we?” Mike asked.
“You had just said, 'Lucky, I love ...' What do you love?”
“I love every minute we're together. In bed, I mean. Well, the other times, too; but in bed especially. I've never been so … completely satisfied by anybody. You know everything I want before I do.”
Lucky wanted to hear something simpler than that. “I love you,” would have been perfect; but what he had gotten was good enough. They resumed their interrupted embrace. Lucky made sure that he came first, so Mike wouldn't have to wait after coming himself. Lucky knew that Mike wasn't all that thrilled about getting fucked right after he had come, despite his offer. But for Lucky - he just wanted to feel Mike in him. He wanted to feel Mike's every motion, every gasp, every pulse, without the distraction of his own passion getting in the way. Lucky pulled Mike as deeply into him as he could when he felt the first spasm. “Be part of me,” he urged as Mike came.
“What if we cut through this lot? Won't that take ten minutes off the walk back?”
“It might, but … I don't know,” Alfred wasn't in favor of cutting through a parking lot and then somebody's walled property, even if it was a low wall.
“First you say I don't fuck you enough. Now you don't want to hurry back so I can fuck you some more,” Tom chided.
“Except for eight hours so I could earn a couple of quid, we've been in bed almost every minute since you got here.”
“I know. Nice, isn't it?”
They walked for a bit in silence. The road was lighted in a very patchy way and near empty. In a particularly dark spot Alfred took Tom's hand in his own. “I think I could tell your cock from another one,” Alfred speculated. “In me, I mean.”
“I'll hail a passing motorist so you can compare.”
Alfred laughed and impulsively gave Tom a kiss in the shadows.
“Did you really want to know what I did last week? I never got passed the train trip … the vomit-covered shoes.”
“The shoes weren't a joke?”
“A pair of straw beach sandals probably ruined.” Tom continued, “Anyway, I got the job. The British Museum has hired us – my company and a British partner. I'm going to be here for probably six months.”
“Tom, that's wonderful. By here, I guess you mean London.”
“Yes, but the trains will still run, won't they? 'Here' includes you.”
The headlights of an approaching car lit up the pair. Alfred dropped Tom's hand. In the subsequent darkness, he again held it, feeling Tom's warmth and strength. He regretted not taking the shortcut.
Matt was excited, explaining to Ann his hopes for a part in Royal Hunt of the Sun. “I think I could get the Pizarro role.”
“You don't look very Spanish ... like not at all.”
They were on the porch getting some sun. Matt spread the sun screen on Ann's back. “Makeup, a wig. Appearance is easy. And Lucky could be the Sun God. We're going for final tryouts tonight.”
“Mmmm,” Ann purred under Matt's touch. “You wouldn't mind if I undid my top, would you?”
Matt undid the tie and continued, “The only part that worries me is the director. Rex is talented but … how to put this?”
“Driven by his penis?” Ann suggested, remembering the aborted Othello production.
“Dick-head would be a fair description. But it's worse than that. It totally warps his actions unless he gets what he wants. That's what Misha told me, anyway. Of course, Misha would use any excuse to justify screwing around. No, I guess that's not fair. He's still with that fireman.”
“What's the chance of you and Lucky getting yourselves in trouble with Rawson and Mike?”
“Zero. There's only one scene in which the Sun God and Pizarro interact and it's one of those embrace and fade to black scene-enders.”
“What's poking me?” Ann asked.
“Oops, sorry.” During the conversation Matt had inadvertently worked the bulge of his shorts into the crevasse of Ann's ass. He slid out of their intimate connection.
“I thought you were gay,” Ann kidded him.
“I am. Totally. But, sometimes, you know, things just happen.”
“Well, I'm taking it as a compliment, that I can get a gay guy hard.”
“It's not all that hard. I mean, not all that difficult. 'It' is plenty hard.” Matt continued to massage Ann's back.
“Would you want to go farther?” Ann wasn't exactly offering, but there was more than curiosity in her voice.
“I would. You feel so nice. The sun feels nice. But ...”
The arrival of Al and Debbie ended the interlude, leaving both Ann and Matt with an unfulfilled ache.
“The baby is kicking up a storm. I think he's going to be a soccer player,” Debbie complained as she sat down ponderously. She didn't notice the wet spot on Matt's shorts, but Al did.
“Maybe a chorus boy,” Matt kidded, moving to his own chair.
“What if he is gay? Would that be a problem?” Ann asked, retying her top.
“Not to me,” Debbie said. “Maybe to him.”
“I hope he's straight,” Al said. “We need more understanding straight people in the world, plus I wouldn't mind being an old, butch grandmother. I think I could do that well, don't you think?” She flexed a bicep for them.
“I thought I'd find you here,” Rawson said. Al was disappointed to see Matt's face light up at the sight of his lover. She had nothing against the Matt-Rawson hook up, but hoped to see more fun in Ann's life, even if it was with somebody hopeless like Matt.
“Sit down,” Matt said, making room for Rawson on his lounge chair. He put his arm around Rawson, scratching his back. “Have a good day?”
“You have a job … I think … if you want it.”
“What?”
“Research assistant for a book about the politics of theatrical producers since the Restoration. Profits versus principles – that kind of thing.”
Matt was briefly speechless. “But I'm not really up on political theory,” he finally said.
“And the author doesn't know much about the details of stage production. You would fill in the gaps. It's funded research for two years. If you want it, of course. And if Jeff likes you.”
“Jeff?”
“Jeff Wolf, the author.” Rawson gave Matt a quick kiss. “Something to think about, at least.” He turned to the girls. “I feel like cooking tonight. Is everybody hungry?”
“So I thought we could see the Castle, of course, and there's a museum on the grounds, and then maybe a walk around the University. You can see where Alfred got to be so smart. And then Dragon Hall, and maybe Cow Tower. There's a good place to eat near Cow Tower. All the good things aren't in London.” Dylan was an excellent guide as well as historian, explaining to Tom the old kingdoms and the resulting regional loyalties that have come down to the present day.
They stopped for a late lunch where the conversation turned personal. “I'm hungry. Alfred and I haven't been spending much time on food,” Tom confessed as he tucked into a ploughman's lunch. The bread, cheese, ham, and pickle, went perfectly with a pint of the local.
“I envy Alfred; he's so lucky. I had no idea what you'd be like. All I know about Americans is from the telly; and you're nothing like a telly actor.”
“I think I'm the lucky one. But why do you envy him? You've got every possibility in front of you.”
“Are you joking? I'm stereotypical. Kind of swishy. Kind of ugly. Kind of boring. The guy who never gets the guy. Never gets any guy.”
“I was that way. A little over-weight; no style at all; bad complexion; no imagination. An amazing man changed everything with a little advice.”
“Like what?”
“Never mind the advice. Let's act.”
“So American,” Dylan said as he let Tom almost pull him out of his seat and into the street.
“Where's the best hotel in town?” Tom asked. Minutes later, Tom asked the hotel's concierge, “Where's the best barber in town?” Minutes later he asked a young man, “Who's the best stylist in the shop?”
The young man frowned, “For what purpose?”
“A new look for my friend here.” Tom pointed to Dylan.
“I am. I'm the best,” the young apprentice boasted. “I'm Henry.”
“Henry, my friend thinks he's boring. We want a change.”
Henry studied Dylan. “Take your shirt off.” Dylan hesitated but proceeded under Henry's appraising eye. “You have a decent, proportional body. Which you hide under an old man's clothes.” He continued looking.
“Old man's clothes? It's what I wear to work.”
“But you're not working now and you still look like an old man.” Ok, something athletic, I think. Shorter. Easy care and sporty. We'll start with a shampoo.”
“Be back,” Tom said and he ducked out the door.
“What are you using on me?” Dylan whined, with his eyes covered by a cloth to keep the chemicals out of them.
An hour later Henry said, “There. Done.”
It was a new Dylan. His mousy hair now had some very subtle lighter streaks in it. “Just to brighten it up,” Henry said. The shorter cut eliminated the former stringy, greasy look. A bit of bronzer made Dylan look ruddy. “Get a bit more exercise and you won't need the bronzer,” Henry advised.
“Here, put these on.” Tom handed him a parcel that contained a pair of denims in a European cut and a green and yellow jersey with the Norwich football club's logo on it. “Go on, do it!”
“What will I do with these clothes?” Dylan asked standing in his underwear.
“Throw them away?” suggested Henry. Dylan turned to him in annoyance and Henry exclaimed, “Fuck me! Look what else you've been hiding.”
Dylan hid his bulge as best he could and pulled on the jeans as quickly as he could. The football jersey completed the look.
“What do you think?” Tom asked. Tom thought Dylan now looked his age and healthy.
Dylan wasn't sure it was himself he was looking at. “I look a little American?” he proposed. “Except for the Norwich jersey.”
“Is that bad?” Tom asked.
“You think some guy might want to go out with me?”
“I would,” Henry said.
“I'll wait outside while you work those details out, “ Tom said.
Dylan joined him and they walked to the bus that would take them back to Circle Anglia. “We're meeting for a pint tonight,” Dylan said.
“Could Alfred and I join you?”
“Yes, of course,” Dylan said as he boarded the bus. He drew an admiring glance from another passenger.
“So who's your favorite on the Canaries?” the young man asked as his eyes inevitably strayed to Dylan's bulge.
“I have to say Crooks. I know he doesn't play but he's what got us into the Premier League.”
“Do you go?” the young man asked. “I'd like to see the Real Zaragoza match.” And so Dylan got his second date in less than an hour.
George Glover lay in bed with his cheeks burning every time he thought of the the company party. The afternoon at Huxley's had been another predictable horror. Huxley, the old perv! George thought. He does it to me every time. It's as if he finds every man's weak point and just keeps pecking away at it.
The afternoon had begun reasonably, with the arrival of the six assistants. All male, of course. Every few years, Huxley would hire a young woman, but for one reason or another, she never stayed. It was always a resignation, never a termination; but no one could complain that the firm didn't give women an opportunity.
Two other partners were present and greeted the arrivals. Alfred was the new boy this year. They began with dutiful welcomes and handshakes and then went out onto the grounds. After a drink and a bite the other two partners left, leaving Huxley in charge of team building, as he called it.
Although Huxley's house itself was unimpressive, the grounds were extensive enough for a playing field and a stone terrace with a swimming pool. Football was first on the menu. It seemed a little odd to change into the company-provided football kit out in the open, but the terrace was screened from sight. George, knowing his weakness, had changed quickly while doing division problems in his head. The game, three on three, went perfectly; it was scoreless after almost an hour, a feat if you consided there were no goalies. The lack of goal tenders was made up for by the tiny size of the goal nets which made scoring extraordinarily difficult. No one was a star, but at the same time no one was hopeless, either. And it did build some comradeship.
“Swim time,” Huxley called. George gritted his teeth at the memory. Naked water polo was what the old perv had in mind. Two of the assistants didn't look their best naked, so George concentrated his thoughts on them. The other three were various degrees of attractive ranging for hot to scorching. Alfred was in the middle, not as breathtaking as James, but definitely ahead of Pinky.
As George lay thinking about it, his minimal sleeping clothes began to feel unbearably restrictive. To hell with his landlady's requirement for being clothed at all times, no one would come in his room. He stripped naked and felt the cool sheets against his body. He quickly got an erection and teased it into full hardness.
I tried so hard to ignore Alfred, George told himself. But it had been hopeless. Every time Alfred bumped against him it was electric. I could feel his cock rub against me, George recalled. One time he was right in my crack. I know he wasn't doing it deliberately; but he wasn't exactly a limp biscuit either. But at least he never got … Oh, the shame of it. I think Alfred knew I was hard. At least I had it under control before we got out of the water.
When the water polo was over the men were on the terrace drying off and getting dressed. Huxley walked up and down commenting of aspects of the play. Praise here, criticism there. And then he got to George. “Your back's all wet. You can't put your shirt on yet. Dry him off, Booth. We're here to develop teamwork. Help your teammate out.”
George tried to complain, but Alfred was perfectly willing and rubbed down his back. As Alfred worked lower and lower, Huxley's grin grew wider and wider. “I see you still have that little problem, George,” Huxley said, referring to George's rigid cock.
Then I had to say to Alfred 'Please overlook my …' I should have just ignored it and got my clothes on. He could still hear Alfred's comment, “It's hard to overlook something that monumental.”
George felt the monument leak a bit of slick fluid as he stroked.
“Monumental!” James laughed. “In a flea circus, perhaps.”
“Every time, George. Just what is so exciting about a bunch of naked accountants?” Will kidded.
“Look at Alfred. He's not excited. Take a lesson George.” That from Huxley's ass-kissing favorite.
“That's ok, George. I wouldn't mind having a bit of your problem. Not here, of course.” Curtis was the oldest of the six; he was quite handsome but had ultimately been a disappointment to a number of girls and boys over the years.
And then Alfred smiled at me, George remembered. “Aaaahh!” He couldn't muffle his first cry as his cock spasmed. He continued stroking. “Mmmm. Oohh,” he sighed quietly; the warm semen on his fist reminded him of the warmth in Alfred's brown eyes.
It was a joke among the roomers, that the landlady, Mrs.Klinger, would give a fishy eyeball to whichever tenant had stained the sheets, as she put it. It generally involved some public shaming with as large an assembly of the household mustered as she could manage. George got a disproportionate share of the shaming. Everything to do with sex was a mortification to him. He wasn't even sure what he liked and he had tried as much variety as he could find.
It hadn't helped when Alfred told him, “I'm sure I would have been just like you, if my boyfriend weren't visiting. I get hard easily, too.”
George considered the possibilities of Alfred with a hard on and felt his cock stir again. The sheets are spoiled; I might as well have another go, George decided. His nipples seemed unusually sensitive as he played with them. He pictured Alfred's ass, near perfection, and became jealous of the boy friend he had never met.
“I got the part. I don't know if that's good or bad.” Lucky showed Mike the postcard that informed him that rehearsals would begin the following week.
“Notice it doesn't say which part. Notice also that the rehearsals are in an apartment, not an auditorium.” Mike wanted to warn of Rex's tricks without diminishing Lucky's excitement, which was modest enough already. Lucky acted more intrigued than delighted with the promise of the postcard.
“Still, it's an ego boost to be chosen at all,” Lucky said with minimal enthusiasm. “You, however, are a much bigger ego boost for me.” Lucky thanked Mike with a kiss; a little exploration told him Mike was responding. The sex was always much better if he gave Mike a preview.
“It is. You could go have a look. No harm in that.” Mike face was flushed in reaction to Lucky's attention.
“I'd rather just have a look at you.” Lucky opened the top button of Mike's oxford cloth shirt and teased his throat with light nibbles. “Let's get you out of your work clothes.”
“I'm kinda sweaty, Luck. Maybe I should take a shower first.”
“I like you sweaty.”
Mike sighed with a combination of resignation, acceptance, eagerness, and lust. “Lucky, you know just what to do to me.” Lucky got Mike's shirt off and gave him a gentle push back onto the bed. “I must be pretty simple. You had me figured out in about ten minutes.” His voice was husky with passion as Lucky removed his socks.
“You're not simple,” Lucky tugged off Mike's khakis. “You're fascinating. You make me want to try everything I've ever heard of with you. Lean back on your elbows.”
That action meant Mike's cock was right in Lucky's face. Right where Lucky wanted it. He held it, licked it, kissed it, and then looked up at Mike's face. Mike pulled him off his knees and onto the bed.
“Get your clothes off. One of us is getting fucked. Your choice.” Mike reached into Lucky's waistband and squeezed his ass for emphasis. “You or me? How about both? You and then me? Or me and then you? What about me and then you and then me?” Mike had worked Lucky's pant down and their cocks ground together. He was panting both from the effort and from the excitement.
“Lucky ... I love ...”
“OH, for GOD'S SAKE! Don't you two ever quit?” Matt spun on his heel and hurried out of the room. “I came to see if you got a rehearsal invitation. Lucky, I mean. Did you?” he called from outside the bedroom door.
“Matt, come back in an hour. And knock when you do,” Mike ordered.
“Jeez ...” they heard Matt mutter and then the apartment door closed.
“Now then … where were we?” Mike asked.
“You had just said, 'Lucky, I love ...' What do you love?”
“I love every minute we're together. In bed, I mean. Well, the other times, too; but in bed especially. I've never been so … completely satisfied by anybody. You know everything I want before I do.”
Lucky wanted to hear something simpler than that. “I love you,” would have been perfect; but what he had gotten was good enough. They resumed their interrupted embrace. Lucky made sure that he came first, so Mike wouldn't have to wait after coming himself. Lucky knew that Mike wasn't all that thrilled about getting fucked right after he had come, despite his offer. But for Lucky - he just wanted to feel Mike in him. He wanted to feel Mike's every motion, every gasp, every pulse, without the distraction of his own passion getting in the way. Lucky pulled Mike as deeply into him as he could when he felt the first spasm. “Be part of me,” he urged as Mike came.
“What if we cut through this lot? Won't that take ten minutes off the walk back?”
“It might, but … I don't know,” Alfred wasn't in favor of cutting through a parking lot and then somebody's walled property, even if it was a low wall.
“First you say I don't fuck you enough. Now you don't want to hurry back so I can fuck you some more,” Tom chided.
“Except for eight hours so I could earn a couple of quid, we've been in bed almost every minute since you got here.”
“I know. Nice, isn't it?”
They walked for a bit in silence. The road was lighted in a very patchy way and near empty. In a particularly dark spot Alfred took Tom's hand in his own. “I think I could tell your cock from another one,” Alfred speculated. “In me, I mean.”
“I'll hail a passing motorist so you can compare.”
Alfred laughed and impulsively gave Tom a kiss in the shadows.
“Did you really want to know what I did last week? I never got passed the train trip … the vomit-covered shoes.”
“The shoes weren't a joke?”
“A pair of straw beach sandals probably ruined.” Tom continued, “Anyway, I got the job. The British Museum has hired us – my company and a British partner. I'm going to be here for probably six months.”
“Tom, that's wonderful. By here, I guess you mean London.”
“Yes, but the trains will still run, won't they? 'Here' includes you.”
The headlights of an approaching car lit up the pair. Alfred dropped Tom's hand. In the subsequent darkness, he again held it, feeling Tom's warmth and strength. He regretted not taking the shortcut.
Matt was excited, explaining to Ann his hopes for a part in Royal Hunt of the Sun. “I think I could get the Pizarro role.”
“You don't look very Spanish ... like not at all.”
They were on the porch getting some sun. Matt spread the sun screen on Ann's back. “Makeup, a wig. Appearance is easy. And Lucky could be the Sun God. We're going for final tryouts tonight.”
“Mmmm,” Ann purred under Matt's touch. “You wouldn't mind if I undid my top, would you?”
Matt undid the tie and continued, “The only part that worries me is the director. Rex is talented but … how to put this?”
“Driven by his penis?” Ann suggested, remembering the aborted Othello production.
“Dick-head would be a fair description. But it's worse than that. It totally warps his actions unless he gets what he wants. That's what Misha told me, anyway. Of course, Misha would use any excuse to justify screwing around. No, I guess that's not fair. He's still with that fireman.”
“What's the chance of you and Lucky getting yourselves in trouble with Rawson and Mike?”
“Zero. There's only one scene in which the Sun God and Pizarro interact and it's one of those embrace and fade to black scene-enders.”
“What's poking me?” Ann asked.
“Oops, sorry.” During the conversation Matt had inadvertently worked the bulge of his shorts into the crevasse of Ann's ass. He slid out of their intimate connection.
“I thought you were gay,” Ann kidded him.
“I am. Totally. But, sometimes, you know, things just happen.”
“Well, I'm taking it as a compliment, that I can get a gay guy hard.”
“It's not all that hard. I mean, not all that difficult. 'It' is plenty hard.” Matt continued to massage Ann's back.
“Would you want to go farther?” Ann wasn't exactly offering, but there was more than curiosity in her voice.
“I would. You feel so nice. The sun feels nice. But ...”
The arrival of Al and Debbie ended the interlude, leaving both Ann and Matt with an unfulfilled ache.
“The baby is kicking up a storm. I think he's going to be a soccer player,” Debbie complained as she sat down ponderously. She didn't notice the wet spot on Matt's shorts, but Al did.
“Maybe a chorus boy,” Matt kidded, moving to his own chair.
“What if he is gay? Would that be a problem?” Ann asked, retying her top.
“Not to me,” Debbie said. “Maybe to him.”
“I hope he's straight,” Al said. “We need more understanding straight people in the world, plus I wouldn't mind being an old, butch grandmother. I think I could do that well, don't you think?” She flexed a bicep for them.
“I thought I'd find you here,” Rawson said. Al was disappointed to see Matt's face light up at the sight of his lover. She had nothing against the Matt-Rawson hook up, but hoped to see more fun in Ann's life, even if it was with somebody hopeless like Matt.
“Sit down,” Matt said, making room for Rawson on his lounge chair. He put his arm around Rawson, scratching his back. “Have a good day?”
“You have a job … I think … if you want it.”
“What?”
“Research assistant for a book about the politics of theatrical producers since the Restoration. Profits versus principles – that kind of thing.”
Matt was briefly speechless. “But I'm not really up on political theory,” he finally said.
“And the author doesn't know much about the details of stage production. You would fill in the gaps. It's funded research for two years. If you want it, of course. And if Jeff likes you.”
“Jeff?”
“Jeff Wolf, the author.” Rawson gave Matt a quick kiss. “Something to think about, at least.” He turned to the girls. “I feel like cooking tonight. Is everybody hungry?”
“So I thought we could see the Castle, of course, and there's a museum on the grounds, and then maybe a walk around the University. You can see where Alfred got to be so smart. And then Dragon Hall, and maybe Cow Tower. There's a good place to eat near Cow Tower. All the good things aren't in London.” Dylan was an excellent guide as well as historian, explaining to Tom the old kingdoms and the resulting regional loyalties that have come down to the present day.
They stopped for a late lunch where the conversation turned personal. “I'm hungry. Alfred and I haven't been spending much time on food,” Tom confessed as he tucked into a ploughman's lunch. The bread, cheese, ham, and pickle, went perfectly with a pint of the local.
“I envy Alfred; he's so lucky. I had no idea what you'd be like. All I know about Americans is from the telly; and you're nothing like a telly actor.”
“I think I'm the lucky one. But why do you envy him? You've got every possibility in front of you.”
“Are you joking? I'm stereotypical. Kind of swishy. Kind of ugly. Kind of boring. The guy who never gets the guy. Never gets any guy.”
“I was that way. A little over-weight; no style at all; bad complexion; no imagination. An amazing man changed everything with a little advice.”
“Like what?”
“Never mind the advice. Let's act.”
“So American,” Dylan said as he let Tom almost pull him out of his seat and into the street.
“Where's the best hotel in town?” Tom asked. Minutes later, Tom asked the hotel's concierge, “Where's the best barber in town?” Minutes later he asked a young man, “Who's the best stylist in the shop?”
The young man frowned, “For what purpose?”
“A new look for my friend here.” Tom pointed to Dylan.
“I am. I'm the best,” the young apprentice boasted. “I'm Henry.”
“Henry, my friend thinks he's boring. We want a change.”
Henry studied Dylan. “Take your shirt off.” Dylan hesitated but proceeded under Henry's appraising eye. “You have a decent, proportional body. Which you hide under an old man's clothes.” He continued looking.
“Old man's clothes? It's what I wear to work.”
“But you're not working now and you still look like an old man.” Ok, something athletic, I think. Shorter. Easy care and sporty. We'll start with a shampoo.”
“Be back,” Tom said and he ducked out the door.
“What are you using on me?” Dylan whined, with his eyes covered by a cloth to keep the chemicals out of them.
An hour later Henry said, “There. Done.”
It was a new Dylan. His mousy hair now had some very subtle lighter streaks in it. “Just to brighten it up,” Henry said. The shorter cut eliminated the former stringy, greasy look. A bit of bronzer made Dylan look ruddy. “Get a bit more exercise and you won't need the bronzer,” Henry advised.
“Here, put these on.” Tom handed him a parcel that contained a pair of denims in a European cut and a green and yellow jersey with the Norwich football club's logo on it. “Go on, do it!”
“What will I do with these clothes?” Dylan asked standing in his underwear.
“Throw them away?” suggested Henry. Dylan turned to him in annoyance and Henry exclaimed, “Fuck me! Look what else you've been hiding.”
Dylan hid his bulge as best he could and pulled on the jeans as quickly as he could. The football jersey completed the look.
“What do you think?” Tom asked. Tom thought Dylan now looked his age and healthy.
Dylan wasn't sure it was himself he was looking at. “I look a little American?” he proposed. “Except for the Norwich jersey.”
“Is that bad?” Tom asked.
“You think some guy might want to go out with me?”
“I would,” Henry said.
“I'll wait outside while you work those details out, “ Tom said.
Dylan joined him and they walked to the bus that would take them back to Circle Anglia. “We're meeting for a pint tonight,” Dylan said.
“Could Alfred and I join you?”
“Yes, of course,” Dylan said as he boarded the bus. He drew an admiring glance from another passenger.
“So who's your favorite on the Canaries?” the young man asked as his eyes inevitably strayed to Dylan's bulge.
“I have to say Crooks. I know he doesn't play but he's what got us into the Premier League.”
“Do you go?” the young man asked. “I'd like to see the Real Zaragoza match.” And so Dylan got his second date in less than an hour.
George Glover lay in bed with his cheeks burning every time he thought of the the company party. The afternoon at Huxley's had been another predictable horror. Huxley, the old perv! George thought. He does it to me every time. It's as if he finds every man's weak point and just keeps pecking away at it.
The afternoon had begun reasonably, with the arrival of the six assistants. All male, of course. Every few years, Huxley would hire a young woman, but for one reason or another, she never stayed. It was always a resignation, never a termination; but no one could complain that the firm didn't give women an opportunity.
Two other partners were present and greeted the arrivals. Alfred was the new boy this year. They began with dutiful welcomes and handshakes and then went out onto the grounds. After a drink and a bite the other two partners left, leaving Huxley in charge of team building, as he called it.
Although Huxley's house itself was unimpressive, the grounds were extensive enough for a playing field and a stone terrace with a swimming pool. Football was first on the menu. It seemed a little odd to change into the company-provided football kit out in the open, but the terrace was screened from sight. George, knowing his weakness, had changed quickly while doing division problems in his head. The game, three on three, went perfectly; it was scoreless after almost an hour, a feat if you consided there were no goalies. The lack of goal tenders was made up for by the tiny size of the goal nets which made scoring extraordinarily difficult. No one was a star, but at the same time no one was hopeless, either. And it did build some comradeship.
“Swim time,” Huxley called. George gritted his teeth at the memory. Naked water polo was what the old perv had in mind. Two of the assistants didn't look their best naked, so George concentrated his thoughts on them. The other three were various degrees of attractive ranging for hot to scorching. Alfred was in the middle, not as breathtaking as James, but definitely ahead of Pinky.
As George lay thinking about it, his minimal sleeping clothes began to feel unbearably restrictive. To hell with his landlady's requirement for being clothed at all times, no one would come in his room. He stripped naked and felt the cool sheets against his body. He quickly got an erection and teased it into full hardness.
I tried so hard to ignore Alfred, George told himself. But it had been hopeless. Every time Alfred bumped against him it was electric. I could feel his cock rub against me, George recalled. One time he was right in my crack. I know he wasn't doing it deliberately; but he wasn't exactly a limp biscuit either. But at least he never got … Oh, the shame of it. I think Alfred knew I was hard. At least I had it under control before we got out of the water.
When the water polo was over the men were on the terrace drying off and getting dressed. Huxley walked up and down commenting of aspects of the play. Praise here, criticism there. And then he got to George. “Your back's all wet. You can't put your shirt on yet. Dry him off, Booth. We're here to develop teamwork. Help your teammate out.”
George tried to complain, but Alfred was perfectly willing and rubbed down his back. As Alfred worked lower and lower, Huxley's grin grew wider and wider. “I see you still have that little problem, George,” Huxley said, referring to George's rigid cock.
Then I had to say to Alfred 'Please overlook my …' I should have just ignored it and got my clothes on. He could still hear Alfred's comment, “It's hard to overlook something that monumental.”
George felt the monument leak a bit of slick fluid as he stroked.
“Monumental!” James laughed. “In a flea circus, perhaps.”
“Every time, George. Just what is so exciting about a bunch of naked accountants?” Will kidded.
“Look at Alfred. He's not excited. Take a lesson George.” That from Huxley's ass-kissing favorite.
“That's ok, George. I wouldn't mind having a bit of your problem. Not here, of course.” Curtis was the oldest of the six; he was quite handsome but had ultimately been a disappointment to a number of girls and boys over the years.
And then Alfred smiled at me, George remembered. “Aaaahh!” He couldn't muffle his first cry as his cock spasmed. He continued stroking. “Mmmm. Oohh,” he sighed quietly; the warm semen on his fist reminded him of the warmth in Alfred's brown eyes.
It was a joke among the roomers, that the landlady, Mrs.Klinger, would give a fishy eyeball to whichever tenant had stained the sheets, as she put it. It generally involved some public shaming with as large an assembly of the household mustered as she could manage. George got a disproportionate share of the shaming. Everything to do with sex was a mortification to him. He wasn't even sure what he liked and he had tried as much variety as he could find.
It hadn't helped when Alfred told him, “I'm sure I would have been just like you, if my boyfriend weren't visiting. I get hard easily, too.”
George considered the possibilities of Alfred with a hard on and felt his cock stir again. The sheets are spoiled; I might as well have another go, George decided. His nipples seemed unusually sensitive as he played with them. He pictured Alfred's ass, near perfection, and became jealous of the boy friend he had never met.
Rory,
A trip around the Atlantic, as it were. Catching up with the boys and girls back at the garage - Lucky has certainly seemed to grow into his name for real with Mike, this time.
And Matt, our gay blade who maybe is just a horny young stud - getting nicely hot and bothered from rubbing down the lady's back.
And then, back to old Britain way, with Tom being given the guided tour, cum turn the tides and get Alfred's young friend all turned around and out in some style.
A trip around the Atlantic, as it were. Catching up with the boys and girls back at the garage - Lucky has certainly seemed to grow into his name for real with Mike, this time.
And Matt, our gay blade who maybe is just a horny young stud - getting nicely hot and bothered from rubbing down the lady's back.
And then, back to old Britain way, with Tom being given the guided tour, cum turn the tides and get Alfred's young friend all turned around and out in some style.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“So much for the stage career,” Lucky said as he came in the door.
“What happened?” Mike asked, correctly surmising half of the story already.
“The director asked which way I like to get fucked best and I said the only way I like is by a guy named Mike. He was disappointed by my uncooperative attitude.”
“I'm not; I love your uncooperative attitude.” Mike gave Lucky a familiar hug. “Do you want to talk or were you left with urgent unsatisfied needs? Things I could help with?” Mike pulled Lucky into the sofa where he had been watching a show that had become his favorite, 'Art Crimes and Mysteries'.
Lucky kicked off his shoes and lay back. “How did I ever get through a day without you around?”
“Think of your earlier life as practice. This show is about an art theft in Boston. Do you have much theft?”
“Out of the public galleries, no. We have great protection. Out of the back rooms, who knows? All I know is there's about a one-in-five chance whatever you're looking for won't be found. We call it a cataloging error. That's part of what Tom's inventory system is supposed to fix.”
“Well, nobody's going to steal Apartment C. You can feel safe there. What a courtyard, huh?” Mike commented on the interior atrium of the Gardner Museum in Boston. “Does it give you a hard on too?”
“I'll let you know.“ Lucky placed Mike's hand where he could check on progress. “Our interior courts are good, but they don't have the scale of an Italian palazzo, like the Gardner. I wonder if anything could ever be done about it. The buildings on the Mall are more or less frozen in time, externally. We could mess with the interior I guess. What would you do?” Lucky asked.
“First of all, I would make passionate love to a guy I know who is on the curatorial staff. Then I would buy a shovel.” Mike brushed some hair off Lucky's forehead and kissed him with careful deliberation. “Can't keep my hands off you,” he explained. Mike knelt on the floor in front of Lucky between his legs. He put his arms around Lucky's waist and looked into his eyes.
After a bit Mike's stare became unnerving. “What?” Lucky asked.
“Shhh. I'm getting up my nerve.”
“Ask anything, Mike. I'll do anything for you.” Lucky tried to say that with as little drama as possible, but it's a pretty dramatic statement. It's hard to sound off-hand while laying yourself out there.
“Anything?” Mike repeated. “Will you marry me?”
Lucky's expression cycled through disbelief, love, and complete happiness. “Are you serious?”
“Completely. Will you marry me?”
Lucky pulled Mike against him and kissed him over and over. He paused and looked at Mike still in disbelief. They kissed and Lucky told Mike he loved him and then they kissed some more.
“So will you?” Mike repeated again, beaming. Lucky laughed out loud and kissed him some more. “You're not answering me.”
“Yes, I will. Yes, I will. Yes, I will,” Lucky said in between kisses and then he grew serious. “But ...”
Mike's euphoria turned inside out. “But?”
“Do you love me?” Lucky asked.
“Of course I do.”
“But … you've never said so.”
“I love you. I do. I'm sorry. I assumed ...”
“Do you still love me as much after that fight we had?”
“But we've never had a fight.”
“Another 'but' and the important one. We've had a delirious time together. Love is great. Sex is fabulous. You are charming and funny and considerate every minute of the day. We work well together, when we can stop fucking long enough … But we've never had a fight. I will marry you after we've had a serious fight and gotten over it. I want to see you spitting mad at me and get over it. I want to see you compromise on something you care about. I want to be sure I can compromise. And then – after that - I promise I will love you and marry you any day you name.”
“Right now I'm pretty pissed off you won't marry me.”
“Doesn't count. Has to be a big fight. If we get married, I want it to last longer than a couple of hot months.”
“Like July and August? We argue over how cold to set the the air conditioner?”
“You know what I mean.”
Mike didn't answer with words. He began undressing Lucky. When Lucky began doing the same, Mike said, “Maybe we better turn the lights out. Anybody on the porch could see in the windows.”
“That's what Rex tried to get me to do. Fuck in public more or less. There were three other people in the room.”
“And you told him no?” Mike asked.
“I'd have done it with you,” Lucky said. He watched Mike's nearly naked body stretch to turn out the last light. It took a minute for Mike's shadow to reappear in the dim ambient light. After Mike was back on the sofa, Lucky asked, “Do you want a big wedding? Formal clothes? Flower girls? All that?”
“No. I want a marriage, Lucky, not a wedding.”
“Do we have to get married? Couldn't we just stay the way we are?”
“We could; but I want to make a solemn promise, if only to you. I want to tell you that we are more important than me and that I will do my best to make our life together more than we could have had any other way. I will work every day to make sure you never doubt that.”
“Mike, I think you just did make that promise. Your promise to me tonight is what I'll never forget, no matter what else we eventually say to each other.”
The sex was almost reverent and when they were done Lucky cried. “I'm ashamed of myself,” he told Mike.
“For crying?”
“No, for wanting a couple of flower girls. My inner queen is coming out.”
“I didn't notice anything in Montreal, did you?” Alex whispered.
“No. One thing, though. I put a laundry delivery in the engineer's cabin and mentioned to him that I'd have hung the stuff up, but his closet was locked. He said the door won't stay closed when the ship rolls so he got in the habit of locking it. He told me the key was in his top desk drawer. And it was. I went back and hung up the clothes. There was nothing but clothes in that closet.”
“That kind of eliminates him, I guess. Woo!” Alex reacted to the first big roll the ship had taken after clearing the mouth of the river. “Woo! We're at sea for sure.”
“Phil,” the cook called. “Take a couple pounds of coffee and some doughnuts up forward to the Deck Office, please.”
Phil put the coffee pouches and a half dozen doughnuts a small plastic bag and headed forward. He was exhilarated by the motion of the ship and freshness of the salt air. The ship felt alive, as if he was walking down the back of a six hundred foot whale. He watched a light spray break over the bow. The droplets tickled when they hit his face. Walking on the rolling deck was a small challenge, but fun. “Oh, the sea, the sea, the sea, a seafaring life for me,” he sang to himself. It was a couple of hundred feet past the cargo holds to get to the deck house that Bork Jepsen used for his office. The spray continued coming down the deck, getting Phil wetter than he expected. He walked faster.
Without warning, the ship encountered a large wave. The Isadora took it on her port bow; the impact resulted in a shuddering of the whole ship. It seemed as if it had been stopped dead in the sea, but that wasn't the case. The vibration didn't actually slow the ship much at all, but the trough behind the wave caused the Isadora to fall away to port. The roll was slower and steeper than anything Phil expected. He lost his footing and began sliding on the wet deck toward the rail. Looking ahead, all he could see was a wall of water where the horizon should have been and flimsy-looking lifelines rushing closer as he slid across the deck. His momentum was building as the ship hung in its port list. Roll back, roll back, Phil begged the ship. His legs went over the side and he grabbed for the lifelines. He grabbed them and held on, but his weight was too much. He felt his grasp weakening. Unlike in classic stories of peril, his life didn't pass before his eyes. All he felt was absurdity, telling himself, “You're such an idiot. This is a stupid way to die.”
Phil arrived at a final feeling of what-the-hell and then suddenly it was over. The weight tearing at his hands was removed. He was floating in air. There was no way to determine how many seconds passed before gravity returned. It was probably instantaneous, but it seemed like forever until he found himself in Boryslaw's arms.
Boryslaw was giving him hell over something in Polish and all Phil felt was total elation. I'm not dead, he told himself over and over. He smiled in response to Boryslaw's scowling harangue and then realized the final piece of insanity: he still had the bag of coffee and doughnuts in one hand. Boryslaw put Phil back on his feet inside the deck house. He was no longer yelling, but it was a nonstop stream of Polish making a point lost on Phil.
“He's telling you not to wear leather-soled shoes on a weather deck,” Jepsen said in an unperturbed voice, as if Phil's experience were an every-day event. “He was also uncomplimentary about your level of intelligence. Did you bring the coffee?” Phil held up the plastic bag. “Good,” Jepsen stowed the pouches near the nearly empty coffee maker and left by a companionway leading to the forward hold.
Boryslaw looked at Phil with concern and more Polish came out. “I have no idea what you just said,” Phil answered, knowing Boryslaw was as much at a loss, but this time Boryslaw sounded calm. The reprimand was over. Finally Boryslaw pointed to the soles of his own shoes and said, “Guma ... rober.”
Phil got it. “Rubber. Yes. Da.”
“No da. Tak,” Boryslaw answered giving Phil his first Polish lesson. Boryslaw pointed to himself and repeated, “Tak.”He pointed to Phil and said, “Yes.” He poured out the last of the ready coffee into two mugs and immediately made another pot. He slid one mug across the table to Phil. He pointed to himself and then the coffee and said a word that sounded like 'cah-vah'. He pointed to his shoe and said something that sounded like a very clipped version of boot.
During the time it takes to down a mug of coffee and a doughnut, Phil had learned the words for doughnut, hand, arm, table, mug, and a few others. Boryslaw physically prevented Phil from taking the weather deck back to the galley. It took a minute for Phil to realize Boryslaw was showing him a way aft through the holds. Whenever he encountered Boryslaw in their stateroom, Phil was always relieved when it became clear that whatever Boryslaw was doing it wasn't leading up to another fuck. Again, this time, as he descended the companionway the fear briefly crossed Phil's mind, but Boryslaw's smile wiped it away.
When they arrived aft, at the lowest deck of the crews quarters, Boryslaw stopped Phil and pantomimed as he spoke.” “I fuck. I sorry. I save Feel. Happy.” It didn't need a lot of explanation.
“Thank you … um, dzięki,” Phil answered. The sound he made was 'deng-key'.
In addition to some Polish, Phil also learned on his trip to the Deck Office that there were many parts of the ship that were unexplored by Alex and himself. Perfect, almost undiscoverable niches abounded; if a crew member wanted to hide something, it wouldn't be hard. There were countless places where a small icon or painting could remain unnoticed for as long as secrecy might be needed.
“We need to watch people's behavior, Alex. Searching the ship is a hopeless waste of time.”
“Where have you been? You look like you just survived your first parachute drop.”
“Yeah, a nautical version of that. Oh, yeah ... I think 'pryzkro mi' means 'I'm sorry'. I tried it on Boryslaw and it seemed to work right.”
“What were you sorry about?”
“Him having to save me from falling overboard. I gotta go change my shoes.”
“He what? He saved you? What happened?” Alex asked Phil who had already began walking to his stateroom to change his shoes.
“Yeah, he did. Are you wearing rubber-soled shoes? Better get some.”
“So all good things must end,” Dylan said good-bye to Tom and Alfred. They were going to Alistair's cottage for a snack and then back to Norwich for the train.
It was only Edmund who picked them up. “Will you mind if I ride in the back seat with Tom?” Alfred asked.
“Just pretend I'm your driver. Can we get your sketch pad? Alistair is dying to see what you've drawn lately.”
“I've got it with me. There's not much new. A couple of Tom. One of Dylan, the man who gave us his room to use.”
“He won't care about quantity.”
For the rest of the ride, they talked about Norwich and the things Tom had seen. “Norwich is much more sophisticated than a California city of the same size would be,” Tom said, with Stockton in mind. He was lavish in his praise of Norwich, of Norfolk, of BritRail, and of Alfred's friends.
“Come now, there must be something wrong with the place,” Edmund joked.
“Yes. I have to leave. That's what's wrong.”
“But not forever. You'll be back, won't you?”
“Not for a couple of weeks.” Tom felt Alfred squeeze his hand in silent protest at the separation. “But I'll be back.” He said it as a promise to Alfred.
The cottage seemed to welcome its visitors back to the place of their first meeting The now-familiar stairs to the second floor invited a visit to the large bedroom above.
“Come out here! Come out here now!” Alistair insisted and the three men complied. He was seated on the terrace wearing a warm jacket, warmer than the weather called for. The morning had early included a strong reminder of the chronic nature of his disease.
“Help yourselves. It's meager, thanks to me, but tasty, thanks to Edmund.” Alistair's condition did not diminish his appetite; it just made the results of eating dreadful. He had given in to his hunger and eaten through a good portion of the sandwiches and cakes.
“Alright,” Alistair said after the visitors had helped themselves to sandwiches and ale; “I have to know. Are you still mad about each other?” The look Tom and Alfred exchanged answered his question. “Good. Wonderful, in fact. I'm delighted. I gave Fred a drawing of each of you. And in the right light, you are a couple. An intimate couple. I hope you don't mind. She's delighted.”
“So that's where she got it.” Tom's ah-hah moment made Alfred wonder what he had missed.
“Let me see what you have done this week,” Alistair asked and Alfred handed over his sketch pad. He flipped through last week's drawings with the comment that the dragon was a wonderful idea and then paused at the latest. “Yes, of course ...” he said, looking at a drawing of Tom asleep with a sheet covering only his lower legs. “Look at this one of mine ...”
“Yours is so much better,” Alfred said, looking at an almost exact copy with Edmund as its subject.
Alistair made some kind of squeaky noise. “Different techniques, but the same vision – the same feeling.” He turned the page over. “Oh, this one … Tom might as well be screaming 'I love you.' It's in his face. Has he told you he loves you?”
“I have told him; but he has told me it's only a week that we've known each other and that we shouldn't be in a rush to ...”
Alistair laughed with pure delight. “It's us all over again,” he said.
“We might as well not be here,” Tom said to Edmund.
“They are saying what they want us to hear,” Edmund winked. “Let me see that,” he asked and looked at Alfred's new drawings. “Do you really have a mark on your shoulder there?” he asked Tom. “It is uncanny - how the drawings are so much alike.”
“It's not,” insisted Alistair. “There are only a few good ways to express love in art and given the similar circumstances – Edmund and I, too, had barely met when I drew that – the fact that Alfred and I chose the same manner of representation is just good, everyday artistic sense, not some kind of trans-generational miracle.”
“But we have the same mark on our shoulders and, if you'll forgive me pointing this out, Tom, except for the accident of circumcision, I'd say we are nearly identical below the waist as well.” Edmund hoped for a better, more fantastic story than Alistair's explanation.
“Alfred and I think alike artistically. Why wouldn't we like similar men? It's a perfectly logical coincidence, not some cosmic inevitability. Edmund indulges these flights of fancy,” Alistair teased.
“Alistair began as the romantic and is now the practical one,” Edmund whispered very loudly to Tom.
“Yes, we're like binary stars, circling each other, every change in one instantly reflected oppositely in the other,” Alistair agreed. He turned specifically to Tom and Alfred. “You will visit constantly, won't you? You will make this your home, too? We are so fond of you both.” Edmund nodded his agreement.
Before the boys could answer Alistair said, “Now go for a walk together. You have an hour before the train. I'm freezing here.” None of the others thought that it was especially cold on the terrace, but fluctuating electrolyte levels and internal temperatures were at work on Alistair. With a falsely cheery wave he went inside.
“He's been sick. This is not a great day, but it passes, sometimes quickly,” Edmund whispered.
“Alfred, how about if I draw?” Tom asked when they got to the beach.
“Sure. You want me naked?”
“Of course I do. But I can't draw that well, so just get comfortable.”
“Two weeks you think?” Alfred asked.
“Better count on three and maybe I'll get back early. I have stuff to do in Washington and Rory wants me to visit the home office in Alameda. But Alameda shouldn't be for more than a day or two.”
“Alameda? I thought you said San Francisco.”
“It's a suburb, actually an island in San Francisco Bay. Much smaller than Norwich.” He was busily drawing as he talked, and rarely looked at Alfred. “Would you unbutton your shirt?”
Alfred unbuttoned and immediately felt the breeze. Tom closed the pad and moved next to Alfred. “Here I am with my shirt open in a gale and you quit drawing.”
“I just wanted to see your nipples tighten up.”
“Can I see the drawing?” Alfred asked while buttoning his shirt.
“Wait until I'm gone. It's not so much a drawing as a message.”
They watched the waves. They held hands. Sometimes they kissed. Their erections came and went depending on the passion of the kiss or the ardor of the embrace; on this one day they didn't need sexual fulfillment. The closeness was enough. And then it was time.
Edmund dropped them off and Alfred walked Tom to the train platform. “Three weeks,” they said to each other.
Alfred waited until he got home and into his room to look at Tom's drawing. It wasn't a drawing of Alfred at all. It was an architectural fantasy in the shape of a pyramid. The top said “I” and the bottom said “YOU”; those two words were very dark and ornate. The middle tier was very faintly lettered “LOVE”. The drawing was titled “Under Construction.”
“John, you're crazy, of course. You know that, right?” Rory said. “Her ex-husband isn't even listed as an officer of the company. And Mark will never let you represent us. Can you handle being an unemployed, trophy husband?”
“Yep. For a while I can. I have no illusions that the handsome baroness is going for happily-ever-after. Neither am I, to be honest. But it's going to be fun in the meantime. There will be lots of time later to get serious again. Plus, Mandy is really pissed off about it. Claiming I was unfaithful, when we're officially separated.” John's laugh had a bitter edge. “She's trying to delay the divorce. A bigger man wouldn't enjoy seeing her so frantic, so desperate; but what the hell? She's going to lose and I'm not a bigger man. Divorce makes you petty, I guess. Wait 'til she finds out the house has termites.” He laughed and choked on his drink.
“I hope it works out to be the two-year honeymoon you're expecting. You're younger than she is?”
“Not too much. Five years, if she told me the truth. And so what if she didn't? She's in good shape, very good shape. And I'm up for the challenge.”
“You don't think you'll end up regretting …?”
“Of course I will. But there will be compensations and I will convince myself that they were worth it. I'm good at that. Meet me for another drink in three years?”
“It's a deal. The Top of the Mark in three years. If it doesn't fall down. This place has seen better days.”
“Hot jazz and cold gin. It'll do,” John said. He took no notice that the jazz was prerecorded and the gin wasn't as icy as he liked. Like the rest of his life, it would have to do. “Tell you what,” he said to Rory, “In three years, if we're both single, we can have an affair.” He paused and added, “Just kidding … unless you want to. The law has taught me to compromise on everything.” He drained his drink and left for the airport.
Rory sipped his drink briefly, then paid and left. The view from his table had been spectacular when they sat down. Now it was spoiled by windows that showed grease-streaks in the glare of the setting sun.
“So much for the stage career,” Lucky said as he came in the door.
“What happened?” Mike asked, correctly surmising half of the story already.
“The director asked which way I like to get fucked best and I said the only way I like is by a guy named Mike. He was disappointed by my uncooperative attitude.”
“I'm not; I love your uncooperative attitude.” Mike gave Lucky a familiar hug. “Do you want to talk or were you left with urgent unsatisfied needs? Things I could help with?” Mike pulled Lucky into the sofa where he had been watching a show that had become his favorite, 'Art Crimes and Mysteries'.
Lucky kicked off his shoes and lay back. “How did I ever get through a day without you around?”
“Think of your earlier life as practice. This show is about an art theft in Boston. Do you have much theft?”
“Out of the public galleries, no. We have great protection. Out of the back rooms, who knows? All I know is there's about a one-in-five chance whatever you're looking for won't be found. We call it a cataloging error. That's part of what Tom's inventory system is supposed to fix.”
“Well, nobody's going to steal Apartment C. You can feel safe there. What a courtyard, huh?” Mike commented on the interior atrium of the Gardner Museum in Boston. “Does it give you a hard on too?”
“I'll let you know.“ Lucky placed Mike's hand where he could check on progress. “Our interior courts are good, but they don't have the scale of an Italian palazzo, like the Gardner. I wonder if anything could ever be done about it. The buildings on the Mall are more or less frozen in time, externally. We could mess with the interior I guess. What would you do?” Lucky asked.
“First of all, I would make passionate love to a guy I know who is on the curatorial staff. Then I would buy a shovel.” Mike brushed some hair off Lucky's forehead and kissed him with careful deliberation. “Can't keep my hands off you,” he explained. Mike knelt on the floor in front of Lucky between his legs. He put his arms around Lucky's waist and looked into his eyes.
After a bit Mike's stare became unnerving. “What?” Lucky asked.
“Shhh. I'm getting up my nerve.”
“Ask anything, Mike. I'll do anything for you.” Lucky tried to say that with as little drama as possible, but it's a pretty dramatic statement. It's hard to sound off-hand while laying yourself out there.
“Anything?” Mike repeated. “Will you marry me?”
Lucky's expression cycled through disbelief, love, and complete happiness. “Are you serious?”
“Completely. Will you marry me?”
Lucky pulled Mike against him and kissed him over and over. He paused and looked at Mike still in disbelief. They kissed and Lucky told Mike he loved him and then they kissed some more.
“So will you?” Mike repeated again, beaming. Lucky laughed out loud and kissed him some more. “You're not answering me.”
“Yes, I will. Yes, I will. Yes, I will,” Lucky said in between kisses and then he grew serious. “But ...”
Mike's euphoria turned inside out. “But?”
“Do you love me?” Lucky asked.
“Of course I do.”
“But … you've never said so.”
“I love you. I do. I'm sorry. I assumed ...”
“Do you still love me as much after that fight we had?”
“But we've never had a fight.”
“Another 'but' and the important one. We've had a delirious time together. Love is great. Sex is fabulous. You are charming and funny and considerate every minute of the day. We work well together, when we can stop fucking long enough … But we've never had a fight. I will marry you after we've had a serious fight and gotten over it. I want to see you spitting mad at me and get over it. I want to see you compromise on something you care about. I want to be sure I can compromise. And then – after that - I promise I will love you and marry you any day you name.”
“Right now I'm pretty pissed off you won't marry me.”
“Doesn't count. Has to be a big fight. If we get married, I want it to last longer than a couple of hot months.”
“Like July and August? We argue over how cold to set the the air conditioner?”
“You know what I mean.”
Mike didn't answer with words. He began undressing Lucky. When Lucky began doing the same, Mike said, “Maybe we better turn the lights out. Anybody on the porch could see in the windows.”
“That's what Rex tried to get me to do. Fuck in public more or less. There were three other people in the room.”
“And you told him no?” Mike asked.
“I'd have done it with you,” Lucky said. He watched Mike's nearly naked body stretch to turn out the last light. It took a minute for Mike's shadow to reappear in the dim ambient light. After Mike was back on the sofa, Lucky asked, “Do you want a big wedding? Formal clothes? Flower girls? All that?”
“No. I want a marriage, Lucky, not a wedding.”
“Do we have to get married? Couldn't we just stay the way we are?”
“We could; but I want to make a solemn promise, if only to you. I want to tell you that we are more important than me and that I will do my best to make our life together more than we could have had any other way. I will work every day to make sure you never doubt that.”
“Mike, I think you just did make that promise. Your promise to me tonight is what I'll never forget, no matter what else we eventually say to each other.”
The sex was almost reverent and when they were done Lucky cried. “I'm ashamed of myself,” he told Mike.
“For crying?”
“No, for wanting a couple of flower girls. My inner queen is coming out.”
“I didn't notice anything in Montreal, did you?” Alex whispered.
“No. One thing, though. I put a laundry delivery in the engineer's cabin and mentioned to him that I'd have hung the stuff up, but his closet was locked. He said the door won't stay closed when the ship rolls so he got in the habit of locking it. He told me the key was in his top desk drawer. And it was. I went back and hung up the clothes. There was nothing but clothes in that closet.”
“That kind of eliminates him, I guess. Woo!” Alex reacted to the first big roll the ship had taken after clearing the mouth of the river. “Woo! We're at sea for sure.”
“Phil,” the cook called. “Take a couple pounds of coffee and some doughnuts up forward to the Deck Office, please.”
Phil put the coffee pouches and a half dozen doughnuts a small plastic bag and headed forward. He was exhilarated by the motion of the ship and freshness of the salt air. The ship felt alive, as if he was walking down the back of a six hundred foot whale. He watched a light spray break over the bow. The droplets tickled when they hit his face. Walking on the rolling deck was a small challenge, but fun. “Oh, the sea, the sea, the sea, a seafaring life for me,” he sang to himself. It was a couple of hundred feet past the cargo holds to get to the deck house that Bork Jepsen used for his office. The spray continued coming down the deck, getting Phil wetter than he expected. He walked faster.
Without warning, the ship encountered a large wave. The Isadora took it on her port bow; the impact resulted in a shuddering of the whole ship. It seemed as if it had been stopped dead in the sea, but that wasn't the case. The vibration didn't actually slow the ship much at all, but the trough behind the wave caused the Isadora to fall away to port. The roll was slower and steeper than anything Phil expected. He lost his footing and began sliding on the wet deck toward the rail. Looking ahead, all he could see was a wall of water where the horizon should have been and flimsy-looking lifelines rushing closer as he slid across the deck. His momentum was building as the ship hung in its port list. Roll back, roll back, Phil begged the ship. His legs went over the side and he grabbed for the lifelines. He grabbed them and held on, but his weight was too much. He felt his grasp weakening. Unlike in classic stories of peril, his life didn't pass before his eyes. All he felt was absurdity, telling himself, “You're such an idiot. This is a stupid way to die.”
Phil arrived at a final feeling of what-the-hell and then suddenly it was over. The weight tearing at his hands was removed. He was floating in air. There was no way to determine how many seconds passed before gravity returned. It was probably instantaneous, but it seemed like forever until he found himself in Boryslaw's arms.
Boryslaw was giving him hell over something in Polish and all Phil felt was total elation. I'm not dead, he told himself over and over. He smiled in response to Boryslaw's scowling harangue and then realized the final piece of insanity: he still had the bag of coffee and doughnuts in one hand. Boryslaw put Phil back on his feet inside the deck house. He was no longer yelling, but it was a nonstop stream of Polish making a point lost on Phil.
“He's telling you not to wear leather-soled shoes on a weather deck,” Jepsen said in an unperturbed voice, as if Phil's experience were an every-day event. “He was also uncomplimentary about your level of intelligence. Did you bring the coffee?” Phil held up the plastic bag. “Good,” Jepsen stowed the pouches near the nearly empty coffee maker and left by a companionway leading to the forward hold.
Boryslaw looked at Phil with concern and more Polish came out. “I have no idea what you just said,” Phil answered, knowing Boryslaw was as much at a loss, but this time Boryslaw sounded calm. The reprimand was over. Finally Boryslaw pointed to the soles of his own shoes and said, “Guma ... rober.”
Phil got it. “Rubber. Yes. Da.”
“No da. Tak,” Boryslaw answered giving Phil his first Polish lesson. Boryslaw pointed to himself and repeated, “Tak.”He pointed to Phil and said, “Yes.” He poured out the last of the ready coffee into two mugs and immediately made another pot. He slid one mug across the table to Phil. He pointed to himself and then the coffee and said a word that sounded like 'cah-vah'. He pointed to his shoe and said something that sounded like a very clipped version of boot.
During the time it takes to down a mug of coffee and a doughnut, Phil had learned the words for doughnut, hand, arm, table, mug, and a few others. Boryslaw physically prevented Phil from taking the weather deck back to the galley. It took a minute for Phil to realize Boryslaw was showing him a way aft through the holds. Whenever he encountered Boryslaw in their stateroom, Phil was always relieved when it became clear that whatever Boryslaw was doing it wasn't leading up to another fuck. Again, this time, as he descended the companionway the fear briefly crossed Phil's mind, but Boryslaw's smile wiped it away.
When they arrived aft, at the lowest deck of the crews quarters, Boryslaw stopped Phil and pantomimed as he spoke.” “I fuck. I sorry. I save Feel. Happy.” It didn't need a lot of explanation.
“Thank you … um, dzięki,” Phil answered. The sound he made was 'deng-key'.
In addition to some Polish, Phil also learned on his trip to the Deck Office that there were many parts of the ship that were unexplored by Alex and himself. Perfect, almost undiscoverable niches abounded; if a crew member wanted to hide something, it wouldn't be hard. There were countless places where a small icon or painting could remain unnoticed for as long as secrecy might be needed.
“We need to watch people's behavior, Alex. Searching the ship is a hopeless waste of time.”
“Where have you been? You look like you just survived your first parachute drop.”
“Yeah, a nautical version of that. Oh, yeah ... I think 'pryzkro mi' means 'I'm sorry'. I tried it on Boryslaw and it seemed to work right.”
“What were you sorry about?”
“Him having to save me from falling overboard. I gotta go change my shoes.”
“He what? He saved you? What happened?” Alex asked Phil who had already began walking to his stateroom to change his shoes.
“Yeah, he did. Are you wearing rubber-soled shoes? Better get some.”
“So all good things must end,” Dylan said good-bye to Tom and Alfred. They were going to Alistair's cottage for a snack and then back to Norwich for the train.
It was only Edmund who picked them up. “Will you mind if I ride in the back seat with Tom?” Alfred asked.
“Just pretend I'm your driver. Can we get your sketch pad? Alistair is dying to see what you've drawn lately.”
“I've got it with me. There's not much new. A couple of Tom. One of Dylan, the man who gave us his room to use.”
“He won't care about quantity.”
For the rest of the ride, they talked about Norwich and the things Tom had seen. “Norwich is much more sophisticated than a California city of the same size would be,” Tom said, with Stockton in mind. He was lavish in his praise of Norwich, of Norfolk, of BritRail, and of Alfred's friends.
“Come now, there must be something wrong with the place,” Edmund joked.
“Yes. I have to leave. That's what's wrong.”
“But not forever. You'll be back, won't you?”
“Not for a couple of weeks.” Tom felt Alfred squeeze his hand in silent protest at the separation. “But I'll be back.” He said it as a promise to Alfred.
The cottage seemed to welcome its visitors back to the place of their first meeting The now-familiar stairs to the second floor invited a visit to the large bedroom above.
“Come out here! Come out here now!” Alistair insisted and the three men complied. He was seated on the terrace wearing a warm jacket, warmer than the weather called for. The morning had early included a strong reminder of the chronic nature of his disease.
“Help yourselves. It's meager, thanks to me, but tasty, thanks to Edmund.” Alistair's condition did not diminish his appetite; it just made the results of eating dreadful. He had given in to his hunger and eaten through a good portion of the sandwiches and cakes.
“Alright,” Alistair said after the visitors had helped themselves to sandwiches and ale; “I have to know. Are you still mad about each other?” The look Tom and Alfred exchanged answered his question. “Good. Wonderful, in fact. I'm delighted. I gave Fred a drawing of each of you. And in the right light, you are a couple. An intimate couple. I hope you don't mind. She's delighted.”
“So that's where she got it.” Tom's ah-hah moment made Alfred wonder what he had missed.
“Let me see what you have done this week,” Alistair asked and Alfred handed over his sketch pad. He flipped through last week's drawings with the comment that the dragon was a wonderful idea and then paused at the latest. “Yes, of course ...” he said, looking at a drawing of Tom asleep with a sheet covering only his lower legs. “Look at this one of mine ...”
“Yours is so much better,” Alfred said, looking at an almost exact copy with Edmund as its subject.
Alistair made some kind of squeaky noise. “Different techniques, but the same vision – the same feeling.” He turned the page over. “Oh, this one … Tom might as well be screaming 'I love you.' It's in his face. Has he told you he loves you?”
“I have told him; but he has told me it's only a week that we've known each other and that we shouldn't be in a rush to ...”
Alistair laughed with pure delight. “It's us all over again,” he said.
“We might as well not be here,” Tom said to Edmund.
“They are saying what they want us to hear,” Edmund winked. “Let me see that,” he asked and looked at Alfred's new drawings. “Do you really have a mark on your shoulder there?” he asked Tom. “It is uncanny - how the drawings are so much alike.”
“It's not,” insisted Alistair. “There are only a few good ways to express love in art and given the similar circumstances – Edmund and I, too, had barely met when I drew that – the fact that Alfred and I chose the same manner of representation is just good, everyday artistic sense, not some kind of trans-generational miracle.”
“But we have the same mark on our shoulders and, if you'll forgive me pointing this out, Tom, except for the accident of circumcision, I'd say we are nearly identical below the waist as well.” Edmund hoped for a better, more fantastic story than Alistair's explanation.
“Alfred and I think alike artistically. Why wouldn't we like similar men? It's a perfectly logical coincidence, not some cosmic inevitability. Edmund indulges these flights of fancy,” Alistair teased.
“Alistair began as the romantic and is now the practical one,” Edmund whispered very loudly to Tom.
“Yes, we're like binary stars, circling each other, every change in one instantly reflected oppositely in the other,” Alistair agreed. He turned specifically to Tom and Alfred. “You will visit constantly, won't you? You will make this your home, too? We are so fond of you both.” Edmund nodded his agreement.
Before the boys could answer Alistair said, “Now go for a walk together. You have an hour before the train. I'm freezing here.” None of the others thought that it was especially cold on the terrace, but fluctuating electrolyte levels and internal temperatures were at work on Alistair. With a falsely cheery wave he went inside.
“He's been sick. This is not a great day, but it passes, sometimes quickly,” Edmund whispered.
“Alfred, how about if I draw?” Tom asked when they got to the beach.
“Sure. You want me naked?”
“Of course I do. But I can't draw that well, so just get comfortable.”
“Two weeks you think?” Alfred asked.
“Better count on three and maybe I'll get back early. I have stuff to do in Washington and Rory wants me to visit the home office in Alameda. But Alameda shouldn't be for more than a day or two.”
“Alameda? I thought you said San Francisco.”
“It's a suburb, actually an island in San Francisco Bay. Much smaller than Norwich.” He was busily drawing as he talked, and rarely looked at Alfred. “Would you unbutton your shirt?”
Alfred unbuttoned and immediately felt the breeze. Tom closed the pad and moved next to Alfred. “Here I am with my shirt open in a gale and you quit drawing.”
“I just wanted to see your nipples tighten up.”
“Can I see the drawing?” Alfred asked while buttoning his shirt.
“Wait until I'm gone. It's not so much a drawing as a message.”
They watched the waves. They held hands. Sometimes they kissed. Their erections came and went depending on the passion of the kiss or the ardor of the embrace; on this one day they didn't need sexual fulfillment. The closeness was enough. And then it was time.
Edmund dropped them off and Alfred walked Tom to the train platform. “Three weeks,” they said to each other.
Alfred waited until he got home and into his room to look at Tom's drawing. It wasn't a drawing of Alfred at all. It was an architectural fantasy in the shape of a pyramid. The top said “I” and the bottom said “YOU”; those two words were very dark and ornate. The middle tier was very faintly lettered “LOVE”. The drawing was titled “Under Construction.”
“John, you're crazy, of course. You know that, right?” Rory said. “Her ex-husband isn't even listed as an officer of the company. And Mark will never let you represent us. Can you handle being an unemployed, trophy husband?”
“Yep. For a while I can. I have no illusions that the handsome baroness is going for happily-ever-after. Neither am I, to be honest. But it's going to be fun in the meantime. There will be lots of time later to get serious again. Plus, Mandy is really pissed off about it. Claiming I was unfaithful, when we're officially separated.” John's laugh had a bitter edge. “She's trying to delay the divorce. A bigger man wouldn't enjoy seeing her so frantic, so desperate; but what the hell? She's going to lose and I'm not a bigger man. Divorce makes you petty, I guess. Wait 'til she finds out the house has termites.” He laughed and choked on his drink.
“I hope it works out to be the two-year honeymoon you're expecting. You're younger than she is?”
“Not too much. Five years, if she told me the truth. And so what if she didn't? She's in good shape, very good shape. And I'm up for the challenge.”
“You don't think you'll end up regretting …?”
“Of course I will. But there will be compensations and I will convince myself that they were worth it. I'm good at that. Meet me for another drink in three years?”
“It's a deal. The Top of the Mark in three years. If it doesn't fall down. This place has seen better days.”
“Hot jazz and cold gin. It'll do,” John said. He took no notice that the jazz was prerecorded and the gin wasn't as icy as he liked. Like the rest of his life, it would have to do. “Tell you what,” he said to Rory, “In three years, if we're both single, we can have an affair.” He paused and added, “Just kidding … unless you want to. The law has taught me to compromise on everything.” He drained his drink and left for the airport.
Rory sipped his drink briefly, then paid and left. The view from his table had been spectacular when they sat down. Now it was spoiled by windows that showed grease-streaks in the glare of the setting sun.
Rory,
A great update, indeed.
Mike and Lucky - what a great installment there.
The boys on the boat - we really don't want to lose them, yet.
What a horrific wake-up call!
Tom and Alexander, and the senior statesmen and examples -lots of love building and growing there, too.
The soon to be unemployed by his previous firm lawyer and Fred.
A match made in the sack?!
Stay tuned for more . . .
A great update, indeed.
Mike and Lucky - what a great installment there.
The boys on the boat - we really don't want to lose them, yet.
What a horrific wake-up call!
Tom and Alexander, and the senior statesmen and examples -lots of love building and growing there, too.
The soon to be unemployed by his previous firm lawyer and Fred.
A match made in the sack?!
Stay tuned for more . . .
