

Encounters

Harold C. Jones

Copyright 2014 Long Cool One Books

Design: J. Thornton

ISBN 978-1-927957-29-5

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. The author's moral right has been asserted.

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Table of Contents

Accidental Encounter

High Stakes

The Appointment

Whatever Happened to Davey?

A Perfect Fit

About Harold C. Jones

Accidental Encounter

Act One

"Wesley was around here." Barker was out front watering his hedges, which tended to dry up this time of year. "He was asking for you."

Tony suppressed a smile as the curtains twitched behind Barker's homely figure, revealing a face right out of American Gothic. The old lady kept a sharp eye on Barker. It was only one of many reasons why Tony had never gotten married. He'd even had the chance, once, but a bad case of cold feet had saved him from a fate worse than death.

"What?"

"Wesley was looking for you."

Wesley? Tony stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at Barker, who scratched the lanky white hair on his chest and kept playing the water on the base of his newly planted cedar hedge, the one he kept calling a box hedge. The first time Tony ever caught a glimpse of Barker, he thought the man's beard started an awful long way down his neck. But it was three-inch chest hairs, white, curly and out of control, coming up out of the top of his tee-shirt.

However, they were good people and good neighbours. Tony pretty much took things as he found them. He'd had a long day, sitting in the backhoe with the constant noise, and the heat, and the flies, and the sheer boredom. There were times when fifty bucks an hour seemed small compensation.

"What in the hell are you talking about?"

"Wesley! Wesley was here."

"Who the fuck is Wesley?"

Barker's wide face swung to take in Tony. The man was as dumb as two sticks, as the saying went, mostly Barker's saying but he'd heard something similar from others. Tony couldn't remember anything for five minutes, or so it seemed.

Barker pointed, arm straight out, and Tony turned to see what he was pointing at. All he saw was his vehicle, and so what?

"Remember?" Barker's shoulders twitched in silent humour. "He rammed into you the other day."

Tony's jaw dropped.

"Oh." He looked back and forth, from the punched-in passenger doors on the old Dodge Caravan to Barker's impassive face. "What did he want?"

Barker shrugged, and studied the neighbour.

"I don't know. He said he would call you later. He might have left a note. Does he have your number?"

There was some implied commentary there.

Tony blushed furiously. His heart skipped a beat or two as he chewed on that one for a while.

He looked casually at Barker.

"We had to exchange information for the insurance."

"Ah." Somehow that word said it all, as Tony was fifty or damned close to it and Wesley and his friend couldn't have been twenty.

Tony, with the weight of the lunch-bucket in his hand, plus the fact that his boots were sodden inside from perspiration and the sheer heat of the day, the temperature still not dropping much even now, abruptly nodded and started for the side door of his bungalow.

He turned his head for one final nod at Barker and had a sudden thought. He couldn't help it, it just came out.

"Was his friend with him?"

Barker turned and leered appreciatively.

"The black-haired one? Yep."

There was indeed a note pinned to the side door. He took it down, and tried very hard not to imagine Barker's thoughts. The old fucker had probably already read it...he could smell it from arm's length, the envelope had a light scent. He had a tidy little envelope and everything.

Tony had Barker's eyes on the back of his neck and the heat of his own flushing face to contend with as he turned the key and went on in.

#

Tony kicked off his boots, never tied this time of year. He just put them on and shoved the laces down inside beside his feet. He sat in the cab of the backhoe eight hours a day, so what did he need to lace them up for? The house was dark and cool inside. He opened the curtains all the time in winter, in the summer but rarely. He had central air, but he liked to keep the costs down and sock as much as he could away for retirement. Tony wondered if he'd make it that far sometimes.

Probably not, he decided.

He threw the note on the kitchen table, and opened up the lunch box. The garbage went in the receptacle, and the snap-lid containers went into the sink. He filled them up with water and then went down the hall.

He peeled off his grubby jeans and old tee-shirt and went for a shower before confronting any issues.

He had a pretty good idea of what it was about. Wesley had called his dad from the accident scene while waiting for a cop to arrive. Tony and his dad had chatted a bit. At the time they had agreed to go through the insurance. They were probably having second thoughts. With limited experience as a driver, and now with his first accident, the insurance rates would skyrocket.

Tony had evolved his daily routine, over much time as a bachelor. He hung up his pants on the back of a door and put everything else in the dirty laundry basket.

He padded naked to the bathroom and within thirty seconds had steam rising and hot water cleansing away the grime and frustration of sixteen tons, and what do you get?

Another day older, and deeper in debt.

#

Dear Mr. Steadman,

I am so sorry for what happened. I was wondering if you had an estimate yet for the repairs. If it's not too much, maybe I could just pay if it's not too much. Of course, it's up to you what you want to do.

Please call and let me know.

Wesley.

Wesley's phone number was there, although he already had it on the accident report, plus his old man had given him the phone number.

"Ah, shit."

Tomorrow was Friday. He had the afternoon off and sooner or later, he was planning to get an estimate, which was exactly what the insurance adjuster had told him to do.

He still had some time to think about it, but he'd only had the vehicle for a year now. He was kind of planning to buy another one next year, in late spring or early summer. Tony didn't have any information to go on without an estimate. He looked at the phone number and shook his head.

Opening the fridge, he took out a beer and then looked in the freezer. There was nothing in there but meat patties, a half a pound of bacon and a frozen dinner. Any hamburger buns he might have had were long stale...

"Frozen dinner it is." He could go uptown and get some French Fries later.

He put it all out of his mind and focused on getting some food. After that, he went out on the deck, stretched out on a lounge chair, and with the rays of the setting sun coming in sideways through the maples in the neighbour's yard, Tony promptly fell asleep.

Act Two

Friday at work was predictable enough. Why they called it Happy Friday was anyone's guess.

After fours hours of digging trenches for foundations, just Tony and a couple of labourers, they knocked off. They were alone on the site at this early stage, but it was all properly marked out for them. Rain was coming anyway, and the first few drops spattered his windshield as he went down Bauer Avenue looking for the body shop. The insurance company had their preferences in terms of estimates. He couldn't blame them really, as the work had to be certified. Things had to be made good, as the lady said over the phone, and Wesley's insurance company had accepted the liability based on the accident reports and Wesley's own statements.

He stood and watched as a guy named Mike took pictures from all angles. He got the mileage and vehicle number. Mike's lips moved silently as he totted things up in his head. Clearly he knew what he was doing.

"Okay, so we'll find you some new door skins. A couple of hours on the rear quarter panel, get you a new mirror, all that. If we disturb rust protection we re-apply it. We'll blend the paint into the front fender, re-use the door handles and windows...we take care of all the interior and exterior trim work." Mike knelt down by the front wheel. "Is this part of the damage?"

The black plastic inner liner from the right front wheel-well was missing, and now Tony could see the windshield washer tank right there.

"That, is a very good question. I've never worked on it." Tony had put a new alternator belt on the minivan, and an idle air control valve, and recently, new front brake pads.

He had a couple of hundred dollars in good used tires on there. Tony had been a little surprised by how well they handled. They were fifty series tires with a good deep tread on them, and so he bought them. He couldn't really put it all in words.

The guy nodded, accepting that Tony couldn't really say for sure.

"Can you hang around for ten or fifteen minutes while I work up an estimate?"

Tony had nothing better to do and wanted to get it over with. He sat in the waiting room while Mike disappeared somewhere else for a while, and then finally came back with an impressive set of paperwork.

#

"Eighty-six hundred dollars!"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so. I'm kind of shocked myself."

Wesley's voice was strange and distorted on the phone.

He wondered if that was a cell-phone. He had one himself, but he preferred doing business from home anyhow. His old man would have been easier to talk to. Wesley had beautiful white teeth, long, slender, tanned legs, and he couldn't have been over five-foot five or six. He had long, thick, lovely, honey-blonde hair and hazel eyes. His friend, if only he could remember the name, had been wearing faded blue cutoff jeans, one of his favourite things of all time.

It all seemed so long ago.

He wished Wesley's old man, Tyler, had picked up.

"Oh, my God." Wesley wasn't saying much.

He could imagine his thoughts.

Tony always kind of kicked about the insurance rates, but then, he'd never had a claim and therefore thought it was kind of a racket. Wes was young and they'd cream him.

Tony felt suddenly ashamed of himself. Honestly, he really should go through the insurance. He had only paid four grand for the Dodge, and one thing he knew for sure, the insurance company would be declaring a solid profit at the end of the year. Taking money from a young kid like that seemed wrong, somehow.

"Well, look." He thought furiously. "Why don't you talk it over with your dad. Whatever. The guy wanted me to book right away, but I was waiting for a call from the insurance company anyways..."

That was all he could think of. Get the estimate and go home.

"Book what?"

"The repairs. The guy at the body shop."

"Oh."

Tony had a cold beer waiting for him in the fridge. It was the weekend, and a long weekend at that. The truck was drivable, and while the outside didn't impress much anymore, from the driver's seat it was comfortable enough. The view from the inside was unchanged. Quite frankly the thing drove like a well-maintained armoured car...the whine in the tranny was especially evocative.

With Wes hemming and hawing, he decided to cut him a little mercy. He was uncomfortable enough himself.

"I'm sorry, there's someone knocking at the front door."

He hung up quickly.

#

Tony was going south down Galt Street, in the left hand lane. It was one-way, and the overpass up ahead was left-lane only due to construction in the other two lanes. He was doing about fifty-five or sixty, and Wesley was in the SUV in the center lane, maybe a hundred feet ahead of him. Admittedly, Tony was catching up and would have passed in a moment.

The left blinker came on, the brake lights flashed, and he gasped.

"Ah, no!"

His foot was already on the brake when he saw the left front wheel turn in and the front of the vehicle start to come over into his lane.

Tony had never been in a crash before, and it was all over in seconds. Wesley rammed right into the side of him, and everything got noisy. There was a crump, a crash, and the thump of debris or wreckage going under a rear wheel left him shaking as the car came to a stop. It couldn't have been that bad, as the air-bags didn't go off. He figured that bit out later.

The engine stalled. He shoved it in park. He opened up the door. He got out and tried to light a cigarette, standing on the grass as more traffic roared by. Pale faces looked at him in simple curiosity as they drove past. The two guys got out of the truck and came running up.

His hands shook so bad the dark-haired one had to light it for him. That's when he asked them their names. He just couldn't remember the other one.

"I'm so sorry...are you all right?"

"Yeah."

What was he doing, turning left into a driveway from the center lane?

For some reason Tony had nothing to say.

The blonde one kept saying he was sorry and was Tony all right?

Frankly, Scarlett, I don't give a damn.

But he didn't say it.

You couldn't say things like that to people.

The young fellow, Wesley, was clearly upset as it was, and Tony had enough problems to begin with.

He kept thinking about the eyes on the dark-haired one. He was pretty sure they were a deep, indigo blue but they might have been pure black. It was hard to say, really. It all happened in an instant.

The dark-haired one had a ring or a stud or something in his lip. He wished he could remember it exactly.

#

Tony was just getting out of the shower Saturday morning when he noticed something odd about the light coming in through the crack in the front curtains. Shapes were moving about, right in his driveway. He heard voices and it sounded like they were going up to his back gate.

Going to the front window, he was confronted with the sight of a familiar SUV, one with some damage to the left turn signal and scuffs on the corner of the bumper.

His heart took off like a racehorse, and he spun to dash for the bedroom and a pair of shorts and a shirt. All he had on was a white towel wrapped around his middle.

Gulping, he noted in horror that one of them was right at his patio doors, putting their hands up around their eyes to cut the glare and look in and the other one was right behind. It was them.

As he sped down the short hall, the sound of rapping knuckles raised some atavistic fears, not the least of which was what people would think.

The dark-haired one was wearing the white shoes and the cut-offs again and Wesley was wearing bicycle shorts and a white top with no sleeves, revealing tanned shoulders and youthful smooth skin.

"Ah...ah...ah, God, why do you do this to me." His big toe had hung up on the way in and he stumbled on one foot as he tried to pull the shorts on.

He settled on the bed and tried again.

Through the screen of the open bedroom window came the voice of the dark-haired guy.

"Maybe he's still sleeping."

Tony's feet were glued to the floor, but more knocking on the glass got him going again. All he had to do was to put the best face on it, to delay, maybe, and try to let them down easily. But there was just no way a young kid like that would have that kind of money.

Act Three

"Aw, jeez, I don't know."

Wesley had an envelope, and it was stuffed with cash. He was probably saving up for school or something. Tony's heart sank at the sight.

He said she had eighteen hundred dollars and could pay him the rest a little bit at a time.

"Please?" He looked so vulnerable, and Tony's heart ached.

He so badly wanted to suggest that the old man should come and talk to him.

He had an idea. He went and got the estimate from the kitchen table.

Wesley took it and began reading from the top, and there was another page after that.

"I'm sorry, I really am. But this is the insurance company's preferred estimator, I guess. They won't pay any more than that, is what I'm thinking..."

"Oh, my God." He put his hand over his mouth.

Wes had come to the bottom line.

"Yeah." This was why he was sort of putting off calling the insurance adjuster back.

They would be expecting some sort of an answer from him, and he didn't know which way to jump. If only his conscience would shut up—he could have left five minutes earlier or five minutes later, and none of this would have happened. There was the inconvenience. He would be without the truck for maybe as much as a week. In some ways, Tony admitted that he couldn't deal with it.

"Oh, I am so sorry—" There, Wesley said it again. "I'm sorry about whatever else is going on in your life..."

"Uh." Tony bit back any response. "Huh."

They kept thinking there was something wrong with his life...he just couldn't deal with it, that was the real problem.

The dark-haired guy was looking at him oddly.

"Pardon me, young man, but what's your name?"

He smiled suddenly, lighting up the brooding intensity.

"Daniel." Daniel looked upon him in a different way, appraising him in some fashion, and Tony found he didn't mind.

He smiled against all odds, and fought against it. He couldn't help himself, and hung his head in a kind of shame.

"Aw." Daniel looked at his friend.

"Aw."

Tony sighed deeply, finally finding the courage to look up.

"Honestly, there ain't nothing going on in my life." He chuckled, although it didn't last long. "No, it's just that I really haven't gotten around to thinking about it."

Wesley's face fell. That was all it took.

"Aw, what the hell." He tried desperately hard to sound cheerful. "Let's shake on it."

Wesley's face came up, shining with relief and maybe in shock that he would do it, and maybe a kind of understanding there as well. He clearly wasn't stupid. They were just people and might take a good lesson from it. It's not like he hadn't ever wondered about having kids and stuff like that of his own. Tony might have made a good father, in fact it was hard to visualize it any other way.

He took the money from Wesley and told him not to worry about the rest. Wesley turned his face suddenly and Tony found himself blinking back tears.

All the while, it was the dark-haired guy he was conscious of. Without actually looking directly at him, Tony was aware of the posture, the movements, the legs and feet, and always, his disturbing scent. Tony knew Daniel was staring, watching him, examining him...

He wished they would just go, and Tony reflexively turned and popped open the fridge door as if he was going to make breakfast or something.

Turning back, he saw Daniel's dark eyes looking inside, where he had rows of dark bottles lined up. Tony bought his beer by the case and had maybe three or four a night, sometimes none.

There were nineteen of them in there.

What inspired him, he would never know, but he reached in, grabbed a pair of cold ones by the necks and offered the guys a beer.

Daniel smiled, staring deep into his eyes in an effort to shock him. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a joint. Licking it, he pulled out a lighter and sparked it up.

Tony's mouth opened, and then he firmly closed it and just enjoyed the moment.

It was impossible to believe that they had planned it, but that one simple act made all the difference in the world.

He figured out that much less than an hour later, with Daniel sitting backwards on his face and Wesley, naked, tanned from head to toe, and very lovely Wesley, going down on him, moaning in pleasure as he fingered him, luckily having found a rubber glove under the kitchen sink...

His left arm was getting tired from reaching up to pinch Daniel's nipple, but his arm was locked around Tony's as he squirmed and squealed.

The sight of Daniel's dark eye peering down over a pale shoulder in focused ecstasy as he gasped and moaned and said all kinds of crazy things was a sight Tony would recall for the rest of his life, and probably be the better off for it.

The sound of Barker's lawn-mower going along past the side of his house didn't matter one damned bit, either.

High Stakes

Act One

Trevor was tall, with soft features, yet boyishly lean. He had sad brown eyes and a grin that lit up the place. When he got going, his one-liners were real zingers, and some nights they just couldn't stop laughing. They'd been out a few times with a bunch of friends, but then they started going out, just the two of them.

Trevor was so scared on the phone when he called the first time. It really touched Daniel, in a man so big and confident otherwise.

So far, he was painfully shy about asking.

Daniel had his mind all set to do something about that. Trevor had kissed him when dropping him off after a movie, more than a week ago now, but then on the next date he was so shy and diffident. It was like he couldn't do it. The first date was a wake-up call. They shook hands afterwards. Daniel really liked Trevor and Ian was off in university. He was convinced Trevor was a virgin. Sex with Ian was all right, the few times they actually did it. Ian had pursued him all through high-school, in a half-kidding, half-contemptuous manner. After they had sex a few times, he was just different. He didn't pay a whole lot of attention to Daniel after a while, and then expected him to put out at the drop of a hat. Daniel wasn't his first choice, not at all. Not anymore. Trevor was secretive. Something had happened.

Daniel was a free man—one who just might do it for Ian when he had no one else on the line. Any deep affection he'd had for Ian vaporized. He'd relied on Ian's attentions in some ways. He liked Ian. In many ways, Ian was a nice guy, cute enough in his own way. Ian was better than nothing. And he was gone, bitter realization that it was.

Trevor was different. He was obviously interested, and didn't act like he owned Daniel. Such a gentleman, too, always running around to hold the door open for him, holding hands like he loved it when they walked any distance. He couldn't get enough of him. Trevor had an inferiority complex to beat anything he'd ever seen, unlike dear old Ian. And yet he was good-looking. He was smart, he was funny. He dressed well. He had a job and made good money. Daniel had a feeling about Trevor. Trevor would set out to change the world, and he liked that. Trevor was a hopeless romantic, and he kept calling up. What was not to like? He felt safe when he was with Trevor. That streak of protectiveness was very appealing. Trevor was afraid of messing it up, which really said something about how he felt about Daniel. For him, the stakes must seem very high. There was nothing casual about Trevor. That intensity intrigued Daniel very much.

The TV went on and Trevor headed to the kitchen. He settled onto Trevor's sagging red couch, with swirling paisley upholstery and art deco arms that might have looked elegant in the 1930s. They had stopped at the liquor store. Trevor returned with two brimming glasses of a cheap, bubbly wine. Daniel had insisted on chipping in, and made him buy a magnum. Daniel was totally prepared, serene in his mission's purpose and outcome.

"How was work?"

"Um, it was okay."

"I laid around in the back yard all day. Tanning. I got a bit of colour, I guess." Daniel was just teasing him.

"Well, good for you. Some of us have to work for a living."

Daniel laughed. He started a summer job on Monday. Although he hadn't been accepted at school yet, he was still hopeful.

Daniel was just softening him up a little. He wondered what was going through Trevor's mind as the mental picture of him in a banana-style bathing suit registered on Trevor's face with a far-off look and a flurry of blinks.

Trevor gave him a funny little grin, and his eyes dropped quickly away.

"There's not much on tonight." Trevor had checked the listings, but Daniel liked Nature on PBS and Trevor had always had an interest in wildlife and the outdoors. "I suppose it really doesn't matter."

Daniel's show came on in a couple of hours. Trevor had promised to watch it and not to laugh or make fun it. Daniel loved that show. That was fine, as long as Daniel watched it with him, Trevor was happy. Trevor felt the lure of distant lands. He had dropped out of biology at university, so he could make enough money to go on. It was all big dreams at this point. The pair of them had such great conversations. Just the two of them, laughing and giggling, with all of life ahead and just waiting out there. When Trevor called as promised, Daniel suggested a quiet night at Trevor's place.

"That's okay. We can always play cards."

Trevor grinned, shaking his head at the notion.

Trevor rolled up a joint. The lighter was almost gone and he flicked it and flicked it. Trevor had his own place, up on the second floor of an old two-story brownstone.

They sat and passed it back and forth.

"I want to try something. Do you trust me?" Daniel patted his leg. "Come on, just say yes."

Trevor looked over, eyebrows raised.

"Absolutely!" He laughed and the other chuckled along.

What the heck, Trevor thought.

"Exhale, and try and hold it out as long as possible."

Trevor complied as Daniel sucked in the biggest lungful of pot he'd ever had.

Beckoning Trevor forward, his eyes bugging out with the need for air, he stuck his mouth on Trevor's and clamped a free hand behind his head.

Trevor's mouth turned up in an incredulous grin, but as he stared at Daniel, he didn't try and pull away. Committing to it, it made a much better seal. It turned into a real kiss.

Daniel blew out hard, as Trevor's lungs expanded and his eyebrows rose. Daniel pushed and pushed on his diaphragm until he could blow no more. Trevor gave an aggressive intake of breath and Daniel almost collapsed in his arms, seeing little black and white curlicues in the edges of his vision. Trevor's lungs were at lot bigger than his.

Trevor broke off and topped up with fresh, cool air, not letting Daniel get away just yet.

Trevor had some aggression in him.

Daniel's body was warm and heavy in Trevor's arms.

Trevor's hair smelled fresh and clean. Daniel had seen that aggression when Trevor was driving. He was very fast and very good in that little yellow car. Trevor tried to control it, but when someone pushed too hard, oh, well...too bad for them.

Trevor brought his mouth up to Daniel's.

Daniel sucked in as much air and smoke as he could and then they both gasped and fell back at the same time, eyes locked in discovery. Trevor licked his lips and swallowed, fearful of his own strength sometimes. Daniel was warm and cuddly again, half in his lap after that little episode.

"Hey."

"Hey."

With a long look into Trevor's eyes, Daniel casually reached for a glass.

"Care for a drink?' He took in a good mouthful and sat up straight, daring him.

Trevor came right in for it, clasping on to his mouth with care.

Daniel shared the wine with him, the look on his face intent and serious.

Finally they broke off and swallowed, Trevor struggling for air. Daniel smiled and nodded.

They reached for each other as of one mind.

They cuddled face to face, inches apart. Daniel's mouth was set in a quirky little grin and Trevor had a look that smacked of disbelief. He was licking his lips and breathing heavily, still finding it hard to accept that Daniel really liked him.

He wanted Trevor. Daniel watched the thought go through his head. Trevor's eyes clouded and then refocused. Daniel nodded, a look of serious intent on his brow.

Trevor's left hand was on Daniel's outer thigh. Bringing it up behind Daniel's head, as their hands clasped back and forth in unspoken communication, Trevor kissed him again. Just to let him know, Daniel squeezed his hand, parted his lips and darted his tongue into Trevor's mouth.

Staring, Trevor rose up and around him, enveloping him and totally immobilizing Daniel. All he could do was to grab on tight and squeeze.

Trevor pushed his tongue into his mouth and Daniel just let everything go, writhing and kissing back, closing his eyes and breathing through his nose. Trevor broke off, not knowing how far to push it and not wanting to lose Daniel just when things seemed to be going well. He was holding on to Daniel's bum. His jaw dropped. He clasped at Daniel's hands, suddenly afraid to look at him. Daniel decided to let him think on it for a while. Repressing a smirk, he sat up a little straighter.

Act Two

They were very close, watching and listening to the set in a distracted manner, drinking wine in between bouts of heavy petting. Some other show was on TV now, but that was the farthest thing from their minds.

"How about some cards?"

"Huh?" Trevor's eyes searched his.

There was a suspicious bulge in his pants.

Daniel gave him a pat on the shoulder.

"Uh, yeah." Trevor got up, sort of carefully turning the groin area away from him, and still in a slightly hunched-over posture, turned the TV down.

His back to Daniel, he went over to the stereo and put on some music, some long jazzy thing that wouldn't require constantly changing recordings. Half blinded by brain fog, his hands trembling, he got lucky and it was just the thing. Trevor was a man of action. The strong, silent type. Daniel smiled again, not looking up. He had pretty good taste in music, too. Trevor came back and sat down.

Daniel was already riffling the deck, always laying there on the side table beside a cribbage board that had once belonged to Trevor's grandfather. His mother's side of the family was all hot for cards.

It wasn't exactly cribbage Daniel had in mind.

"So, ah. What do you want to play?" Trevor had played cribbage, and crazy-eights, Kings in the Corner, a few simple games.

"Do you know euchre? Cut-throat euchre?"

"No, sorry." His aunts and uncles were just nuts for euchre, but wouldn't let him play with the grown-ups.

They took it pretty seriously.

"How about poker?" Daniel's sister's boyfriend knew Trevor and said he thought he could play poker.

According to Joe, who played for fairly big money Thursday nights with friends, Trevor wasn't very good at it. Daniel had learned poker from his dad, an engineer who built refineries all over the world. His dad was very good at it.

"Jeez, I don't know." Trevor shrugged. "Whatever you want. You can teach me how."

Whatever Daniel wanted was fine with Trevor, still reeling with the kisses. He liked Daniel so much. He couldn't believe his luck, and that was just truth. He was always horny, and sooner or later it would happen. This was as far as he had ever gotten with a guy. Lately his mind just reeled with thoughts of Daniel, especially when he was at work, soul-crushing in its boredom. The night shifts were very long for Trevor these days.

For whatever reason, the obvious bitches—the ones everyone talked about, they just never really appealed to him. He was too afraid to try, and they were always surrounded by dead-beats and half-wits, football jocks and rich boys anyway. Daniel was a nice guy and the fact that he went out with him at all was a big surprise.

He still couldn't believe it in some ways. Asking him out was a real leap for Trevor.

He was even more surprised when Daniel asked him to pull the coffee table out of the way. Daniel got up, went straight to Trevor's room, and came out with the thick comforter from his bed. He put it on the table for a second. Trevor's heart speeded up at the thoughts that entailed. Daniel turned down the dimmer switch and went into the kitchen, coming back with a pair of wine bottles with stub candles set in them. He'd spotted them on the way in and had always had an eye for detail.

"Got a match, oh, handsome stranger?"

"What...?" Daniel patted Trevor on the bum and sent him looking for them, with the poor fellow desperately trying to appear calm.

They lit the candles and put them on the coffee table, well off to one side and out of the way. Daniel went over and snapped the lights completely off. He grabbed the blanket.

Whipping it up and spreading it out, Daniel put the wine bottle and their glasses down in front of the couch.

"Sit down. It'll be like camping."

Trevor's heart began to pick up significantly.

Trevor settled into a cross-legged position and watched Daniel as he put the ashtray down, lit up a smoke, puffed on it, and then let it sit on the corner of the ashtray. Screwing up his eyes, Daniel picked up the cards and shuffled. He was so cute in his loose black trunks with the white skulls on them, white socks, and thin white golf shirt, so full of class and not like a lot of the other guys. A glimpse of those creamy thighs sent adrenalin rushing through him. This was about something deeper. It was about something more. He didn't really know how to ask a guy if he wanted to go steady. He'd never done it. That first real glimpse was a shock. It was obvious that Daniel had shaved his legs or done something mysterious with them...Trevor's heart rate shot up markedly.

"You won't even know what hit you." Daniel smiled sweetly.

"Oh, really!"

Men had their vanity and it could be manipulated. With a frank look and a wicked grin, Daniel hinted at his impending defeat. Trevor looked so confident! Hah.

"Do you know what stakes are?" Daniel bit his lip, but he liked the little put-down thing for the additional hints of colour it caused, high up on Trevor's cheekbones.

"Ah...yeah."

Trevor thought for a moment.

"What are we betting for?"

"Wishes."

Trevor shrugged elaborately, getting into the game as far as he dared.

"Your every wish is my command. You must have cast a spell or something."

Daniel giggled, covering his mouth. Then he stabbed him with a deadly serious look.

"Cute." Eyes downcast, he nodded inscrutably, lips moving silently.

Trevor settled down to wait with a look of puzzled humour on his features. Looking up, Daniel was ready.

He rattled through the basic rules. Trevor was familiar with five-card stud, his mouth twitching when the word came up. Daniel's hands were a blur. Trevor stared at the cards he had been dealt.

Trevor discarded, all well and good.

"Give me two."

Daniel gave him a couple of cards. This one was in the bag anyway. Never start a battle you can't win—his crazy old dad again.

"So what do you mean?" Trevor's eyes regarded him from across the blanket.

He looked down at his hand, and up at Daniel again.

"Here's how it works. I deal, you make the bet. We switch back and forth. When you deal, I get to make the bet. That keeps it fair."

"So if I win, I get my wish?"

"Yep. And if the dealer wins, then you have to keep your side of the bargain. The bet is a fair trade. Promise? Do you promise?" His nod was quick and assuring, so Daniel went on. "That makes it interesting for both of us. There's no folding, it wastes time and this is just for fun. Right? You can refuse a bet, but you have to make an alternate bet for something else."

"Got it." Trevor looked at his cards and thought for a second. "I still don't know what we're betting for..."

Daniel just let that one lie for a moment.

Daniel's look seemed to imply that he did know. Trevor's heart stopped cold.

He had no idea of what to wish for...he didn't dare speak.

"Just this once, I'll go first."

Trevor nodded, eyes darting right and left, taking a small sip of wine as he looked at Daniel with the most profound solemnity on his face.

Daniel had a gulp of wine and puffed the smoke. Trevor picked it up and had a haul off of it.

"Socks for socks."

Trevor looked at Daniel.

"If you lose, I get your socks. If I lose, you get my socks...see, it's easy, really." Daniel looked archly at him, blowing him a little kiss.

Trevor grinned in relief. Something small to start with.

Act Three

Within four or five hands, Trevor was sitting in his gotchies, blushing beet red and with a big bulge in his briefs announcing to the world that he was a man, and a very aroused one at that. Within the first few hands, Trevor was in love with Daniel. Daniel could do anything he wanted with Trevor. No problems there as far as he was concerned.

Daniel regarded his prey.

Trevor had the longest legs, with big feet and shanks so long that it kind of stunned him, all covered in curly auburn hair. His chest could have used a little meat on it. His hip bones stuck up. There was a thick patch of belly hair and smaller tufts on his chest and around the nipples. His shoulders were good and the stomach looked hard as a rock, an impression reinforced by ribs rippling below the skin. Ian had always given the impression of gently rounded shapelessness and pale, clammy flesh. Daniel simply hadn't known any better at the time.

Trevor worked in construction and had a nice tan on his back and shoulders, although the legs were pretty white. His ropy arms were tight with muscle and stark with tendons and big veins going all up and down...the bones of his wrists stuck out. He had strong, beautiful hands.

Daniel sat across from him. His feet were bare and Trevor had managed to win his gold wristwatch. Oh, how Daniel enjoyed watching him crow over his little moments of triumph. If only he knew. He seemed fascinated by the thin gold ankle bracelet and the paisley rings tattooed on his other ankle.

With unconscious grace, Daniel pulled off the elastic band he used to hold a short ponytail and rumpled his own hair. He shook it back into place and it fell around his shoulders. Daniel gave Trevor an appraising look, with his clear, intelligent, grey-blue eyes.

"So that's a freebie, then?"

Daniel smiled his Mona Lisa smile.

"Why sure, baby."

"Thank you for your kindness to a stranger."

Daniel just smiled.

Trevor was a goner.

"Well, stranger. You don't seem to have too much more to lose."

Trevor looked down at his underwear and then at Daniel sitting there cool and calm as an iceberg, his nipples poking at the cloth of the shirt. He didn't much look like a librarian.

Not anymore.

It was better to say nothing, not a thing. Trevor chewed his lip.

Daniel showed no discomfort at sitting in a room alone with a man who was virtually naked. Trevor was the one that was scared. He was afraid to ruin it. Daniel stubbed out the smoke and lit another.

Daniel had a sip of wine. They sat examining each other.

Daniel had dealt the cards and Trevor discarded when necessary. Daniel apparently did the same. But he was really good. He was cheating on Trevor somehow. That was all right with him. Poker wasn't so hard when you didn't have to ante up cold hard cash, the rent money even, and if you weren't too interested in winning. In this game there was no way to lose. It took him a few hands, but he'd figured it out. He started discarding high cards, anything he had a pair of...he reversed the usual system.

He had Daniel right where he wanted him. The thought brought a sudden grin.

"What?"

Trevor shook his head.

"It's nothing...really."

"You bastard." Daniel's jaw dropped open and he stared in astonishment, but there was something a little too theatrical about it.

Trevor sat there in his underwear and smiled at Daniel across the blanket, straightening up his posture a bit, flexing his hips and buttocks, and getting comfortable.

Daniel gave a sharp nod.

"Right!"

Trevor grinned.

"Go, on, silly. It's your bet." Come on, Trevor. Come on...

Trevor nodded.

"I don't have much to bet with. How about a kiss for a kiss?"

"No fair! That way you can't lose."

Trevor appeared to think, stalling a bit now, but he had an idea.

"One of my kisses for an ear nibble. Or your hot little underpants. What's it going to be?"

Daniel nodded and spread his cards as Trevor's heart pounded.

They hadn't exactly clarified that...

Sure enough, Daniel had won again. Trevor showed his cards, a handful of the dregs. Playing it cautiously, he crawled over on his hands and knees to give Daniel an ear nibble, which involved licking and tonguing it as well. Daniel clawed his ass through the underwear and then up higher on his back and shoulders. Daniel pulled him in close and kissed him thoroughly, whispering his name and gazing deeply into his dark eyes. His breath was hot in Trevor's face. Then Daniel pushed him off. He lay gazing up at Trevor.

"What about the underwear?"

"Hah!"

"You're very good at cheating, incidentally."

Trevor cocked his head sideways and Daniel gave a gentle snort. He considered.

"Aw, what the hell."

Daniel laid back and raised his bum. He watched Trevor as he lifted the shirt and carefully peeled the shorts down. Trevor took his sweet time removing the underwear.

The view down there was total revelation and the reality of what was happening began to sink in...he'd never even seen one, not up close before. Not for real.

It wasn't the proper time to say it. But he really was kind of in love with Daniel. They'd only met three weeks ago. He took the briefs, flinging them aside without a glance. He picked up the cards, staring as Daniel took up a comfortable pose, brushed his shirt down and waited for him to deal. Daniel let his shorts lie were they were.

"Aren't you forgetting something...?"

"I'm still beating the pants off of you. Another freebie."

Daniel watched his hands as he shuffled and dealt, much more professionally now.

Interesting. Trevor seemed so clumsy at first.

"Well, Now I know better, Daniel. By the way, I think I might be falling in love with you."

He meant it. He wasn't lying. Daniel knew it instantly.

Trevor nodded, uttered a deep sigh and shrugged philosophically. He seemed sort of vulnerable at that moment.

They both knew what the stakes were.

Their eyes were riveted on one another as Trevor dealt out the cards swiftly and surely, never taking his eyes from Daniel's face.

Daniel found himself blushing, needing air all of a sudden. His heart thudded. This was good. Really good. It almost scared him. This was perfect. Trevor would win fair and square...

Trevor put the deck in the middle and glanced at his glass.

"More wine, sweetie pie? Heh-heh-heh."

"That sounded very much like an evil chuckle." With a curl of his lip, Daniel blew a stray wisp of hair out his eyes.

Trevor topped up the glasses.

Giving Trevor a long look, Daniel picked up his cards and prepared to lose a few hands.

Cigarette smoke curled up unheeded until Trevor reached over. He took a puff and then decisively crushed it out. He raised a glass in toast. Daniel reached for his own glass.

He was right about Trevor.

This was going to be an interesting night.

The Appointment

Act One

Patrick Saunders had taken a day off work, for what would be, if he was lucky, a half an hour or forty-five minute appointment.

He sat in the waiting room, not too interested in the three year-old copies of MacLean's Magazine, Better Homes and Gardens, Cosmo, or Chatelaine.

Across from him sat an attractive blonde girl, about nineteen years old. She was long, and willowy, with a quirky face that seemed oddly lopsided when she smiled at him, and she had done so once or twice. She grimaced but kept flipping pages. She didn't look up this time, perhaps sensing she was wasting her time no matter how cute he (or she) was.

Patrick looked like any other young man his age, with some tattoos, piercings, hair all just so, and he had to admit that he was cute. But women had their intuition.

He wasn't being cute for her, and had probably spent as much time in the bathroom as she had this morning.

So there.

He'd often wondered what went on inside a woman's head, and any interest she had in him was unwelcome, although academically interesting. All he really knew was what went on inside of his own head, but from there he could only extrapolate.

Patrick was all set to be catty with her, but it was mostly in his own mind. The thirty-one year-old systems analyst for a major Canadian insurance company waited as patiently as he could.

It was just thoughts and they went through your mind.

The door to the inner offices opened and an older woman came out. She went to the front of the glass-fronted kiosk and she and the receptionist muttered back and forth, consulting calendars and phones and schedules before making another appointment.

Patrick wondered from time to time just where they came from.

Young girls dressed so provocatively. It was hard to believe that in twenty or thirty short years they would be wearing the black dresses, the flat shoes, the sack-cloth and ashes, the babushka on the head.

He looked again at the young woman across from him, and then at the mother with her three children down a little further to his right and sitting on the same side of the room. Halfway there, he thought. She was getting a little thick in the middle and her clothes were essentially sexless. She had no posture, only tiredness and worry these days...it was written all over her.

She wasn't out to impress anyone. She had given him a polite smile and then gone quietly back to her own business. Kids would do that to anyone, he thought.

Resisting the urge to shake his head, he wondered how it was even possible for a person's ass to double, triple, or even quadruple in size, practically overnight in some cases.

"Mister Saunders?"

"Oh."

He hadn't even heard the first call. Patrick was so absorbed in these slightly-derogatory and socially-unacceptable thoughts.

Nurse Pretachi was there, and he followed the pink-clad woman into the inner part of the office.

She presented him in the doorway.

"Patrick Saunders is here. We're running a little behind schedule."

"Ah, yes, thank you, Nurse. This one might be a while, Sandy."

"That's okay, Doctor." There was a silence. "Missus Buttowksi is always late, and Jimmy just needs his shots."

Patrick grinned at that.

He just needs his shots.

The kid was a poster child or something.

Doctor Clifford Ubangi-Tutu's face lit up as the door snapped shut.

"You look wonderful. Please disrobe and take a seat on the examination table."

"Yes, Doctor." Patrick's face glowed as the doctor patted him on the shoulder and helped him off with his shirt.

Doctor Clifford was new in town. Patrick had been looking for someone after old Doctor Treadmill, eighty years old if a day, had been finally busted. It was about forty years too late. He'd been busted for distributing narcotics with thoughtlessness and profit aforethought, and not worrying too much about the consequences to his patients.

All of his patients had a scrip and that was all that really mattered, or so he had decided.

A rich man's kid gets in trouble and then the shit really hits the fan, thought Patrick.

Half the town were hooked on the opiates and the opioids, but as long as it was an actual doctor prescribing it, no one seemed to question the wisdom of it for years and years and years.

Fools.

The doctor stepped out of the room for a moment as he was wont to do, and Patrick removed his trousers, familiar with the routine.

In fact he was counting on it. He always wondered what would happen if the nurse came in at the wrong time, but somehow the risk seemed worth it. He was counting on that predictable routine more than anything.

There were sounds from the next room.

Patrick thought that might be the sickly little boy in the waiting room, looking up at him with permanent jam-smudges all around his mouth and the big, sad, wondering eyes.

Needs his shots. Huh.

Thank God he'd never have a kid. It just didn't seem hardly worth it.

Might as well throw a little flea powder on there while you're at it, put a collar on them, and now you got something. Kids were just pets that could talk, in his view.

The doctor's voice rumbled from the other side of a hollow partition, constructed of steel studs. The surfaces were covered in panels that were pre-papered in vinyl patterns and the seams covered by plastic strips. It wasn't structural in terms of load-bearing walls. He knew what was in there because he'd done commercial interior renovations in summers and on weekends while going to college to study esthetics. This could be a long wait sometimes, when the doctors all had three or four exam rooms these days.

He'd read somewhere that the only people who were paid less than estheticians were the ethicists, and considering the world they lived in, that seemed accurate enough. In the fall, he'd be going back to school for his body-piercing papers, which were now being regulated by the provincial government.

He wondered how the entomologists were doing and the etymologists too.

Patrick looked down at his sheer black crotch-less panties, fingering the golden chain around his neck. Couldn't catch a word over there. Too bad, it might have been an interesting story. He'd been in the hospital once, and ran into an old friend.

The kid's mom had a distinctive pattern to her speech, up and down, up and down in a narrow band of frequencies.

"Hey, Hal! How the fuck you doing?" That's what he said at the time.

Hey, Hal. How ya doin'? Patrick had been in getting his tonsils done.

"I'm just checking into palliative care. How are you doing?"

It was like that some days. It was all you could do sometimes, just shake your head apologetically and move on.

He smelled good, having sprayed on plenty of his favourite scent, and his hair, straight and blonde, was freshly trimmed in its page-boy cut. He wore a lip gloss, freshly applied, with the faintest hint of pink colouring. The smell of watermelon showed it was still working. His lips always felt very sexy when he did that.

It was so cold in doctor's offices. Patrick's eyes moved around the room, studying the posters of skeletons, and the circulatory system, and advertisements dating from a bygone age, which Doctor Clifford either favoured or had been chosen by the contractor when the town's already slightly-shabby medical centre was built.

#

They clung to each other.

"Oh, how I have missed you."

Patrick had no words.

Clifford was married but his wife didn't understand him.

"Me, likewise."

They exchanged a long kiss and then Patrick enjoyed the loving hands all over his body.

It had never really bothered Patrick before, but the examination room had two windows, facing out into the parking lot. The drapes were plastic slats that really didn't prevent people from seeing in if they cared to look. It always made the heart pound a bit.

Few did care to look, but that wasn't the point.

An engine idled on the other side of that wall and Patrick thought there was someone in the passenger seat. If he could see them, then they could see him just as well. He turned his attention firmly back to the room, painted a cheerful sunshine yellow and reflecting the fact that Clifford was a GP specializing in pediatrics. He'd confided in Patrick that he still only had about eighty-seven patients, and Patrick wasn't sure if he was joking when he said it.

His middle churned with the thought of exposure, betrayal, the outing of a person who did not wish to be outed, in a world that was cruel and violent.

"Okay, up you go."

Patrick climbed up onto the exam table again. Just for a joke, he spun, lay back and put his feet in the iron stirrups.

Clifford chuckled as he listened to his heart, his breathing, took his pulse and his blood pressure. He checked his eyes and his ears, peered into the mouth, and even took a quick peek up each nostril.

"Well. Very good." Patrick had been putting on a little weight, according to the record.

Clifford was in for a surprise.

Patrick got down again and stood on the scales and Clifford's eyes went up to check his height. Although one would think it would be the same as the last time, miracles had been known to occur.

"Oh. Nice. Down six pounds." Clifford stepped back and Patrick spun, lifting his arms and doing a little pirouette on his tippy-toes. "Very nice."

The doctor gave his bum a little squeeze and then held him close for a quick second. Patrick had always wanted to do it in here.

The thorough exam was the routine aspect of any examination, and Clifford's training was a reflex hard-wired into him at this point in his life.

#

"Back up."

Patrick climbed onto the table and sat there in anticipation as Clifford sat at his little desk and wrote notes.

He put the pen down.

"Now, Patrick. We don't have a lot of time here..."

Patrick bounced up, dropped to the floor with a thud and went to his knees in front of the doctor.

Fumbling fingers wrestled with the zipper. Clifford stood close, Patrick with his back to the offending window although a certain exhibitionism threaded its way through his various fantasies.

"Oh, dear. I was kind of afraid that might happen." Clifford let Patrick go for a while.

#

"Now, now, my eager fellow." Clifford's accent drove Patrick wild.

That was what initially drew him. Sure he needed a doctor, but he'd never felt the urge to lay any of them before.

Clifford's coal-black eyes, the slight blue tone to his African skin under certain light, the crinkly patches of pubic hair inches from his gaze, were all esthetically perfect. The bright red head of his long, thick penis was like three red dots painted on a stick to a newly hatched seabird.

It's like he couldn't get enough of it.

The visuals matched his desires. Clifford was also very sensual, something unusual in Patrick's experience for a Dom. Clifford stroked his head and shoulders. He said nice things. He was kind, and gentle, and had some real respect for his lover. He was also good with the foreplay and knew his way around the human body.

"Make me do things." Patrick's voice was husky with what he called the hunger.

There was always that knot in the pit of his stomach, initial adrenalin rush, then building and building when all doubts wore off and you knew that this was real.

Clifford put his hands under his arms and dragged him to his feet.

"Now, you know I love you dearly, Patrick." He was gentle yet firm. "I only wish I didn't have such a busy day ahead of me."

Patrick pouted, the taste still fresh in his mouth. Clifford hurriedly put his penis away, zipped up and then picked up the clipboard.

"Ah, let's see here." His eyes went left and right, following text and checking off boxes on the form.

His eyes stabbed Patrick, back up on the exam bench, looking demure and proper, if one could overlook the panties, the necklace, and the little black stud earrings.

But the game wasn't over quite yet.

"We haven't done your P.E. Oh! And the C.E. neither." He chewed his lip, looking up at the wall clock, whose long hands showed nine-forty-two.

It was a Thursday. Nothing much in that. There might be a cancellation. Clifford was sorely tempted, but there were other ways. Anyway, he was just teasing, it was all he had time for.

Patrick's eyes shone.

He loved this part.

"Ah, yes, my lovely. On your back, please, with the feet in the stirrups."

Patrick complied but teased him with his eyes, limpid pools of desire, batting his eyelashes and with his arms wrapped around himself. He slowly squeezed and fondled his nipples, licking his lips as Clifford put the clip-board down on a small table set there for just this purpose.

He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves.

"So, you are glad to see me then."

"Hah, hah." But Clifford was smiling when he said it.

He gently inserted his finger up Clifford's rectum, and quite a nice one it was too, young and clean and pink, with the usual browning up around the edges but with no sign of the turkey-skin of the perpetual chair-dweller on the tailbone.

The funny thing was, it wasn't all that hard to locate a man's prostate in this presentation, although a more normal procedure involved the patient standing.

"Hmn, hmn, hmn-hmn-hmn." Clifford hummed and Patrick giggled.

"Hail to the Chief!"

"Right again, Sherlock."

They had a laugh even as Patrick squirmed and wiggled his hips suggestively, snagging Clifford by the strong forearms, and putting his lower spine in a nice S-curve as he did so.

If only he could Clifford up here.

"Cough, please."

Patrick did his best, in spite of more giggles.

"So what are we doing here?"

"Just getting you warmed up a little." Clifford shook his head. "Come on, let go."

He pried Patrick's hands away.

"Oh, dear. What did my master have in mind?"

"I want you to meet me someplace."

Patrick nodded quickly.

Awesome, he was afraid nothing was happening.

Doctor Clifford took off the gloves. He disposed of them, washed his hands thoroughly, and standing close, he bent over and then gently manipulated Patrick's left testicle until it was out of the way. Finding the entry, he used the loose skin of the scrotum to give him enough slack to push his finger into Patrick's abdominal cavity.

"Oh, God. I've always hated this part." Patrick was braced, unnaturally rigid for his lithe form, face screwed up in the agony of fine focus and grinding his teeth almost audibly.

"I know, I know, but I would so hate to lose you."

"Aw. That's sweet." Patrick licked his lips, hoping that this part would soon be over. "You're such a nice man."

Clifford grinned. He checked things out.

He pulled his finger out and manipulated the testes back into place, one on each side as it said in the manual.

"Okay, we'll put you down as good to go. Now one little blood sample, and I'm afraid, my dear Patrick, that I will have to kick you out."

"Aw!"

Clifford could only indulge Patrick so much. While they were hot for each other, a small fetish, or even just a rather infantile medical sexual fantasy, had some difficult complications. It's not that he hadn't put some thought into it, but professional ruin, divorce, and ultimately having to change your name legally, and re-qualify medically, and leave town, et cetera and et cetera, simply wasn't on the cards.

He loved Patrick, but not that much. If he lost Patrick, it might be quite some time before he found another like him.

He put things on the form again and then opened the cupboard and took out a sampling kit.

Patrick was no better and no worse than any other person when it came to needles. It was soon over, Patrick no worse for the wear. Clifford put a wad of cotton and a Band-Aid on it and that was that.

For one thing, he really was a doctor, and not just some guy faking it in a dank old room in his basement.

"Okay. Lover. I had a lunch date for one-thirty. He's called and cancelled, but. He called my private cell."

"Ah." Patrick saw where it was going. "No receptionist."

"That's right." She would think he was at lunch...neat.

And what she didn't know she couldn't blab to his wife.

The doctor proceeded to tell an attentive Patrick Saunders just what he had in mind and how they could best set about achieving it.

#

Patrick was walking along the heavily-treed paths that ran along beside the river, just east of where Talbot Bridge and Waterloo Road went across.

At first, he didn't think much of it, but he saw a man, silhouetted against the sun, on a high bluff, screened by bushes. The man was standing still, both arms and legs showing, which meant he was either facing this way or that way, and he had the impression the man was looking down at him.

What really struck him, for there were other people walking there, with dogs or other people, and he had been passed by joggers and the younger crowd on skateboards, was the man's hat.

Draped in a long overcoat that appeared black but could be any colour of the rainbow, the hat was a trilby, which would be odd in any surroundings, in almost any city of the world in this day and age.

Not that Patrick hadn't always found the trilby cute, and it did have some unique fashion possibilities.

Hmn.

Trilby.

He wondered if he should get one. It would look lovely with a cane, black leather hot-pants and black and white-striped stockings. He'd never had the mime fantasy before. You learned something new about yourself every day. They were meeting at a municipal park around lunch time, and Clifford's big four-wheel-drive had leather seats and surround-sound.

It stirred him just to think on it, that and the fact that Cliffie had given him certain specific instructions and a little time to prepare.

A lady runner eyed him up as she puffed past, going in the opposite direction. He smiled and nodded pleasantly, aware of the cigarette in his mouth and the weight of the magnum of cheap champagne in his black nylon backpack. Wearing medium-brown penny loafers, faded and distressed jeans, an Italian-tweed jacket with a bit of colour in his cheeks from the walk and the wind. The morning had been a breezy one and he supposed he looked all right.

It was a nice day, with a few puffy clouds and a bright blue sky, and there was the man in the hat again.

He was up and off to the right, and he stood at a white-painted board railing where the trees were thin and watched Patrick as he walked past.

Patrick licked his lips, taking a glance at the golden watch on his left wrist, a bit small and feminine for a man but he wouldn't wear it certain places, such as work.

Today was special.

He picked up his pace a little, hearing something crash in the bush that threaded its way along beside the babbling river, with its white boulders and occasional torrents. The sound came from behind and off to the right. The path on the bluff above paralleling this one came down the slope and the two paths converged. He swept his eyes along and back, and there was no one there.

His pulse picked up at the thought of a mugger following him, but there were two people a hundred metres ahead. He wasn't sure he'd like to come through there at night, as graffiti and unfamiliar script attested to the fact that this might be gang territory.

Patrick, on some kind of impulse, looked back over his left shoulder, arms and legs swinging along. He was supposed to be there on the dot of one-thirty.

There was no one on the path, but even as he swung his head around front again, he caught something out of the corner of his eye.

There was something or someone, a dark oblong in amongst the warmer, brighter greenery at the same level as the trail. It didn't move, and the sound didn't come again, and he couldn't really be sure if it was a person or not.

An animal wouldn't make that much noise, he thought.

After a few seconds of walking, he took another look. There was intervening brush in the way, or maybe whatever or whoever had been there was gone, but he couldn't see anything at all now.

If he had looked back a third time he might have seen a tall, dark figure step out from behind the pale remnant of a dead tree, a hollow, rotten old stump about nine feet tall, and flit carefully along the edge of the woods.

Act Two

Patrick was lost, and yet Clifford had given him lengthy directions.

He stood at a branching intersection under the trees, although he could, looking in almost any direction, see the tops of tall apartment buildings. The sound of heavy highway traffic nearby was ever-present.

The directions were specific enough. He just didn't think this particular trail led exactly where the doctor said it did. Doctor Clifford had only opened his practice three or four months ago, and he had told Patrick that he had lived here for about six months. Patrick hadn't been along here in a year or two, but he knew it a lot better than that! Still, he hesitated.

It was all written down for him, how could he go wrong?

Clifford was the Dom. Patrick was the slave...anyways, it wouldn't be that far out of his way if he was wrong. He took the right-hand trail as indicated.

It was much narrower now, with saplings and brush lining a narrow rut, mostly grass, beaten-down but with leaves, dead twigs and the odd small muddy patch along it. The one thing he saw was black squirrels, they were ubiquitous in city parks. But there were a lot of mature trees back along in here, and a few different species as well.

Even the traffic sounds were muted this deep into the woods. The ground dropped away and then rose.

The traffic noise got louder, he stepped into brightness, knowing something wasn't right, and then he came to the edge of the highway, where a green slope of perhaps seventy degrees presented itself. The rise was topped off by metal barricades and the sight of trucks, buses and cars roaring along at eighty or ninety kilometres an hour, eight lanes north and south.

Shit. Neither he nor Clifford had really envisioned this, he was sure...he must have been off his course somehow to begin with, and yet he knew where Rosedale Park was. Patrick just wasn't sure where exactly he was.

Shaking his head, Patrick cursed softly, looking at his watch, only two minutes to twelve now, and then he stopped dead.

"Ah!" His hand flew up to his throat and his other hand went in little circles on the end of his arm. "Oh."

He danced a little in place, shaken to the core and going strictly on involuntary reflex.

The figure confronted him from less than ten feet away, a man with a long black overcoat, a trilby hat, and wearing a big black Ninja hood under it...Patrick's stomach went all cold at the sight of the big hunting knife the man held in the raised position. He gave a little gasp and then his legs spurted up and he darted off into the woods to his left.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" It was ripped from his throat, and he an atheist and all.

Heart pounding and with the crashing and snapping of twigs behind him, the man was right there as Patrick sobbed in sheer fright. He dashed to and fro, saplings slapping at him, trying to find a faster way through what was a thicket of small maples and oaks. Heavy thuds from the other came up through his feet and he knew he was a dead man.

He fought for breath and a sense of where the trails were...the man was right there, he couldn't even look back, although his own panting didn't drown out the sounds of the man's hoarse breath.

"Oh...Jesus...no, oh, my..."

It was lighter ahead. Praying for a path, which if he got there first might grant him a second or two to get away, Patrick's mouth was opening for the first of one really big scream when the root caught at his ankle. He went down headlong and slid on his belly, hands out in front of him scraping the forest floor. In one heart-stopping moment those big hands had him and the blade flashed in front of his eyes.

"Gotcha, bitch!"

#

"I knew it was you."

They embraced, kissing and smiling and panting in the soft light of the understory. The thudding of Patrick's heart slowed, every so slightly. Overhead, there was bright blue sky and sunshine pierced in radiant yellow beams through the canopy of a large and ancient oak.

They rolled right and left and Clifford brushed leaves and debris out of Patrick's hair.

They chuckled, gazing into each other's eyes.

Clifford had him on his back, and he straddled Patrick's middle.

"Now, off with the top." Patrick struggled out of both the pack, the light jacket and his shirt.

They pulled a dark green towel, a huge bath towel out of the packsack and Clifford laid it off to one side. Patrick watched him smooth it out. Cliffie let him up.

He wriggled out of his pants as Clifford took tent pegs and the white nylon ropes out of the packsack.

Patrick had wondered at the list, not that the doctor hadn't given him a fifty to cover the costs.

"Oh, have I got a surprise for you."

Patrick got onto the middle of the towel, laying there in his sheer panties, up on his elbows as he watched Clifford tie the ropes around his ankles. He watched, still not quite able to catch his breath.

"Ooh, kinky. I haven't been raped in a while." Patrick licked his lips, as Clifford drove the tent pegs into the soft ground. "Thank God I found you, Dom."

"Thank God I found you, Patrick." The doctor stretched out the ropes, leaving no slack but the ropes were not biting into his skin either.

His legs were well spread.

"There we go—just nice."

Patrick kicked a little, getting the feel of it.

"Hmn." His hips went back and forth as Clifford leaned in and they hugged and kissed for a while.

Clifford stoked his penis through the silky soft fabric, sending little electrical shocks of pleasure through his partner.

"I told the staff I wouldn't be back until two-thirty, maybe three."

The doctor straddled him a little higher now. He took Patrick's left wrist and began tying it. He left a tail of rope, just as he had done with the ankles, and then went around three or four times before making his knot. The ropes were quite thin and the synthetic fabric would quickly burn the skin with any kind of back and forth motion.

"Nice." A whole hour, maybe more out here!

Patrick's ears strained, but the only noise was the nearby highway. He might have caught the faint strain of someone shouting, but that would have to be hundreds of metres off. They had their privacy. They were well off the trail, which was the key thing, and it was a school day.

The doctor put the rope around his other wrist and then made Patrick lay flat.

"It has to be done just right."

He leaned into it and shoved the stakes into the ground.

"Give a little pull there for me, that's a good boy."

After observing Patrick's range of movement, he undid his single knots and took out some of the slack. He quickly retied the knots and then went around to the bottom, where he added more knots on there just for security.

"Sure hope you can untie them afterwards!" Patrick was joking.

"We must make sure you can't get away." Patrick watched as Clifford pulled a black handkerchief out of a voluminous side pocket.

Cliffie began to twirl and roll it up into what Patrick realized was a blindfold.

"Aw! No! Please!" He gasped in frustration, his penis laid out mostly erect on his hairless tummy. "Please, Master. I want to see this."

"Ah, but that's up to me to decide."

Patrick relaxed, waiting for his pleasure to begin. More than anything he wanted to be good for Clifford, for surely this was what would keep him coming back for more.

Now that Patrick really was helpless, he picked up his rubber knife. Patrick watched in anticipation as he got to his knees beside him, and putting a hand over Patrick's mouth, slowly dragged the dull blade across his throat, gazing deeply into the other's eyes'

"Please don't kill me, Mister. I'll do anything you want." Patrick panted softly, begging with his eyes.

Clifford smiled and set it aside. Standing there looking down, he thoughtfully took out his penis.

It stood high and true, as hard as a rock with the anticipation of what came next.

There were chickadees on a low twig just above him, making their characteristic calls.

"Hey, birdie-birdie." Patrick lay on his back, watching the sky and his lover.

Clifford smiled and gave him another kiss. He knelt. He slipped Patrick's rolled-up jeans under his neck to tip his head back a little and then put the blindfold on him. He whispered in Patrick's ear.

"A proper rape needs several things. It needs a victim. That would be you, my dear."

"Oh, ah."

"It needs opportunity, a place to happen."

"Um. Yum, yum. We certainly do have that."

They kissed, deeply, and Clifford explored the insides of Patrick's mouth, face to face but upside-down.

"Ooh."

"And now, I'm going to fuck your mouth, bitch."

Act Three

Patrick was blind to everything, but he could still hear. Clifford moved around a little bit he came in close again, Patrick could feel his body heat, and then the tip of his penis brushed his lips.

"Thank you, Master."

He was unable to move his head much, and Clifford thrust slowly but deeply into Patrick's mouth.

Reaching over, Clifford pulled yet another item from the handy knapsack. Opening the wooden, spring-loaded clothespin to its fullest extent, he put one on each of Patrick's nipples, feeling the younger man twitch and gasp and wiggle in response. Patrick's hips began to gyrate at a faster rate and the doctor began to manipulate his penis and rub his tummy, raking the ribs slowly with his fingernails, which were a bit rough and sharp after recent trimming. He reached around and gave even rougher treatment to his bottom as Patrick gasped and moaned.

"Um! Um, Um."

Clifford kept thrusting, only allowing Patrick short little gasps of breath. Air whistled in and out of his nostrils in a constant stream and that's when Clifford put a much larger plastic paper clamp on Patrick's nose, blocking the air from that source altogether. He pulled out to give a quick breather. It jabbed at his balls, and then when the tip of his cock touched those eager lips they opened right up again, hungrily.

The doctor lowered himself down until he could prop himself up on his elbows, and proceeded to nibble, lick, suck and chew on Patrick until the oxygen-starved boy under him began to buck and writhe and go.

Clifford abruptly sat up, removed the nose-clamp, and pulled off the blindfold. Patrick's eyes bugged out at him in a look of terror almost, and then he began rapidly jerking Patrick off.

His own ability to control himself was legendary, of course, and his sense of timing impeccable.

Thirty seconds, a minute more and the boy would have been rendered unconscious.

That was just one of the advantages of being a doctor, he supposed.

#

Patrick, up on all fours now, with Clifford pounding him from behind, was face to face with a dog,.

Freezing, he thought he'd have a heart attack even as Cliffie began to go into a noisy orgasm.

"Woof." The dog barked a gruff greeting, and stood there wagging its tail furiously, a fluorescent orange tennis ball in its mouth.

It was a wire-haired terrier of some sort, eerily intelligent by the glint in its eye, black and curls all over.

"Freddie! Freddie!" The dog took another look, as if tempted to join in or at least go around and have a sniff at Clifford's backside, but then it turned and bolted as the owner, a middle-aged woman by the voice, snapped and crackled in the forest not forty metres away.

Patrick caught a glimpse of the dog once again, making a bee-line for the lady and going full tilt as she leaned over with a wide smile and put out a hand to get the leash on him again.

She was wearing slacks and a thin blouse and seemed totally oblivious to them.

Finally the pair moved away and Patrick lost track of both them, and time itself, as Clifford had one or two other ideas in mind, as long as he had time and a willing victim to torment with pain, pleasure and suspense.

#

They walked through the woods, avoiding paths except when they came to watercourses and hills too steep to climb. It was wonderful to just hold hands and be lovers, thought Patrick.

It was what he had longed for. The trouble was that fantasy was never reality.

"When will I see you again?" This part was always the worst.

They stopped and had a drink, standing in a sunny glade, and yet the sound of lawn mowing operations and the highway were there in the background. The occasional bottle and can were silent testament that they weren't the only ones to use the woods for drinking.

"On the weekend?" Patrick was hopeful, but Clifford hadn't answered his question.

Patrick had been looking for love, affection, and physical intimacy, more than just the quick flings, with bad lighting and no real connection...he needed that connection with another person.

It had to be about more than mere rutting, for if that's what it was all about then any kind of mechanical contraption or simple masturbation would have sufficed.

"I don't know." Clifford finally answered. "My wife and I go grocery shopping Friday nights, as she insists we do something together—and she has a busy job too. It's not fair to expect her to do all the work of the household. Saturday night is my parent's fortieth wedding anniversary..."

That didn't sound too good.

Patrick sighed.

He'd found love all right, and here it looked like he would be spending the weekend alone, thinking all the wrong thoughts and being jealous of a woman Clifford half-hated and half still loved, although he would have vehemently denied it.

He felt the beginnings of tears spring to his eyes.

"What about next week then?"

"Yes, of course. We can do another lunch thing." Clifford held him tight, as they were just to the edge of the woods and his vehicle was in the parking lot there.

"I'll call you first thing Monday morning, okay?" He kissed Patrick tenderly.

"Okay." It was better than nothing.

After a final ruffle of his hair, a quick peck on the cheek and another hug, the man of his dreams turned and half-slid and half-walked down the hill and out into the light. A door slammed and then a bronze coloured mass of shiny metal down there fired up it's engine and the power steering whined as the doctor backed it out of its position.

Patrick heaved a deep sigh, looking at his watch. Nine minutes to three. That sense of timing again! But he could see why it was so necessary.

It wasn't easy being a doctor, and it paid a lot of money after all.

A slow tear trickled down from first one eye, and then the other.

It was time to go home, have a shower, and then a nap.

Some supper, some TV, and then it would be time to sleep.

Hopefully he would find the strength to make it through one more day, but one never knew.

Whatever Happened to Davey?

Act One

Dave Corrigan fumbled around in his fanny-pack for his close-up spectacles, thick of lens and frame. He used them for reading and minor work but had so far resisted the need for bifocals or even trifocals. He cheerfully admitted that it was pure vanity. At his advanced age of thirty-nine, it didn't make much difference anyway. Not these days. The notion that he might once have had a love life was a cruel, nagging joke.

The highly-pitched and rapid-paced voice of their tour guide Maurice Abdullah pattered away in the background. He'd never been this close to a real mosaic, Byzantine or otherwise, in his entire life. So far, they'd all been on the ceilings, or high up on the walls. It really was beautiful, and yet the tour was at such a fast pace, eight countries in eleven days. On a whim of some previously unsuspected masochism, Dave counted up the stops listed in the brochure. There were forty-seven prime attractions in all, and they'd only done about seventeen or eighteen of them so far.

There was one cancellation. He chewed his lower lip and moved slightly to the left, out of the soft, indirect light to avoid throwing glare and shadows on the image. The old place smelled a bit musty, all dry stone and a thousand years of time. They always did the feet and the sandals the same way, there were maybe two different types of sandals that he'd seen so far. With his limited knowledge, he wondered how significant that was.

The cancelled stop was put down to an attempted suicide just down the block, and all the streets around their hotel were barricaded during that particular time-slot. That was in Ravenna...three days ago.

He'd studied Byzantine Art on a whim, while majoring in Business Administration in university. It was an easy elective credit, a bird course, until all of a sudden he threw himself into it on some kind of love thing. For some reason, he wanted to do really well. It was like he realized his potential, for the first time in his life, and then wanted to impress someone special with it.

Professor Beaumont, The Bee, their resident Byzantine expert—and every university had one, was the most fascinating thing in the world. It lasted for about a semester. He'd even fantasized about him physically once or twice. The Bee must have been getting up near fifty-five, maybe sixty years old. An oddly compelling man, perhaps it was the simple authority of the teacher-student relationship. He was gruff but kindly, with big, strong peasant hands, Dave recalled, and he had those penetrating blue eyes.

He bit his lip, moving on to another small mosaic.

He supposed he looked all right in the simple sun-shorts, cut just above the knee, vaguely Greek in form, and done in a simple off-white that set off his newly-acquired colour. His loose white T-shirt was sleeveless. He'd been doing a bit of involuntary tanning, especially after making the mistake of sitting on the sunny side of the tour bus. Dave absently fiddled with the black glass rosary beads around his neck, a nice touch and oddly effective as jewelry.

Dave had an introspective streak, and lately, the time to indulge it. At one time he would have done it—the professor and him in bed together. He'd really believed it, wanted it at the time. He might very well have done it. What a whack-job he must have looked back then. Perhaps that accounted for some personal reservations about love and sex ever since. That, and the simple passage of time, and the setting-in of middle-aged inertia.

The nerve it would have taken, in actually doing it—going off to some exotic place, halfway around the world of course, and studying art, cataloguing art, classifying and dating it. There was always some handsome, authoritative older man involved with those fantasies, pure lechery, all narcissism that it admittedly was. It had taken him a long time to grow up, in retrospect. Like many fads, this one too had passed. That's how he thought of it. But he had a propensity for dreaming the impossible life. It was like one of those lovely, dreamy old books on the top shelf, set front and center. The book you sort of read every year when winter sets in, comfort food for the lonely heart and jaded mind. It was the kind of book that you look forward to. It was his book, a private book, one he would never lend out for fear of not getting it back. It was an imaginary book, a book of dreams.

He'd never done much with his degree, or art for that matter, although he preferred management. It was better than unskilled labor, or signing on at the stevedore's union.

Dave really enjoyed art, in the general sense, in an unpretentious way. He had some pretty and even kind of expensive water-colours on the walls back home. They were by an artist that was considered trendy at the time, and still worth collecting fifteen years later. Dave just loved the pictures, and the artist himself, for their own sakes. Mother had hated the fact that Dave spent three hundred and fifty dollars, his own money for crying out loud, on one piece in particular, no more than eight and a quarter by ten and a half inches. Perhaps it was an expression of independence. Maybe it was the love. Mother was, had been, dependent upon him, far more than Dave needed Mother. Of course he loved his mom and probably depended on her in some ways, all of which were emotional ties and not based on any real physical needs such as food or shelter. He wasn't a child, yet mothers couldn't resist treating their adult children like they would never grow up and didn't know a darned thing in their own right.

And Dave was the one paying all the bills.

Thank God, but all that resentment was gone now.

The heat was much reduced in there after the boat ride and the long walk from the jetty. His thick mop of medium-length blonde hair was wet up around the rim of the forehead. His feet were a bit tired in the shoes. Thank God he'd decided on sandals rather than hiking boots. The heat was incredible sometimes. Maybe he could wear the new shoes later, bought especially for this trip. They were supposed to be going to some kind of disco club if he remembered correctly. He would love to dance—again there would have to be some kind of compromise with the shoes. He pushed up his glasses, slipping down a bit on the nose, and carefully examined the way the thing was put together. He really was enjoying all of this, he decided abruptly. It was funny how things worked.

All the wrong sort of men, married mostly, and all of them looking soft and pudgy or old before their time, were paying him all kinds of attention, and yet the odd handsome stranger was always sort of lurking off in the background, some of them looking very shy. There was a fellow named Antonio, not the best-looking one of the bunch, but at least he spoke English. He was downright awkward, and there was this feeling that Tony was somehow failing to scrape up the courage in spite of a few awkward signals of his own.

It just didn't seem worth it sometimes.

It all went back for a very long time, way back, into a past that was still bright in places.

Invited out for a wine and cheese party at a downtown gallery at a very prestigious address, he'd sort of taken a shine to Edouard, his water-colour artist, although the guy was married and had three adult children. One of them was only a couple of years younger than him. Edouard was handsome, but it was his way of talking that got Dave. He still sort of referred to the incident internally, and quite often. Edouard had such passion, for life, and work, his family and his art, all of which were inextricably entwined in one mad, swirling ball of wax and love and total commitment.

Dave was managing an insurance agency, simply one of a nationwide chain. It could have been any insurance agency, but the thought of moving, even for twice the money, simply didn't gnaw at him sufficiently to ever do anything about it.

The education hadn't hurt any, but maybe he should have specialized in something technical. His salary, though good, didn't go too far in a city where an apartment, anything even remotely worth having, would set you back a couple of grand a month. With Mother gone he had some thinking to do on that front. He had a big old apartment loaded with stuff he was afraid to let go of, and yet so little of it was of his own choosing.

When Mother died, after a long and agonizing bout with pancreatic cancer, Dave had endured six months of the most intense emotional experience ever. Coming after two and a half years of struggle, the grief, which he had expected, was stronger than he could have ever believed.

All that love, love which worked both ways, was gone.

All objectivity, the passive acceptance, the submergence of self, which had been so necessary in care-giving as best one could, was gone. For a time, he honestly believed he was having a breakdown. The well had run dry. He had nothing left for self. The only time he wasn't grieving was when he was at work. Even that had become a kind of hell. The thoughts and the memories never left, and it just ate at him. Without Mother to care for, his own life didn't seem to amount to much.

He was too self-sufficient. He'd been on his own for too long.

When his friend Alan, good old Al, pestered him into taking a trip somewhere, on some kind of a whim, mentioning this special charter, a real bargain when he thought about it, sheer desperation to escape from all the suffering led Dave to agree.

When Al suggested Rome, Ravenna, Venice, Istanbul, and then on to Jerusalem, Dave had reluctantly agreed that it might be just the thing. Now of course he was glad he came, but at the time, even the trip of a lifetime brought doubts. He felt so horrible. There was no way he could ever enjoy it, and inevitably he would sort of spoil it for Al.

Off in the background somewhere, Maurice droned on and on and on.

The next saint, all black, blues and gold, with lovely fresh skin tones, not stiff at all but very expressive, was off in a corner in a side chapel. He had a strangely modern face, one not without warmth and intelligence. The work was very good, and had recently been cleaned. The fellow reminded Dave of his Uncle Leo. The resemblance was uncanny. He had the same long head, the same long nose. There was something familiar about the shape of the eyes and the humorous, sensual mouth. Even the beard, the hair, the mustache were the same. He grinned for what seemed like the first time in days. Maybe even weeks.

Dave agreed with the experts that Byzantine mosaics were the highest artistic achievements of the culture, and, were as equally worthy of being considered a fine style as the Baroque, or French Expressionism for example.

He might not be able to put it into the proper words, but he probably knew as much about this stuff as their guide, who had no doubt read up on it and committed his spiel into off-by-heart memory. He was there for the money and the tips, living a life Dave had once contemplated.

"Oh." He looked around in confusion.

They were right there a minute ago, and now the silence was unnerving to say the least.

#

Dave stood at the end of the jetty and cussed in a dejected manner as the bright yellow blob that was the back end of the boat slowly receded off into the warm, hazy distance. There were clouds on the eastern horizon and the moon was rising. Looking at his watch, insects sounded all around and the heat of the day was beginning to abate. It was a hot country, but the nights could get chill this time of year. He already knew that from their arrival yesterday.

"Dang." This was sheer disaster.

Dave looked around at the uninhabited island, which to all intents and purposes sat smack dab in the middle of Lake Vranninka, high up on the barren plateau of eastern Anatolia, thinking that the frickin' monks had loved their privacy perhaps just a little too much.

He cussed Alan, who in his own inimitable way, got a bad case of girlfriend-itis, a mysterious malady that hit whenever a new and particularly troublesome dancer or hip-hoppin' lady songwriter came onto the scene, which with Al was a crowded one to begin with. Alan begged off at the last minute, more likely money problems than anything else. The conversation had been an unusually short one for them, what with Al calling up at the last minute and all...Al had been planning to pay with cash, but like a fool Dave put it all on his credit card weeks in advance. Al wasn't going to lose a cancellation fee if he didn't go. Dave really wasn't known for swearing, but at the time he sure felt the temptation.

Dave should have known better. It was fore-ordained, with Al. Why didn't he see that in advance?

He shook his head, kicking at the loose yellow dust of the path. He'd wondered once or twice if it was a pure set-up. Al wasn't vindictive, and probably not that clever. Still the thought persisted.

"Damn you, Alan Crossley."

The sun was setting in the west. Praying that someone would soon miss him, either on the dock when they got on the bus, or surely they would at the hotel, all he could think of was to go back to the ruined old church with its crumbling roof, a corner missing and heaps of rubble on three sides and wait it out. That or the dock was the first place they would look. Maybe that Antonio twerp would say something. Surely he would miss Dave's presence. He would remark upon it.

When the sun fell into another dark band of purple cumulus to the west, he was glad of the decision. It was getting darker out by the minute. He cursed not bringing a sweater or a jacket, but of course they'd left hours before, in the heat of day.

Not being a smoker he didn't even have any matches to start a fire with.

#

He sat inside on a flat slab of rubble, back to the wall and knees drawn up in the deepening gloom.

He had certainly gotten his wish. He had all night to study the blasted mosaics. The thought rattled Dave, for the dark held many terrors, not the least of which might be rats. The idea disgusted him, and he clutched his fanny-pack as if it might be a weapon, which it most assuredly was not. He'd smash his reading glasses and that wouldn't do. A little reading before bed-time, along with a handful of oatmeal cookies and a big mug of milk, was the only thing keeping him sane lately. Maybe they would have them for sale somewhere in town, but that wasn't the point.

The bag was no weapon. Not a very good one, anyway, but he hadn't seen anything looking like a viable stick or club or anything like that in the ruined old building. It was all stone around here. Using indigenous materials, especially away from the capital in smaller centers, was a feature of many Byzantine buildings. A bitter irony, in that he knew so much about the place but had no idea how long it would take to be missed. He couldn't even really picture where he was. On the other side of the lake was a dock and a village, and a highway went through there. It was in the suburbs. He knew that much.

He didn't even know if there was a daily tour of the place. Maybe no one would come back for days or weeks. That was a sobering thought, that and the chill creeping in with the night. The faint images on the walls mocked him. He was hoping for salvation, of the most pedestrian kind...sooner or later, someone had to come.

Dave began to cry, in spite of his best efforts, but coming after all that had happened in the last weeks, and months, and years, it was more than he could handle. It might even do him some good. He knew deep inside that it was coming anyway.

Sooner or later it had to.

Fresh spasms of grief and hopelessness wracked his form, and sobs rang up and around the hard stone walls, mocking his self-pity with a kind of harsh insolence.

#

Occupied with such gloom and pain, including the first major pangs of thirst, he must have missed the footsteps. A man stepped out from a corner aisle just as the pale orb of the moon, hanging low and austere in the vast gap in the southeast elevation, began to redden and dim in the beginnings of an eclipse. He must have heard Dave crying and come looking. The light was fading strangely and it seemed as if the whole world went dead quiet.

"Oh!"

The eclipse. They were supposed to go up into the hills above the city and watch it, then go back to the disco, and he'd just remembered that.

Dave stood up as the fellow came to a full stop, turned and stared in wonder. The vague back-splash of light off the walls and floor was enough to illuminate a remarkable figure of a man with a homely but angular face. The fellow was completely wedge-shaped, with big, wide, flat shoulders bulging up into an impressive set of neck muscles. His naked torso gleamed in the bloody glow of the moon, half gone it as it was now.

Dave wrung his hands and the bag and carefully stepped out of the shadows, watching his step among the rubble, moving out into the imaginary warmth of the moonlight. The man's jaw dropped and his eyes swept Dave up and down. He straightened up and took a half-step backwards, one hand lifted, knees bent and his other arm poised in frozen action.

He looked downright cute like that, and Dave was glad he had his everyday glasses on as he was quite a remarkable sight in his own right.

"Oh, thank God. I was so afraid I'd be stuck here all night—"

The big fellow uttered some words in a language that didn't sound like Turkish at all, for Dave had caught the flavour and accents of it in a couple of days here.

Dave smiled encouragingly and stepped a little closer. The man stood there staring at Dave.

Dave sighed at the inevitability of it all. Of course he wouldn't speak English.

He lifted a palm and beckoned Dave forward. Then, as Dave let go with a quick squeal of surprise, the fellow stooped a bit, grabbed him in behind the knees and put an arm behind and under his shoulders.

When he swept Dave up off of his feet, it was a total reflex to sling his right arm over his neck and hang on for dear life with the left, clutching a veritable thatch of rugged chest hairs.

Egads.

"Oh, dear. Goodness, gracious, me." Dave's pulse quickened, but the stranger was gentle and strong enough to bear the weight.

One might as well try and put a good face on it.

"Oh, thank you ever so much."

The fellow grunted, taking the stairs two at a time in the darkness of the passage, his breath strong but contained. The gentleman certainly was very fit.

He smelled very manly. He could have used a bit of a shower, maybe, that and a breath mint. He wasn't a smoker and that was good. He wasn't drunk either. It was all very visceral all of a sudden, as Dave acknowledged the sick sense of fear in the depths of his abdomen.

Dave giggled nervously.

"Well. I can't complain about the service, anyway."

The red moon shone down through a hole in the roof, and Dave's neck prickled with something electric. It was certainly all very exciting as he breathed through parted lips, eyes shining and locked on those intent dark eyes only a foot or so away.

That face was locked on Dave's in a kind of fascination, then he turned and carried him through the blackness of the vestibule with panther-like grace, down the front stairs and out of the building as the moon finally died and the soft evening breeze seemed somehow warmer now, as if an eclipse of the moon could have anything to do with local weather patterns on the Earth down below.

Maybe it was just warmer hanging onto the guy. Dave stared in numb disbelief at the gleam of what must be the hilt of a massive sword slung on a broad leather band over his back and shoulders. It registered on his tired mind in a kind of delirious revelation and his jaw really dropped this time.

"Uh, sir? You can put me down now."

He just kept trotting along with more attention to the path now, all fluid masculine grace but a bit of a jostle as Dave clung to his sweaty body with a nice mat of dark and curly chest hair right there in front of his eyes.

"Holy, freaking, holy." He said it in pure disgust, the reflexive response going back in the family for generations. "Argh."

This just kept getting better and better all the time.

Act Two

The fellow had a horse, looming pale and ghostly in the returning moonlight, and it seemed he was camped not far from the ruins.

His blanket was spread on the ground, and he laid Dave upon it and then knelt and began going through a hefty brown bag of some indeterminate fabric.

Dave sat, hugging his knees, and he watched.

There was a canteen there. Dave spoke, more of a rueful grunt than anything, and pointed. The giant man beckoned at it, and Dave lifted it up and uncorked the thing after a brief struggle. The man must have hands of steel to ram that in there so tight. The water was cool and tasted fine, although he wondered at the source.

He'd never seen or heard of anyone like this in his entire life. You would think the brochures would have mentioned it. Corking it, Dave put it down where the other could get at it.

He offered Dave something with a few quiet words.

With his nostrils catching some scent, Dave took the slightly-tacky offering and brought it up to his face.

It looked and smelled like dates. It had to be something like that, a familiar smell from his mother's kitchen. These resembled nothing he'd ever seen before, being fresh and not coming in a rectangular clump, all wrapped in brittle cellophane and cheap purple corrugated paper, heavy on the glue. Dave could almost picture the garish label, and there was a sudden stab of homesickness.

They tasted divine, practically melting in his mouth, and there was also some kind of soft, tangy, spongy cheese and a hunk torn from a loaf of dark, coarse bread to go with it.

"Thank you." Dave was ravenous.

The man nodded thoughtfully, and took a bite of his own bread and then both he and the horse seemed to listen carefully to the night, which was oddly bright now that they were out in the open.

They sat very quietly and had their meal.

He had a bow, a quiver full of arrows...the horse and the blanket and little else but a breechclout or loincloth, on top of leggings with fringe along the outer legs. They seemed to tie onto the same belt, but only at the front. A good deal of his hard buttocks were exposed. He wore some kind of high lace-on boots of thin suede dyed in dark blue. If he had a proper shirt, it would have to be in one of the bags.

If only the fellow could speak English. It really was fascinating, once you sort of got over the inconvenience. It might have taken away some of the worry about getting back to the hotel.

Letting go of something inside, Dave heaved a deep sigh of relief.

It was better than sitting around all night in the dark, alone in the church, wondering if you were going to starve, freeze, bake, die of thirst...or be eaten by rats.

Dave took some more dates, which went very well with the bread and the cheese.

"Thank you." Dave studied him in unabashed fashion. "Thank you, oh, handsome stranger, for rescuing me especially, and for the lovely little snack as well."

The fellow munched his food in an unhurried way and seemed to get it on some level, as he listened to the inflections in Dave's tone with what looked like approval. He looked up and nodded, again with the sharp glint of intelligence and something else—something feral, as the flustered Dave wondered just how in the hell he was going to get out of this or if he even wanted to.

Hospitality had its rules in spite of all language barriers and at least some effort had to be made. It cost nothing to be polite and patience was a virtue.

Dave might find some way to repay him.

#

It was dawn and the world was glorious.

Dave stood, watching with interest as he prepared the horse for riding. He didn't have a saddle, Dave could see that much. He strung the bow, and leaned it against a bush along with the arrows. Its casing, once loosely bound, now fit it snugly and there were tie-strings the sides of it.

Dave had had his morning tinkle in the bushes nearby and so had the other guy.

The fellow beckoned at his feet and said something. Interpreting correctly, Dave slipped off his sandals and handed them to him. He put them in a bag and tied the top securely. He put that down beside the bow, along with two water containers and the quilted horse-blanket they had slept on, him anyways, through the long vigil of the night. Dave gave him the fanny-bag and he stuck that in there as well.

Dave might have dropped off just before true dawn, although the birds were up and there was a dim glow in the east. The guy slept with his arms around him, but was otherwise scrupulously polite in his silent fashion. Dave had lain there blinking a lot and wondering what to do next. The half an hour or hour's worth of fitful sleep that he did get hardly rendered him amenable to new faces and new experiences this morning. Dave was just praying this guy was taking him to some nearby place where they would have a phone, and for the love of God, maybe even a real bathroom.

The gentleman folded the larger, thinner blanket into a long rectangle and then he put that on top of the horse-blanket and smoothed them out on top of the big grey stallion. Surely the evidence of that was unmistakable, hanging out there as big as a man's arm for the world to marvel at, and then he put a long leather strap around the horse, loosely cinching it by a curved buckle of some bronze-like metal. There were rope loops for stirrups.

He tied the bags on, and then the quiver went on the left side up front, and the bow on the right. His sword, wrapped in its own soft but close-fitting scabbard, hung down his back as usual.

With the water bottles in place, one on each side, slung across the back of the blanket after being tied on by the necks, the man tightened up the cinch and took a look around. He said something and looked at Dave. Dave looked around. The place looked much as he must have found it. Dave saw a few scuffs on the ground and a place where the grass and weeds was flattened. They hadn't forgotten anything, which he assumed was the point.

The man patted his chest.

"Tula'kepp."

Dave smiled sweetly as there was nothing else for it.

He patted his breast over the heart. Keep it simple, stupid.

"Dave." Dave Corrigan, last known address, Chicago, Illinois.

The man nodded. Turning, putting a hand on the thing's shoulder and one foot in the loop attached to the strap, he whipped up a leg and mounted the animal in one fluid motion. It cocked its head to the left and took a long and sideways look at Dave.

The man extended his arm. Taking his hand, Dave put a foot in the loop on top of his, gave an awkward hop, and with a strong pull from above, Dave was quickly aboard, sitting back on the tail end of the blanket and trying to avoid banging his knees on the water-bottles which were right there. He hitched at his shorts a bit, as the guy couldn't see much from that angle anyway. His legs looked pale and smooth beside the curly hair, and deeply-muscled tan of the other's. A little shiver of something went through Dave.

There was a lurch, coming as a bit of a surprise, but he had taken a good grip on the man's abdominal ridges. Dave almost giggled at the thought, and then they were off.

With a sudden rush of guilt, deep down in his middle, Dave thought of the dratted condoms in a sly side compartment of his bag. He had three of them in there, almost an afterthought when packing for the trip, but one never knew. And where else would you logically put them? Three, no more and no less, three there were and there ain't no more...

His gentle rescuer said something over his left shoulder.

Not sure what he wanted, Dave reluctantly wriggled his hips and bum so as to get in as close as possible, cussing the water bottles right there, cold and damp on his thighs. Dave's knees stuck out but there was no place else to put them. The horseman gave a grunt of approval and seemed to take a stronger grip with his knees as there were no reins and bridle. He made another cluck and the horse picked up its pace with a show of quiet, prideful eagerness. Tula'kepp held onto its mane loosely with his left hand.

Clearly they had done this before, and with the movement of the animal under them, and the proximity of Dave's pelvis rubbing up against the hard ridges of the other's tail-end, the entire effect was stimulating, perhaps even a little bit disturbing. It was also strangely comforting as Dave settled into a ride of perhaps some distance.

It was only after he had a moment to look around, that Dave was stunned to realize there was not a single drop of blue water as far as the eye could see. The island, Lake Vranninka, and the distant pale smudges of the lakeside villages on distant hillsides were all gone. They were on a wide expanse of arid flatlands, rising up in the far distant horizon into long fingers of hills, with a fading suggestion of blue-green to indicate that there might be trees and even water there.

This wasn't real. This wasn't happening. Dave's mind reeled, and he opened up his mouth to speak, but it was no good. No sound came out.

Mouth open, Dave stared around, wild-eyed in dismay. But there was no water in sight and the truth of it was sickening. What in the blue Hades was happening here?

Had he finally gone mad after all?

It was all Dave could do to hold on.

#

Time dragged on, four or five hours of the morning, maybe longer considering their early start. The sun was high overhead.

The reality of it quickly became apparent and this wasn't a dream. Even so, some of the dread had worn off.

Any appeal due to sheer novelty the situation might once have had, was gone now. The sun blazed in the sky, and while the hills had gotten much closer, much bigger now, the land between shimmered in the heat haze and the man Tula'kepp, whether rescuer or captor, Dave knew not which, was conserving the water for the horse. It seemed a logical explanation.

His upper arms ached in the biceps from holding on all day, and after a while his hands dropped lower and lower. Finally, having gotten somewhat used to the horse's odd gait, for occasionally it sped up for three or four steps on its own mysterious initiative, Dave settled for keeping his hands on the other's hips, or even grabbing onto the back of his belt, curled fingers held in place by the pressure of warm muscle and skin. It was no time for squeamishness.

Dave was just rising up to full height. They were cresting a small hillock, and he was craning around for one last disbelieving look, to reassure himself that the lake was indeed gone when a series of cries came from off to the right and a decisive kick of the man's heels sent the horse galloping.

It's a good thing Dave was clinging to his belt, or he would have gone off the back, and the big guy's left hand curled around and gave him a quick haul forwards. Dave grabbed on for dear life, gaping off to the right, which he thought was south, to an escarpment. It was crumbling at the base and pock-marked with caves, split and opened by fissures and cracks and small dry watercourses coming in from the side. They'd been angling towards it for over an hour, and there was another cliff half a mile to the north.

Dull black figures, hideously painted, almost naked they were, ran along the top of the cliff and poured out of small hiding places along the boulder-strewn slope leading down from the bluff.

"Oh, my God!" They were all running pell-mell with weapons of various types, some had two or three slender spears clutched in their hands and what looked like throwing sticks.

They were coming straight at them.

They were deformed men, with long arms and short legs and they were painted like zebras, faces etched in horrible, multi-coloured masks. The first spear fell short and Dave said a quick expletive as the horse lowered its fine-boned head, its legs went horizontal fore and aft in one solid blur, and the thing really took flight.

Dave's barbarian friend ducked low over the horse's neck, arms wrapped around it, and all Dave could do was cling low to his back, gasping and half-weeping, and trying not to fall off. Dave thought his heart would come out of his chest. More of the attackers raced out on an angle, trying to get out in front of them, heading them off. Dave could see a notch in the valley wall over Tula'kepp's big shoulder, a ways up ahead of them and that was the way they all seemed to be pointed.

Dave shrieked when one ran up beside them, yelling and grabbing at him and brandishing a wooden club with short wicked spikes in the end, drools of some gooey substance visible all over it...

The big man drew his sword in a sudden motion, shrugging off his grip and Dave scrabbled for his belt again, his nails, short as they were, scraping flesh. Whether the horseman noticed or cared; he made no sign and on a word the horse side-stepped. With one quick swipe going past, standing up now at full height in the primitive rope stirrups made for just this purpose, he took the arm holding the club right off at the shoulder. The tip of the horrid thing missed Dave's right eye by inches or so it seemed and then they were past the last half-dozen of them.

The shriek of the pursuer, still running but now clutching a bloody stump and spewing an amazing amount of bluish-green gore, was awful to hear and then the creature tripped and fell face-down in the dust. Dave tore his eyes from the sight.

Their rabid cries faded off somewhere behind them. Dave took another look back and saw them, slowing now, but still coming on with determination.

His benefactor gave a triumphant shout as he twisted to look behind, and then he dropped down onto the horse's neck again, with Dave sobbing and cursing and trying to get some breath back in his body as he wondered what in the hell had just happened here.

A spear landed to their left, sticking in the ground with the butt end pointing up right at him as the horse cantered by. Dave didn't even see that one coming.

It must have missed his back by less than two feet, and so he stayed down until Tula'kepp sat up, took a quick look back, and then made a serious assault on the narrowing gorge ahead of them.

He held the mane with both hands now, after Dave helped guide the dripping sword back into its case. Dave wiped the blood from his fingers on the bottom cuff of his shorts. A bit of a stain was the least of his problems.

When they got to the top, ten or twelve minutes later, he whirled the animal aside from the trail, and the pair sat looking back down into the valley.

There was not a sign of life, and from up here Dave couldn't even see their horse's tracks.

"Bogg-oh-lars." It sounded like a curse.

He spat on the ground and said something more, which sounded like it boded evil for someone. Dave quietly panted and tried to work up some spit. Dave grabbed at his arm and on a look from Tula'kepp, indicated the water bottles. He nodded reluctantly and took a drink from Dave. Shit, he'd earned it after that little episode, and so had Dave.

He said something and Dave gave him a squeeze on the left deltoid to show he understood. Dave pulled the strings under the saddle belt and tied it on securely again. He nodded approval and gave Dave a smile of relief over his shoulder.

He casually wiped his bloody right hand on his bare upper leg. Turning the horse, they set off again, still going at a good pace and with much of the day still before them. Their mount seemed inexhaustible, yet sweat coursed down its flanks after a while, and there was foam on the muzzle. Dave felt a moment of pity for working animals everywhere at the sight. His life was sheltered in many ways. This was raw—very raw, and yet fascinating. Something weird was coming over Dave. It was like it was all meant to be. Dave had never felt like this before, at least not in a very long time. It was to be born anew—the words echoed inside and he wondered just exactly what that would imply. Everything worthwhile in life had a price tag attached.

The really valuable things couldn't be bought at any price, not in mere money.

Dave knew that much, but his guts trembled inside at the notion that he was a grown man and finally free...he could do what he wanted. No one back home would ever know.

Under Dave's hands the big man's stomach rumbled, but then so did Dave's. For no good reason at all, he felt incredibly lucky to be alive and to have such a remarkable experience. Maybe even a new lease on life.

Tula'kepp gazed into Dave's eyes and smiled.

This sure as hell wasn't Kansas anymore.

And again, Dave thought of those blasted condoms; and wondered if Tula'kepp had ever even seen one before, or if the guy would have the slightest idea of what to do with one. His hands fell from the mane, the man clucked and muttered something, and the horse moved on at a measured pace.

Act Three

There was a long, tenuous flutter in Dave's midriff as he contemplated the unthinkable, but putting things as logically as he could, that bloody lake didn't just disappear into thin air.

There was no explaining that part. Dave shoved those terrifying thoughts aside.

Sooner or later they must get to a phone.

In the meantime, Kenn'karr seemed like a really nice guy, and if nature didn't take some kind of a course pretty darned soon, he might be strongly tempted to have a go, and to take matters into his own hands.

Dave definitely felt that way about him. There was no denying it.

Dave Corrigan buried his head in Tula'kepp's back, and taking in a strong deep breath, sucked in the very smell of him, squeezing him tight in a long and unrestrained hug.

This was really living.

Tomorrow need never come at all, as far as Dave Corrigan was concerned.

A Perfect Fit

The Phone Rang

The phone rang.

Leroy picked up as his mother was in the main floor bathroom. He lived in the basement and had his own en-suite bath, beautifully done in cream and brown ceramic tile and knotty pine. Nothing too outrageous, but a flooding basement and good insurance coverage had conspired to give his mother a check for fourteen grand. Since Leroy was the one who filled out all the forms, and took all the pictures and made all the phone calls—his mom was afraid to make a claim as the rates might go up—the bathroom was his own special place, with an eight-foot wide vanity and mirrors every which way but loose. It just showed how stupid she could be sometimes—an insurance company's best customer, as it would seem

"Hello?'

"Leroy."

One word, but it was enough.

"Can I take a message?" This was for his mom's ears as she could likely hear through the hollow veneer bathroom door.

The house, a typical three-level split, upper working class all the way, was only about twelve hundred square feet, in the downscale end of the Kensington neighborhood.

"East Side Mall. Out front. Six-thirty or so?"

Sure enough, the toilet flushed and the bathroom door popped open.

"Okay. Goodbye."

His mother was right there.

"Who was that, Leroy?"

"Oh, I don't know. They said they'd call back."

Marilyn Butler bit back a growl and settled for a look.

"Honestly, I tried. They wouldn't give me a name or a number."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Her tone was warmer now.

It was probably true enough, she thought. Her quick stand on the scales showed she had gained three pounds. She had bigger troubles.

Anyhow, it was about as truthful as it was likely to get. Turning twenty-one had wrought some changes in Leroy Fulton, not least of which was an independent streak, without actually contributing a whole lot in terms of rent, room, board, paying a few bills, or whatever. Getting him to do any kind of chores or work was like pulling teeth, and some of his moods could be vicious.

Lately he was good for nothing and hard on food.

She was desperately worried about her son. It was a big world and he would have to go out there sooner or later. The pleasant-faced woman of forty tried very hard not to worry, but of course she did.

For her, later was all right, maybe after he got a little more education. In which case she'd have time to wean herself away, to some extent, but in the meantime, it wasn't always so easy.

#

Having evaded any real questioning, Leroy was waiting in a film noir drizzle, out in front, at the appointed place and time. Darkness was falling when the Lincoln Green Range Rover drew to a halt by the curb. The wipers went back and forth as he got in.

Once inside, he put his knapsack on the rear seat and strapped himself in as the African breezed through the parking lot and back out into evening traffic in the Big City.

The African, better known as Gordon Darrow, patted him on his bare knee.

"You're looking very sweet tonight."

Leroy blushed, and gave him a grateful look. Once a few blocks from home and safely on the bus, he'd hurriedly rolled up the cuffs, two inches at a time, five times on his gangsta-style low-rider pants. All he could do was to get off the bus quick, hope Darrow was on time, and pray no one he knew saw him doing it. It's just that Gordon was special, and he liked to make an entrance for him. That sort of thing paid handsome dividends later in the evening...

"You ain't seen the half of it, yet."

Pulling them up and tightening the belt had wrought a remarkable transformation. He liked the way Gordon looked at him when he was dressed provocatively. He liked the riskiness of it to a certain degree. It was all about building anticipation.

It was about the suspense, the thrill.

With Gordon, there was always plenty of foreplay. That was so different about him. Not that he knew too many guys, but. When Leroy checked out the porn videos, he didn't find them much of a turn-on. No one touched each other. There was little or no sensuality. There was no intimacy, no real human feeling at all. It was mere rutting, and they were rarely good-looking people either.

Leroy liked a lot of hugging, kissing, touching and fondling. Gordon had some imagination and loved Lee's role-playing. They knew how to push each other's little buttons, as Gordon said.

That was the interesting thing about Gordon. They'd gotten to know each other pretty well in conversation over the last two or three months.

Gordon was cheerfully bisexual.

No problem.

Lee was a transvestite—and he tried to give Gordon the best of both worlds. It's not like Lee hadn't given girls a thought, he'd even had one once. It was okay, and he could see the charm and everything. But this was so different—forbidden.

Gordon said he liked the irony of it—whatever the hell that meant.

In this mean old world you needed an edge, and Lee figured he had one. It seemed to be working, and their relationship was fun, both of them always horny as hell, and yet it was turning out to be deeply satisfying emotionally as well.

Lee never would have thought it was possible. Of course it could not last. That sort of thought always got pushed aside by the moment, but it hovered there in the background. Lee was submissive in that he wanted whatever Gordon wanted, and for the most part that meant a lot of sex, good sex, exciting sex, in all the right sorts of places. Lee's mind lingered on an incident or two.

Doing it in the car was always good—all those windows, all that smooth, hard, sometimes cool leather under your bare skin.

Gordon driving it into me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear...yum, yummy.

Lee let go of Gordon's hand.

He leaned forward and removed his puffy, high-top running shoes. He pulled off his socks. Chucking them over the seat-back, Leroy undid the elastic of his pony tail and shook his hair out, a nice thick medium brown mop he'd always liked and looked after. The only real inconvenience was binging his penis with a piece of plastic and strips of surgical tape, already in place because he knew he could never do it in a car. He always tried not to drink a lot of water before going out with Gordon.

He undid the seat-belt when they were moving along at a steady pace on one of the city's many boulevards. This was four lanes separated by concrete walls, planter boxes, and grassy strips interspersed with ornamental trees for shade and colour. Then he took off his hooded sweatshirt, and quickly undoing the seat-belt again, wriggled out of his shorts and undies.

Neon colours washed over him as he got naked in a hurry under Gordon's approving eye.

Leroy fished his black patent-leather heels out of the knapsack. He put them on the passenger seat, and fished around some more, coming up with a hot medium red colour of lipstick in the black velvet compact, which he needed as well. His legs were as smooth and silky as anyone's. They'd better be at the cost, and the sort of risk he took getting them that way. No one had seen Lee in regular shorts for a while, that was a safe thing to say. High socks, long shorts hanging halfway down your ass, (that was the best part) and keep moving, that was his way nowadays.

Leroy belted himself in again. Dropping the passenger-side sun-visor, he applied a little powder and a little paint, turning his head from side to side and making puckering up motions with his lips. Gordon was just at that age when hair started to fade on the top of the head and sort of spring out everywhere else. Lee prayed that it never happened to him. Male pattern baldness wasn't a real problem, thinking of the relatives for a moment...

He changed from the small keeper-studs to a more dangling set of highly-polished silver disc earrings on long pendant chains. Lee had a couple of other things in the back-pack, including a black velvet clutch-purse and a bangle for his left wrist and a hot turquoise Navajo-style ring for the pinky of his right hand.

"That, my dear, will have to suffice." Leroy looked over the seat back again and put a couple of things away carefully.

He put the shoes on, as the African looked on and tried to drive.

"What do you think?"

"You, are positively ravishing, my love, my Hot-Bitch-Lady-of-the-Lake. And also very naked."

The African's eyes went down to a curious object on the passenger seat, as Leroy slid, turned around and knelt down in the foot-well, eyes like limpid pools of darkness. He recognized a rubber glove.

"Ah. Nice." He pulled up to a stoplight, and took the opportunity of snapping it onto his right hand. "Very nice."

Lee took the hand, and carefully licked the middle finger, going up and down and holding his master's eyes, making it good and wet.

The African regarded his hot little sex slave, and gave a smile. He patted Leroy on the cheek.

"Down you go, bitch."

The light turned green. Leroy's head went down, and his hands, and he sought out the fasteners on the African's grey wool pants. He was curled up nice and cozy, with a thoughtful car blanket on the floor. Gordon thought of everything. He was very masterful. If only there was a little more light in here so Gordon could have a better view.

Lee would have liked to have seen this on video.

"Oh."

Gordon, with his long reach, had inserted his finger and Lee ground and wriggled against it.

He had his master moaning and weaving down the road to some small degree shortly thereafter.

He hadn't tasted his master's cock in so long, and the sheer sordid, sweaty, trembling desire made him grind and wiggle his bum under the ministrations of the African's middle finger. It was one of many games they played.

The African took his other hand off the wheel for a second and tapped Leroy on the shoulder.

The slave came up for air with shining eyes. He was always trying to make the African cum in his mouth, and not having much luck with it. Sooner or later, it would happen. It was a part of the courtship process—Lee wanted it to happen, and so far Gordon hadn't been able to do it. Lee would keep trying. This was his special time, and he always made the most of it.

"How about a drink, my lovely little one?"

Leroy nodded, biting his lip. Gordon let his bum go. He rolled down the window and chucked the glove. Plenty of time for that later.

Lee got back up on the seat and reached over the back again.

Leroy had picked out the cutest little outfit, and he wanted the African to see it.

He had the dress on in a jiffy. It was a perfect fit.

#

"So, where are we going?"

"Oh, I don't know."

Hmn. So it was like that, eh.

#

The African had gone into the liquor store.

Hopefully, he wouldn't be too long, coming out with something wet and sweet and alcoholic, and it would be great if it was cold. The engine idled and the heater was on, and it was warm and comfortable in the cabin. The leather seats could be a shock, as he'd noticed before. Leroy was savoring the terrible roller-coaster thrill of sitting there, wide-open, lights all over the place, feeling the centre of attention in a really nice ride like that, and just feeling so sexy. He wore the slinkiest little dress. It was short, strapless and sewn all over with costume jewels. The ruffly feel of it over the breast area would be a big help, it had been just what he was looking for. It clung to every nuance, every bone and curve. Knitted of soft, yet thin yarn, it had cost him a fortune, not just the dress but a post office box as well. Underneath he had on black, split-crotch panties, very sheer and with the thinnest of outlines. He had one or two more tricks up his sleeve, including two cheap pairs of handcuffs and a real-live, actual blindfold, one he'd ordered out of the back of a pulp magazine. They were still in the packsack. He'd even bought a black plastic dildo. Everything matched, a bit of a giggle there. Even the lid on his little scent-spray was black.

He felt so desirable, so much the centre of the African's attention. Leroy always tried to drive him mad with passion, of course. But this was special. This was the first dress he'd ever bought to wear for the African, this nice, albeit slightly perverted Mister Gordon Darrow.

He seemed to approve. Gordon could slobber all over him. It's what he wanted, loved, craved.

Lee's eyes lit up. They were done here, and the man himself was right at the door. Leroy took the bag and set it on the floor ahead of him as the African got in and slammed the door.

The African had hunted elephants, lions and tigers, and he'd been in the Border Police, and he'd even smuggled drugs and diamonds. He'd even smuggled people for a while. Leroy believed it. He always thought of him like that: the African. It was mysterious, it was romantic...it sounded so much more dangerous, really. It held a certain glamour.

If only there was someone he could tell.

Leroy didn't doubt the stories, the man's magnetism, his gravitas, made any question of questioning his story...well, a non-question.

He had a couple of scars on his body, big ones, ones that sure enough looked like real bullet holes. Lee loved looking at those scars, and kissing them, too.

Leroy kept checking and rechecking his looks in the mirror. He sprayed on some more scent and took in some long, deep breaths.

One last look and he put up the visor.

He twisted in the seat, bringing up his left knee and reaching for the bag.

"Ah."

The African put on his right-turn signal to take them out onto the Divided highway.

The ripple of anticipation went through Leroy's belly.

He poured into thin, disposable plastic glasses. There were always a few in the centre console.

"Ooh." He passed a glass to the African and then took a sip himself. "Where are you taking me?"

"You'll just have to wait and see." The African looked in the mirror and changed lanes, taking it up to seventy-five and heading into the distant glare of the downtown core.

He gave Lee a warm smile, eyes dancing in mischief.

"Aw." Lee pulled the hem up a bit and crossed his legs so the other could see and then he pretended to pout.

He edged away slightly, managing to expose a bit more leg in the process.

Hmn. Uh-hmn. This was going to be such an outstanding night.

#

"Oh, my, God." Leroy stared in horror up at the façade of a creamy white stone townhouse, two and a half stories, flag hanging off the end of the covered entrance and a servant in a red coat just getting into the car ahead of them. An elegant couple made their entrance into the solid glass slab door, another God-damned servant there too, with massive bronze hardware popping out all over the place.

"It's okay, I know them very well. It's just a little wine and cheese party."

The vehicle ahead of them, a big white Lincoln, pulled away. Leroy's heart thudded with the now-or-never decision.

I mean, I knew, I thought he was a little nuts and everything...but this.

This.

"All right." He clung to the African's hand as the car moved forwards and then stopped. "There had better not be anybody I know in there."

Fuck, it was like being a Bond girl. Lee's heart was tripping full blast. He resisted the urge to chew his nails, he regretted the lack of guts when it came to painting them. He wanted things to be just perfect for the African.

Gordon Darrow looked at Lee and just shook his head in amusement. The transformation was complete, and even though he wasn't being very objective—he thought Lee was as cute as hell, but he just didn't understand the doubt, the inability to see what you were, what you had—it really was a convincing illusion.

It also didn't seem very likely that any of Lee's friends would be there, waiting to pounce.

It was just an irrational terror. He'd had a few of those over the years, Lee thought.

The African had been to something like thirty-eight countries around the world in his relatively short life—he was forty-one, or so he said, and seemed to know or have met just about anyone who was anyone. Some of them were quite famous.

On the other hand, his long-time friend Slick Willigans' old man supposedly worked as a handyman somewhere downtown. The people he worked for were supposed to be really rich.

A flunky stepped up to the passenger door. He pulled the handle. Thankfully, it wasn't Slick's dad or anything like that.

Oh, well, here goes nothing.

I can't believe I'm really doing this.

Lee twisted and reached for the proffered hand. His long, sexy legs dropped to the pavement.

Try to remember to keep your knees together, a little voice whispered in the back of his head.

Gordon came around and then they were there.

#

"Darling!" It was a heavy-set woman in an electric-blue lamé dress, one sporting an enormous décolletage, which Lee admittedly probably couldn't even spell, wearing dancing slippers and positively reeking of jasmine.

She flung out her arms as the African grinned, hand lightly around Leroy's waist.

"Hello."

Leroy himself didn't have any breasts at all, of course, but foam rubber balls, frozen and cut in half with a very sharp utility knife, once thawed, in a strapless bra, created an amazing illusion. You just had to wear the right gown.

Leroy didn't have to worry too much about the beginnings of a blush or anything like that because he was already flushing beet-red under his paint and powder, bashful as all get out, at the sight of the glittering crowd in what was clearly a small ballroom.

Oh, God.

The lady's eyes turned to Leroy.

"Oh." She bit her lip in an ostentatious manner and mugged astonishment at the African.

She put her hand up to her mouth rather theatrically, or so Lee reckoned.

"Oh, who's your lovely friend?"

"This is Lee Butler."

"Gordon. I'm impressed." Cocking her head on an oblique angle, she smiled so sweetly at Leroy. "It's wonderful to meet you, Lee."

There was the distinct smell of alcohol coming off of the old girl as she simpered at him.

Clacking forwards on some very tall and very hard shoes, she took both of Leroy's hands in hers.

"Oh, girlie. Men are just so lousy at introductions." She gave Leroy a quick hug. "I'm Sophia Ashton-Phouza and my no-good better half Richard is around here somewhere...most likely pinching a bottom or something."

She winked.

"Could be a girl or a boy, who knows, eh?" She looked directly at Leroy and her voice went way down. "He works for the CBC, don't you know."

The perfect rendition of a heavy-handed male announcer cracked Lee up momentarily, breaking the ice and helping him to let go. But this was an amazing moment. Drawing a sharp breath, Lee looked again, something about the way the mascara was put on about the eyes, but she was just old. Lee was pretty sure this was a woman after all.

"It's good to see you again." Gordon extended a hand and they clasped. "Ah, Sophia, yes. It's been a long time."

The two exchanged a bit of polite gossip as Leroy looked around.

Blah-blah-blah-blah, blah-blah...blah-blah.

Blah-blah-blah-blab-bah. Aw.

Lee had initially been attracted by that dry, dusty voice, clipped and easy to get and yet so clearly foreign. Leroy couldn't stand certain accents. Aussies bugged him so much he made fun of them. He mimicked them and said things like 'buggah me dingo.'

Even worse, at least in Leroy's opinion, were the Kiwis.

If he ever had to live there, he would have quite a problem. It bothered him that much.

But the South African accent, certainly among the whites, was utterly pragmatic in the use and the pronunciation, or at least that was how Leroy saw it. Just that hint of Dutch or German or something in there.

To him, it was drop-dead sexy. Lee had crashed a party, out with someone else one night, and then he heard that voice. When Gordon actually came up and talked to him, well, that was pretty much game over for Leroy.

He only put up resistance to make it appear as interesting as possible for the other.

It's not like he was stupid or anything.

More people drifted up and Gordon led Leroy a little further into the room and off to the right.

"There's the bar."

Gordon grinned.

"Great minds think alike."

"Yes, but fools seldom differ." It was one of their little sayings.

They headed that way, not so much at the back of a throng as trying to gently ease through and around stationary clumps and groups of people with cocktail glasses in various configurations in their hands and the occasional napkin. The feel of Gordon's hand on him in public was sheer bliss.

Half a dozen glittering chandeliers hung from the ceiling. There were tables lined up covered in white linen and silver platters, a huge crystal bowl with fruit floating in some kind of punch, surrounded by rows and rows of cut-crystal glasses. There were some silver-domed platters in there too.

There might be food here, thought Leroy, brightening up ever so little.

Gordon, leaning over, lightly kissed the top of Leroy's left ear. He was a head taller almost.

His heart began to pound, for Lee was sort of getting into it. It was beginning to sink in. His knees were steadier now.

He could always slug somebody and make a run for it.

Female impersonator assaults guest, dashes from charity reception.

Police seeking unknown suspect...

He could see the headlines now.

No one here knew him from Adam. It was almost a dead certainty. No one he knew would ever move in this crowd. It was bizarre, and the most sublime kind of freedom. He might be awfully queer-looking, and yet they accepted him, a total stranger, at face value, whatever their private thoughts. It was his own friends he was most afraid of.

It was more his own family, and he could see that now, it was his own perceptions of how things were—how things ought to be, that he could not or at least until now, would not confront.

He could not shake off his early upbringing.

"You look lovely tonight, Lee."

Two gentlemen, holding their drinks, one balancing something on a small plate, gallantly edged away from each other so they could pass, and then resumed their conversation.

One was older, perhaps mid-sixties, but the other one, the mid-forties guy with the plate, with sleek looks and healthy black hair, possibly died or touched-up, raked Leroy with his eyes as the pair went through. Lee was certain the man's eyes were lingering still. It was that palpable.

"I must remember to breathe once in a while." Leroy was joking although it didn't quite come across that way.

Gordon chuckled.

"Here we are." He drew Leroy in close. "What will you have, my darling?"

Leroy bumped up against him, one, two, three times.

He really was more comfortable now. He might just be an ugly woman, right? That's how he felt about it, sometimes, all the time, really.

They were husband and wife, and pity the poor sod.

He was a wonderful imposter.

He could have sworn the make-up was near-perfect. He'd spent months perfecting it, after all, and all mostly for Gordon. There would always be doubts, there would always be the fear of discovery, betrayal, exposure for what he was...a freak, even in his own mind. Thoughts like that always made his guts sort of flip over.

Everyone always said they could spot a tranny right off.

But was that really true?

Or was it pure bullshit?

He blew out some air, unconscious of the act. His hand went to his hair, pulling it back from the right eye. He had thoroughly practiced the gesture. No one ever need know, or even suspect. The thought of the African with anything other than a knockout, man or woman, come to think of it, was a bit of a non-sequitur.

Yeah, but in that case, what in the hell am I doing here?

It didn't make that much sense after all. Gordon was looking at him.

"Oh, I don't know."

"We'll try something new." The barman finished with another customer and moved over.

"Hi. What'll you have?"

"Scotch, rocks. My date will have a gin gimlet."

"Oooh. What's that?"

The barkeep looked up with a mouth-closed smiling kind of a look but continued on getting the materials and mixing the drinks.

"What is that, lime juice or something?" There were a couple of drops of something weird going in.

Leroy watched intently, being still very shy out in public.

He could see all the people in the mirror anyways. His own image looked all right. The trouble was, he knew the truth, didn't he? It was difficult to see yourself through the eyes of a stranger.

He had never really tried to walk in the shoes before, and that was the thing. Gordon patted him on the bum and he slapped the hand away, taking the inevitable look around to see if anyone had noticed.

Would that be an entirely bad thing? No one had been watching. It was slightly disappointing to see that no one cared.

Gordon grinned, looking around the room. There were instruments set up and laying on stands on a small stage at the back end of the hall. There were no musicians to be seen yet. Some sort of chamber music, he thought, going by the cello.

"It's a long, hard tool." Even the bartender had to snicker at that one.

Leroy's eyes lit up.

"What? Oh, a gimlet." Hell, even Leroy knew that.

He'd taken high-school woodworking shop.

"It's used for poking holes in things. Skin—ah, leather I mean."

"You mean like teeny-tiny little button holes." Lee waited. "Bung holes."

"Ah, yes."

"Or reaming things out with?"

The barman put their glasses down and Lee tasted it.

"Nice. Kind of makes me horny."

Gordon gagged a bit but managed to swallow anyway.

Leroy arched his eyebrows and gave Gordon a long and significant glance.

"What's a matter, cat got your tongue?"

Lee turned and gave the barman a long and lewd and lascivious look. He batted his eyelashes at the man.

He really was getting into it.

Gordon sputtered again, almost sending scotch up and out through the nostrils.

"We're going to have to keep an eye on this one." Laughing outright, the barman put their napkins down and stood there with a friendly look on his face. "The lady's is on the house. It's a little rule I just made up around here."

And he winked at Leroy, who was rendered kind of speechless by it.

Again his heart fluttered, and his face settled into a neutral and pleasant friendliness as he looked away. It was best to keep an open mind and not read too much into it. However. He was getting right into the part, and that was always fun.

Gordon put a twenty down with a nod, waving off the change, and they moved away to get out of the press.

Everyone Was Very Polite and Friendly

After meeting what seemed like everyone in the place, all of whom were very polite and very friendly, and endless roll of names, a slightly-giddy Leroy sighed in relief as the house lights came down.

What Gordon called a 'chamber sextuplet,' much to Leroy's amusement, had been sitting there and tuning up for the last few minutes. Lee tried to sort of catch his breath.

With a name like that, they'd damn well better deliver, Lee had told him.

There was a hush.

Sweet strains swelled up and overwhelmed the senses. Lee watched the rhythmic movements and listened to the music in fascination. He'd never seen anything like this in his life. He took a quick look around at the crowd, rapt with attention. It was like elevator music with some soul poured into it, at least that was one way of describing it.

They had a small table by this time, in what had seemed like a quiet little corner, to the inexperienced Leroy. It turned out to be centre-stage when the lights went down. To be fair, this was at least well away from the doors, where people continued to arrive. Leroy could feel a lot of eyes on him. With his back turned, and a lot more confident in the dress now, he didn't mind it so much. He took a peek under the table and studied the shoes.

Stunning. And only a hundred-forty bucks, too.

But there was so much more going on.

It was actually kind of nice to be out and in public like this. So this was culture.

Leroy reached under the table and gave Gordon's hand a squeeze. The chairs were angled together just nicely so that they could watch, and listen, and still communicate. There was a little bowl of flowers floating in water on the table and an unlit candle.

He whispered, conscious of the company, but also that some others were doing a bit of it.

"This is lovely." The earrings gently touched his neck from time to time, and Gordon was wearing some spicy aftershave. "So romantic, Honey-bum."

"Hmn." That big strong hand squeezed Lee's.

Leroy didn't recognize the tune, which sounded obscure at best. It was fairly short, which was a blessing.

The next tune sounded suspiciously like a waltz, which Leroy had actually learned in music classes and in band practice beginning in grade nine.

One or two couples drifted out onto the gleaming parquet floor. Taking up a stance, on a nod or some kind of signal, as generally-speaking the man led, they began to dance.

"Lee."

With shining eyes, still watching the three couples now waltzing around under multi-coloured spotlights, he tore his eyes away to look at Gordon.

Letting go of Lee' hand, Gordon rose, bowed and extended a hand.

"Would you honour me with a dance, Lee?"

Leroy pounded back the remains of his second gin gimlet, made for poking tight holes in skin don't you know, and firmly clamped his mouth back up into its proper place.

If this wasn't an adrenalin rush, then someone had better explain exactly how it differed.

He tried to get up gracefully, and almost managed it, but he was so weak in the knees and woozy in the head all of a sudden.

"Why, yes—yes, of course, my darling."

Bastard.

I sure didn't see that one coming, did I?

You will pay for this, Gordon Darrow.

#

They danced a few numbers.

With the ensemble playing gently in the background, his head on Gordon's shoulder, Leroy forgot about focusing on the steps and moves and just shuffled along. That's probably what saved him from being a pure disaster, he thought.

It really was nice, though. Gordon's hands were resting lightly on his hips, or in the small of his back. They could hold hands and no one would care...it was just like normal people. The warmth of his body was right there. Gordon had an erection, incidentally.

In point of fact, Leroy had no intention of ever dancing man-with-man. He had no desire to be openly gay and live as husband and husband...or boyfriend and boyfriend. Man-on-man.

This was what did it for him.

He'd concluded a long time ago that he was a woman trapped in the body of a man and might as well try and adapt to the circumstances and make the best of it.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you." Gordon's head was close to his.

Leroy looked up, contented with the moment, his hand almost inevitably creeping further and further down Gordon's back.

"Yes, sugar. What is it?"

Gordon put a finger across Leroy's lips.

"Let's get out of here. We'll go someplace quiet."

Leroy allowed himself to be led off to the cloakroom, with a sudden giggle as he caught on.

The cloakroom! They'd done some daring things, but so far nothing as outrageous as that.

Gordon liked it a bit out there in some ways and Leroy had found him a perfect fit for his sly, exhibitionistic streak.

There was the fear of getting caught and the thrill of getting away with it, as Gordon had said.

Oddly enough, they were there to get their coats.

After making a quick goodbye to their hostess, looking a bit frazzled after only this short time, smelling even more strongly of alcohol, they made their escape into the lurid glare of the outdoors. There must have been five hundred people jammed in there by that time.

Someplace Quiet

Back in the Range Rover, Gordon let Leroy drive them up into the hills overlooking the city, popping the cork on their own private champagne and tossing the dregs of the other bottle out into the darkness.

Lee found a place where they could get off the road, in a small lane leading into a pasture screened from view by a conifer windbreak. Lee knew he was a bit tipsy and drove accordingly, but even so...even so.

"Whew. Here we are."

The lights of the city were spread out below them. The engine ticked as it cooled down, and they got out and stood in front of the vehicle.

Gordon wrapped his arms around Lee from behind.

He nibbled Lee's ear-lobe.

"It's chilly out here, lover."

"Mmn, but nice." Leroy looked up at the stars, silent in their gaze overhead.

Lee had a thought, ignoring for the moment the fact that Gordon had never raped him in a meadow under the moonlight. He filed that one away for future reference.

"You said that you had something to tell me."

"Yeah. But let's get warm first, shall we?"

#

"Now, I don't want you to panic, all right? I don't want you to get upset. Promise?"

"I'm pregnant." Lee blamed the champagne for that one, collapsing in giggles and grabbing at Gordon's shirt.

Gordon had the motor running and the heater going full blast as Lee's hoodie was all he had with him for the evening chill. It was still in the back seat. Lee loved that dress too much to cover it up just yet.

A brief smile crossed Gordon's face, but this was a serious moment.

"No, seriously, darling—"

Lee straightened up in the seat.

"So go ahead, lover, I'm listening."

Gordon found it hard to meet Lee's quickly sobering eyes.

"I've been called back. To Johannesburg."

And as Lee's mouth dropped, and then dropped further, and the crushing reality hit him, that he was going to lose Gordon just when the going was so sweet, it was like a kick in the nuts from someone that really knew what they were doing.

He didn't even know how he got there. He was out of his seat and in the African's lap.

"Oh." Lee shivered in Gordon's arms, crying.

"Come on, come on, lover, it's not that bad."

Gordon took his chin in his hand.

"Come on, Babe, stay with me for a minute."

Lee dried his tears and wiped his nose on a tissue, with a long breath and a heavy heart. Guts hollow and cold, he settled back into the passenger side.

Gordon studied that wet, tender little face.

"Oh, God."

"No, really, Lee. Listen to me—"

"Oh, Gordon..."

Lee sat staring straight out the front window.

"Please...Lee?"

Lee let out a long, shuddering breath and turned to look again.

"Give me your hand."

Lee looked devastated, but the spirit of submission was still strong in him.

He put his left hand in Gordon's and to his initial lack of understanding, Gordon slipped a glistering something on his finger.

"What! Whoa! Gordon! Gordon? Whoa!" Lee's eyes popped at the golden band and the rock standing proud and high above it. "Oh, my God, Gordon. What is this?"

"It's a ring. A little going-away present. Don't worry, I don't leave until the nineteenth—of August. So we've still got a little time yet."

Lee was weeping, holding the ring up in the light, looking back and forth from Gordon's face...to the ring and back again.

His mouth opened and closed several times as he stared.

"There's more to this...isn't there?"

Gordon took a deep breath.

"Oh, well, honey...yes." He exhaled. "Yes, there is more. Very much more."

He extended his arms and Lee desperately clung to him again.

#

Lee sat in Gordon's lap, the steering wheel fully pushed up out of the way, and the light rock music on the radio playing softly.

"So...let me see if I've got this straight. You go back to South Africa."

Gordon nodded brightly.

"Uh-huh."

"...and I go back to school and study wildlife biology..." Which was just what Lee had been doing all along, in fact he was attending a good school and would have had to give up Gordon to a major extent anyways in the fall.

The school was three hundred miles away from his hometown—where Gordon worked as a systems analyst for a company specializing in software applications for big business. Lee didn't even have a car—he'd have to wait for when Gordon could get away.

They might get a few weekends together if they were lucky. Shit, he had years to go yet.

"That's right. And I'll come back over once or twice, you can be sure of that—"

Lee nodded, as he might not have gotten much more than that anyway.

"...and then next summer you come over there, and I'll have a job all set up with the company for you. What do you think of that?"

Lee thought about that: Africa, all on his own, just he and Gordon...no Mom, no school, no need to hide anymore.

"What kind of a job?"

"Oh, don't you worry about that. We'll find you something. Maybe just grounds-keeper or something, riding around on mower all day. It'll be a good rate, and you can save most of your money anyway. Right?"

Lee nodded. He had a few more years of school still to go, and yet it was a workable plan.

All it took was guts.

"You'll be living with me, right?"

He could at least see it happening in his head.

"And then what?" Lee spun the ring on his finger.

"You'll have to hide that somewhere your mother won't find it." Gordon pulled Lee in and gave him another kiss, a good, a wet one, with tongue aggressive as if to remind him of their original agenda. "...and then what, the lovely boy says. Well, dummy, finish off your ticket, and then you can come and live with me. 'Cause we have wildlife biologists in South Africa, you know. Like, I mean, ah...forever."

"For—forever, Gordon?" Lee sobbed softly.

Gordon just held him for awhile.

Their faces were close.

Lee's eyes never wavered.

"All right." He licked his lips, feeling all cool and scary inside.

He plucked absently at Gordon's shirt buttons.

"But there's just one thing."

"And what's that?"

"Fuck! Sooner or later I have to go pee, Gordon."

"All right, all right, little one, I'll take you home then." Gordon reached for the gear shift lever.

"No!"

"What, then? You want to go pee out there then?"

"No. Gordon." There was a certain tone to it.

The teasing was over.

Gordon Darrow wagged his head from side to side and gave Lee a frankly appraising look, knowing exactly what that did for Lee, who immediately averted his eyes and began licking his lips.

"Ah. Now I get it." Gordon tried to fake a frown but couldn't do it. "My hot little babe wants to go to a motel."

Lee snorted.

"Yeah—I mean, it's the least you could do. God, after a shock like that."

Gordon Darrow carefully backed out the vehicle, extremely competent it was off-road too, recalling that there was a motel a few kilometres down the road.

"...and don't forget to talk dirty to me and stuff...you know. Everything. I want the works."

Gordon laughed out loud, and turned up the tunes. They even had a honeymoon suite there, it said so on the sign out front.

Lee handed him a nicely-replenished glass. They each raised theirs.

"Here's to us."

Ah, what the hell, eh. It might even work out.

End

About Harold C. Jones

Harold C. Jones does professional landscape design and is an avid sports fan. He started writing as a hobby. He began taking it seriously when he realized he had something to say. His work has helped him to come to terms with himself, or perhaps explore himself would be more accurate. Harold believes that homo-erotica is valid as literature, and that it can be written in such a way that real stories of real people takes precedence over mere prurience, and still be a hot read.

> Harold C. Jones <

