Lake Champlain, Summer 2012 - 3. Chapter 3 of 3

3.

 

Joshua wanted to take a drive and show me the natural beauties of Vermont. It was appealing, even though it meant putting on clothes, something neither of us had done since our late morning swim.

We climbed in his large pick-up truck and took off. The windows were open wide, to forego air conditioning. The wind and the motor combined to produce a mellowing, even if slightly deafening, noise which precluded much conversation beyond the excited utterances of Joshua pointing at and naming sites, flora and fauna. I felt relaxed and happy; I kicked off my sneakers, pulled off my socks, and stretched my legs over the window, my feet getting a rough cool-off from the speedy air.

"You're like my dog," Joshua said appreciatively. "He loves sticking his head out of the window when we drive."

"I didn't see a dog at your place."

"Corey has him this month. I miss him."

"The dog?" I asked jokingly.

"Yes, you fucker, the dog."

 

We drove for more than an hour among forests and plains, picturesque bridges and off roads. Joshua had put some on some horrible country music radio station; when I finally, and discreetly, attempted to change the tune, I realized it was a CD.

"I want to be naked again," I said, bemused. "It's like my new addiction."

"Well, try to keep your clothes on for a little longer," he said as we entered what looked like a little village. "I'm a pillar of this community, remember? But I know just the place."

We reached the place he had in mind twenty minutes later. We parked by the road and went hiking for another twenty minutes, until we got to a creek, shaded by luscious trees and scattered with rocks of various sizes. Joshua started to undress and I followed his example. He then walked tentatively, stepping from one small rock to another, until he reached a boulder in the middle of the running, freezing water. He lay down and watched me make my way towards him. I lay next to him, shuffling my body to find the position that would alleviate the discomfort of my naked body against the rough surface of the rock. I felt it scratch my flesh.

 

It was warm, very warm. There was no breeze, but the cold water seemed to cool us off a bit. I felt Joshua reach for my hand; I lay one of my legs on top of his.

"Can I ask you something, Joshua?" I said tentatively. "And it's okay if it's none of my business."

"You can ask me anything," he said casually, not opening his eyes.

"Okay. Well. The summer we met, we talked about our past a bit, our previous experiences."

"Yes."

"You said something that has been gnawing at me ever since. I've always felt a bit guilty about not asking you about it back then."

"Guilty?"

"Yes, like I didn't care or something. But it wasn't that I didn't care, I just didn't want to force you to talk about something which made you uncomfortable."

"What is it?" he said, still looking up, basking eyes closed.

"I had the feeling that one of your early experiences wasn't, I don't know, consensual or something. That you were trying to tell me that maybe you had been… molested?"

"Wow. Molested? No, never. I don't know where you got that from."

"Never mind, then."

"Well, actually, I think I do know where you may have got that from. And I'm sorry if the misunderstanding stayed with you like that."

"What was it?"

"Nothing. I mean, not much." He stayed silent for a long a while. I stayed quiet and immobile, save from a squeezing of his hand. "I've never really talked about this with anyone, I don't know why."

"Okay," I said patiently.

"My first experience was with an older man. With the father of a friend."

"Oh."

"Yeah, I know."

"Who was he? Someone close?"

"No, not really. His name was Jim. He was the dad of Scotty, a guy I met at soccer practice. Scotty and I were good buddies, but not really close friends. But I hung out at his house occasionally. Both his houses, actually: Scotty's parents were divorced and had joint custody. I was sleeping over one night, at his dad's place, and the three of us were talking, quite late, drinking the one beer he had allowed us to share."

"How progressive of him."

"He was a drunken mess, rather."

"Okay."

"Scotty was kind of a brat. He said he was heading to bed and just stood up and left. I felt a little weird because we didn't offer help to clean up. So I did. I thought his dad would just say, No, that's fine, just go, but he didn't. So I helped him, then he said we should share one last beer together. I wanted to look cool so I said yes. We talked a little bit, sitting on the couch next to each other. He was really drunk, it seemed, and he was going on and on about women being bitches, about Scotty's mother, about how I should pick wisely when I get hitched, and all that. Then he was silent so I took it as my cue to leave. But he lay a hand on my thigh and just mumbled something about him missing sex. I left the room as casually as I could and went to bed. But I couldn't sleep. I could still feel the imprint of his hand of my thigh. And I was fucking hard."

"He was hot."

"Yeah. I mean, I thought so. I thought so then, that night. I had never really considered it before. It's funny because Jim was probably not much older than what we are now."

"Then what happened?"

"Some weeks later, I had to drop some equipment for Scotty. I stopped by his place but he was at his mother's house that week. His dad opened the door. He looked a little disheveled, with his shirt open and old sweatpants. He also smelled of beer, I think. But I was a little petrified. I played it cool of course --"

"Of course."

"He let me in and insisted I have a drink with him. It was late afternoon and I was freaking out my mother would smell something on my breath when I'd get home. I declined, but he insisted I stayed for minute, watch ESPN or something with him for a minute. It's fucking good to see you, he kept saying."

"And you stayed."

"I did. I had jerked off so many times in the weeks before thinking about him, that it felt like I couldn't not stay, you know?"

"What did you think about when you jerked off with him in mind?"

"I don't know. Mostly jerking off together. Or peeping and spying to see him jerking off. Fucking a woman together, once. Stuff like that. Maybe getting a blow job from him, too. But I always felt wretched after I came. Guilty, nauseated, disgusted."

"I see. So you stayed."

"I did and we watched some TV in total silence for a while. Then he said something like how before I arrived he was going to watch a porn tape he had rented and that I should either leave or watch it with him, because he really wanted to watch it before he had to go out or something."

"So you stayed," I repeated.

"Yes. And we jerked off together in silence, and I thought I was going to explode with horniness and guilt. We came and he fetched a dirty t-shirt that was on the floor and wiped both our stomachs with it. I remember, because I remember I was dying to take that t-shirt away with me, keep it for me forever. I was already thinking about jerking off again sniffing that t-shirt." He turned his head towards me and looked at me, querying my reaction. When none came, he resumed: "He called me two weeks later and said that Scotty was at his mum's again and that I was welcome to stop by and, you know, hang out. And so it started: every other week, I'd spend two or three ends of afternoon with Jim. We jerked off, then started blowing each other, then fucking too. The first time he fucked me, it hurt like hell, and I felt dirty and hateful and disgusting. But I got used to it and started to enjoy it a bit. I liked fucking him, because I liked how crazy wild he'd get."

"Did you guys ever talk or, you know, kiss and cuddle?" I asked, feeling a bit sheepish.

"Yes and no, not really. I think I was too horny when I'd get to his place, and too fucked up with guilt after we were done with the sex."

"How long did it last?"

"A few weeks. Months. I'm not sure. One day, we were groping each other on the sofa and he stood up and motioned me to follow him. We had always had sex in the living room, so I wasn't sure what he was up to. He climbed the stairs and pushed open the door of Scotty's bedroom. He had a nasty grin on his face and was touching his hard cock when he sat down on Scotty's bed, on his son's bed. I freaked out. I really did. I yelled at him that he was sick and disgusting and ran downstairs, got dressed and ran out."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. He tried to call me several times, but I never returned his calls. Plus my mum was starting to wonder why Scotty's dad was calling more often than Scotty himself. I felt so ashamed, it was horrible. I couldn't sleep well, my appetite was dwindling, I was abrasive with everyone. Not happy times."

"Are you okay," I asked after he'd been silent for a while. "I'm sorry I brought all this up."

"Stop being sorry," he said, smiling, and planted a kiss on my lips. "I'm fine. This was so long ago. And I live very far away from all that. This is Vermont, beautiful Vermont."

"Yes," I said, as I climbed on him, lifted his legs to wrap them around me, and kissed his left ear. "Beautiful Vermont," I whispered.

 

*       *             *

 

Once, we made up some excuse and skipped dinner with everyone in the Hall. I had wanted to enjoy the particular light you get in summers' early dusks. I wanted to be away from the noise and the neon lights. I wanted to walk.

So we did. We left the confines of the campus and we started to walk. We passed some strip malls and gas stations, we veered right, then left, then left, then right again. We walked on country roads side by side, in silence, our hands softly grazing. At some point, Joshua took out from his backpack a small of bottle of alcohol - gin or vodka, I can't remember - the kind of small bottles you get in a hotel minibar. I smiled quizzically. "Don't ask," he said, theatrically mysterious, "I know people." We drank as we walked, keeping up the steady pace of men with a purpose.

We tried to find a forest, we only saw trees; we hoped to run across a river or a stream, we only saw small, despondent ponds; we tried to get lost, I think, but we didn't. Not really.

But we kept walking and all my glances at Joshua seemed to sparkle a little beauty. The glistening sweat on his neck. His frowning face bronzed by the evening sun. The tense muscles sculpting his hairy calves. His half open mouth, breathing rhythmically and drying his lips.

"What?" he asked when he caught me looking at him.

"Nothing," I smiled.

He threw the empty tiny bottle in a garbage bin, another telling sign that we hadn't veered that far off civilization. He pulled another bottle from his bag, this one had brown liquid in it, probably whisky.

 

We walked and drank for another two hours. It got really dark at some point, but we had conveniently walked full circle and were close to the college when our legs and our drunk brains started to show signs of failing us. Soon we passed the gates, we saw lights and heard noises. Joshua led the way, turning left when a right would have taken us back to our dorm. We reached a shed where some sports equipment was stored. Behind it was one of our spots, secluded, but open on a hill, shedding us from the rest of campus and offering us quiet, privacy and the stars. Joshua dropped and lay on the ground and exhaled loudly. I sat next to him, moving his head on my lap. He grabbed my hand, placed it on his chest and closed his eyes. We had barely exchanged a word that evening but I had never felt closer to him.

"I think I'm gay, Ben," he suddenly said, looking away.

I stayed silent. For a long time. I felt chafed by disloyalty for not enveloping us both in the same warm cloak of confession and introspection, but it was a step I wasn't ready to make, a statement I wouldn't be ready to utter for a few more months. "It's going to be all right", was all I said, lamely.

"We live in different worlds, Ben."

"Do we, though?"

"Do people in your family randomly use the word 'faggot' to insult anyone and everyone?"

"No."

"We live in different worlds, Ben."

"Okay." Uncomfortable with the ensuing silence, I added, perfunctorily: "What makes you think you're gay?"

He chuckled. "You gotta be kidding me."

I felt stupid and sulking and useless. I wanted to get up again and resume our walk, not letting tiredness and aimlessness stop us this time, hold firmly his hand, instead of letting our pendulum movements decide when they connected, hug him from behind and kiss him on his sweaty neck, for the world to see my affection for me, for him to feel the care and warmth on which I wanted him to get drunk. I wanted to find the words for him to believe the blotched truth that he will be fine somehow, someday, even if I actually didn't know how nor when. For I had no idea where Joshua was headed; he seemed at a fork road, when my path looked like a straight arrow. He seemed to have to choose between Dudetown and Faggotville; I was headed to Princeton.

"Fuck, I don't want this summer to end," he said with mocked anger, but underlying anguish.

"Me neither," I said, meekly, for I knew that I couldn't wait for September to come.

 

*             *             *

 

"This is Corey, I'm guessing?" I asked, pointing at a young man in a framed photograph perched on the fireplace.

"Yes," Joshua said casually, passing me briskly, heading outdoors. "Come on, let's have another quick swim".

"Oh please, spare me."

"You're all sweaty and you have stinky feet. We need to get in the water."

"And the lake will wash us off?"

"The lake will cleanse you of all your sins," he jibed, undressing as he marched on.

 

*             *             *

 

It was harder to sneak away and leave the group behind on weekend nights. That second Friday night, at the dawn of the second Saturday without the curbing presence of my roommate, we lay on my bed naked, exhausted after an evening of beer and cards with Mike and Rob. We had taken our clothes off silently but briskly, communing in our eagerness for peace, quiet, and a good night of rest. The prospect of falling asleep and waking up together seemed to supersede and dampen any sexual urgency - as if, now that we could, we didn't really have to.

The bed was small, we crammed next to each other, without turning the lights off, not just yet. Our legs mingled, our arms contorted around each other. There was the whiff of a stench, beer and sweat and feet. The crude light made Joshua and I look paler than we actually were.

The view of his body was disconcertingly halting. He was naked, he was very naked. He was casually, ordinarily, everyday-manly naked. It was most likely the absence of an erection, on his part as well as on mine, that made the moment, his presence, his flesh so illicitly foreign. He didn't have a dick or a cock, he had a penis. His arms, his thighs, his mouth or his ass weren't the agents and the subjects of sexual exertions, they were the limbs, organs and body parts with which he grabbed a tray in the dining hall, kicked a ball on the field, sipped a beer, or toweled dry after a shower. But they lay, moved, and shuffled right next to me, naked, thick, and exposed. Mine.

The awe of a naked female body is different, I thought, completely different. Naked girls exist almost exclusively, and for the longest time, in pictures. Movies, ads, porn. Moving or still images revealing what can only be guessed, grazed, or mentally drawn. Sleeping with a girl is bringing the uncommon, the extraordinary, into the very common: your bed, your body, your hands. Sex with a man, I realized, is initially the opposite. The very common nakedness of guys, glanced at, studiously ignored, forced upon you in locker rooms, sleepovers and showers, is thrown at you in the most uncommon, the most extraordinary setting: a forbidden and overpowering sexual disorientation. When you first sleep with a girl, you get the affirming feeling you've arrived. When you first sleep with a guy, you are drunk with displacement.

"Woah. There is a naked dude on the bed, right next to me," Joshua suddenly said, echoing and expressing out loud very much the essence of my thoughts.

 

*             *             *

 

I was sitting on the kitchen counter while Joshua was cooking pasta. The proximity of a stove and boiling tomato sauce had made us both instinctively put boxers on, but I was gazing at Joshua's large, tan back while sipping a beer distractedly.

"What did you actually do after college, Joshua? After that summer?"

"That's right, we never really talked after camp," he said casually, the first time either of us acknowledged the ugliness of our parting.

"I remember you said you wanted to do something related to sports?"

"Well," he said turning around and flashing me a grin, "I got a job at a Footlocker in Pittsburgh."

"I see."

"Yeah. I actually stayed there for a while. I was assistant manager for, like, three years I think. Then I left and came up here. Best thing I ever did."

"What made you decide to move?"

"It was either that or jumping off a bridge really," he chuckled, while turning his spoon in the sauce. "I was in a really bad place. I just had to get out."

"Tell me," I said, more confident that he was comfortable sharing with me.

"I was involved with a married man."

"For how long?"

"Well, almost three years. It started soon after that summer."

"I see," I said, feeling stupid for being a tad stung that I had been replaced so fast.

"You know him, actually," he said, turning to face me, setting his dripping spoon down.

"I do?"

"Todd, the baseball coach."

"Get out."

"Todd, the baseball coach," he repeated, with a roguish smile.

"That's so fucking random."

"Not really. He lived in Pittsburgh too, remember, and it's not far-fetched to run into a baseball coach in a Footlocker."

"Baseball fucking Heartthrob."

"Ha. I forgot you guys called him that."

"So, that's where you saw him again. You sold him shoes?"

"Yes. And we swapped numbers so that we could hang out. We went out for beers a few times until, well, it became sort of obvious that something was going on."

"How did it actually happen?"

"It's kind of thanks to you, actually. Or you and me, I guess. One night, we were fairly drunk and he started asking questions about you, about how close we seemed to be and all that. I think I may have blushed or something, but I definitely gave us away. Then he started telling me that he had had such a close friendship with a dude when he was in college too. Then he got all teary-eyed telling me about it. So I drove him home and we kissed in the car."

"Wow."

"Yes. And that's how it started."

"And it lasted three years?

"Almost, yes. It was fantastic at first. I was really falling for him and I thought he was falling for me. But he wouldn't come out to his wife, let alone leave her. He never said that in so many words and I liked to believe he'd leave her for me at some point. But, you know, after a while, there is so much denial you can indulge in."

"I guess."

"I'm sorry, I know it's such a terrible sad boring story. The mistress who pines for the man to leave his wife. I felt like shit most of the time we were together. So fucking pathetic."

"Well, why did you stay, you think?"

"I think I was really in love with him, actually. I thought I was, definitely. I was unhappy, but when we were actually together, it was pretty awesome. But we had to hide all the time, everywhere and to everyone. It gets at you, you know."

"Yes."

"Then his wife got fucking pregnant and still I stayed. And waited. And pined." He turned back to the sauce, ground some salt and pepper, then resumed: "It was also very, very shallow, but, you know, he was so fucking gorgeous. I mean, he was seriously hot."

"I know," I laughed, "I remember."

"Man, guys can be so freaking stupid when they're young. I was such a dumb ass."

"Did he ever hit on you when we were at camp?"

"No, never. I mean, he took an interest in me, which felt great, but I never felt anything sexual. Maybe I had a terrible gaydar."

"None of us suspected anything like that. I remember Erin had a sex crush on him."

"She did?"

"Yes," I remembered, smiling, "she wanted to do all sorts of things with him and to him."

"Ha. Well, he certainly was a bit wild in bed. But not with women, I think. Not with his wife, at least."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"Nope, I broke off all contacts with him. I never looked back."

"You didn't message him on LinkedIn?", I joked teasingly.

"He's too hot to be on LinkedIn," he volleyed back.

I laughed and he told me to move, so he could drain the pasta. He served two full, gigantic plates and led us outside, on the pillows and with the view we had enjoyed the evening before.

"So what made you finally leave?" I asked.

"I told you. I was miserable. I was lonely, I felt worthless and stupid and ugly. It was horrible. I guess some survival instinct kicked in and I decided I had to get out. Go far and leave everything behind. I quit my job, packed my stuff, wrote him a letter, came out to my mother on the phone and drove north."

"Wow. How did she take it?"

"Not great. But I didn't care. I knew she'd be so ashamed that she wouldn't tell any living soul, so it gave me some time to decide who and when to tell next. I got here, found a small place and asked my dad for a job at one of the store."

"How was your relationship with him?"

"Not much of one. He was puzzled to see me on his front door, but I guess the old man liked the idea of his son working for the family business."

"You came out to him?"

"About a year later. Then he stopped talking to me. Outside of work, that is. At the store or in the offices, he never flinched or gave anything away. I was good and committed so, you know, I climbed up the ranks. We were co-managers after a couple of years, but still, he would not talk to me outside of work."

"Fuck."

"I didn't really care. I had decided to set up my life here, not to let anyone bully me any longer. I figured he'd come round eventually."

"Has he?"

"Kind of. He's had health issues for a while, so he's barely at work now. I decided to start visiting him and he never threw me out. That's progress, right? His dumb wife was always petrified, though, as if I was trying to wake up a monster. It was kind of funny."

"And now?"

"I see them from time to time. I have a stepbrother and a stepsister, did I tell you that? I don't hang out with them much, though. I'm happy here. This is my life, you know?"

"Right."

"I mean, I made this. All of it. The job, this house, Corey."

Perplexed, I let that last part go, and slipped a huge amount of pasta in my mouth.

 

*             *             *

 

Young Joshua was obsessed with masturbation. He relished talking about it, about his experiences and that of others, mine included. On numerous occasions, he asked detailed questions about my habits and history. When did I start? How often did I do it? Where had I done it? He shared the same information about himself and passed on animatedly every answer he had gotten to these questions from other guys (friends, cousins, hookups). He apparently had a knack to make guys talk about jerking off; I noticed it myself once, when we were hanging out with Mike and Rob and we spent thirty minutes discussing the thrills and perils of jacking off in college dorms, without either of them once bemoaning that the conversation was "too fucking gay" (a complain they rarely hesitated to voice).

A lot of the sex we had our first few days together involved jerking off together in increasingly random or far-fetched places or settings. The glee in his eyes when he was furiously stroking his cock and avidly watching me doing the same, was astounding. It was even more so when he voiced out loud, just after orgasm, his thrill that he had sprayed his cum on places or objects which he both happily defiled and proudly made his own, not unlike an animal marking his territory. A classroom, a bathroom, a sport field, a tree, a door, a path, a ball: he also loved thinking and talking about the further life of these places and objects, now that they had been soiled by his semen. "Woaw, some dude is going to kick on this ball! Can you imagine?"

 

Whereas masturbating together was a bonding and playful activity, oral sex seemed always somehow to be more of a personal experience for Joshua. He wasn't a man to look you in the eyes while hungrily slurping on your cock. He sucked fervently, dedicatedly, using mouth and hands and tongue and lips, often brushing off my attempts to blow him too, making me wait to do so until he had assuaged his need to lose himself in the act. He was good, astonishingly good at times, but he was never more disconnected from me than when he was sucking my cock, sucking another man's cock.

Fucking was altogether another experience. He fucked me once. It was my first time, but it didn't feel momentous. It happened behind a bush, where we had switched uncomfortably from one sucking position to another hand job posture. His cock had pressed against my ass at some point, on the taint actually, but he had thought he was against my hole. He had a questioning look, to which I answered with an authorizing smile. I turned on my stomach and I positioned his dick where it should be. He entered me with difficulty, but I didn't want to stop him, grateful as I was that he had let me fuck him on numerous occasions, without ever expressing demands of reciprocation. It felt equitable and polite to let him inside me. It hurt for a while, then it stopped hurting, but it never became pleasant. He fucked me rhythmically, rather studiously too, and I wondered for a brief moment if he had been a good lover to his girlfriend, as fantastic a lover as he had generally been with me. I was very aware that I was most likely, at that very moment, a lousy one. I was waiting for him to finish, my cheek muddied and scratched on the ground. He couldn't cum, however, and asked me if he could suck me some more.

Joshua was very puzzled that I hadn't enjoyed the penetration. He was very puzzled that he did himself enjoy so much being fucked. The first time I had been inside him had indeed been for both of us an almost revelatory experience. We each had had some practice with previous lovers (though I had concluded that my limited one must have been much smaller than his vaguely described own) but the nature and the intensity of the connection we shared, of the shuddering pleasure we felt, seemed to us new and transformative. On my part, I remember knowing then, when we were panting in each other's arms, post-orgasm, that we would be together for the rest of the camp, at least, that our awe would carry us through, would lock us close until distance only could be undoing us.

We fucked often - Joshua usually, though not always, initiating it, and I can't recall an instance when it didn't feel brutally astounding, viscerally amazing. It was difficult to share these feelings with Joshua, however. Before the actual sex, his horniness was never really conducive for open-hearted confessions about the beauty of fucking. He liked to talk about sex, but with a graphic and foretelling urgency: positions tried and positions yet to be executed. After sex, while his post-orgasmic silences brought our hands, legs or shoulders together, I had quickly learned that any attempt at a conversation related to fucking would be unsuccessful, would only be met by an uneasy shrug.

 

*             *             *

 

It was much later, and darker, when we were sprawled naked on the deck, surrounded by scattered empty beer bottles, and Joshua asked me "Why are you single, Ben?"

I scoffed. "It's an impossible question to answer and surely you know this is something you never ask anybody who's single and over the age of thirty."

"You're not anybody."

"I am everybody."

"I mean it," he insisted.

"Please, don't give me the whole 'you're attractive and smart, anybody should be lucky to have you' and all that".

"I wasn't going to. I might have said you're kind and affectionate. You seem pretty mature too."

"And being single is a sign of immaturity?"

"Yes," he said gently, with a resolve that surprised me. "Have you never been in love?"

"A thousand times."

"Come on."

"I mean it. I think. I don't know, Joshua. I'm not sure what you want me to say."

"You were a pretty intense and introspective guy when you were young. I figure you must have some thoughts."

"Well, I'm not sure I do."

He crawled closer to me and lay his head on my stomach. He raised and moved his left arm, signaling that he was looking for mine. When I offered my hand to his, he grabbed it and rested both on his chest.

"Are you single by choice?" he tried again.

"No. That, I am not. But I'm not pining for it. It'll come."

"Yes," he said, "I don't doubt that. You never met someone you could see yourself spending a long, long time with?"

"Yes, I have. Once." I told him about the man whom I had loved deeply and seriously, who had loved me genuinely in return (I'm pretty sure) but who had firmly rebuffed my then habitual and self-defeating attempts at dictatorially establishing co-dependence. A man who had asserted his own independence and free-will so plainly he had turned me into the kind of unsecure and neurotic mess I myself had always dashed away from.

"So, you got hurt," he concluded equably.

"Yes, I did. And to be honest, I feel like I'm only emerging out of the slut phase I dove in to get over him," I said, uncovering along that simplistic truth which had eluded me so far.

"So, you don't rebound."

"No, I bang, I guess."

"Deep thoughts. I told you." He moved and lay on me, kissing me sweetly.

"So, you didn't have a slut phase when Corey left?" I asked when he released my mouth.

"No. Not really. Not at all, actually."

"Did you try to rebound then?" I asked, suddenly wary and uncertain about the turn of the conversation I had just steered, about its implication for my very presence in that house.

"Nope. Right now, it's all about me," he said before kissing me again.

 

 

*             *             *

 

Our last evening at the camp turned ugly.

Joshua and I had been nervous and touchy with each other the whole day on the field. We only had a few hours left together, less than twenty-four by the time training was over and we bid farewell to the kids and coach. Neither of us seemed to find the appropriate attitude to convey our sadness to the other, nor to come up with plans for the evening that would give us enough time together while getting to hang out with our two groups of friends. There had never been much hope that these two groups might one day really mingle and enjoy each other's company. The rants eructed at lunch by Erin and some of the theater girls against Mike and Rob (Such pigs. Chauvinistic pigs too.) had eradicated any possibilities of a big, inclusive get-together, one from which Joshua and I may have slipped out discreetly at a reasonable hour. My roommate was going back home at some point that evening; we would hence have the whole suite to ourselves. For the night and for the morning. That freedom and beguiling prospect made us more open to pack the evening with various plans and to resign ourselves to party-hop across the campus until, finally, we could hold each other and be silent.

We settled on a tentative and slightly improbable plan: we'd have dinner separately with our respective friends, then I'd meet up with him, Mike and Rob and hang for a while before joining Erin and her group again. Joshua would stay "for a couple of beers" with the football guys, most likely joined at some point by the wrestlers. He'd then come up with an excuse to find me and take me away to my room, to our room.

I was slightly irritated by all the reasons why this plan could go awry, I became even more so when I saw Joshua enter the dining hall, an hour later: as had been his habit since I'd met him, he was dressed differently when he was hanging out Mike and Rob. He dressed down, definitely; I even noticed he wouldn't wear cologne or deodorant, his idea of masculinity (or rather, his idea of Mike and Rob's idea of masculinity) apparently involving baggy jeans or sweatpants and a whiff of B.O. I knew I shouldn't have gotten upset or care too much about it, but I had bought Joshua a rather cool, vintage-looking t-shirt at the effigy of the college we were staying in as a goodbye gift; when he high-fived the footballers while picking up a tray, I saw he had rather worn his stained Bon Jovi shirt.

 

This last dinner was a bit emotional. Baseball Heartthrob seemed genuinely disheartened by the prospects of most of us leaving the next day. Erin was even sweeter than usual, her hands always seemed to be somewhere on me. I promised I would meet up with them later in her room; she kissed me on the lips goodnight, not entirely believing I would be keeping that pledge.

 

"Look who's here," Rob exclaimed, unsurprised, as I entered his stuffy, drab room.

"It figures," Mike quipped ambivalently. He was lounging on the bed, his legs spread wide, overlooking Rob and Joshua, seated cross-legged on the floor. All three had a beer bottle in their hands; all three looked comfortably and leisurely lethargic.

"Hey man, you've made it," smiled Joshua.

Joshua had been dropping hints the previous days that Mike and Rob had seemed to resent my monopolizing of their friend. They seemed to feel entitled to a seniority claim on Joshua and, despite a couple of occasions when we had all hung out together and had reasonable, but not crazy-wild, fun, I had effectively steered him away from the pair at the end of most evenings.

"Are you here to take him away from us?" Rob asked, half-joking.

I felt hesitant and uncomfortable, somewhat unwelcome too. I nodded "no".

"Sit down," ordered Mike. "You're making me dizzy standing up like that. If we are to enjoy your company, get a beer and chill with us. It's a long night ahead."

"Cool, thanks. I'm only here for a little while, though. I just wanted to have some time with you guys," I said, rather non-committedly.

"Seeing Erin, tonight?" Rob asked, leering and a bit lecherous.

"Yeah," I answered neutrally, sipping on my beer.

"So, is he taking you away from us?" Rob repeated his question, this time directed at Joshua.

"Dunno," Joshua shrugged, before drinking and emitting a slight burp.

 

They talked about camp. They talked about the coaches, the kids. They talked about the parties they'd had the previous years. They exchanged their worst hang-overs stories. They talked about one girl, Tiffany or something, that Joshua supposedly had sex with two years ago (he never told me about her, so I didn't know whether he had omitted it or had lied to them). They made a lot of private jokes, making it even more difficult for me to pretend I was enjoying myself. They talked about the pranks they had played on a couple of "dorks" the year before. That really seemed to get them going; Mike and Rob couldn't stop laughing, Joshua couldn't hide his delight. Then, when the roaring subsided, Mike glanced at me, with the tiniest hint of spite, then turned to Joshua.

"I feel like we've barely seen you this year, Joshua my man," Mike said, rather coldly.

"It sucked," added a more cordial Rob.

"Well, you're seeing me now, dude," Joshua quipped, lightly punching Rob in the shoulder and obviously enjoying the attention of the twosome.

"Our little city boy really put a spell on you, buddy," Mike told Joshua, nodding at me.

"Yeah, like we're not good enough for you," Rob joked, unaware of what I thought was a large amount of truth in his statement.

"If you hadn't screwed that Erin chick, I would have thought you a proper faggot," Mike said to me, barely making the effort to have his comment appear playfully teasing.

"Nah, he doesn't look like a faggot," Rob disagreed genially.

"Not like that Kyle sissy from last year, remember?" Joshua said, overeager to shield me perhaps, to shield himself more obviously. As the laughter erupted, I shot him a stabbing glance, which he ignored.

"And what did Kyle look like?" I asked icily.

"He ran like a girl and --" Rob started, giggling.

"-- lisp, limp wrists, shrieky voice," Mike enumerated spitefully.

"I know, right!" Rob gurgled.

"Fucking drama queen too," Joshua lamented, joining his two friends.

Bilious emulation led them to talk over each other, recalling shreds of anecdotes and burping rants about the various "faggots" they had met at the camp the last few years. I felt nauseous and shaking. Weak, too. My head was buzzing, I heard mentions of "dropping the soap in the shower", some scatological jokes about asses, and other slurs and jabs. I know Joshua volunteered many of those because I was staring at him. I wanted to scream, briefly, I wanted to punch him, to stand up and violently kick his cheekbone. But I said and did nothing for a long while. I found the strength to interrupt them: "So none of you guys have any gay friends?"

Rob looked at me befuddled, Mike answered curtly "None that we know of, no."

"Good answer, dude! Wicked." Rob chuckled, impressed by his friend's wit.

"It's not like we actively seek their company, you know," Mike added, staring coldly at me.

"I'm sure you don't."

"You have gay friends?" Rob asked, unaware of the escalating tension between Mike and me and blind to Joshua's unease.

"Yes, I do. Guess what, I have black friends too. And girls. And people who can read."

I was breathing fast, but concealing my agitation, staring Mike down.

"I know your type, dude," Mike said, staring back at me, mixing joke and menace. "There are, like, tons of you at Penn State."

"And what's my type, Mike?"

"Self-righteous know-it-all. But fucking chicken shit."

The atmosphere tensed and I felt Joshua's contained panic ooze right next to me.

"Chicken shit?" I probed, a little thrown.

"Yes. Have you ever dated a black girl?"

"…No".

"How many black kids actually go to your school?"

"I don't know. Some."

"Right," he continued. "And if you were a homo, would you tell us right now, right here, that you are gay, Mister liberal fucking preacher?"

"Yes, of course, I would," I said quickly, shaken with cold adrenaline.

"You would, huh?" Mike challenged me.

"Yes, I would," I repeated with exaggerated resolve.

"Okay, fine, then, my bad," Mike said smugly, raising his beer towards me, smiling with hateful malice.

"Chill out, guys. If Ben was gay, maybe you'd finally get your cock sucked, you fat looser," Rob punched Mike and laughed, oblivious and idiotic. I wanted to vomit my own cowardice. Joshua's face was still frozen in a constructed dumb jock look.

"We all could use more pussy this summer. Or fucking blow jobs," Rob continued, hoping to steer the conversation back to safer, familiar grounds.

"And what about you, Joshua," I glared at him nastily, "how are the blow jobs coming along? Or am I cock blocking you?"

He was looking down, his face contorted with pain and anger. Rob finally caught up with the vile atmosphere and tried to joke it away with a lame "Come on, guys".

"It's all right," I said, standing up, "I'll leave you guys to it. I certainly don't want to get in the way between you and all that pussy action."

"Dude, stay," entreated Rob as I slammed the door behind me.

 

My legs were shaking and I was breathing wheezily as I made my way back to my room. I wanted to get out and away, I felt like running outside, out of campus, out on the roads, but I couldn't bear the thought of encountering anyone anywhere. My room seemed safe and comforting, all I'd need would be to fall asleep and fast-forward to the morning, to the packing, to the drive back to Philly.

As I fumbled with my key trying to open the door, I heard the fast and heavy steps of someone coming towards me then felt the strong grip of Joshua on my biceps, forcefully pulling me towards him. "Ben, please," he pleaded, somehow between a shout and a whisper.

"Get off me, you fucking cunt," I barked between my clenched teeth, violently shrugging away from him.

The door finally opened and he pushed me inside and shut the door behind us. He looked terrified and hurt.

"Leave, Joshua," I said slowly. "Just fucking leave. Get out."

He didn't say anything for a long while, he just stared at me. I too felt rigid and immobile. "Leave," I managed to repeat, breathing out.

"It's all so easy for you, isn't it?" he said, evenly.

I was still choking on my shame, an effort that appeared harder than digesting my resentment. "Don't even try to go there, Joshua."

"But it is, Ben. You can just wave a fucking gay flag, leave the room with your head high, all the while not peeping a word about yourself. You can feel safe and superior. You're leaving tomorrow and it's so fucking easy to leave all this behind."

"It's your last day here too, Joshua."

"It's my last day here, Ben. It's not my last day with people like that. It's not my last day of lying, of being fucking scared, of feeling like shit about myself."

I felt painfully uncomfortable. "Listen, if you came here to say you're sorry, then fine, it's done. You can really get the fuck out now."

He looked at me silently, expressionlessly. The uncertainty of the moment was suffocating. Then, suddenly, rapidly, violently, he took a step forward and punched me in the stomach.

I fell on the floor, knocked by the briefly excruciating pain, bunched up in two. But a wave of rage propelled me towards his legs. My fury pulled him down and he crashed on the floor. I jumped on him and tried every move, every thrust I could to hurt him. He resisted and we wrestled on the floor, grunting and exhaling violent hatred. We brawled some more until both our bodies seemed locked in a tight, wrathful embrace, until I saw him cry.

He went limp and I looked at him, panting and dumbfounded. It didn't soften or mellow me, to my surprise. I yelled insults at him instead. He grabbed me and hugged me so tight his fingernails were clawing on my back through my t-shirt. He sobbed, buried his face in my neck. When I felt myself getting hard, I really thought I was going to pass out with anger and self-disgust. Instead, I lost it.

I brusquely turned him over on his stomach and pulled down his shorts and underwear. I spit on my fingers and lubed his ass. I spit on my fingers and lubed my cock, which was now appallingly hard. I entered him and he grunted with pain. I wasn't going to stop and I wasn't going to ask him what he meant by the "Oh, Ben" he gagged. As I fucked him, roughly and rhythmically on the linoleum floor of the entryway, as I saw him cry and mutter "yes" and "oh, Ben", as I myself was fighting tears, my head was spinning with horror and animal lust. I finally and inexplicably snapped out of it, pulled out of him in frightened retreat and sat on the floor, holding my head with both hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Joshua".

He stood up silently and pulled his shorts up. He didn't look at me, just glanced back briefly, confused, before he opened the door and disappeared in the hall.

 

After a fitful night, I packed my things and locked the room behind me. I looked for and found Erin; she stayed silent about my not showing up the previous evening. She also mistook my miserable state for sweet heartbreak and hugged me tightly. "Remember, you and I are Romantics," she said as she kissed my ear. I wanted to scream.

My brother was there to pick me up. I climbed in his car. I did not see nor say goodbye to Joshua.

 

*             *             *

 

I opened one eye. I could tell it was still early, I couldn't tell precisely how early it was. We hadn't shut the curtains before we fell asleep the previous night, locked in post-orgasmic embrace. The morning sun flooded Joshua's bedroom, a light breeze coming through the open windows was giving me light shivers. I sat on the bed and looked at him, sleeping on his stomach next to me, facing me, possibly dreaming.

I lightly pulled the white sheet down his body, uncovering his large tan back, his round naked ass, his hairy thighs. I dropped the sheet delicately on the back of his knees and looked at him some more. The black of his hair and beard was accentuated by the crisp white of the pillow. The sunrays made his skin golden. I smiled, giddy that my awe at male beauty had subsisted through years of nonchalance and growing wisdom, of porn and promiscuity, of bodies met, gazed at and possessed. I placed a kiss on his left ass cheek, which seemed to stir him a little. "Hi," I heard and turned to see him looking at me and smiling dazedly. "Hi," I said back, before kissing his right ass cheek and telling him to go back to sleep. He mumbled something I didn't get and closed back his eyes. He clenched his buttocks, though, then softened them, bucking his back a bit. I lay on my elbow and moved my hand softly over his back, his shoulder blades. I scratched lightly the base of his neck then started down, until I reached his ass, cupped his cheeks, grazed his crack with my index finger.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"Nothing. I'm just watching you."

He opened his eyes again, yawned, then asked: "Have you been thinking about the summer we met?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, this weekend, since you've been here. Have you been thinking about the summer we met?"

"A little," I said, lying. "Have you?"

"A little. Flashes. How you've changed, how you haven't. You know."

"Yeah."

"How hot it was, too."

"As in, the temperature?" I said, not fully certain what he meant.

"Nah. As in, how often we had sex and how hot it was."

"I see."

"You don't agree?"

"I do. I fully agree," I winked.

I kissed the small of his back. He closed his eyes briefly, before resuming: "What is your hottest memory? You know, of us two?"

I smiled. "Joshua, I sit here with a semi-hardon, kissing your ass and your back. Yes, I'm easily flooded with hot images of the past, but it's hard to pick one."

"Try."

"Okay," I thought for a moment. "There's actually one. It's hard to explain, but here it goes. We were having sex, past the shed, just before the trees, remember?"

"I remember the place. We often had sex there."

"Yes. We did. Actually, that time we were closer to the trees, like almost inside the woods."

"Does it matter how far into the trees we were?"

"Kind of, yes. Bear with me."

"Okay."

"So we were fucking. You were on all fours."

"Doggy style."

"Ha, yes. I never liked that idiom, though."

"Go on."

"Yes, anyway. I was so into it, like really batshit with lust, you know? And I raised myself a little and ended up like squatting while fucking you. You know, knees bent, standing on feet and toes, grabbing you by the waist to keep my balance, and pounding like a fucking rabbit."

"Right."

"Well, that's it. That's one of the hottest moment I remember. The sensation was amazing but the position itself was, I don't know… animal. I know it's a fairly common position but, you know, I was still kind of new to all this and it was the first time I had used it. So I remember kind of losing it, fucking away like we were two actual animals in the woods, like our dicks and horniness had taken us over the edge, had made us beasts with primal instincts. Like we were mating, like we were in rut."

"Wow."

"Do you get what I'm trying to say?"

"I think so. It is hot."

"I came inside you."

"You did?"

"Yeah, we never did that, not that I remember. But that time, I just couldn't hold it. And I wanted it, I wanted to ejaculate inside you."

"Like animals."

"Like animals."

He stayed silent for a while, long enough for me to panic a little, fearing I had sullied both that moment in the past, and the moment in our present. "I'm sorry if it's weird."

"Not at all," he said with a large smile.

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"Well, because after what you just said, my hottest memory is either going to make you feel terrible or make me feel lame."

"What is it?" I asked eagerly.

"Well, it's when you told me you loved me," he said.

I could feel myself freeze; I am fairly sure I did not actually frown, but my mild puzzlement was nevertheless obvious to him.

"You don't remember, do you?" he said, laughing and punching me in the shoulder.

"I… I don't know. Yes, I think I do."

"Ha. You are so full of shit. My dear Ben, you are an awful person," he said, his words contradicted by the very large smile on his face.

"Fine, I'm sorry, I don't remember. Are you sure?"

"Yup. Positive. And it was after sex, not during, in case you were going to use that excuse."

"After sex."

"Yes, we were just hanging out, watching the stars, you know, and you said it."

"Okay. I don't think I remember. Does that make me a douche?"

"It does. It makes you a massive douche."

I licked and nibbled his back and his ass, trying to kiss away my embarrassment, trying to actually remember that moment. After a couple of minutes, I pushed myself closer to him, right to his face, and kissed the beard on his chin before telling him: "That makes you even more of a douche."

"How do you figure?"

"You didn't say 'I love you' back, did you?"

 

 

I volunteered to make coffee and squeeze some fresh grapefruits. When I brought it all on a tray, Joshua was sitting outside, on the steps of the deck leading to the lawn. He was naked and silent, just staring ahead, leaving unread the Sunday paper next to him. I slipped out of my boxers and sat next to him, handing him a mug and a glass. He smiled gently and looked back to the Lake. It was my turn to ask "What are you thinking about?" It was his to reply "Nothing."

I left it at that, guessing, projecting maybe, that he was, not unlike me, becoming aware of the little time we had left together before I had to pack and drive back to Boston, to catch my late afternoon flight to DC. I wasn't sure he was, like me, pondering whether we needed to bring up the way things had ended years ago, whether we needed to make amends or get closure or whatever it is people do when trying to deal with an unpleasant past. I said nothing, neither did he. We just sipped and drank and watched the Lake.

He did take my hand in his at some point. I did put my left foot on top of his right one. Our knees did touch, then touch again, then stayed together, glued by a light sweat. We were warmed by the sun, but protected by the shade of a nearby, tall pine tree.

When he had sipped the last of his coffee, he asked, without turning, "Could you get the lube and a condom?" I stood up silently, went upstairs, before coming back out with the objects I had been sent to fetch. Joshua hadn't moved. When I started to sit, however, he rose and motioned me gently towards the pillows on the deck. He shuffled them a bit into the shape of a bed and lay on his back all over them. He raised his hand, motioning me to give him the lube. He started to apply a copious amount on his hole, while staring at me. I felt myself getting hard, I saw myself getting hard. He waved me closer to him and, lying down in front of me towering above him, he stroked me with the cold lube gently, bringing me fast to full erection. I slipped on a condom and lowered myself between his slightly raised legs and, as I was about to enter him, he said: "I want to do it like this, stay like this. I know you like to change and switch positions, which is awesome, it really is. But right now, this time, I don't want to move, I just want to watch you inside me, watch you fuck me."

I nodded and felt the tip of my cock slide in easily. I kept the position for a few seconds, letting him get accustomed to my throbbing cock, letting him loosen to welcome me further in.

I did what he had wanted. I only changed and varied the rhythm, the depth, or the angle. But our eyes were locked, we were muted, save from the moans, groans and gasps that neither of us could hold in. I couldn't indeed take my eyes off him, off the beauty of his face, contorted in pleasure and amazement, of his body, quaking and tensing. It was only towards the end that he put his hand on his cock, to jerk himself off. I brushed it away and replaced it with mine, stroking him to climax in a few thrusts. As I felt his dick throbbing semen out through my tight grip, I let myself cum, filling the condom, filling him.

This time, however, he didn't linger, we didn't cuddle, we didn't doze. He stood up and, warmly but resolutely, said we both needed a shower. He let me have mine first, while he brushed his teeth for the second time that morning. While he took his, I packed the little stuff I had brought. In twenty minutes, we were clean, we were wearing clothes, we had nothing to do. My bag lay on the landing, at the top of the stairs, reminding me somehow of a dog, ready to follow its master.

I picked it up, thinking that getting it downstairs didn't have to carry any meaning. It may have, however, as Joshua asked me, when reaching the last step behind me, "I should fix you a sandwich before you go." I let him ahead and followed him to the kitchen, where I lifted myself to sit on the counter. As he opened the fridge, I told him to come over and I spread my legs a little, to welcome him close. He kissed me on the lips, I kissed him on his ear.

"Listen, Joshua," I said softly, "I need to tell you something."

"What?" he whispered, his head buried in my neck.

"I need to… apologize. I've been thinking about it all weekend and I don't want to leave without saying it."

"Apologize for what?" he said, much more audibly.

"For… I need to apologize for the way things ended, for what I did to you."

"What are you talking about?" he said, genuinely puzzled.

"Come on Joshua, you know. Our last night. The way I... forced myself on you."

"Ben, please. I am the one who needs to fucking apologize. I was the asshole."

"Joshua --"

"No, no, seriously. I was awful that evening with these guys. Then I fucking beat the crap out of you. I've felt like shit about the whole thing ever since."

"You didn't beat the crap out of me," I smiled, attempting some humor to lighten up a confusing conversation. When it didn't appear to work, I repeated more seriously "Joshua, I forced myself on you. How worse does it get?"

"Jesus, Ben, have been you thinking for, what, the last fifteen years or so, that you have raped me?"

"Well, it felt a little rapey."

"It wasn't. It was ugly and nasty and shitty, but you didn't force yourself on me. It was my botched attempt at making things right, but it was a disaster and I left in shame, not in anger."

"Okay," I said meekly.

He slipped out away from me to get pour himself a glass of water, forgetting to offer me some. He gulped it down, then stared at the floor. He started towards the fridge again, presumably to resume his sandwich making task.

"Is this why you made contact with me, why you invited me here? Guilt?" I asked neutrally.

He paused for a second then looked up towards me. "Is this why you accepted the invitation? Guilt?"

We stared at each other for long, silent seconds, before I replied "Maybe," then broke into a smile. He laughed out loud, which I took to indicate a similar, even if tacit, answer from him. "Let me make us those sandwiches," was all he said.

 

We ate on the stairs of the deck, surrounded by the remnants of our morning: the mugs, the glasses, the condom wrap, and the lube. It was then implicitly clear that I would take off when lunch was over. We both chewed very slowly, I noticed.

"Do you feel old?" he asked pensively, in between bites.

"Not really, no."

"I feel old. Like the years start to slip away. It's not an anguish or anxiety, not really," he said, searching for his words. "I feel like I haven't accomplished everything I need to, everything I want to accomplish. I've come a long way, but I still need to work on myself."

I wasn't sure what to answer so I softly said, after a pause, "I'm sorry Corey left you. I really am. It shouldn't set you back."

"It doesn't", he said decidedly. "I haven't been entirely truthful, Ben. Corey didn't leave me. I broke up with him."

"Okay. Why would you lie about that?"

"Because it has to do with what I just said, about the years slipping away, about needing to work on myself. I didn't really want to get into all that when you arrived. I didn't want to smother you with an existential crisis as soon as you got here. I'm a better host than that."

"You're an excellent host. So why did you break up with him?"

"It's going to sound lame or, worse, condescending, but I felt like I had offered him everything I could hope to offer him. That it was time to push him off the nest, you know?"

"Did you want him to leave the nest?"

"No, I didn't. That is, I was happy with our life. But complacent perhaps. We had reached the end of something, of us, a while ago and we were just enjoying some bonus happy times, before the inevitable."

"The inevitable?"

"Well, again, I've always felt that I could help Corey, help him do something with his life, with himself. Once I came to the conclusion that my job was done, it was time to let him go. It was time to think about me and just me. He really has been the center of my life for the past seven years, you know? At some point, I needed to focus on myself again."

"Couldn't you do both? Help him and work on yourself? Aren't they connected?"

"To a point, yes. I wanted to help Corey because, well, I saw a bit of my young self in him. It's never purely altruistic, I'm afraid. I wished, I really wished, I had had someone to pull me up, someone who believed in me and wanted me to be a better, happier person. I've looked for that person for so long. I thought Jim, my friend's dad, could be him. Then Todd. You too, probably, I guess. But it never happened. All these men were just dragging me down. No offense to you, Ben. You didn't mean to, it just happened that way, and because of me. But Todd, especially Todd, was really killing me from the inside. He was the worst sort of cruel asshole: he was a coward and couldn't bear the thought of me being more courageous or happier than he was."

"So you left."

"Yes, I left. Finally, I decided that it was only up to me. I had tried and failed: I had to stop looking for role models, or fathers, or brothers, or whatever. I pulled myself up. So when I met Corey, I did see something I recognize: insecurity, low self-esteem. You know. And I realized I could be for him what Todd or Jim hadn't been for me."

"And you succeeded."

"I don't know. I like to think I did, at least partly. But Corey wasn't ready to leave, he really didn't see the point, my point. He was really hurt. It was fucking hard to push him out."

"I'm sure. How is he doing now?"

"I don't know. He is proud, so he wouldn't tell me if he was doing poorly. But he got a job. He has an apartment, friends too."

"That's something."

"Yes, and he came out to his parents, which he hadn't done in all the years we were together. So, yes, that's something."

Joshua stood up a little abruptly and took my plate off my hands, walking back indoors. "I don't want to make you late."

 

I followed him to the kitchen, though at a slower pace than his own. "Do you think I've had it had too easy? I think you used to think that."

"I don't know what I used to think," he replied, dropping the plates in the sink, before making his way to the entrance, where my bag lay. "I think you've been lucky, that's different. And as long as you're not a self-entitled prick, I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

"How do I know if I am or if I turn into a self-entitled prick?"

"You won't know. But people will let you in on the secret."

"So I don't need to work on myself?" I asked, picking up my bag and opening the front door.

"You need to fall in love. Then you'll be all done, mature and completed."

I leaned to kiss Joshua goodbye. My bag dropped and we hugged tightly. I felt him holding on to me.

"Why am I sad?" I asked, kissing his hair.

"I don't know. Why are you sad?"

We hugged some more, before he told me, warmly and reassuringly, "I'll be fine, Ben. Remember, I'm a work in progress."

"Well, we all are, aren't we?"

"Probably. Some people just have more work to do. But I'm right where I'm supposed to be. And I'll keep working on, you know, building things, building my life. Things are going to be awesome for me. I am going to be awesome, Ben."

There was a tear sparkling by his left eye, something I wasn't ready to see. I moved toward my car, made a couple of steps, but turned back around and gave him two last kisses: one licking his tear, the other where his collar meets his neck.

 

 

benashtonvilla@yahoo.com