Blink (16 page)

When I got off my Brown Line train, I felt the most satisfying sense of relief, almost like what I’d imagine an addict feels when he takes a snort, or a drink, or puts a needle into a vein. And that last thought was what made me realize that to go home would be the act of a coward. Not only that, it would be rude and self-defeating. I told myself, in the sternest inner voice possible, that I didn’t want to end up in that condo alone, an old man, eating microwaved dinners and poring over photo albums, remembering how great it was
back when
.

Life, I reminded myself, was for the living. I had a hot man, who also just happened to seem charming and interesting, waiting for me. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain by continuing on my path. I was almost there. The worst that could happen is we’d have a bad or awkward date. Then I could scurry home and hide under the covers, lamenting the big, bad world. But if I didn’t at least try, then what could I gain?

I listened to that inner voice and recognized it for the sensible Ann Landers type it was. I crossed over the platform to catch the Red Line train I could see approaching and got on… well, you know how the story goes.

It was then I got the look from the guy on the platform. Funny, something tells me I don’t know him from Angels, but for the life of me, I can’t place him.

I head into the restaurant, thinking it will probably come to me later. The brain has a way of working on stuff like that in the background.

As I enter, I decide quickly that I already like this place. Astor Piazzolla tango music plays softly over the restaurant’s sound system. The murmured conversations and clatter of cutlery on dishes is low enough to be inviting rather than grating.

Fremont, the gentleman he must be, stands as I approach the table. His smile, broad, is so welcoming it immediately puts me at ease. He looks so genuinely pleased to see me that it sends a tremor of pure joy through me.

We sit, and the waiter, a dark-haired young man in black pants and white shirt, hurries over to greet me and to see if I’m ready for a drink.

Am I ever! The jitters of a first date still linger, despite Fremont’s smile. I look over at him, and I guess my first question of the night is going to be “What are you having?” I point to his glass.

Fremont laughs. “I’m not sure how to say it.” He looks to our waiter. “Help me out here.”

The waiter’s tiny moustache lifts in a smile. “That’s a
rebujito
. Very, very good. Refreshing.” He turns to me. “You want one?”

“What’s in it?”

“A little wine and lemon soda.”

I give a mock shiver. “Sounds dangerous.” Fremont chuckles. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

The waiter hurries away, and Fremont gestures to the table. “I took the liberty of ordering some tapas for us.”

I notice there’s an array of small plates and bowls containing olives, sautéed squid, squares of tortilla, and a plate of very tempting
croquetas
on a bed of lettuce and garnished with thin slices of roasted red pepper. “This looks great.” I pull a plate toward me and meet Fremont’s gaze seriously for the first time.

Our eyes lock and seconds pass. This is the true test of gaydar. Don’t let anyone tell you any different. How you know another man is gay has nothing to do with how masculine or feminine he presents, or what show tunes he can sing by heart, or how his gaze might even drop down to measure and calculate the size of another guy’s basket, but full-on eye-to-eye contact. Straight men simply do not lock gazes with one another as two gay men, especially two gay men interested in one another, do.

To break the moment, which has become unexpectedly charged, Fremont asks, “So how did you get here? Did you drive?”

I wave my hand to dismiss the idea of a car. “I ditched having a car years ago. Never looked back, never really missed it. What with the public transportation we have here and the occasional splurge on a cab or an Uber car, I don’t spend nearly what I would on a vehicle. It’s a relief, really. And… it’s better for the environment.”

“Well, now I know you’re a green kind of guy, in addition to a brown one.” He grins. “I am not so virtuous.” He points toward the front window. “That’s my Mercedes parked across the street.”

I turn obligingly to look. A silver sedan is almost preening across Fullerton. “Very nice. You must be rich!” I blurt out and wish I could take it back. It sounds all wrong, like I’m either a bit of a gold digger, which I’m not, or I don’t approve of such ostentatious displays. The latter, I have to admit, is a bit of my character. I mean, really, who needs a car that costs upward of $40,000? You can get something that does the same thing and takes you the same places for half the price. But that’s just me.

Fortunately, the waiter brings my cocktail and asks if we’ll be having the special tonight, reminding me that we’re meeting up for paella.

“Oh yes,” Fremont says. “We’ve been looking forward to it. Haven’t we?”

I smile at the waiter. “
Sí
.”

The waiter nods and hurries away without writing anything down.

“You’re in for a treat.” Fremont leans forward as he speaks. His voice is deep and velvety, soft yet commanding.

“Are you talking about the paella?” I tease.

He raises his eyebrows. “Well, now.” He clears his throat. “I guess that will be for me to know and you to find out.”

God, I haven’t heard that phrase since I was a kid. And never in that particular context. “I do enjoy a good treat,” I say softly.

Fremont touches my hand. “We’ll have to get you fixed up.”

And the moment slips back into awkwardness, more because of me than him, but I just feel like we’ve veered way too quickly into erotic banter. My flirting and sexual innuendo are very rusty. To get things back on a more even keel, I bring up the topic of our conversation at the bar: TV, the culture that binds us all. “So are you missing any good shows tonight to be with me?” I ask, as a lead-in to what he watches.

“These days we don’t have to miss anything, do we? I’ll catch up on
Orphan Black
later On Demand.”

“Oh, I love that show!”

And our conversation sails off, still about TV, as it was when we first met, about the kind of shows we watch these days. Fremont still leans toward what his
Dark Shadows
days might have predicted—shows like
True Blood, Bates Motel
, and
The Walking Dead
are among his favorites. We augment the TV stuff with movies we like—horror for him, romantic comedy for me. I admit this with just a bit of embarrassment, telling him, “I actually
like
to cry.” We talk about our jobs. Fremont’s a stockbroker on LaSalle and has seen it all, starting out in the boom days of the early 1980s. His interest piques when I tell him what I do.

“That’s great. Kids today don’t really know what it was like when AIDS was a death sentence, when we had several pages of obituaries in the gay rags, and we watched our friends dropping.” He shook his head. “I remember when every little sniffle I got was cause for alarm. A bruise that I couldn’t remember what it was from? Had to be KS.”

I nod. “And you got through it all unscathed?”

He looks at me for a long time and appears to be considering. I know what he’s going to say. “Ah, no. I’ve been poz since ’99.” He knocks on the table. “But ever since I started my meds, I have been undetectable and have never been sick.”

“That’s great.”

An awkward silence worms its way to the empty seat at the table. We take this time to nibble on some of the tapas laid out before us.

Fremont, for the first time this evening, frowns. “I hope that’s not a problem for you.”

“Why would it be a problem? We’re just having dinner, right?”

He looks as though he doesn’t know quite what to make of me. He pops an olive into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “I guess you’re right,” he says without a trace of humor.

“Hey, as Doris Day once sang—and I only bring this up because we’re in a Spanish joint—
que sera sera
. I don’t know where the rest of the evening will go, but the question of whether or not it will proceed into the bedroom does
not
hinge on your HIV status. What kind of person would that make me? Especially a guy who runs an AIDS foundation?” I smile. “Do you know how my dear-departed Harry and I first met?”

Fremont shakes his head.

“I was the person at Angels who had to tell him his test had come back positive.”

“Wow. That’s a unique how-we-first-met story. So, are you—” Fremont’s voice trails off.

“HIV positive? No. I was with Harry for years and never managed to convert, although Lord knows I tried!” I laugh, and Fremont does not join me. I guess he doesn’t get my macabre sense of humor. But when you work around people with HIV and AIDS, you steel yourself to the virus’s tragedies and triumphs. You learn to laugh about the darkest things.

“So you weren’t safe with him?” Fremont asks.

“Are you asking because you’re hopeful or because you’re appalled?”

Fremont’s brows come together as he thinks. He admits, “Maybe a little of both.”

I run my foot up his calf under the table. “What was that you said to me earlier? For me to know and you to find out?” I laugh. “But seriously, to answer your question and your implication, for the most part we played safe. But it’s hard—pun intended—to live with someone for years and not slip up once in a while, especially like early mornings when you both wake up with wood. I think the fact that Harry was undetectable, like you, after his diagnosis probably saved me from getting anything when the two of us were less than careful.

“But that doesn’t mean I rely solely on the fact that a man is undetectable to ride or be ridden bareback.” I wink at him. “So, if we ever do make the beast with two backs—and I promise nothing here—you better wrap that rascal, as one of the signs down at Angels says.”

Fremont shakes his head. “You’re too much.”

“And you’re just right.” I lock gazes with Fremont again and realize I like him, not only because there’s a genuine warmth about him and a sense of compassion, but also because of who I am when I’m with him. I can’t remember the last time I was this open with anyone, especially on a date.

Not to mention he is really, really hot. Daddy hot. Man hot. I realize there’s little doubt where this night will go, at least if I have anything to say about it, and we haven’t even gotten our entrees yet!

But I know what I’ll be having for dessert. If I’m lucky…. I don’t assume anything.

The waiter arrives with a big pan of paella and sets it on the table before us. The aromas waft up on clouds of steam, and for a moment my libido is forgotten as another appetite takes over.

“Dig in,” Fremont says.

And I do.

L
ATER
I
awaken to a peculiar sensation—a man lying next to me, snoring. I look over in the dim light of my bedroom and take in Fremont’s face. He’s lying on his side, mouth open with a little line of drool pouring out. I guffaw and clap a hand over my mouth to hold it in so as not to wake him.

I guess I wore the poor guy out.

I watch him sleep with renewed fondness. This isn’t the first time I’ve had sex since Harry passed on, but it
is
the first time I’ve actually slept with a man, in the literal sense of the word. Is it odd that I find the act of actually sleeping with someone
more
intimate than fucking him?

He seems comfortable enough with the idea. He snorts and rolls over, facing away from me.

And I stare at the ceiling. I had drifted off, but I know sleep will not return for me. This is too new and too strange. I can’t help but think of my Harry.

Why didn’t I buy a new bed? I told myself many times since he passed away that I should. But I could never bring myself to do it. The bit of an indentation on his side was a reminder to me that he had been there, and getting rid of it would just seem like a betrayal of his memory.

I stare at the familiar hairline crack that runs along the ceiling, listen as someone parks a car on the street in front of the building, the chirp of its remote locking.

The sex with Fremont was beyond incredible, partly because I was so starved for it. I mean, you put a feast in front of a man who hasn’t had any nutrition at all in a long, long time, and no matter what it is, honey, it’s gonna be good. But I think even if I were having regular sex, Fremont would have been a revelation.

The man knew what he was doing. First, he had an incredible mouth. He not only knew how to kiss deeply and passionately, with just the right amount of pressure and tongue, but he also understood the magic he could work with his lips, tongue, and throat. He knew I was nervous, so he made me lie back. “Let me just take care of you,” he whispered in my ear before licking it and nibbling on my earlobe. I squirmed but didn’t want him to stop. From my ear, he moved to my neck, kissing and biting. He continued to work his way down my body, treating my skin like a buffet, making me feel like I was the most desirable—and delicious!—man alive.

I closed my eyes in rapture. He took his time on my nipples, licking, sucking, and finally biting just hard enough to make me gasp, to make my hand fly to his shaved head and hold him close to my chest. He continued downward until he took my cock in his mouth. His ministrations made it rock hard, almost twitching, and dripping with precome. When he swallowed me deep, his nose nestled in my pubes, I was afraid I would shoot right then and there. It had been so long! But part of the magic that was Fremont St. George was he knew just when to pull back, edging me to just the brink of completion and then making me stop. He did this for what seemed like an hour—although I know it had to be less, didn’t it?—pulling away when my breathing quickened to smile up at me, to lap at my balls, taking them in his mouth by turns, surrounding them with warmth and the gentlest pressure.

He moved on to my ass and spent what seemed like another hour licking and fingering my hole while stroking my cock slowly up and down, bringing me close several more times.