Between the Lines Ch. 04

Over a fajita dinner ("Meat!" he exclaims joyfully, then shrugs, and sheepishly explains, "I'm staying with a pair of vegans."), Doug opens up about his life. He was an only child, and his parents, both academics, died fairly young, leaving him without a family in his early thirties. His homosexuality in and of itself was not an issue for them, but his coming out just as the epidemic struck terrified them all. "Set me back a good decade or more, sexually speaking," he reminisces. "Here I am, seventeen, newly out, and primed to fuck just about anyone with a Y chromosome who'll hold still long enough, and sex just became a death sentence."

I remember those days all too well. My devastation over losing Ron less than five years earlier bled directly into the loss of dozens of friends. By the end of the decade, exhausted from grieving and fighting for political change, I fled into a new career in academia and a mostly abstinent personal life. I cannot imagine how an adolescent, however precocious, managed to survive that era with his psyche, let alone his immune system, unscathed.

"Oh, I made up for it down the line," he hastily assures me, "but the Eighties for me were about college first—with two professors as parents, there was never any question I'd be getting a degree—then about building a career.Immortal Soulsgot its premiere in '90," he recalls, referring to the orchestral work that established his reputation, "and I've been working ever since."

"With the occasional trip to the theater," I lightly remind him.

"Withregulartrips to the theater," he corrects me. We toast.

Our eyes meet over our glasses as we drink. There's an unspoken dance going on in the air between us, a will-we-or-won't-we, who-will-be-the-first-to-say-it tango.

I finish my drink and, with a deliberate show of casualness, tell him, "Nightcap at the bar is on me, if you'll drive me back to my hotel."

—————

* Doug *

Larry's hotel may not be the most exclusive in town, but the bar does boast an impressive overview of the city. We settle with our drinks into a secluded corner of the patio and compare notes on the day's adventure. I still maintain that we should have backtracked to the bridge to watch the bats fly out on their nocturnal hunt. Larry shudders, waves off imaginary flying creatures, and insists that we should instead have taken advantage of some of the city's abundant musical offerings.

"Though the museum was nice, too," he concludes, with a meaningful sidelong glance at me, then lapses into silence, staring out into the Texas night.

I sneak a glance of my own at his profile. In the dim, diffuse light of the city—there's no moon tonight—Larry looks ageless, too sober and wise for a youth, too proud and vital for an elder.

He also looks desperately lonely.

Without daring to think about it, because thinking will cause me to lose my nerve, I lean in to kiss him.

He flinches back from my touch, startled, and looks into my eyes questioningly for a long moment. He's not offended, but he seems to be looking for some sort of confirmation, one I don't know how to give him. I hold my breath and maintain my eye contact, hoping against all odds that what Larry sees will satisfy whatever questions he has.

Then all at once he seems to relax, and leans forward himself, offering his lips to mine.

They touch. Soft at first, tentative, but achingly sweet. A bolt of fire runs down my spine, causing me to gasp, then move in for more. I can't tell whether Larry is experiencing anything approaching the same thing, but he does respond to me, deepening the kiss. Our hands meet on the table, our fingers entwine. His right hand rises to cup the back of my neck, drawing me even closer. My left hand steals across his thigh, massaging it lightly.

When's the last time I made out with a guy like this? Kissing for its own sake, not just as an immediate prelude to sex—though I'm getting dizzy already imagining this leading in that direction—but for the simple joy of give and take, mutual exploration and discovery, tasting, touching, feeling, sensing.

He finally breaks free, breathing heavily. "I know where this is headed," he tells me in a rough voice. "And I'm not sure I shouldn't put a stop to it. Are you sure you want this?"

I capture his mouth again, firm and resolute to show him I mean business. When I pull back once more, his eyes are dark and unfocused.

"Abso-fucking-lutely," I tell him.

He gradually comes back to himself, takes another stabilizing breath. "And how's your health?" he delicately inquires.

Some people might be offended. Instead I'm impressed he can keep his head clear enough to ask. I'm not sure I could.

"I'm negative, and I always play safe. I come prepared, too," I answer, flashing the condoms I always carry in my satchel, just in case. His eyebrows quirk up humorously. He was not expecting that. "But we don't have to fuck tonight. I'd be more than happy to just mess around a bit."

"Well, then," he smiles, "would you like to come up to my room?"

Was there any question? "Give me just a sec to let my hosts know I've been detained," I say.

While he settles up at the bar, I fumble out my phone and send a text to Aaron: "Don't wait up for me tonight. Found my cowboy."

Moments later I receive a reply—"Alright, Doug! Ride 'em hard!"—followed by an incomprehensible string of symbols apparently meant to convey Aaron's enthusiastic support.

Shaking my head, I turn and follow Larry inside from the patio, through the bar, and across the lobby to the elevators.

On our way up to his floor, boxed into a corner by other hotel guests, we fence with our eyes, glances meeting and darting away again. We stand as close to one another as we can without touching, close enough to feel each other's breath against our skin. I'm sweating. Larry's trembling.

Once we're in his room and safely away from prying eyes, our flirtatiousness explodes into passion. I wrap my arms around him and ravish his mouth with mine. His hands slide all over my shoulders, my back, my waist, tugging at my shirt, trying to get to the skin beneath.

Glued together like this, we crab-walk our way backward through the room until we unexpectedly encounter the bed and collapse on it, me on top. I take advantage of the interruption of our lip-lock to unbutton and peel back Larry's shirt, at long last unveiling his body. He's no fitness model—not many men his age are or can be—but to my eyes he's still in admirable shape, his stomach flat, his chest tight, the fair skin generously seasoned with salt-and-cayenne-pepper hair.

He glances down at himself self-deprecatingly. He thinks he's too old, I can tell, comparing his body to past glories. For some reason I find that both sad and endearing. I smile back reassuringly, and move in for another long kiss, taking advantage of our proximity and his distraction to get his slacks unbelted, unbuttoned, unzipped, and slid partway down his thighs.

"No fair," he protests, turning his head aside. "I should get to see you, too."

"If you like," I answer, trying not to sound too eager. As always, I find myself instinctively jumping to obey his wishes, to win his approval. I don't mind so much tonight.

I make a show of it, holding his gaze with my own while I gradually strip away shirt, undershirt, belt, shoes, and socks. I may not be a fitness model either, but I'm not encumbered by false modesty: I've had enough men like what they saw of me to know my body will easily pass muster for most tastes. I keep in decent shape, shower regularly, groom within reason. And I have one asset that tends to win a guy over if nothing else will.

In a final flourish, facing away from Larry, I drop my pants and shorts, then turn to reveal my best, or at least most impressive feature. He gasps, gratifyingly.

I simultaneously allow my own eyes to drop, for the first time, to Larry's own pride and joy.

His cock, the center of his manhood, an elegant ivory tower jutting in a leftward arc from a still bright red cloud of pubes above a sparsely-furred sac, slender, cut, the long narrow glans flushed pink and purple, the slit open wide and gently leaking the tell-tale sign of Larry's need. It hypnotizes and calls to me.

I gently remove and set aside his glasses, push him back on the bed, and descend down his torso, kissing my way across his exposed body, a route I have traced hundreds of times before, over hundreds—well, maybe scores—of bodies, but never over this particular inviting terrain. That beautiful phallus rises up to meet me, both proud and vulnerable, offering itself for my delight, a reward after the long trek across chest, stomach, groin.

I bow and accept the offering with gratitude.

Larry cries out and twitches against the sheets when I take him into my mouth. I've barely done anything yet, so this has to be an emotional response rather than a physical one. I go slowly, teasing out his pleasure, taking the time to savor his unique musk, his soft gasps and moans. He's exquisitely sensitive to my ministrations, a responsiveness I would ordinarily expect to find only in a virgin...

Oh. I see.

When were you last touched, Lawrence Ryan? When were you last pleasured? Who worshipped at this temple before me, and how long has it stood neglected?

Thank you for deeming me worthy. Allow me to reward your trust.

Already I can feel the mounting drive toward completion within his body, the involuntary clenching of his buttocks—I haven't even seen those yet, what wonders I have still to discover!—the rise of his hips toward my descending mouth, the swell of his head at the back of my throat.

And then comes the climax, the hard, violent internal spasms, the gasp of relief, the rush of thick, rich, salty-sweet nectar, flooding my mouth with the tang of zinc and copper, my nose filled with the intoxicating scent of masculinity. I close my eyes and drift in the moment, relishing the taste of him.

I finally surface from my reverie, only to discover that Larry is weeping quietly. Without another thought I quickly climb up alongside him and hold him gently, letting him bury his face in my shoulder and sob out his release.

This isn't the fun, sexy evening I had envisioned. This is something more. This is raw intimacy. It terrifies me. It enthralls me.

My cock juts angry and unsatisfied between his thighs. I let it be. I had two beautiful men take care of me just the other night. This evening is about Larry and his needs. This strong, smart, handsome, intimidating, lonely man who allowed me to remind him what it's like to be desired.

I'm still holding him when we both fall asleep.