Lover Boys Forever (26 page)

“
You two took forever. What were you doing in the bathroom with each other?” Kyle grinned from ear to ear, checking us out from head to toe, analyzing our every curve, expression, and whatnots.

“
Absolutely nothing,” my sidekick explained, attempting to sell his lie like a very bad car dealer.

“
You’re both glowing,” Vince laughed.

The blond boy observed our chatter as if we were a play, enjoying its dialogue to the fullest. Wide eyes and reddish cheeks covered his boyishly adorable face.

“We don’t glow anymore,” I announced. “Men our age cannot glow. It’s a proven fact in
GQ
… or some magazine.”

Both Kyle and his lover giggled like little girls at the window table. Key and I ignored them and sat at the table again. There, I wondered if men our age could glow. Did we still have that feature or not? I didn
’t know, and probably wouldn’t ever find out the real answer to that question any time soon. I was beaming inside, though, overjoyed with the fast-fuck that was provided by my husband in Pandora’s Closet’s bathroom. My face was warm, as well as every other part of my body. I was thrilled that Key could still turn me on, just as he did when he was twenty-one … -two … -three and so-on. The lust had not dissipated throughout our shared years, even if a sexual catalyst such as the blond Oklahoma boy motivated my lover’s libido, and sparked an interest in Key to bang my bottom in a public restroom. Life changed so quickly, and both of us knew we had to go with the flow to survive, together.

I admit, we all had too many mimosas in the next hour, excluding the boy, since he was far too young to drink in public. None of us should have climbed behind the wheels of our coupes, but we did. Legally, we were all drunk, and it was foolish to drive under such conditions. Men are fools, though, aren
’t they? Tool bags as some people call them. Since the beginning of time they have made the most horrible decisions. Men will always be foolish, I surmise, until the end of all our days.

Every Sunday morning/afternoon we usually stopped at Turn the Page Books on Brownsville. There, we scurried through the shelves of Tom Wolfe, Clive Barker, Sylvia Plath, John Patrick, and Jackie Collins. Key said he wasn
’t feeling well and politely decided for the both of us that we would go home; a nap was needed. On our short drive home, we both agreed that Greer would end up sleeping with Kyle and Vince by the end of his schooling. An affair among the three was surely going to ensue. Key said while turning on Pioneer, “It’s how they keep their marriage together. They share things. I sort of get it. I pose no judgment regarding their companionship. Some couples like to share boys. Greer seems like a nice kid and will be fine with it. I don’t think Kyle and Vince’s relationship will deteriorate. The accommodation will probably help their marriage to stay afloat.”

“
Like Liam.”

“
Yes. Exactly like him.”

Liam Hossentheim was an exchange student from Brussels. He lived with Kyle and Vince for a year. Pitt University paid the two a monthly fee to accommodate the young man
’s basic needs: food, board, and … sex. The twenty-one-year-old college student had an affair with both men. No damage was done to their relationship, though. In fact, Key and I both agreed that Kyle and Vince’s love for each other had matured, enhanced, and reached into a new level of intimacy because of the visiting student.

“
What happened to Liam?” I inquired, noticing that my lover was driving very slowly, being cautious in his drunken state.

“
I have no idea.”

“
He gave me the glow factor.”

“
Yes, I knew that. The man’s amber-colored eyes seduced the both of us. He was beautiful in many ways.”

“
Do you think we will ever have a Liam or Greer in our lives?”

“
Only time will tell.”

“
Would we break up? Would our marriage end?”

Key looked over at me, grinned, and whispered,
“Hell no. Not in a thousand years.”

I smiled, delighted with his answer, and responded,
“Let’s make it two thousand years.”

As Key took a Sunday afternoon nap I decided to write another chapter of my next gay mystery,
Skin Flick
. My office was rather small and compact: Netbook on a mahogany desk; two windows that overlooked city houses and Key’s tomato and cucumber garden; Colt calendar on the wall telling me it was the end of August; Danish Modern reading chair; shelf of novels and nonfiction tomes. The floor was comprised of wooden boards recycled from an old Lancaster barn, splintery and a rather dull gray hue because of much use. Atop my desk was a picture of Key and me at Walt Disney World: suntanned, happy, and smiling. Beside the photograph sat a second photograph. In it, we both sported black tuxes accented in rose red, our commitment ceremony day, May 28. The photograph was taken a dozen years ago. Key had more hair, and I was thinner; partnership causes the most dramatic physical changes among men, but in a good way, of course.

I decided to put writing off for a few minutes. Inside my office was a tiny closet that was cluttered with stuff: a stack of hardback novels, rugby shirts, naughty DVDs, ancient manuscripts that were incomplete, and a photo album. I found the album, tugged it out of the mess, and sat in the reading chair with it on my lap. There, I opened the album to its first page and Keaton stared at me with a beaming smile: twenty
-three years old, blond squirrel on the base of his chin, left eyebrow pierced, and a Celine Dion T-shirt, which cuddled his firm pecs. He looked sexy like a boy-bitch with a twinkle of mischievousness in his eyes.

The second photograph was of Key a few years later: inexpensive business suit, leather working satchel, Tom Cruise sunglasses, and a soul patch under his bottom lip. No longer did he sport the squirrel on his chin or the pierced eyebrow, maturing.

The next photograph was taken by Kyle and Lance’s in-ground pool on the Fourth of July a few years ago. The day Lance fell into the pool, banged his head off the diving board, and almost drowned. The day Key decided to establish wills for the both of us and life insurance policies. The day it maybe hit him that we would live together for the rest of our lives as boys in love, middle-aged men in love, and older gentlemen in love.

I flipped to the next page and realized the five, smaller displayed photographs were out of sequence. Each was from 1992, the year Key and I met. A time when Paul Simon toured Africa, Jeffrey Dahmer was sentenced to life in prison, massive rioting over Rodney King transpired in Los Angeles, the Summer Olympics was held in Barcelona, Princess Di separated from Charles, and Taylor Lautner and Selena Gomez were born. The photographs were of downtown Pittsburgh: the Burmingham Bridge, Heinz Stadium, the Point, the Andy Warhol Museum, and the Kaufmann
’s Clock on the corners of Fifth and Smithfield.

My mind floated to that time and place when I had first met Keaton Bry, back to October 20, 1992, a Tuesday evening. Key and I met underneath the Kaufmann
’s Clock. The night was chilly with some wind. Oak and maple leaves blew around our feet. We stood waiting for the stop light to change, so we could cross Smithfield Street. Eye contact was made. Both of us carried out once-overs of each other. As he studied my thin build in green denim and a long-sleeved white cotton shirt over a sky-blue T-shirt, I gawked at his white-fringed cowboy boots, ass-gripping Levis, and red-and-brown plaid shirt. He sported a cowboy hat, but wasn’t a cowboy. Something told me he was a city boy who just liked to dress as a cowboy. How strange. But I fell for his strangeness with ease.

“
Hey,” I said, very original, rather dull sounding.

“
Back at you.”

“
It’s getting cold. The snow will be here before we know it.” I was horrible at picking up guys, maybe that’s why I was single for two years before meeting Key.

He ignored my comment and pointed to the literature books in my right arm and hand, which were cupped against my chest.
“You a student?”

“
Point Park College. Just finished a class. Going home.”

The light changed
, but we didn’t move. Key gave me another once-over, studying me from head to toe. “You eat dinner yet?”

I shook my head.

“You want to get some Mexican? I know of this place around the corner.”

If the truth be told, I think I fell in love with him at that very second. The autumn wind blew against his blond eyebrows. His green eyes shined with interest to get to know and begin to understand me. A connection was designed within seconds on the street corner. I thought him cute, forward, smart, and tender. In due time, after a number of dates with him, a night of passion on his living room floor would transpire. I would learn that he was the greatest guy in the world: sensitive, brilliant with money, wanted to be a real estate agent, loved dogs, hated to read, enjoyed baking, and sort of had a Hollywood crush on Dean Cain. Thereafter, we would decide to try a long
-term relationship together, a trip to Spain, gardening, purchasing a house together, owning a dog, buying a camp in the northern woods together, and share a commitment ceremony. Other things would transpire in the next seventeen years, some of which were not shiny and bright: bankruptcy of our business, cancer, an almost-fatal car wreck, and the death of his mother, which just about rocked our world to pieces. Great things would transpire also: together we survived cancer, novels and short stories were published, money was made, and the sex was unbelievable. That night on Smithfield Street changed our lives forever. Something magical in the autumn wind drew us together and cradled our bodies with the inexorable flux of time, an alignment between young men, boys then who would turn into men. Forever in love. Us. Today. Now.

“
Mexican?” I questioned. “I like that.”

He beamed a smile, lightly punched me in my right arm in a playful manner because the city was not as liberal then as it is today regarding two men kissing on a street corner.
“Come with me, guy.”

“
I’m Robert,” I said, following him, allowing him to lead me astray within the shadows of the city for the next seventeen years.

“
Robby,” he replied. “I like that. I’m Key. My real name is Keaton and …”

# # # # #

“Hey.” Key popped his head into my office, awake from his nap.

I turned my head to the right and looked over my shoulder. He was wearing nothing more than a pair of coal
-black boxer-briefs, his favorite underwear. Lustfully, I studied his thin chest, hard nipples, and the line of blond treasure trail that fell into his cotton material. “What’s up?”

“
What are you doing in here?”

He always asked me that. Why? I never knew, since I crafted words, sentences and paragraphs in that specific room and its small amount of space.
“I was just looking through a photo album before I start to write. Remember that night on Smithfield Street?”

“
Best night of my life. It feels like it was just last night to me. We stayed up talking until four o’clock in the morning. I didn’t want you to leave, but you had to work in the morning. I hated to see you go. All I could think about the next day was you.”

“
I would have slept with you if you wanted me to.”

“
I liked you too much for that to happen. I waited to seduce you. Just when I thought it was right between us.”

“
Something tells me that you still like me.”

He yanked down on the rim of his coal
-black boxer-briefs and flashed me his deflated cock. Seconds passed, and he snapped the material’s rim against his waist, concealing his goods yet again. “I like you just a little bit. My cock likes you a lot, though. I keep telling it not to get involved with you because it might fall in love with you.”

“
That would suck,” I chanted, smiling from ear to ear because of his play.

He laughed.
“You know a lot about sucking, don’t you?”

“
I do, but only with you.”

“
Faithful until the end.”

“
Of course.”

“
You want to come and finish my nap with me?” he asked, rubbing his stomach with his right palm.

I loved to nap, especially with him.
“Only if I can spoon you. I get off on my limp cock touching your nice ass.”

“
I think we can arrange that,” he replied, winked at me, and escaped to our bedroom where I would join him in just a few minutes.

THE EDITOR

MICKEY ERLACH is a full-time editor for STARbooks Press. He tries being Alpha, but his partner, Eric Summers, won’t allow it.