Close Too Close (5 page)

The follow-up surprise was a repeated enquiry as to when I was coming to Kashmir, which in light of my disclosure, sounded different to me this time. I told him that indeed I had a trip planned for the end of May, and without pause he told me I’d stay on the boat. Disappointed that I’d already made plans with another friend in Srinagar, I offered to stay on the boat my first day and join my friend on the second. Mahmood wasn’t going to like that.

Once offline, nagging questions bounced around my head. How could it be that he, a young Kashmiri of traditional upbringing, was that open-minded? From where would that have come? Shahid knows I’m gay and
still
asks for me on the boat? Was something else stirring in his mind? Could it be? That maybe
he
? No. He hadn’t given any clues. I chided myself for falling into the common cynicism among too many folks in our queer society that gay-friendly straights must have underhanded motives or desire us clandestinely. I despised that thinking. It wasn’t me. Maybe too much time around shady and opportunistic guys in Delhi had misshapen my beliefs. But no, I had to take responsibility for my own jaded attitudes. Shahid was simple, and just good.

But my principles called foul. Gay is good too. That was one of the mantras of the pride movement, so why couldn’t that apply to Shahid? What if questions of sexuality were indeed stirring within him? If so, then surely he wanted me as a role model who would help him understand who he was. But that bothered me too. Oddly, I felt myself protecting him. But from whom? From others who might hurt him? From me? The question disturbed me. I don’t do kids. But Shahid wasn’t a kid, not anymore. He was a young man, and old enough to make choices and decisions that were his own. I tossed these bothersome thoughts aside, but knew they would come running back for me for at the end of May.

I called Mahmood. As expected, he wasn’t happy with the change of plans. Neither did he appreciate my narration of the online chat with Shahid. I told him not to sweat, that Shahid was most probably straight but open-minded, to his credit. Mahmood thought it strange. I told him to put his hand into his pocket and start playing ball, because we were going to mate like rabbits the minute we could get behind a locked door. That turned his mood around.

During the month before my arrival at Srinagar, Shahid sent messages and caught me several times on Facebook’s live chat. He wrote that he was excited to see me again. He also wrote that we would have
fun
. I always stumble over that loaded word, and felt myself flush.

Mahmood picked me up at the airport and half an hour later we were out on a rowboat. We spotted Shahid in the distance on the rear deck of his houseboat. As we approached and got a clearer view, there was no denying that the boy of seventeen had filled out nicely into a hunk. I like hands and I remember them, sometimes even better than faces. A hand that was larger and rougher than I remembered reached down for mine and helped me up. Mahmood followed without assistance. Shahid greeted us with handshakes, an open palm over the heart, and a wide smile. No longer the simple kid of the first visit, he now seemed in command of his surroundings.

I got the extra benefit of a hug. A real one. None of that self-conscious, hyper-straight-man shoulder-clapping business. Our torsos touched completely. Though the boat was grounded, it leaned slightly, (or maybe I was a bit off-balance), but it resulted in a slight rub at the groin. Shahid didn’t flinch and kept his smile. For me it was as if lightning had struck and rewired my brain. It was as if my preference for the thirty-plus crowd, which suddenly seemed clinical, fell overboard. Several principles may have gotten kicked over as well. Mahmood stood stone-faced. I threw him a wink and a grin over Shahid’s shoulder and mouthed the words
he’s hot
. My right hand must have reached lower down Shahid’s spine than usual in the ordinary “straight” forward embrace, because Mahmood’s eyes followed with a scowl. I blew him a kiss. He’s easy to tease, and it was a naughty moment I couldn’t resist. The tension would work to our benefit tomorrow. Sex is always spicier on an edge.

Mahmood sat with us on the deck listening patiently to catch-up conversation and soon found he was a third wheel. He made a move to leave, and Shahid didn’t insist that he stay longer, which surprised me. I asked Mahmood what time he’d come to get me next morning. As quickly as he said nine, Shahid said ten, which delighted me as much as it must have annoyed Mahmood. Bidding him a safe ride home, I shook hands with a grin and my thumb folded into my palm, which made him withdraw his hand as if he’d stuck his finger in a live electrical socket. He and Shahid exchanged puzzled glances while I feigned ignorance, and Mahmood turned and told me to have a good night, and then, with a sideward step so that Shahid couldn’t see or hear, whispered
pig
. Yup, he and I were going to be hot tomorrow.

Just like the first time, I was the boat’s only guest. We went out on the lake, returned as the sun was setting, and had the dinner his mother had prepared for us: simple but good chow, and it was veg, which I appreciated. She and Shahid’s remaining unmarried sister had already retreated to their neighbour’s boat, which they do whenever they host male guests. The electricity had gone out earlier in the day, and the boat’s backup system was broken, so Shahid lit the table with candles. He looked positively studly, bigger in the amber glow that flickered over his full features, each one an asset: tan skin, thick jet-black hair, a generously sized but handsome nose, heavy lips, and the languid, liquid puppy eyes that said pet me, please. I was melting. I’d have him for dessert and lick my fingers afterwards. I was game, if he was willing.

I told him he’d changed a lot since the first time. He wanted to know how.

‘You became a man,’ I said.

‘I became a man when I was twelve, when my father died.’

That wasn’t how I wanted this to proceed. I vacillated. ‘I know that. But you got grown-up looking. You put on muscle and now you can grow a beard.’ And then stepping into a potential minefield, I tried to sound casual. ‘And you have more than a bit of hair on your chest. Unusual for a guy your age.’ I itched to run my fingers through the black tufts that rose above the second open button of his collared shirt.

‘I got hairy early.’

His reply came across to me as terse, remote. I shrank. Could Shahid have thought that I found fault with his body? No, that would have been too easy. It wasn’t that. In paying such close attention to his looks as I did, I calculated that I’d overstepped and crossed a line. A few moments of silence passed between us and then he rose and smiled. He seemed to have shaken off any issues. He proposed we move outside because the moon was up and with a cloudless sky there would be stars too. We moved back to the rear deck and onto the threadbare sofa that faced the water. We sat side by side, with legs touching. What had played out between us moments before didn’t now mean that we had to keep space between skin. I was grateful for that.

I didn’t know if I was back in the game, or if there ever was one with Shahid.

He repositioned himself and placed a friendly forearm on my shoulder, and at that moment I caught his scent. He was ripe after a day’s work. I think it mad that foreigners dislike how our Indian men smell. For me the musk of crystallized sweat on a man is pure sex, and a direct connection to my dick. Though I’ve tried, I could never quite get myself to exude it, even when I don’t use deodorant (weekends and holidays). My thoughts wandered to a not-so-distant memory. I’ve allowed myself the thrill of getting fondled twice on the Delhi metro, but it was the second experience that will forever sear itself in my memory. I got on a packed train at Rajiv Chowk, nudged my way into the crush, and squeezed in behind a guy with a glorious pong. We stood, his ass to my balls. He didn’t shift. A sure sign. I inhaled. My cock leapt and swelled. He felt it. He turned carefully, and looking ahead into the crowd as if I didn’t exist, ran his hand over my bulge, found the path of my erection (several degrees left of centre), and began an ever-so-discreet massage. He wasn’t attractive, I never would have taken him home, but his pungent bouquet rendered that immaterial. The danger of having public sex in the middle of an unknowing mass of people heightened the moment, and though I’m not known for coming quickly in bedroom sex, a few strokes more and my stranger made me blow in my underwear. I had been holding my breath and exhaled long and slow. Staring ahead at the far end of the cars he never looked at me directly – but he smiled. He knew what he’d done. I got off at the next station, with my shoulder bag repositioned in front.

Sitting with Shahid’s arm on my shoulder and catching whiffs of his musk, I thought I’d swoon. I hungered for him, but I needed a clearer signal, a green light. I’ve never been one to make the first move, especially toward a guy I’m not 100 per cent sure is gay. I can’t cope with rejection. In the old days when I went to bars and clubs, I’d stake out a strategic spot, nurse a drink, scope out the crowd, give the one I liked the look, and wait for him to come to me. I met with success more often than not. At 48 I could still reel them in. I was fit, younger-looking than my age (so they said), and could fuck for hours. But these days hooking up online is easier. No getting ready to go out, no travelling, and no posing. An hour after the opening line he’s at the door. But still, I never search and only answer messages from others. My reticence at moving first never worked against me thankfully, and I’ve managed to suck kilometres of handsome cock from one end of India to the other.

But with Shahid I was in unfamiliar territory. Even if he was interested, and that was far from certain, I was sure he wouldn’t move first. I was his guest, and the Islamic code of hospitality, though indulgent, bears a formality that bars certain interactions between host and guest. Sex for one. But since I started thinking for myself in my early teens, cultural and societal barriers stood to be jumped. My challenge was to find a way to get Shahid on board, but for him to come to me. The hug and rub we started with earlier in the day was sexy enough, but his scent was now filling my lungs as we sat together, and lust and desire were in my blood.

At his side and knowing he was now legal to fantasize over, I wondered what he did with all the testosterone twenty-year-olds are famous for, while thinking that he wasn’t allowed to use his dick for anything beyond pissing until he got married. Knowing too that young men don’t always behave as they’re commanded, my roving imagination led me into fantasizing how he might be dicking on the sly. It was inconceivable to me that a guy that divine, in his sexual prime, would be using his piece only to piss. I began to fixate on what it looked like: shape, size, and colour. That he was cut was certain. Did it curve upwards, to one side, downwards like a hook, or was it as straight as an arrow? Did it have a mushroom head or was it more like a plum? Was it thicker somewhere along the shaft or at the base? How would it smell and taste, if I could get my mouth on it? Don’t young and horny guys just want their dicks sucked, with who’s doing it a minor point of concern? My own cock began to stir. I stealthily stole a glimpse at his zipper. Not exactly the bulge I had hoped for, but there was a definite knob pushing through his jeans, which is more than most guys are able to show when you sneak a glance, hoping for a big surprise, and then wonder, disillusioned, where it could possibly be. I lost myself in my meanderings. Shahid had to have caught me checking him out.