2nd Chance - 1. Story

“We can’t afford this,” I whined as I toggled the lever, making my Hoveround lurch forward toward the gangway.

“Well since we already paid for it, and we’re going aboard, I say we can,” Tom wheezed.

“Yeah, but that’s only because you sold your car,” I said petulantly.

“We only need one Buick, not two,” he said, dissolving my bad mood with his charm. We stared up at the massive vessel, its white sides gleaming in the sun. “It’s a big boat.”

“It’s a ship, moron,” I told him playfully. “It’s big, but there are bigger ones.”

“Funny, that’s what I thought the first time we had sex,” he joked back. “That was ten years ago. Happy anniversary.” I let my mind wander back, remembering the first time we’d met, and the first time we’d fucked: pretty much the same thing.

Ten years ago. I was 68, and Tom was 69. I’d thought that was funny then, that he was 69, since that used to be my favorite sexual position. We’d been cruising in a local porn shop, hanging out in the arcade, looking to get off, or more likely to get someone else off.

I remember it like it was just yesterday. There was a hot young guy that came in and headed to a booth. He’d looked at me disdainfully. I was too old and too fat for him. I thought about walking up to the booth and trying his door, but changed my mind. There was no reason to piss him off and get rejected yet again. This culture of youth, of young bodies that do whatever you want them to do, it was something I missed, something I coveted, but something that was out of reach.

So why was I even there? Because every once in a while, on those rare occasions, there would be a young, horny guy who didn’t give a shit who sucked his dick, all that mattered was whether or not the guy doing it did a good job. And sucking dick was something I knew how to do. I’m a pro. If it were a martial art, I’d be a black belt. On those rare occasions, feeling, tasting, and smelling his youth and virility would take me back to a time when I was his age, although I was never as indulgent as he was. I never let old trolls blow me. If I’d known then what I did now, about what pleasure it would give to the old guy blowing me, I would have let him.

I went there every week, and it had been two months since I’d had a guy let me do him. He was a young guy who looked like he could have been a marine, with a hard body and short clipped hair. Probably 28 years old: I was pretty good at guessing ages. I’d opened the door to his booth to find him there, his shirt stripped off, his pants at his ankles, stroking a big, thick dick. I moved in quickly, not giving him time to look at me, to think about who was with him, and just fell to my knees. I knew as soon as his dick was in my mouth, he’d be mine, and I wasn’t wrong. I took him on a ride, taking my time, enjoying him, while he watched the straight porn playing in the booth. I took so long he ran out of money, so I put a $5 bill in to make it last longer.

When he finally came, he flooded me. The feel of his dick pulsing in my mouth, blowing his load down my throat, was heaven, the feel and the taste that I lived for. The sound of his moans and grunts the sounds I loved. When he was done, I braced myself. Sometimes guys got rude, mean even, now that they were sated: It was easy for them to blame me. But not this guy. He smiled down at me and ran his fingers through my thinning hair. “Thanks man. The wife’s been a bitch, I lost my job, and I just needed some fun, needed to relax. Boy did you relax me.”

I’d beamed at him, then he’d gotten up, pulled up his pants, pulled on his shirt, and left. That was two months before this fateful visit. Two months of rejection, two months of scorn, for that kind of elusive thrill. It had been a waste of time, but I was old and unfit, with diabetes and high blood pressure, a recipe for a short life. Years of fatty food and an indolent life had taken its toll. My wife had been worse than I was, both physically and mentally. Escaping from her bitchiness was the other big reason I’d gone to those places.

I’d been about to go up and try the booth door, even though the young guy had been anything but welcoming, when another guy came in. He was old, maybe older than me, but thin as a rail. He smiled at me, then walked up to the booth that the kid was in and opened the door. I heard the kid snarl “no thanks” and pull the door closed. The older guy turned around and looked at me, smiling, but I could see the sadness in his eyes. The sadness that said he remembered what it was like to be young and he missed it as much as I did.

He sat on the bench next to me and kept looking sideways at me, checking me out. What was he doing? Old guys never hooked up with each other here. We were here cruising for young meat. He kept looking at me, and when I’d look back, he’d smile and raise his eyebrows. I felt myself blushing, and that made me chuckle; only it came out like a giggle. He raised his eyebrows and motioned toward a booth, then got up and walked over and into one. He left the door slightly ajar. Normally I wouldn’t go over there, I wouldn’t tail another old guy, but there was something about this guy, something that told me to take a chance. I mulled it over, thinking it through, and finally decided to go for it. I went over, pulled the door open, and walked in. There he was, completely naked, his old saggy skin seeming to hang off his body.

“Hi,” he’d said. Then he pulled me in and kissed me. It was like I was Sleeping Beauty and he woke me up. Wow. Everything about that kiss was magical: The way his lips moved with mine, the way his tongue moved in gently, not aggressively, and wrangled with mine, the taste of Marlboros that normally would have repulsed me, but this time just fueled my desire. I felt my dick rise, something as rare as an encounter with a young stud, and was so surprised I wasn’t sure what to do. The old guy knew. He dropped down and gave me one amazing blow job, and when I was done, I returned the favor.

We’d walked out together, a rarity in this venue, where most guys scurried out on their own. As soon as we were outside, he turned to me and held out his hand. “I’m Tom, and you were wonderful.”

I felt myself blushing. “I’m Pete, and you were the wonderful one.” We shook hands, the electricity flying between us, and I got my first look at his eyes, beautiful green eyes. I wondered what color his white hair had been when he was younger. We’d committed the ultimate sin then of exchanging phone numbers, a huge risk.

He’d called me a couple of times after that, and in the end I only answered because I was worried he’d get mad and out me. I’d planned to end it on the phone, but I ended up with a date. One date led to another, and instead of going to the porn store, we’d meet up somewhere else. It got to be more and more often, till we were meeting daily: we were inseparable.

The last ten years had only been bearable because of Tom. Even though we’d spent time together almost daily, it went from sex, to friendship, to love pretty damn fast. It only took me a few months to realize that I’d found my soul mate at the age of 68. That was the good news, and then there was the rest. A year after Tom and I had met, my wife died from a heart attack. We’d been married for 45 years. She and I were best friends, partners, and even though the love and romance had long gone, I cared deeply for her. I was devastated.

A few months after she died, Tom and his wife filed for divorce and he moved in. I was nervous, worried that if we lived together that we wouldn’t get along, but it was perfect. Perfect until I had a stroke and couldn’t walk anymore. Perfect until Tom got lung cancer, went through surgery and chemotherapy, and now had to carry an oxygen tank with him. I found my soul mate, had ten unhealthy years, and it was obvious to both of us that neither one of us had much time left.

“Pete, you want to come back to earth?” Tom teased. “They want to take our picture.” He stood next to me while they snapped a picture, then I toggled my Hoveround after him as he slowly walked on board, carrying his oxygen tank. The young people looked at us with pity. I guess that’s the best we could hope for. Tom had booked a cabin at the back of the ship. It was on a lower deck, all we could afford, but at least it had a balcony.

The cruise was fun, just a three-day deal, but it was enough. The last night on board, we avoided the dining room and instead ordered room service. Our cabin steward set up the meal on our balcony, with an electric candle for ambiance.

“Pete, I wish I’d met you when I was 22,” he said. “My life would be so different now.”

“I love you too,” I told him, smiling. “Why 22? Why not 18?”

“I would have been too stupid then, too dumb to realize you were the one for me,” he said. “I could really have taken you for a ride back in those days.”

“You aren’t doing a bad job now,” I joked. “You turned me into a bottom.”

“That’s saying something, since we only did it five times,” he joked back. That had taken Viagra, and it was before his health problems. Now erections, the kind you needed to fuck someone, were a past dream.

“That’s how good you were,” I teased. Then he got a serious expression on his face. “What?”

“I just wish we had more time,” he said, and a tear fell down his cheek.

“I’m thankful for the time we have,” I told him. He nodded sadly. We went to bed and had sex. No, we couldn’t get very erect, but it was satisfying, meaningful and loving. I went to sleep with a smile on my face, with Tom spooned up behind me.

I woke up later that night and immediately sensed that something was wrong. I was alert in a second. I rolled over and saw that Tom wasn’t in bed. The door to the balcony was open, and there, by the railing, was his oxygen tank. I jumped out of bed but forgot I no longer had the use of my legs, and fell flat on the deck. I pulled myself over to the little table, crawling as I went, briefly acknowledging the irony that when we are at the end of our life, we are much like we were when we began it. I found a note on it, addressed to me.

Dear Pete,

They didn’t get it all. The cancer. I can’t go through chemo again. I can’t put you through that. Our time together was the only thing about my life that I cherish.

Love,

Tom

And then it was all clear. He couldn’t handle it, so he’d bailed out on me. He didn’t even tell me, he’d just jumped off the balcony. I crawled out on the balcony to the railing and pulled myself upright. There, underneath me, the water churned, white and furious, where the ship’s propellers had stirred it up.

I let the emotions surge through me, the anger and rage at Tom for leaving me without saying anything, without talking about the decision. The pain and anguish at losing him. Then more anger at him for taking even a day of our time together away from me. Then finally, I came to the realization that I didn’t want to go on without him. I thought about it, thought about going over the side after him. At first, my self-preservation instincts pulled me back, making me consider my life, making me think about whether I could end it, whether I had the courage. Then I visualized life without Tom, and there was no life for me.

My arms were strong, my legs weren’t, but that didn’t matter. I pulled myself up to the rail and sat on it, then spun my body so my legs were dangling over the edge. It was a surreal feeling, hanging over the edge, but it was time to go over or go back. I knew if I waited I might change my mind or worse, someone might see me. I pushed my arms up against the rail and off, and then I was flying through the air. I seemed to hang there forever, until finally I hit the water.

Two things surprised me: the water and my ability to float in it. The water was warm, which really shouldn’t have been a shock, since it was September in the Caribbean. Still, I hadn’t been in the ocean for years, so I guess any contact with it was new. I’d kind of visualized that I’d fall in the water and just sink, but that didn’t happen at all. I floated, the saline in the water helping, and found that I could actually tread water pretty effectively.

I did that, treading water, wondering where Tom was, wishing that we could have done this together. But I understood us, how we were, and I knew that if he’d tried to get me to do this, I’d have never gone for it. I would have argued and argued with him, and I never would have let him book this trip. He knew that, he knew he’d have to do this alone. I wondered how he was doing, where he was, if he was still afloat. I felt my strength start to fade, felt my head get lower and lower in the water, and I knew I didn’t have much longer. In a few minutes, my strength would give out, I would slip beneath the surface, and I would drown.

I had just resigned myself to my fate when I heard a loud noise, a roaring noise, the sound of water rushing really fast. How was that possible, in the middle of the Caribbean Sea? We were nowhere near a waterfall, and that was what this sounded like. It got louder and louder, whatever it was, as I got closer to it. There was a full moon, so I could see the surface clearly, and as I got closer, I saw what looked like a huge whirlpool with a surreal bluish hue emanating from it.

I was being pulled toward it, sucked in. I thought about fighting it, but I didn’t have the strength. Besides, this would be interesting. If I was going to die, why not get sucked into a vortex? The current got stronger as I got closer, and then it grabbed me. I spun around the edge a few times, and then it pulled me under. I felt like I was falling, only with water all around me. And then I blacked out.

I was surprised to find that I was slowly coming to. Was I dead? Did I drown? Was there really an afterlife, and was this it? My senses returned slowly. I wasn’t in the water, I was on the shore. There was sand beneath me, and the light from the sun was trying to break through my eyelids. I felt something crash on me, a wave, and it pushed me along, further up on what must be a beach. Slowly I opened my eyes and looked around. The sun was bright, forcing me to squint, but I could see palm trees in front of me at the edge of the beach. There were no people, no signs of any inhabitants at all. There was something else: I could see clearly. No cataracts to make my eyes foggy, no problems seeing up close or far away.

I instinctively moved to get up, and I did. I stood up on the beach, and then froze, stunned. I’d stood up! How did I do that? I looked down at my legs, and realized I was stark naked. Not only that, I wasn’t in my own body. I felt like my mind had been transplanted into someone else’s body, a young body. I looked at my flat stomach and chest, ran my hands over the smooth, taut skin. Then it dawned on me. This wasn’t someone else’s body; this was my body, only it was my body from years before. Before fried chicken, eggs, ice cream, pizza, burgers, cookies, bacon, and all those other foods had made it fat and unhealthy.

I walked toward the palm trees, smiling now, smiling because I was ambulatory, then I ran, laughing, enjoying the freedom of movement I hadn’t gotten from my Hoveround. Beyond the trees was a hill. I climbed up the hill, through the vegetation, until I came across a pool of water. I realized how thirsty I was, so thirsty that I jumped right in. The fresh water cleaned my body while I drank my fill, and then drank more, then more still.

I got out of the pool and stood next to it, looking down at its calm surface, and used it as a mirror to study my reflection. I’d say it was me when I was about 22 years old. I was staring at my reflection, taking it in, when I noticed another one. I looked up and across the small pond to see another man, probably about 22 years old as well. Our eyes met, and our faces broke into huge grins. The young, fit man there, thirty feet away from me, was almost unrecognizable, but for those sparkling green eyes.

He drew back, and then dove into the pool, as did I, both of us swimming frantically toward each other. We met in the middle, our arms enveloping each other, our lips meeting with the same magic they’d met the first time we kissed. We made love, taking advantage of all of our working parts, then lay on the side of the lake, languorously lazy and totally satisfied.

“What the fuck happened?” I asked him.

“Who cares?” he said. “These past ten years all I’ve wanted to do is go back in time and just live my life with you, to just be with you.”

“That’s been my wish as well,” I said.

“It looks like sometimes, just sometimes, dreams can come true,” he said.

© 2010 Mark Arbour

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