Heres to You Mr Robinson

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T
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re fictitious in every regard.
Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Here’s to You, Mr. Robinson

Copyright©2011 Barry Lowe

His and His Kisses Edition

Cover art and design by
Dawné Dominique

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HERE’S TO YOU, MR. ROBINSON

B
loody tease!

How was I supposed to concentrate on my uni reading list if he persisted in washing his car every Saturday in a pair of hip hugging overalls peeled down to the waist to reveal his gorgeous pecs, abs and biceps? I’m a muscle queen – I love the male body. Love to rub my hands across a smooth, or hairy, muscular male body. I’m an equal opportunity man lover. Hairy, smooth, doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I like my men with a certain amount of maturity. A few laugh lines around the eyes, a little earthy experience, plus an ability to plough my ass for hours on end. Maybe even return the favour sometimes and let me jab my dick up their anal chute every once in a while.

The ‘He’ in question was Mr. Robinson. He had moved in just across the street and down two from my family’s home. The house had been vacant for about a year when I went off to university in the summer. I didn’t return home for the first two-week semester break, much to my family’s dismay. I used that old excuse that I was falling behind with my work and needed to concentrate to keep my assignments up to scratch. What I was really doing was socialising. Most kids who go on to higher education, especially those who are living away from home for the first time, discover a parallel world they scarcely dreamed existed. A world of sucking and fucking, of falling in love, of experimenting with their sexuality.

I was experimenting every spare moment. I had a fair idea I was ‘otherly inclined’ before I left home and I was determined to prove it one way or the other to my own satisfaction, if to nobody’s else’s, before the year was out. I guess I believed my family loved me enough to be supportive of where my proclivities lay. I knew it wasn’t a ‘choice,’ it was the way I was programmed in the womb.

Sure, I’d had loads of girl friends in high school but no girlfriends. I’m sure my family must have noticed. My best mate, Troy, and I stuck together like the proverbial glue. We had lots of interests in common, from Japanese manga through old Steve Reeves and Gordon Scott sword and sandal movies of the 1960s to, we discovered later on, a deep and abiding sexual interest in men.

Neither of us had done much through high school. While our straight mates were busy nailing cheer leaders and erstwhile girlfriends they’d promised to marry when their economic ship came in, we were busy discussing which jocks we’d heard played around under the bleachers after football practice.

Troy and I had made a few fumbled attempts at experimentation together but we’d ended up giggling a lot, too embarrassed to touch each other and ending with a half-hearted wank. We swore it would remain our secret and we’d never try it again. We very successfully stuck to our pledge for years and it didn’t look like being broken any time soon. Besides, Troy had a great new relationship that was going gangbusters and he was happier than he’d ever been, eager to introduce his mate to me, and just as eager to see me partnered.

It was a long-term goal of mine as well. I just couldn’t see it occurring in my insular home town. I’d need a big city to find my heart’s desire. I was convinced of that.

Mum picked me up at the airport, handing me the keys to her small car, telling me it was mine for the duration of the break. She only used it to do the shopping and to visit friends and I was more than happy for her to borrow it back when the occasion arose. I had no need of a vehicle at uni as I lived on campus and just about everything I needed was within walking distance. Occasionally, if a pick-up lived on the edge of town, I would resort to a taxi to get home but my technique was good enough he usually asked me to stay the night in order that we could repeat the exercise the following morning. If it was a weekend, we would sometimes repeat the exercise all day Saturday and well into Sunday, before he drove me back to the campus, me all fatigued and usually sore.

Not much likelihood of that in Dullsville as I liked to christen my dreary little town. It had the basics: a sex emporium which stocked gay porn DVDs, as well as having porno booths with glory holes. If I was desperate I could always get my rocks off anonymously. Dullsville also boasted a gay bar of sorts. By day it was a working men’s bar, catering to the factory workers in the area. At night, it transformed, like Cinderella, into a magic fairyland that, unfortunately, was more likely to attract the ugly sisters than Cinderella herself. It was a friendly haven for the same-sex attracted plus any number of variations that had been labelled perverted by psychiatry until well into the twentieth century.

The small population, of course, did not allow for individual premises for each and every fetish and predilection so on any given night you were likely to see drag queens mixing with leather fetishists, and those into BDSM. I think the town ran to one or two of each sexual variation, which meant there was always someone to chat to, acceptance being the core value rather than moral outrage if you suddenly stumbled upon someone lying in the urinal waiting to be watered.

Any new face in town was immediately the centre of attention, especially if he was a local boy returning. Strangers passing through were easy pickings, while kids just experimenting or coming to terms with their attraction were mentored through the lonely process by a number of older men in the town who saw it as their duty to ensure a happy transition into the brotherhood. It was a strictly hands off mentorship and the men were scrupulous in their dealings. It was one of the things I did admire about the town.

It was always a shock on my return to feel a smile creep across my face and my pulse quicken as the familiar streets beckoned to me. My own street, in particular, made…

Whoa, what was that?

I was so busy craning my neck I almost ran into the gutter near our home.

I pulled over, my heart racing, managing to croak out. “Who was that?”

I thought it must have been God, he was so gorgeous.

Mum turned to look. “Oh, that’s the Robinsons. They moved into the house across the street from us. I thought I’d emailed you about that.”

If she had, she had failed to mention that Mr. Robinson was a gay boy’s walking wet dream.

“Robinsons? Plural?” I asked.

“Lovely couple. Two children, about eight and ten.”

Damn. There was the word I didn’t want to hear:
couple.

Oh well, eye candy was useful to fuel my fantasies and, by the looks of it, Mr. Robinson was going to feature heavily in my dreams.

“They’ve been here about five months now. Keep very much to themselves. Not exactly hermits but not exactly friendly either. Enough to smile and say hello.”

“Maybe they’re just shy,” I said as I restarted the car and drove into the garage.

My old room had been left as a shrine to my adolescence. The posters, the books, the Japanese manga all neatly stacked awaiting my return. One day soon all trace of me will be packed away and the room denuded of my existence as I cut the ties with home and head out into the bigger, scarier, and more exciting world. The thought depressed me for a moment, but I shook it off when I got a text message from Troy inviting me over to meet his new beau that evening.

Mum was disappointed, but forgiving, as long as I stayed home long enough to greet my dad before I went out. I intended taking a nap as I find homecomings tiring. It’s the reactivating of old synapses in the brain that have hibernated during my absence from the town. After a cup of tea with mum who asked too many leading questions about my social life, although I think I successfully fielded them, I excused myself and went to my room where my bed welcomed me like an old friend. If I could bottle the feeling of warmth and security I get when I slip under the familiar covers, I’d be a wealthy man.

The sound of kids play screaming woke me an hour or so later. It was an unfamiliar sound in this neighbourhood and I sat up in bed. A deep masculine voice shouted, “Don’t go on the road, you hear me?” I’d never heard that voice before but I sensed immediately to whom it belonged: Mr. Robinson. Luckily, my upstairs bedroom faced the street and I was at the window in seconds. Pulling the curtains aside, I peered over the road and down a few houses.

I was right. Mr. Robinson had obviously picked up his son and daughter from school. He chased around after them making them laugh and shout, enough to disturb the whole neighbourhood. He must have realised because he stopped suddenly and looked about as if guilty. Then he raised his eyes and looked directly at my window. I gasped. Even from this distance I could see his eyes flutter wide revealing their intense blue. He seemed surprised, as if he weren’t expecting to see anyone watching him, and then his face broke into a wide smile. He clapped his hands and gathered the boy and girl to take them into the house all the way keeping his eyes on my window where I was paralysed with desire, too excited even to swallow.

I drove mum mad with questions about the neighbours, hoping that I covered my tracks concerning my throbbing desire for Mr. Robinson by asking about the children and his wife as well. She could tell me frustratingly little and attempted several times to change the subject. My dad turned up with my younger sister, Terri, and the subject was mothballed for the time being. He asked polite questions about my studies, skirting the personal, and lauded my scholarly success. My little sister merely grumped that I’d come home to usurp her position as favoured child. She would have to share the accolade for the duration of my stay. It would be an uneasy truce.

I excused myself to shower and head out to see Troy who welcomed me with a hug as welcoming as my old bed and a chaste kiss on the cheek. I kept my inquisitiveness on a leash as I listened to him rave about his partner, Vince, who would be joining us later for dinner. I could read the love and affection he harboured for his boyfriend but it became mawkish and repetitive. In the midst of yet another long paean to his mate’s perfection, I interrupted.

“What can you tell me about Mr. Robinson?”

I thought he would be pissed off, but he smiled indulgently. “Sorry, I do go on a bit. Mr. Robinson? So, you’ve seen him then?”

“He’s hard to miss.”

“That he is. And knowing your attraction to older men I knew you wouldn’t miss him.”

“Come on, spill.”

“He’s gorgeous. Built like a brick shithouse. Gay guys drive up the street on a Saturday morning just to ogle his body as he washes his car.”

“What?”

“He does it stripped to the waist. Vince has driven past and says the street is a bottle neck around eleven in the morning. He has washboard abs, pecs of steel, although how anybody knows without touching them I’m not sure, biceps like outsize walnuts, and speaking of his nuts…well, no one knows because they’ve never seen them.”

“Shit,” I pouted.

“He’s married with two kids. Never turns up at the bar, has never been seen at that toilet beat in the park, and absolutely nobody has snared him in one of the local gay social groups on the net. His kids are happy and well-adjusted while his wife is, I have it on good authority as I’m no expert, as appealing to heterosexual men and lesbians as he is to gay men and straight women.”

When Vince arrived I warmed to him immediately, although he could add little to unravelling the Mr. Robinson mystique. The meal was top notch, Troy has a real flair in the kitchen, and we adjourned to the lounge room where Vince was content to sit back and listen as we two old friends waxed nostalgic about our years growing up together. When Vince started to get a little frisky I knew it was time to leave.

Over the next few days, impatient for Saturday to arrive and praying that the weather would be sunny, I sank back into the town’s slower pace, meeting up with Troy and other old friends for lunch and gossip, most of which revolved around the fact I lived opposite the town’s new sex god. It was probably just as well the poor guy knew nothing of his status among the gay mafia in town, let alone among the single women and not a few married ones. He would have run screaming for anonymity in a big city.

My fourteen-year-old sister, Terri, and her shrieking friends drove me insane in the afternoon with their ceaseless chatter and loud music, especially as I propped myself at the window to watch the subject of my unrequited lust drive up with his kids in tow after school. I had lectured myself severely on the morality or otherwise of desiring a married man with kids, especially a seemingly happily married man but, what the hell, it didn’t hurt to look. If he was out of reach, I was only window shopping.

Each morning I would sit at the kitchen table, morosely attempting to get my poor over-heated fantasies to leave my sleep-clogged mind, as my sister rabbited on about the sorts of inanities that occupy the undeveloped mind of a young female teenager.

“My girlfriend, Jenny, thinks you’re cute,” Terri said during a lull in the conversation.

“That’s nice,” I said, munching on my breakfast muesli. I meant it sarcastically because Terri was obviously spoiling for a fight.

“Don’t you try anything with her,” Terri pouted in a way which suggested she felt betrayed by Jenny’s obviously keen interest in me.

“I won’t,” I grunted. “She’s too young for me.”
And the wrong gender,
I felt like adding.

Terri wasn’t about to let it go. “She’s my best friend in the whole world and I don’t want my icky brother trying to get into her pants.”

She’d been baiting me all through breakfast. I was exasperated, so I opened my mouth without thinking.

“No worries there, kiddo.” She hates being called a kid. “I’m not interested in pimply adolescent girls. My taste runs to older men with experience who know what they’re doing.”