GWM - 7. Chapter 7 of 18

Ryan

Thanksgiving had been bad. There were storms, so Harry couldn’t get back to Chicago. Instead, he spent the day with friends from work, nice people whose quiet lives barely intersected each other’s, let alone Harry’s. It kept snowing. Cars got stuck. Batteries died. The kids watched The Wizard of Oz endlessly, rerunning each mind-jamming song. The best part, waking warm, silent, alone on Friday morning, with three clear days ahead of him, seemed even less promising. Then the phone rang.
“Harry?”
“Yeah.”
“Ryan.”
Harry didn’t know a “Ryan.”
“I answered your ad. Weeks ago. You wrote back. Gave me this number. I never called.” The voice hesitated. “It wasn’t a good time.”
Harry tried to remember writing.
“I just moved back here,” Ryan reminded him. “Grew up nearby. Worked ten years in advertising. In New York. But the city’s too much for me now.”
Harry vaguely remembered a parchment note card. Several lines in black ink. Fountain pen. He’d found the elegance attractive, but, as little had been said, he wrote little back. When he wasn’t answered, he simply forgot.
“I know who you are,” Harry finally admitted. “As much as you told me.”
“Right. Good.” Then Ryan faltered. Then: “What’re you doing for dinner?”
Harry almost laughed.
“It’s short notice, I know,” Ryan slammed on. “No notice. I forget, just because I’m always free lately, other people aren’t.”
Harry considered telling the truth, then did. “Actually, I have no plans.”
“You do now. Seven?”
“Sure.”
Ryan suggested the most formal restaurant in Amherst. Students took wealthy step-parents there after football games.
Harry glanced out the window. The sky was dark.
“If it doesn’t snow again,” he said. “If I’m not risking my life.”
“It won’t snow,” Ryan assured him.
“Seven, then.” He started to hang up. “Wait. How will I know you?”
Ryan laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll know you.” He hung up, and so did Harry. Wondering what he’d done.
Still, dinner couldn’t be worse than Thanksgiving’s. And the food would probably be better.
He tried to imagine Ryan. He sounded young, though if he’d worked in advertising for ten years, since college, they were probably the same age. But the guy could have worked somewhere else for thirty years first. After all, who still used a fountain pen?
The day passed slowly. Harry read, made some calls, worked a little, read again. At six, he was so comfortable, he almost hoped for a blizzard. At six-thirty, he walked hesitantly to his car. At seven, he parked in front of the seemingly empty restaurant.
In the lobby, the hostess waited alone. “May I help you?”
Harry wondered if she did counseling. “I’m meeting a friend,” he said.
“He’s in the bar.”
Harry looked at her, wondering what Ryan possibly could have described. The woman smiled.
“He said a tall man, conservatively dressed, would be wanting him.”
“Wanting” was a bit strong, but it made Harry laugh as he moved towards the bar. There was only one single man, sitting at a table. He rose when Harry entered.
He wore a tweed jacket, a crew-neck sweater, and jeans.
As did Harry.
He was Harry’s age, though slightly shorter. Wavy dark blond hair, heading towards red. Handsome Irish face.
They shook hands.
“You’re even better than my fantasy,” Ryan said.
“What did I write you?” Harry asked. He normally described himself as the serious older brother of the boy next door.
Ryan smiled. “It doesn’t matter now. We’ve met.”
A waiter appeared, asking what Harry wanted to drink.
“Water.”
Ryan laughed. “I’ll bet you don’t smoke, either.”
“I drink. Just not when I have to drive.”
“’Specially in snow?”
“It’s plowed six feet high in Northampton.”
“Are you always this practical?”
Harry shrugged.
“I love it.” And Ryan laughed again.
They talked for several hours, about everything. Dinner was traditional. Harry had lamb, Ryan, steak. Harry finished with Indian pudding, Ryan, Courvoisier. The restaurant stayed quiet. Conversation was always intelligent. And fast.
When the check had been paid and the waiter over-tipped, Ryan said quietly, “I can’t ask you home. I’m staying -- temporarily -- with my parents.”
“I live alone,” Harry said. Realizing what that meant.
Ryan grinned. “I’ll need my car.”
Harry dropped Ryan by a dark Georgian house, walking distance from the restaurant. He gave Ryan directions.
“See you,” they said simultaneously, then laughed. But an hour later, Harry was still sitting in his living room alone.
He pictured wrong turns, icy roads, accidents. Should he call the police?
Asking what? He didn’t even know Ryan’s last name. Or his cell phone number.
For a moment, he pictured a good-looking goofball who’d simply stood him up. He dismissed that.
But he changed his clothes, found his book again, and made himself comfortable.
Coffee?
He was already too wired for that.
A drink?
There was nothing in the house.
He was absently reading when there was a knock. “Harry?” It was clearly Ryan, sounding confused. Harry opened the door, and Ryan grinned, holding two bottles of excellent champagne.
“Finding this was a bitch.”
Harry laughed. “You should’ve called.”
“I forgot to take your number.”
Harry went for glasses. They opened the champagne, then slowly undressed each other. Ryan was almost hairless. Almost pudgy. But completely attractive. He mainly seemed interested in sucking Harry’s cock.
Harry nearly came, too early. “Slow down,” he whispered.
“Sorry. It’s been months since I’ve had one of these in my mouth.”
In bed, Ryan was as playful as he’d been at dinner. Though he couldn’t relax. He jumbled the blankets around them like a nest. Then he burrowed, taking Harry with him. And he wouldn’t let go of Harry’s cock.
“I could give up everything else,” he confessed.
“How long’s it really been?”
Ryan grinned. “Am I that bad?”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“I didn’t think I’d forget.”
“But it feels like it’s been years, not months.”
At that moment, Ryan was too busy to reply.
“Fire!” Harry yelled.
“What?”
Harry laughed. “Let me play, too.” And he dunked for Ryan’s cock.
“Haarder,” Ryan instructed. With one of those fake Boston accents. “Mooore,” he requested. “It won’t fall off.”
Harry grinned. “You’d do this yourself, if you could.”
“Don’t think I haven’t tried.”
Then he showed Harry a trick. If he let his dick go soft, he could slip it up his own ass. “It doesn’t do anything for me,” he said. “I’m too short. But I saw a guy do it once in a porn flick. Really stoned guy. I practiced till I got it right.”
“Were you twelve?”
“Ten. I matured early.”
They laughed. And they drank. And Ryan smoked, and Harry didn’t even mind. “I can’t believe you haven’t come yet,” Ryan said at one point. “I’ve never met anyone with such control.”
“Yeah. Well. Good teachers.” And Harry shrugged, trying not to think of Eric..
“Many?” Ryan asked, suddenly concerned.
Harry quickly reassured him. “No.”
“I can only come once,” Ryan went on. “That’s why I’m holding back.”
Harry didn’t want to show off. “I can go a couple of times,” he admitted. “If you give me some rest.”
“Then get to it. That thing gets any bigger, it’ll fly.”
So Harry mounted Ryan. Ryan preferred taking it standing, in the middle of the room, hands braced against his knees. Harry was more comfortable in bed. As Ryan finished, he pulled off his rubber and spread the thin liquid across his belly.
“Wow!” he bellowed. “Wow!”
Harry closed Ryan’s mouth with his fingers. “Neighbors,” he whispered.
“Screw them, too,” Ryan joked. Then: “I need a smoke.” He burrowed in the blankets, and soon was blowing six-inch rings toward Harry. “Just a little break,” he said, grinning. “Then we can start again.”
Which they did.
Harry had Ryan on the carpet.
And against a living room wall.
On the cold kitchen linoleum.
“There’s a bay window,” Ryan noticed.
And in the bay window.
“Know what I like most?” Ryan asked.
They were resting.
Grinning, Harry asked, “What?”
“That I’m here. You can’t imagine what it’s like jerking off again in your high school bed.”
And he came on Harry’s chest.
“Jee -- eee -- zus!” Ryan screamed. “Didn’t think I could do that again.”
Harry hoped his neighbors were religious. And he came again, too.
Then Ryan circled the blankets. Dug for cigarettes. Finished the last of the champagne. As they nestled comfortably, Ryan said, “You’re gonna hate me.”
Harry grinned. “I doubt it.”
“I can’t stay.”
Harry mentioned the storm.
“Not that I don’t want to,” Ryan went on. “It’s just that... Well, it’s one thing for my parents to know I’m a cocksucker. But it’s something else for them to know exactly when.” He looked as close to embarrassed as he possibly ever came. “And just now,” he added, “they’re being especially nice.”
“You’ll find work,” Harry told him.
It was something they’d discussed over dinner.
“That’s not the problem. I’ve been offered jobs. The trick is finding the right one.” It seems it was hard going down from an advertising vice president in New York. “You can’t imagine how much money I was making,” Ryan finished.
Harry really couldn’t. Instead, he said, “We drank a lot. Are you sure you can drive?”
“I grew up in snow,” Ryan assured him, laughing.
He dressed. Harry found his robe. Ryan promised to call, but when Harry asked for his number, Ryan said, “It’s not my house. I can’t give you the number.”
“Cell phone?”
“I’m giving that up.”
At least, he was honest.
“I’ll call as soon as I get home,” he promised. “To let you know I’m safe. And I’ll call next week.”
And he did. Both times.
“You said you stay up late,” his voice announced Tuesday, near midnight.
“Ryan?”
“Your blue-eyed boy.”
Harry heard a cigarette lighter.
“I’ve talked to four more corporations,” Ryan went on. “Saw seven houses. Nothing’s right.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sorry. I thought we were past the small stuff.”
Harry quickly woke up. He’d accidentally fallen asleep around ten. “The houses first,” he said. “What didn’t you like?”
“Not enough privacy. I need plenty of privacy. I wonder why.” They laughed.
“What kind of companies?” Harry asked next.
“The usual. Hartford. Springfield. Hartford pays better, but it’s a longer drive. And anything with the colleges sucks. You get class, but no money.”
Harry still wasn’t sure why Ryan had left New York. When they talked, Ryan had edged around that. Listening on the phone, Harry heard blues in the background. The sound of ice cubes. “I want to see you,” Ryan went on.
“When?”
“Is now too late?”
Harry laughed. But he thanked Ryan for the compliment.
“How about tomorrow?” Ryan suggested.
Harry would have to cancel plans.
“Sure,” he said.
“I’ll meet you after work.”
They chose a new Italian restaurant in Northampton. The food was good, but the place was so noisy, they could hardly talk. They ate quickly, then Ryan followed Harry home.
They pillaged till three.
“Where do you get the energy?” Harry asked.
“Drugs.”
Harry wasn’t sure he was kidding.
“Vitamins, actually,” Ryan added, grinning. He fake punched Harry in the belly, then sang: “A ... B ... C ... D ... E ... F ... G ...” Harry laughed.
Most of December was like that. The north winds blew, and Ryan broiled them away. They devoured restaurants and movies. Debated houses and jobs. They practically saw each other every night. It was a little intense, but nice. New Year’s week, they were at Ryan’s. “My folks are going on their annual crummy cruise,” he’d announced shortly before Christmas.
“What’s that mean?”
“It means they pretend they’re living a hundred years ago, but won’t spend the money to do it right.”
And it seemed they had the money.
“You’ve never seen their house,” Ryan went on.
“Just the outside.”
“It’s time we indulged ourselves.”
As opposed to what they’d been doing?
“We get to romp naked for a week,” Ryan said, laughing. “Among the faux antiques.”
And they did. Ryan cooked surprisingly well. They lived mainly without clothes and ate in front of Lawrencian fires. Harry had the week off. He was supposed to go to Chicago, but begged out of it.
“I’ve never had sex in this house,” Ryan confessed at one point.
That was a surprise.
“I mean, other than with myself.”
Which made more sense.
“There was always someone around,” he continued. “My brother: Older. Conservative. My sister: Younger. Repressed. The housekeepers: Varied. Always underpaid.”
Ryan’s parents were retired doctors. “Specialists.”
The house was huge. The taste overdone. Trellises and chintz.
Harry and Ryan fucked everywhere. Even in the coal cellar. “I’m freezing my balls off here, you know that,” Ryan said, laughing. If you don’t come soon, I’ll be a eunuch.
“I like eunuchs,” Harry said.
“Meaning you’ve never met one.”
Ryan spoke as though he had.
Fucking in the attic was tricky, too. Lots of dust and piles of unrepaired antiques.
“My father picks up everything he sees. On the street. At the Salvation Army. He thinks everything’s gonna come up Chippendale.”
“He ever had any luck?”
“Yeah. He once made a couple thou off a footstool. Late seventeenth century.”
“Pretty good.”
“It ruined him though. He’s spent several times that on junk.”
Ryan liked fucking in his parents’ beds best. They each had one, along with separate bedrooms.
“I can’t remember the last time they actually slept together. Well before my sister was born.”
“How old are they?”
“My parents? Late seventies. Having kids was an afterthought.”
“You want any?”
The question came from nowhere, and Ryan just looked at Harry. “I should,” he finally admitted. “Only use for a house this big. Unfortunately, when my sister tried to fix me up, I was more interested in my brother’s friends.”
He lit another cigarette.
“My father would hate me smoking here.” They were burrowed in the quilts on his dad’s bed. “That’d piss him off more than our sucking cocks.”
Harry popped another champagne cork.
“To my brother’s friends,” Ryan toasted. They’d been working on champagne for several days, and New Year’s Eve was still a couple more away. “There was one... this amazingly blond guy. I must’ve been seven or eight, so was considered neuter. He could do anything in front of me.”
“What happened?” Harry asked.
“Nothing really. It was some summer holiday. Labor Day. Fourth of July. The guy knew my brother from college. He stayed a couple days.”
“And?” Harry coaxed.
“My whole family was around. As I said, nothing happened. But they put the guy in my bedroom. I had twin beds. And he’d dress in front of me. Dry in front of me. Once, he even took me in the shower.”
Harry started to laugh.
“Nothing happened!” Ryan insisted. “This was a nice guy! And straight!” He punched Harry hard in the arm. “I’ve fantasized about this guy for twenty years. Don’t you ruin it.”
“What happened to him?” Harry tried to ask seriously.
“He got married, of course. Had a family. He’s in his forties now. In pretty good shape.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Pictures. At my brother’s house. They’re still pretty good friends. And now that I’m old enough to have sex with the guy him, I would. Though I’d rather have the fantasy.”
“You like those,” Harry said, laughing.
“I fantasized about you for weeks,” Ryan admitted. “Never got it right.”
Harry laughed again.
“I love you,” Ryan said.
It caught Harry completely by surprise. He hadn’t even been thinking on that level. “I love you, too,” he said, quickly. But Ryan caught the pause.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I always go too fast.
And soon it was New Year’s Eve.
“Our revels soon to be ended,” Ryan announced that night. They were snuggled in his mother’s bed. “I’ve always liked this room best,” he said. “Though it needs painting.”
They were burrowed in pale satin comforters, drinking, though Ryan had quit smoking upstairs -- after he’d aired out the rooms. “They still smell,” he said. “But I’ll claim it drifted up. My parents won’t argue.”
It was almost midnight, and Harry was happily studying Ryan. He mostly liked the dark red hair around Ryan’s cock. The wispy hair under Ryan’s arms was merely brown.
“What you looking at, boy?” Ryan joked.
“You.”
In response, Ryan drew the comforters back around him. He didn’t really like his body. “I like your looks more,” he insisted. “Always wanted to be six-foot-eight.”
“Less than that.”
“Not with your shoes on.”
“Not that I’ve seen them lately.”
“I always wanted to be tall,” Ryan said. “And I wanted to play blues piano. When I was in New York, I used to jam with some bands. All black guys. A couple of legends. I bought my way in, of course. Never undervalue party favors. The best thing they ever said is I played like I was black.”
“I didn’t even know you could play,” Harry said.
“I won’t, for just anyone.”
“We’ve been having intense sex for over a month. You’ve had almost every part of your body in my mouth. How much closer should we get?”
So Ryan took Harry down to the living room. They cleared off the baby grand, opened it, and Ryan played. They were still naked. There wasn’t a lot of light. Harry didn’t know much about Jazz, but he could have listened for hours. In fact, he did. Finally, Ryan passed out.
Harry had never seen him that drunk. Or hadn’t noticed. Harry was fairly drunk himself, but he pretty well nursed one glass to each of Ryan’s bottles. And he made sure he always ate. Before he passed out, Ryan had decided they needed another snack. He’d put on an old Bessie Smith album and left Harry tending the fire. From the kitchen, he was recounting his new life.
He was a contract away from a great job. He’d bid on a small house in the country east of Hartford. He was talking about how good it would all be when he stopped.
When he’d been silent for a while, Harry wandered into the kitchen. Ryan was curled up on the floor, a dish towel under his head. Harry tried to wake him, but couldn’t, though he made sure Ryan was all right. Then he carried him into the study. He stretched Ryan on the leather couch and covered him with his father’s robe.
As Harry glanced around, he saw everything he’d seen before. The half-dozen empty Scotch glasses. The overflowing ashtrays. But now they registered, and Harry wondered exactly when he’d realized how much Ryan drank. They’d never talked about why Ryan had left New York, but Harry was sure he knew.
Could Ryan stop? Could Harry help him? Did it matter?
Back in the kitchen, Harry finished the sandwich Ryan had been making, then he brought it into the study. He’d already lit a fire, and now snuggled under a blanket into a wing chair. He whispered Ryan’s name, but there was no answer.
He ate the sandwich, then moved to the couch and kissed Ryan, smiling at the taste of champagne and tobacco. Ryan shifted, and Harry kissed him again, easing him back to sleep.
Ryan had never seemed more relaxed, and that almost released Harry. He stroked Ryan’s neck. Ran his fingers along his shoulder. Touched Ryan’s lips. He carefully slipped under the robe and lay against Ryan, trying to match their breathing. As light slowly softened the shadows, Harry wanted to cry.
Instead, he said softly, “I wish a lot of things. Happiness. For us both. Peace.”
The house was quiet.
Did he love Ryan? Yes, but probably not enough.
“I thought you were stronger,” Ryan told him later, when he finally woke.
“So did I.”
“I still want to see you.”
“I’d like that.”
“Happy New Year,” Ryan went on. “If I didn’t say that last night.”
“Actually, you did.”
“Well, Happy New Year again.” He was laughing. He kissed Harry. “I love you.”
It seemed so easy.
“I love you,” said Harry.
It wasn’t.
They still saw each other. They became pretty close friends, and Harry spent occasional weekends at Ryan’s new house. But they soon stopped talking about love.