Author’s note: All of the characters in this story are of age, 18+.
~
You would appreciate the look on my face at the bar. A vapid, neutral smile, which I force up to my eyes the way you always told me to. I am fully the creep now, old as I am. He is the young guy, available – deliciously available to me, with his large hands, blockish arms, what, twenty-four? twenty-five? Half my age. Two and a half decades ago, I was him, well, in spirit if not in affect. Out on the town, looking for a good time. Though I never had a body like that, good god.
And today, tonight, me, out at a bar like I’m a twenty-something? How ridiculous. Really, though, it feels like it could be just a few weekends ago, in the slippery slide of time. What? A thousand weekends ago? He has hands like that one porn star I like, in spite of myself, in spite of your eye rolls, the thick one. In the one about the salad. The taste of gin in my mouth because you always liked gin and I despise it, the sour, acidic taste of it, the unpleasant bite behind the molars. Jaxton something, that’s his name, I think.
Here I am in my nice jeans, trim for a man my age, for an old creep, in my trim jacket, my beard trimmed, my sails neatly trimmed, thanks to the gin. My male pattern baldness on display, disclosed. Nature’s changing course, untrimm’d. Very nicely buzzed. A cocktail at the hotel with a few colleagues before ducking out and walking here, to this bar, not overfull yet at this hour. Then a gin and tonic, no, no, the good stuff please, I slide my card across the bar. Keep it open. A polite smile. Yes sir. He might as well have said, OK, grandpa.
You’re young until you’re not, and by then it’s too late. But the young are forever young and it is not possible, there is not even the faintest glimmer of becoming old, of being thirty, forty, or – gasp – fifty. Fifty! Did you ever think we’d be fifty? You always said gin tasted like Christmas. A paroxysm of winter juniper in the mouth, you said. I’ll give you a paroxysm in your mouth, I said. Those heady days, the winter we spent shivering in that tiny, drafty flat in So Ho, curled together, drunk with the improbability of it, of finding one another. Your hand in mine, your golden eyes, your body against me. The bubble of us, safe from the rain and death swirling outside.
The kid, Jaxton, comes to stand next to me. Dark, curly hair and bright blue eyes. He stands next to me, like, casual. Just stands there. Not close, but not not close. I get it, after a beat. I know what I am supposed to do even though I feel ridiculous. I turn to face him. Hi there. What are you drinking? His easy smile. He is effortlessly young, in his body. All muscles and cum. He’s big, built solid. Taller and bigger than me, like a young cat with his big paws and pearly teeth. So young and unrumpled. Why is he here, smiling at me? Probably some sort of hustler. Going to lure me off to some back alley where he and his mates will jump me, punch me hard in the guts, knock the wind out of me and take my wallet, laughing while I writhe on the pavement.
Or maybe he’s just a horny kid, John. With the hots for daddy. Is it so hard to think that you might be attractive at your advanced age? Your voice in my head, urging me on. Your laugh, ringing in my ears. Your hand in mine, in the bed in the bright blue room. Too bright. You said you knew you always hated blue for a reason, grinning, grimacing, through the pain. Promise me that you won’t wallow in this, you maudlin shit. Get out there again, enjoy what remains of your waning libido, will you, old man? Another grin, another grimace.
I thought austerity might help. I cut out sugar, then carbs. Then alcohol. Then coffee. That was a real bear, but the headaches and the bleary fog of the days was something of a relief, a welcome absence from myself. And at night, sleep. Bona fide sleep. But, despite the satisfying bite each compounded austerity, each triumphant shedding, I didn’t find the ultimate blankness I was seeking. Turns out throwing emptiness into emptiness doesn’t work.
I’ll have what you’re having, he says. Two G and T’s please, I say, with a wink to the barkeep, himself a pleasantly curated specimen. So well groomed, these boys. Meticulously crafted, hair, skin, clothing. They must see right through me. This tasteful denim and jacket ensemble, the close-cropped hair – through to the sweatpanted nights at home, in bed at eight with our tea and popcorn and a shitty movie. Don’t flatter myself, I hear you berating me. You think he is looking at you that hard, old man? You think he cares? Live in the moment! Touch him, for fuck’s sake!
I put my arm on the kid’s shoulder, pull him in to bark something witty into his ear. It’s getting loud in here. He laughs into his drink and I feel a hitch in my pants as I gaze down at his chest, the smooth skin visible at his neck. He shifts his body toward me and reaches up to pull my ear towards his lips. If I told you that he came back with something equally witty, would you believe me? Up close, his eyes are more gray than blue. He smells divine.
At some point I started walking. Hiking. I don’t know what the right term for it is. My trudge, I call it, my ranging, out in the desert. I could hardly bear to be in the house alone. Yes, at night, and no, I don’t want to hear about it. It is safe enough. I was so out of shape in the beginning that I didn’t get too far. But after a while I found I could go for hours. Hours and hours, weeks, months. I went back to work of course, and I had to start flying out again, those horrible red eyes to the east coast. But there was something about being out there, in the moonlight. The grit of the trail under my feet, moving like a shadow through the rocks. I became obsessed, addicted.
I watch him move among other bodies, his hand on a back, a shoulder, a thigh. Men he must know. Men he’s no doubt been with, fucked. I watch him dance. No, of course I don’t dance. I’m installed at the bar, weirdly chatty, an extrovert all of a sudden. I am in town for work. Yes, from the UK originally. Wow, you don’t say? Now that is interesting. Who knew that there were actual conversations to be had here, at these bars, among the old creep brigade. Perhaps, at bar time, we will settle for each other. If our desperate, baited hooks cast into the thronging mass of young flesh, in the form of free drinks, don’t land us a whopper.
The stakes are so low, maybe that’s why the words are flowing out of me so freely, so free from anxiety. No, no, the stakes really are that low. Abysmally low. Please allow me to have this moment of low self-esteem and non-expectation, OK? It is what it is. Your most-hated phrase. I buy some more people some more drinks. Drinks, drinks for everyone! What is money, after all? What good is disposable income if not to dispose of it like this? I am the man of the hour. This what you wanted, right?
I feel a tug at my belt-loop and a moment later I am making out with Jaxton at the end of the bar. Yes, like a trashy slag. The creep brigade is eyeing me jealously, I have betrayed them. There are a lot more people here now. How long has it been since I’ve had my tongue in someone’s mouth? I’m a little surprised and disappointed at how easy it is. I’d forgotten it was this easy, startled to realize that I’ve been wearing ruby slippers the whole time. I paw at his crotch and feel his erection. Might as well strike while the iron is hot.
Bless his heart, Jaxton is smiling at me like a puppy. A puppy I want to fuck. That might be a line too far, creep-wise. Now that I am not young, all my thoughts are suspect. He will fall in love with me, beg me to come with him to Indiana for Thanksgiving. Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, John, from Britain (cringe), who is wearing a sport coat and a turtleneck. Pleasure to meet you Mr. and Mrs. Jaxton, your home is exceptionally lovely. You are, horrifically, my age. I brought you a bottle of sparkling rosé. Charmed, they most certainly are not.
My parents, don’t worry about them, you said. They are appalling snobs. The accent will be enough. And it was, exactly as you said. They won’t be able to contain themselves, the prospect of trotting you out at their ridiculous garden party, you said. Oh, John, you absolutely MUST come back to the cape in May for our little shindig. A wink from you, a nervous chuckle from me. Of course, of course, Diane, I’d be delighted. Your jovial parents, cold as ice under all that linen, you said. And you were right, again. Chuck and Diane. I haven’t heard much from them, since. A phone call. A card on my birthday, with a check. A check? My hands shook as I ripped it up. A fucking check?
You wanna get out of here? Sure. Off we go. He makes out with me, drunkenly, in the cab. The driver shoots me a look in the rear view mirror. What can you do, I shrug. I mean, kids these days, amiright? He chuckles when I tip him exorbitantly. The kid whistles appreciatively when we enter the lobby of the hotel. Good evening, Mr. Chamberlain. Rounding the corner, he grabs my ass and whispers drunkenly in my ear. Mmm, yes, enjoy your rough trade this evening, Mr. Chamberlain. I told you he had a sense of humour.
It’s not particularly late, and there are two elderly couples in the elevator with us, dressed fancily, probably on their way back from a show. Jaxton and I reek of gin, and he has the giggles, you know how much I hate elevators, and other people’s discomfort, so when he starts nuzzling my neck you can imagine the scene and my distress. Why must mirrors be affixed to every surface of an elevator? A thousand sweaty Jaxtons lick my thousand ears while uncounted eyes try desperately not to notice.
In the room, though, my bashfulness is gone and we are all over each other. His shirt and pants come off and it becomes clear that clothes, for my dear Jaxton, are an unfortunate encumbrance. His body makes so much more sense like this, naked. Muscle, hair, warm, supple flesh wrapped around his large frame, and all of it presented to me, offered to me like a piece of bread tossed to a flock of ravenous ducks. And I am ravenous.
I don’t quite recognize myself in this body, surely you wouldn’t either, it’s quite a shock, this new rangy body I have. I’m all wire and sinew, fringed with gray. I’m square where he is round, I’m tough, lanky, slim. He is big and blunted, a bully dog. His fingers must be good at elastic, Velcro, I imagine, but the buttons of my shirt pose a challenge. I help him out, take a break from his mouth and lips to put a few feet between us and get out of my clothes. I admit I’m giddy as a teenager, I may even be smiling. He is smiling, is it amusing to watch an old man hop around with his foot stuck in the cuff of his jeans?
He says he likes my hairy chest, whether or not it’s true, whether or not he’s put off by the coarse, silver hairs that have taken over there, everywhere, it doesn’t stop him from running his hands over me, pulling my underwear down and affixing his mouth to my cock. Despite the drink, and the voice in my head saying, “really, Johnny?”, I’m hard. Pretty damned hard.
Our first night together, trading sloppy blowjobs in a dirty bathroom after meeting on the tube. What made you approach me? I never got a satisfactory answer out of you. Such a confident young prick you were, a real guy’s guy, an American, a dead ringer for a young Clint Eastwood. Amusing, magnetic, even with that ridiculous haircut. And what about your haircut, you always said. And I, chagrined, would admit that, yes, I was going through a Bowie phase, can you blame me? Like any self-respecting, up-by-my-bootstraps, council estate to Ox Bridge twat of that era. It always did embarrass you, our seedy beginning, whether you admitted it or not. But neither of us knew what was coming. How could we? Just a couple of lads out for a good time that night. Then you, back at mine, passed out, and in the morning, you, your hair plastered adorably across your face, smiling, coffee, not leaving, not wanting to break the spell. I made you eggs. God, you were so dishy. And that was that.
Hell’s bells, this kid can really polish a knob. Are the gay youth of America, in their entirety, so gifted in the fellatory arts? In my time it was equal parts teeth and and a prayer, you know, those early days cruising the woods down by the river. You were so curious about that. How I’d sneak down to the park, late at night. The rush of adrenaline when I’d see a dark shadow leaning against a tree that certain way, the glowing end of his fag twitching in a beckoning motion. How I’d drop to my knees and wait for the cock to come fumbling out, trick or treat, the stories you told me. Maybe this time I’ll get the king-size candy bar. You were surprised I never got beat up, or worse… and I struggled to describe to you the camaraderie out there, among all of us queers. The feeling that we were all in this place together, this shithole, eking out whatever pleasure we could in our perversion, our subversion.
Good god damn. I’m going to orgasm in this kid’s mouth. He seems to sense it and pulls off of me, jerks me hard, too fast for me to stop it, and then my semen is spilling all over him, his lips and his stubbled face. So ridiculous, orgasm. Ejaculate, cum, in his hair, in his open mouth, across his wide, pink tongue. He laughs. This is just another Saturday night. He asks if he can use the bathroom. By all means, make yourself at home, I say. I marvel as his big, milk-fed body moves through space, across the room, disappearing around the corner.
The years blur. I try to pick them apart out there, under the moon in the desert, pry open the past, sift though the sleepless working years, working so hard, moving up and up, the big promotion, the next, and the next. The houses, the furniture, the moves. When was Arizona? Was it 2005? No, it had to have been before then. Measuring time in paper. And after a certain point, we, the two of us, what were we, even? Fixtures, furniture ourselves. A lamp. A coffee table.
When did I stop seeing you and just expect you to be there, like a limb, an arm or a leg? There when I take a step, there when I reach for something. You, Eastwood, the hard man, turned out to be the one who bent. Bent so far for me, and at the cost of what? Your own career, your friends, even your goddamned cat. Poor little Jingle Bell, given away in London to that family with those two little girls, how excited they were, and how sad you were. Perhaps the only time I saw you cry. And me? I thought, yes. This is the way of things. Why wouldn’t it be?
I suppose it is a kind of love to take someone for granted. A nice, quiet, suburban love. A fly-over love. A warm depression in the bed to roll into when you get up in the morning kind of love. Was it the parts of you that I stopped seeing, the palpable masses of you that I neglected, that ultimately went rotten? I’d give anything to have it back, that rumpled, familiar, boring chafe. Wearing me away like sandpaper, driving me crazy. It’s a kind of love, to be able to layer hurt after hurt onto the person that you love the most. And then, only perceive the boundaries of that love by the enormity of its collapse.
He’s back, pulling me up off the bed, come take a shower with me, you sexy fuck. A sexy fuck? Moi? Oh, how flattering. And then the water is thundering down around us, and his mouth is on mine again, his stubby, fat cock is poking me in the stomach. My hand encircles his considerable girth, oh, the anxiety-inducing girth of him, given how long it’s been, how many Saturday nights ago has it been? But we are wet and clean and there is fresh gin from the minibar coursing through our veins. I am hard again, miraculously, and he’s sucking my cock, again, in the shower, and my hands are on his ass, and his hands are on my ass, and then in my ass, pushing into me — me, another conquest, another trick. I let him penetrate me with his bulbous finger. There is excitement in the sharp pain.
Condoms are passé, I find out, back in the enormous bed. Up this high, the lights of the city are mere colored flashes in the window, the din of the street a distant roar far below. Humour me, I say, and, grudgingly, he dons the latex. Latex, what am I, some kind of dinosaur? These young people, how do they justify it, fucking past the past, past the fear, the dead and dying? Perhaps they don’t even know about it, you suggest, quietly, from the chair in the corner of the room, as you watch.
When did you know something was wrong? When was your first inkling? Was it a twinge, a nagging ache as you sat there in the chair, the hideous black and white one in our bedroom, watching me get fucked? You convinced me that it was OK, that you were OK with it, that you understood that I needed the rush, the release. You knew what I needed before I did, I suppose, when I was wound so tightly, the crazy stress of my job, knew what I craved. And in your love, you gave it to me. I let you give it to me. I partook selfishly, ravenously. Little did I know there was something wrong, wrong, wrong. That there was something eating you. Eating you up as you sat there, watching.
This kid, Jaxton, he gives it to me good. That fat knob of his, holy christ. You like that? he keeps saying, ridiculously. But I do, I do like it. I had given myself over to the likelihood that I would never be fucked again. And now, this first time back into the fray, fucked. By this beast of a kid, this muscular young Jaxton. I open to him, a house of sticks, not straw, not bricks. I open to him, and feel his thrusts, his cock occupying the space of me, stretching me, filling me.
Something was eating you. Quite literally. I didn’t see it, recognize it. Wasting you from the inside, a hunger, a force that consumed your brilliance, your easy smile, your swagger, your generosity. For a long time, I blamed my stupid hunger, that seemingly insatiable hunger I had. For what? For stimulation, for advancement? For sex? For my paper life. Money, influence, prestige. You, American, never truly grasped the innate need I had to transcend my station. You, effortlessly valid, destiny manifest in your exquisite body, the flash in your eyes, a real boy. And me, a velveteen rabbit, born on the wrong side of the tracks, born hungry.
I suppose I still do blame myself. It’s patently true that my appetites burdened you. And yet, through it all, you gave yourself over completely to me. You gave in, time after time, year after year. You, sitting there, watching me now with this kid, and before, with this guy and that, giving me permission. I suppose I thought I deserved it. For how hard I’d worked. For how far I’d come.
God, I love getting fucked, the visceral thrill of being impaled by an eager man with a raging cock. After the kid unburdens himself of his prodigious load, into the condom, of course, he faces me, in the bed. Will you fuck me? He asks tenderly, tentatively. Such a sweet, guileless question, will you fuck me? I laugh out loud. I know what you’re thinking. Spare me, I’m embarrassed enough as it is. What depths of prehistory are we mining here – me, fucking? I don’t even remember. Probably when I was his age, or younger, fooling around at Uni.
Yes I know I’m dithering. Hold your horses. OK, yes, so I fucked him, I pushed my cock in between his glorious muscled buttocks. Did I wear a condom? I did ask, I insisted! And then he insisted. No, no, old man. No. It’s fine, it’s no big deal. So, to my chagrin, I did. Fuck the past. I pushed my bare cock into him, warm and supple. I fucked him and I ejaculated inside him, pulsed him with my vintage seed, loaded him up. It’s OK, he assured me. I’m on PrEP. Oh, OK, kid.
And then, what, minutes pass. We lie there, my limp cock pressed against him, dripping with semen. He snuggles himself closer to me and I think of the poor housekeeper, the cleaning woman, tomorrow, who will strip the sheets off the bed and notice the stains. Our privilege, Jaxton’s and mine, not to have to think about that. I am suddenly worried, horrified. Oh god, is he going to sleep here, stay the night? Relax, Johnny, you say. Put your arm around him. It’s OK. You need this. He’s already asleep, snoring softly. And indeed I am grateful for this warm body, the smooth expanse of his back, his rhythmic, unburdened breath. I stare into the curly mass of dark hair at the back of his head and close my eyes.
Hungry? I ask him. It’s early, I’m up and showered, in a neatly pressed shirt. He has just woken up. Yeah, he says, hands rummaging through his curls. Join me for breakfast? Hesitation, but then, yeah, sure. Wary. Probably wise to be wary. I mean, I could be anybody, some psycho. No, not the hotel restaurant with its ostentatious buffet. We find a cramped diner around the block. He holds the door for me, my goodness, a gentleman. When the coffee comes, he perks up. You always hated that joke.
He’s in school, for film, of all things. He loves the city. Of course he does. Over the rim of the menu, he gives me a look. I sense what he’s about to ask, preempt him. Go nuts, I say, with a wink, it’s on me. And he does, bless him, a veritable mountain of food arrives in short order. I stick to tea. You know how I am in the mornings.
I’m impressed with his table manners. He’s a tidy eater, despite the enormity of the task before him. He’s been here for a year. He lives with a roommate, another film student, way, way uptown. His family is from… oh dear, I forget. He smiles, laughs easily. He is at the beginning of things. In the morning light, there is an ache like a fuzzy halo surrounding everything. Around the rim of my mug, around the curly hair atop Jaxton’s head. Around the sounds of his silverware against the plate. Around my body. Yes, I am hungover and dreadfully sore from last night’s exertions. This ache is deeper.
When we stand to leave, he stretches his arms above his head, flashing me the soft fuzz at his navel. He sees me glance and sheepishly tugs his shirt down. Outside, we stand awkwardly in the bright sun. Unexpectedly, he hugs me. Good evening, Mr. Chamberlain, he says. I reach into my pocket for my wallet. He grabs my wrist, stopping me. No, please, he says. For a cab, I say, take it. He relaxes his hand, takes the cash. He grins, turns, and walks off.
I have nothing else to do this day, Sunday. I walk, blocks and blocks, to the sea. It is a beautiful day. Offensively beautiful. Everyone is out. Ice cream, dogs, children, the works. Green tendrils everywhere, snaking out of bricks and up through cracks in the pavement, unfolding flowers into the warm summer sun.
You are my summer. No, please, let me say this. I didn’t say this in the blue room and it’s been sitting on my heart ever since. You are my summer, my summer’s day. Our lease was cut short. And I am left severed. I don’t know what to do without you. The sea, the sea before me is immense. I want it to swallow me, I want to sink down into its inky darkness. But your stolen summer is more powerful than the sea. Drowning it won’t work. The ocean would burn up, it would explode into steam.