He finished his salad and went over to Philip for a couple of burgers.
“Thank God. None of these guys are willing to be seen eating fried food in public. The only meat they’d admit to eating is this.” He jabbed the flipper at Kevin’s crotch. “These are the ladies who lunch on laddies.”
Kevin returned to the porch rail to eat his burgers and observe. His anxiety disappeared as he ate. People arrived and departed, kissed, hugged. A few looked his way but none approached.
A young guy with tattoos that spilled out of his shorts and unbuttoned shirt, came over. “Paul,” he introduced himself. “And you are?”
“Kevin. Room 224.”
“Right. Robert booted out those pushy Yanks. I can see why he took you in. Talk is that you are my replacement.”
“That’s all right. Robert has a wandering eye. Not usually for the innocent though.”
“Innocent? What do you mean?”
“Those cut-offs, that Leafs t-shirt, bare feet. Closest thing to an All-Canadian Tom Sawyer I’ve seen. Interesting bait.”
“Christ! You are an innocent. Sorry. Be warned. Dress like a newspaper boy and people will treat you like one. What do you do?”
“I’m a singer.” Kevin was confident. “Looking for an agent. You think there’s one here?”
“Could be. Robert knows all sorts.”
They walked over to the sound system. Kevin began to flip through the various cds.
“You think Karaoke would go over here?”
“Why not?” Kevin handed Paul a cd.
“Born to Be Wild? Sure you want to do this?”
“The party does need a break from Robert. I’ll intro and then it’s up to you.”
Paul popped in the cd & lined up the track. He nodded to Kevin.
“Ladies and … I guess there are no biological females here, but I digress. We have a fresh new talent to introduce. Enjoy.” He pressed play.
As the music started Kevin froze, on instinct alone sang in key, at the right point. The back of the house was a good sound board for his voice. As he sang, he got into the song. Once he surrendered to the music he didn’t worry about who watched him. With a hip swivel, he tore into the final chorus.
“Fuck man!” Paul shouted. “You can sing.”
“Evan sign him up for your you next musical.”
After a breath, Kevin started another song without music. A Gaelic sea shanty about a sailor who longed for home and then his joy to be back there. His voice soared skyward, propelled by his joy to be there.
The air-conditioner chill made Yves pull his blanket closer around him. Through half-opened open eyes, he saw Jake at the end of his bed. He wasn’t surprised to see him there.
He lifted the covers to invite Jake to enter the warmth of his bed and the comfort of his body. Jake didn’t move. He looked at the bed. His head moved while the rest of him was still.
“Don’t stand there,” Yves whispered. “It’s cold out there. Get in. What are you waiting for?”
Jake stepped from the bed to the window. He opened the blinds to allow moonlight and street sounds to roll into the room. He beckoned for Yves to see what he saw.
“Oh all right.” Yves went to the window. “What is it?”
Jake nodded out the window. In the yard Yves saw David Vance, Andrew Welch and his springer spaniel Skuller.
“How … Skuller was run over by that semi.”He muttered.
He turned to Jake but Jake was gone. Jake was in the yard. In the moonlight, he tossed a stick to Skuller. David and Andrew waved to him. They were two men at the hospice who had died the first year Yves worked there.
Skuller barked. The bark was in his left ear, and as the dog’s tongue tickled him, he reached to brush it away. The alarm went off.
Yves bolted awake. He was in his bed, not at the window. He tried to hold the dream. He recollected fragments – Jake, Skuller, but that was all.
When he got home after his unexpected tumble with David, he set the alarm for nine-fifteen p.m. and dropped into his bed. He’d need extra sleep to get through tonight.
Naked he went into his study and fumbled with the switch for his computer. E-mail was a part of his routine that he had missed to help Jake.
He logged on, and sure enough there was another response to his survey, along with an attachment. The responder had edited the questionnaire to suit his own needs.
Hi There Yves:
I hope this is what you were looking for, if not just ask & I’ll tell you all you want to know.
Age: 40/ occupation: constant companion & playmate
country: USA/ gay
CUT: have fantasized about foreskin restoration –
THICK: 2 inch diameter ring fits around the base, & a 1 3/4 inch ring slides along the shaft when erect –
LENGTH: from pubic bone to tip when erect: 8 inches –
NO BENDS: curves ever so slightly to the right, from wearing it down the right leg of my jeans –
MUSHROOM HEAD: flares nicely at the bottom –
SATINY SKIN: soft & pliant, lube for extended play –
ANGLE VARIABLE: depending on temperature & level of excitement – varies from 30 degrees up from vertical to 20 degrees down from vertical –
BAG VARIABLE: depending on temperature, etc – like to use a ball-stretcher on occasion, stretching the balls down as far as possible, love to have my balls tugged during sex –
No scars, tattoos or piercings, but at one time considered a frenum piercing with a ring just behind the head.
I think the most frequent term was ‘dick’ among my circle of playmates – became aware of it at an early age, and used to play show-me-yours-and-I’ll-show-you-mine games with the neighborhood boys at age 4 –
Emotional thoughts – opinions – judgments – fears – likes – dislikes
When I was first discovering the gay world, I wanted someone special – It seemed I would never find anyone, & when I would come home alone & lie awake in bed, I would think “Why isn’t there someone out there that would like to come home with me?” Since then I have become less cock-oriented, & am a little put off by people who treat me as just some guy with a dick – although I do like comments on its size during sex play –
I am an exhibitionist, & get a charge out of the possibility of being caught having sex or being naked where I shouldn’t be. I have to admit that I dress in jeans that show it off to its best advantage to attract attention – If you’ve got it, flaunt it – I hope people enjoy looking as much as I like the attention.
There have been a few times when I would suddenly think “Boy, I’d sure hate to lose my dick … what would I ever do without it?” I just can’t imagine what life would be like if I didn’t have it –
Thanks for asking: Biteabear
The signature meant it was from the on-line group for bears and admirers. What he wanted was there. The start with physical elements led the answerers into the emotional areas.
As he had written in the conclusion of the manuscript: “For the most part, even those men who were unhappy with their equipment were happy to have the opportunity to talk about their equipment. Although gay men were more articulate about their judgments, all men, gay and straight, had the same general view. Men who like to answer surveys may have different views than the general male population.”
In the attachment were two photos of Biteabear’s cock. From the angle of the first, Biteabear had taken the picture himself. Odd light cast deep shadows around a firm erection that thrust out of a solid nest of dark pubic hair. In the other picture, a bearded guy grinned in the woods with his jeans open to release his cock erect into the wilderness.
He shut down the computer and looked over the monitor into the night. Here he was, ready for what? He’d had a full afternoon with David that they both had promised to repeat. But that promise wasn’t an invitation to anything more than sex. Not that he wanted a soul mate, but he longed for something more than fuck buddy.
He had a few close friendships and some delightful sexual relationships, but had never meet a man who combined the two. That sexual-spiritual thing was so elusive he doubted it existed.
The Saturday night in Pride weekend meant things became louder, while more bad drag scampered around. The city blocked the streets in the gay ghetto to cars. It meant fewer heterosexual thrill seekers and less chance another poor drag queen would get a spike heel caught in a manhole and be crushed under the wheels of a car.
The greater number of available men didn’t translate into greater opportunities for spiritual connections. The more the opportunities, the more people held on to the hope that if this one was attractive the next one was a better.
“Ah, sweet mystery of love,” he sang as he opened his closet for bait to wear.
Near 11, David had been in a TV trance since he got back from Robert’s garden party. He flipped channels for anything to hold his attention. He muted the sound, and the din came from the street. A block away and fifteen stories up, the sounds of celebrations reached him. Did he want stay to here, safe and vegetative?
At the garden party he’d spoken with Evan Daniels about costumes for his new production. The chance to do almost normal clothes appealed to him. After the challenges of Miss Ing Thing and Tisu Trauma, ordinary was a snap.
The pad beside him had quick sketches that had come to him from Evan’s description of the plot, but a full script would arrive tomorrow. Once he’d read it, he would have a clear idea of what the characters wanted as opposed to what Evan wanted.
The heart-stopping boy was a shock. Kevin McLeod. A plain name and perfect. It was difficult to listen to Evan when Kevin was in view. The boy had talent and though David didn’t understand the words, Gaelic they were informed later, he felt the emotion Kevin brought to them. For the rest of the party his eyes wandered to Kevin. After the song, it wasn’t easy to get closer, as the kid now had a whole fan club.
Robert announced that Kevin would do a number that night at Big E’s. Even dedicated stage-whore queens like to squeeze in a fresh young butch boy to sing a number. Another song was reason enough to venture into the night.
Silk shirt, raw linen shorts, sandals, and he was set. He nodded to a few acquaintances as he walked to Church Street. The streets from the Community Center down to the Gardens had been blocked off and were full of people.
When he read the phrase “gay community,” his mind’s eye saw all types of men and women together, in the open and in front of each other. Drag queens, stone butch leather dykes, serious Marxist college queers, lipstick lesbians, clownish radical Faeries, gender-fuck bearded men in school girl pinafores – all shared the streets with each other. Conservative types like himself were the ones out of place.
He was drawn into the energy that surrounded him. If he wasn’t a part of any one faction, he was a part of the stream they were all a part of. This was his family, his gay community, and he was at home, at ease and at one amongst them.
The line up at Big E’s wasn’t too long. The smoke in the bar wasn’t bad, but the sound volume was a bone-crusher. He had to jot his drink order on a napkin.
Robert wore the ABBA outfit David had made a couple of years ago. Shimmery silvers with three extra heads on jet-wing spread shoulders made Robert into all of ABBA. He lip-synced Dancing Queen. In his left hand he squeezed a rubber ball that pumped the mouths of the three heads so they sang too.
David scanned the crowd for Kevin. Through the smoke and stage lights, it was difficult to make out much. Robert’s number came to a close.
“Thank you so little. Your applause doesn’t mean as much to me as your worship. Like the Titanic, not only does my heart go on but I look forward to going down on … I mean with several crewmen before the dawn.”
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