Gay Erotic Stories

“No mam, that’s okay. Just give him this. I didn’t have the money for him the last couple of times; he cut my grass on credit. I just wanted to pay him.”

“Oh. Thank you!” She grabbed the envelope fast; I had an awful feeling he might not ever see it. “Most folks, we have to keep callin' for the pay, he’s always working on credit. He don’t even keep up with who owes him! Nice of you!” Her smile went soft and generous.

“Daddy, you awake?” a child’s voice called from the dark interior, “It’s somebody for you at the door.”

He came up behind his mother. “Hi, Mr. Dean. Can I help you?”

“Hey, Robert. I just stopped by to pay what I owed you, sorry to make you wait for it.”

He saw the envelope in his mother’s hand; she didn’t offer it to him. “Thanks, my truck’s down. This’ll get me rolling again, so I can work. No truck and I can’t make any money, you know?” He glanced down at his mom, she didn’t budge.

“Well Rob, I wish you would count it before I leave, make sure we’re square on everything.” I smiled at his mother. She reluctantly handed over the envelope. He reached inside and counted the bills. He squeezed out a tight grin, dimples followed. “It’s more than I expected, Mr. Dean. Thank you, sir.”

“I thought I should pay you some interest, for making you wait. See you next week?”

He pulled out two of the bills and handed the rest back to his mother; she snatched the envelope and disappeared. “Sure, I’ll see you next week. Or, anytime you want me.”

“Next Friday will be fine, Robert. Have a nice weekend.”

“Mr. Dean?” It was his mother, “Anytime you need Robert, just call and tell me, I’ll make sure he remembers!”

Robert waved from the porch.

I needed walking, fresh air. Drove down to River Landing and did some window shopping, not ready to go back and face the stained sheets. Paintings, decorative objects, gifts and collectibles ... all the distractions I usually required, but they all looked dull and tacky. I walked without looking, just moved from shop to shop and tried not to think. Got a chicken salad sandwich and sat on a bench overlooking the water, sipped iced tea.

It’s always sad when you know he’s not the one. So rarely does a candidate even appear, makes it tough to let one go. Robert was not for me, not the partner or companion I might wish for. Did I ever think he might be? Maybe he was just a diversion, like the shop trinkets. He didn’t even make a pleasant object for gratification; he was much too complex and demanding. He wasn’t just a pretty boy to rent; he came with all the encumbrances of a human being, with all the needs and scars left from previous encounters. Was that what I wanted? A toy? An inflatable plastic dildo? That didn’t sound reasonable but when was I ever a man of reason? This was heart talk, and my heart knew it couldn’t invent love poems about Robert. He wouldn’t sit still for it!

I chuckled to myself. His conflicts were fascinating and his impulses were unpredictable, still, multi hours on a high priced leather couch might be needed before he could honestly deal with his feelings, direct some energy to a significant other! I’d been through my limit of neurotic lovers, don’t play that anymore. The depression hurts, the let down after the lift of fancy. I’d been here before, knew the signs and omens. What teenagers called a broken heart, I called a down cycle. It’s just the potholes along life’s road!

I really needed a new toy, something fun and captivating. Maybe a trip? A nice hotel with a casino? A bar with a flirtatious bartender? A new painting? Yes, that’s what I need, the focused involvement with bringing an image to life, a controllable obsession! I hadn’t painted in a while. Something big, challenging. Arresting. Certainly a figure; probably male. A mythic figure, a spiritual entity like a centaur? Is there a cross between a deer and a man? What’s it called? Robert? I thought it was a fitting way to close our little affair, I’d paint him--exorcism by art.

“Hello, can I help you find something?” He was pleasant, about forty and slender, very short dark hair and wire rimmed glasses.

“That would be great if I knew what I was looking for.” I smiled.

“It’s always difficult to find when you aren’t sure what it is.” He smiled, a bit of the old gamin. I liked him.

“I’m trying to research an image of a man-deer combination, how it’s been used, and any period.” I closed the volume on Mythology, no listing.

“Do you have a print, a picture you’re searching for?” His brows lifted in the center, confused.

“No, just a fuzzy concept in my head; I want to paint this thing, but I wondered if anyone has done it before.”

“Aha, an artist!” His face cleared.

“Exactly, a certified flake, so stop trying to make sense of me, it’s pointless.”

He laughed, “I’ll take your word for it. I can only think of Diana, being turned into a hart as those dogs chased her, wait!” He screwed up his brows; again, they seemed especially flexible! “Something ... an early American Indian illustration? One of the early American artists that made prints to sell in Europe?” He glanced down the shelves of art books and pulled one out, flipped it quickly, “Here, Plains Indian Deer Spirit.” He showed me a watercolor of an Indian in skins and antlers, very ugly! He handed me the book and while I studied the picture he went for another one ... “Fresco from Pompeii, Slaughter of a Forest Spirit. Not sure this one is a deer, it may be a goat. A Faun?”

“That’s it! Yes! I must have seen this somewhere; it’s very much what I had in mind! My god, man, do you know every picture in these books? I’m impressed as hell. What’s your name?”

“Wendell Morris, at your service! And don’t call me Windy, please!” Eyebrows way up! “But I’ll answer to about anything else, “Genius”, “Smartass”, anything.” His smile was great, a wide mouth that actually turned up at the corners, like a cartoon.

I shook his hand, “Dean Mallion, it’s Irish. Artist for my soul, insurance flunky for my checkbook. You’re a miracle worker! Ever run across Helen Keller?”

“Well, I saw her once, but she didn’t see me. Hey, I spend all my time flipping through the books; I love paintings, especially old ones, before nineteen hundred. Modern art gives me a pain in the eye. You’re going to paint this?”

“Something very like it, I hope. I have a model I want to paint and he reminds me of a deer, slender and graceful and tan. I think it might be interesting to paint him in a symbolist manner, maybe Pre-Raphaelite style.” I worried I might bore him, but he was following with interest.

“Is he a terribly tragic boy? Are you going to paint him being killed? That’s extreme, isn’t it?” He pushed up his glasses, seemed concerned. I hesitated, not sure how far I wanted to explain my concept. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He filled the pause, “I mean, it’s your painting, no need to explain. I sound like an idiot!”

“Don’t say that, not at all. I’m just not sure how to explain, not that I don’t want to. Listen, give me time to think about it. Sell me this book and I’ll go off and meditate or whatever. It would be terrific to discuss it with someone, someone who knows painting. Can we meet later? Maybe when you get off? I need coffee to talk intelligently; I’m blundering because my caffeine is low.”

His eyebrows arched like a gull, “You aren’t blundering, Dean. But I get off at five, what’s that, an hour? We have coffee right up front and tables on the sidewalk. We are fully prepared for intelligent conversation, amazing how infrequently it finds us! Please come back! At five, I mean.” .....

Not a single time that I noticed, did his lively eyes check out my build or my basket. He can’t be gay. He works in a book store, likes art and uses words of more than two syllables ... he must be gay! I will not speculate. We agreed to meet and discuss a painting concept, be happy. How many people of any persuasion are willing to listen to me ramble on? Shit, he’ll call me Windy before dark. If he’s not gay, I can’t say too much about Robert, gross him out. Wait, that’s not fair. If he’s intelligent and sensitive, then he can discuss the concept of gay relationships without being threatened, right? Who am I kidding? I needed coffee.

“First, I have to know the situation. I mean, are you involved with him? Do you wish you were involved with him or hope to become ...”

I interrupted the list, “I was involved with him but now it’s over.”

“Aha, see? That helps a lot. Now I can understand painting him being killed in a violent and bloody attack!”

“No.... Oh, you’re being funny! Okay; but not really. I was only going to paint him alone, but this picture makes me think about the second figure and how I might use him. See this hand that comes from behind and cups the faun’s cheek? That’s a powerful imagery for my model, especially the thumb across his lips.”

“A sexual reference, huh? There is something sexual in this picture, guess that’s why it stuck in my mind. The facial expressions? The arms wrapped around from behind? Maybe just the big muscled hunter attacking the delicate and beautiful faun. The knife is a penetration weapon, always a sexual symbol. This painting could actually be about a boy’s loss of innocence to a brute man, maybe even to his own brute nature overcoming his youthful ideals?”

“Yes, now you’re talking! I like the mixed signals, the insistence on more than meets the eye. This fresco becomes a symbolist picture because we don’t know the narrative context. That’s the power of the symbolist paintings, don’t you think? To make the viewer explore all the possible interpretations. In narrative painting, we can guess at alternative meanings, but the story line must support it. I don’t think life is like a narrative painting because there are always multiple things going on, many motives pulling people and the actual circumstance is a concession, not a culmination.”

“Dean, how much coffee have you had? Slow down and let me catch up!” We laughed. “So an actual circumstance (and you mean a shutter click, a still picture) captures the concessions we make to all the various forces pulling at us ... it doesn’t illustrate a straight line from desire to action ... something like that?”

So we set a date for dinner, Sunday evening. I think it was my idea, but Wendell is a sly devil! I’m not sure. He wants to cook, okay by me, I haven’t had home cooked in years. I supplied wine and flowers from my yard. White roses and deep pink phlox, not much blooming right then. He had the perfect glasses for the wine, a cut crystal vase that made the garden roses look classy, white candles that smelled like vanilla, Paul Cadmus drawings on the wall, and perfect asparagus, mint lamb and rice pilaf with a raspberry tart and home made ice cream. He had ivory satin sheets and colored, flavored condoms and Steven Hill music on the high end stereo. And boring sex. Not bad sex, not awkward or embarrassed or messy sex, just bland and dutiful.

“Mmm, Dan, that was so nice. We fuck like old friends, don’t we?” he smiled that curled up smile.

“Yes, Wendell, but old friends don’t forget my name. It’s Dean, not Dan.”

“Well, you know who I mean, right? Blame it on the wine. Or the roses.”

“Why? Did Dan bring you roses?”

“Every single time. What an ass.”

“He had a nice ass?” I grinned.

“No, he was a nice ass. As in, asshole, but nice about it.

“How long did you stay together?” I reached for a smoke.

“Fifteen years. Then he wanted more. Like there might be more. Didn’t I ever want more? It’s something you live with, right? We want excitement and high passion and flashing lights and fireworks ... you’re the poet, give me new ways to say it.” He rolled over against my shoulder.

“We want the jolt of the hot socket, the smell of a bronco’s saddle, the tangled nerves of the wrestling mat, the beauty of the lost boy and the kiss of a long dead father, a soldier’s folded, cherished love letters and a sailor’s tropical weekend expectations.”

“Wow, you are a poet. Impossible expectations, yes... invitations for heartbreak. Friendship is a fine substitute, Dean. Friendship can have all the elements of high romance, it can have loyalty and fidelity and devotion and very deep meaning. Its low burn lasts longer than flares and sparks, and gives a steady heat.”

“I know you’re right, no argument against it. Except we want more…” I put out the smoke.

We lay quiet; neither of us close to sleep. A disc of chamber music ended, a selection of piano solos began. I lit another cigarette, Wendell quietly cried.

“How long, since Dan left?”

“Umm, about six months. He changed jobs, moved to Dallas. He always had a thing for cowboys.” He sniffed, and then laughed. “Me too; part of me is just plain jealous, envious, whatever.”

I turned and held him. He shivered like a sudden chill, and then relaxed on my chest. “You made the best choice, you were sane and wise. Forgive him for being foolish, he’ll call, he’ll come back.”

“Not much consolation in being right when you’re alone. He will come back, I guess I know that. But it will always be between us, now. We have to admit we are only the concession to the moment, not the culmination of our desires.”

“We all do, Wendell. We all have to face that. It’s the thing that keeps us humble, saves us from believing our own lies.”

“Lies are nice.” He yawned.

“And absolutely necessary.”

“Absolute.” He slept, gentle and sane.

......

“Dean! Why you gotta be so fucking macho? Budweiser? Always, Budweiser.” Hal, stared into my refrigerator. “What are you, some frat boy jock? Buy some Coors, sometime, or some Heineken.”

“You could always bring your own.” Anybody else, I’d get pissed, but I was used to my brother. He dropped by to drink free beer and avoid his wife, a woman nobody could stand! “Sorry, I’ll put in some variety. Danny complains, too. He just wants Mountain Dew, his wife wants Pepsi.”

“How they doing? Got a kid going, yet?”

“Not yet. It’s only been a year. They’ll figure out how sooner or later. I’m in no rush to be a grandfather.” I led the way back to my workroom and went back to the painting. “Drag up a chair; I want to finish blocking in the foliage before this color dries up.”

“Hell, go ahead. I like to watch you paint, always did.” He drank and smoked in silence for a few minutes, silence doesn’t fit Hal very tight. I looked around at him, he was studying the painting. “I recognize the big guy, in back. It’s that guy, Jarrell, you used to keep around. Ain’t he in prison, now?”

“Mmm, yeah, he shot a guy. Does it look like him?” I squinted my eyes, and tried to see Jarrell in the hunter figure.

“He died? Guy he shot?”

“Yeah; I wasn’t thinking of Jarrell, but it’s the shape of the head and face ... bigger than Jarrell.”

“He was a big son-of-a-bitch!”

“But lean, the hunter is thick, brutal.”

“Killing a guy ain’t brutal?”

“Guy tried to rob him, put a gun on him. I didn’t mean it to be Jarrell, anyway, just a blocked in figure, I’ll find a face for him, later, maybe yours.”

“Right! Me raping a centaur, that’s fantasy! How come he went to prison? If the guy was doing armed robbery, your buddy just defended himself.”

“Because Jarrell was selling dope at the time, had a pocket full of rocks and cash. And the cops didn’t believe the guy was robbing him, anyway. The guy had just shot Jarrell a couple of months before, they thought it was revenge.”

“Was it? Was he just getting even? Can’t blame him for that.”

“Hal, he was selling drugs. He was in the act of committing a felony, anything else is his fault, don’t matter.”

“Still, if he was defending himself...”

“He was not worth defending, he was a bastard, still is, I guess.”

“Why you always pick the bastards? You don’t meet no nice guys?”

“You liked him, you hung out with us, and played cards every night till your old lady phoned and made you come home. You went to the stadium with him...”

“I liked him, sure, but I wouldn’t have married him! What happened to his car, the ‘vette?”

“I’ll let you pick out my next one. No, you picked out Marilyn.”

“She never killed nobody. Think we could get your buddy to kill her?”

“Cops took his car, sold it at auction, I guess. It was a junker.”

“The centaur, it’s the kid that cuts your grass. What’s his name? Robert?”

“A centaur is half horse, this guy is half deer. And Robert is not a kid. You’re fifty-one, everybody’s a kid to you.”

“You’re only forty-eight? Geeze, so young! You’re no kid, kiddo. How old is this Robert?”

“Too young for me, Hal. Don’t start... somebody’s at the door, finish this for me, okay?” I handed him the brush.

“In here, Wendell. My big brother, Hal.”

“Gee, when you say, big, it’s a literal translation! Nice to meet you. Are you an artist, too?” Hal did look big next to Wendell. He was over six feet and his frame was heavy enough to carry his belly comfortably.

“Not really, I’m a painter, Dean’s the artist. Hi ya! Don’t accept a drink; all he’s got is Bud.” Hal held up his bottle.

“I have some Chablis, if you’d rather... Hal’s a good painter; he specializes in big thick lighthouses and barns with huge silos. It’s compensation.”

“Don’t need a baseball bat, Deano--when a billy stick knocks ’em cold! Tell him, Wendell. A guy who sees phallic symbols in everything can’t be an objective art critic.” Hal brandished the brush like a sword, “Point and coup! That’s all the leaf green, you want to mix more or wash the brush?”

“Wash it. I’ll get back to it later. Let’s sit on the deck for sunset; you don’t look so big and intimidating outside. Come on, Wendell. I’ll show you where I hide the import beer.”

“Hey, Bud’s not bad for this price!” Hal called after us.

Wendell couldn’t stay long; he left for an evening class in sociology. Hal pulled an empty chair around and put up his feet. I lay in the chaise and glanced down at the decking where Robert did his sit-ups. The twilight sky was a high lavender, and clear enough to see a couple of stars.

“This Wendell is a nice guy. Where’d you meet him?” Hal liked to talk.

“He works in a bookstore, runs the art book section. He’s too nice.”

“What’s that mean? He won’t steal your credit cards so he’s ineligible?”

“Right, I get off on getting ripped. It’s a fetish.”

“For real, man! Looks like you ought to be jumping hoops for this guy, what’s the deal? Curious minds want to know. I never figured what you looking for, Dean. Do you know?”

“Wendell is a woman, Hal. She’s sweet and smart and sensitive, all that, but I like men, right? I’d rather hang out with you than most anybody I know. When I find a guy like you that likes me, then I’m set. I know exactly what I want, a straight man.”

“Deano, man! It’s not the same thing. I like hanging with you, too, no shit. But I wouldn’t marry you. I want to go home to a woman at night, guys are for buddies, and home is for women. You just got it twisted up, hell, I donno. But I do know you ain’t gonna find no man to play your wife, and you can’t be no wife, fuck, you won’t even cook!”

“Yeah, life’s a bitch, huh? But, Hal, why does it have to be a copy of family life, huh? Why does it have to be a husband and a wife? I imagine a relationship more like partners. Like Lone Ranger and Tonto, right? I don’t want to play house, I just want a commitment between two guys, to protect and defend, right?”

“Tonto cooked. He wore beads. Hell, I donno. Buddies are great, Deano. I love ‘em. But I don’t want to sleep with them. It’s the sex thing that messes it all up. You had it pretty good with Sarah, she was terrific. I envied the hell out of you, never really forgave you for leaving her, you know? Fuck, man! It beat living alone, didn’t it?”

“I wanted more than she had. It wasn’t fair to her. I made her feel like she wasn’t enough. She has a right to a husband that appreciates her, makes her happy.”

“But she’s still single, Dean. Just like you. That ought to tell you something.”

“Hal! Being single is not a worse fate than death! It’s better than faking it in a bad relationship. At least you don’t have to lie with a kiss.”

“Careful Deano, no such thing as a perfect relationship. We all lie and fake it, to some extent. What makes you too good for that? Personally? I couldn’t make it without Marilyn, or somebody. It’s not the being single that scares me, it’s the being alone. I’m your brother, I worry. It’s easier on me to believe you push people away, you like being alone. It’s too painful to think you’re just so fucked up you can’t do it, can’t build what you really need.”

“It’s not your fault, Hal. We’ve been through all this.”

“We say the words, but I still feel guilty. Wish I’d never fucked you, and then I wouldn’t have to wonder if I fucked you up.”

I went to him, on my stiff knees by his chair and put my head on his shoulder. He put an arm around me and patted my back. “We’re getting old, Hal; too old for regretting the kid stuff. If it wasn’t you, it would have been somebody else. Maybe your friend, David, he tried.”

“Another bastard--just your type.”

“You’re probably right, I do like living alone. I’m a selfish prick, always was. Guess I don’t like to face it. I need the dream that someday, someday I’ll meet the perfect friend and lover, somebody just like you, and he’ll change me and make me a better person. Maybe it’s a lie, but I need to believe it.”

“Yeah, we all need our illusions Deano; that’s what Dad liked to say.”

“I remember, brother.”

.....

On Friday afternoon, I heard the mower next door. I looked out through the living room blinds. Robert was wearing the red cut offs, the sweat pants with peek a boo ventilation. He was still a thing of beauty, less an object for lust. I had an awful, cowardly impulse to run, I could leave his money on the porch, and a couple of beers, drive off and wait until he’d finished. The impulse was so strong it had to be the wrong thing to do. Doing right was usually the thing you most wanted to avoid. I generally changed as soon as I got home, but I thought the suit and tie might help support me, give me a touch of dignity. I paced, started some laundry, and emptied the dish washer. He went right to work on the front. I chewed some aspirin, my head hurt. Showtime; I filled the little cooler, picked up a towel, waited on the back deck.

He came around the house and broke into a wide smile, killed the mower.

“Hey, Dean, how’s it going?”

“Great, Rob. What ‘cha know?” I couldn’t match his smile.

“For me?” He pulled out a beer and flopped down, dried off his face with the towel. “Got a cigarette? I’m always out.”

“Sure, here you go.”

“What’s wrong?” he lit up and blew smoke to the sky, “you kind’a down?”

“Yeah, I got this headache.”

“Take anything?” He checked my face, I wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Some aspirin, I’ll get over it.”

“That ain’t it; somethin' else?” He was tensed up, smoking too fast.

“I’ve got to apologize to you and I hate that stuff. Been wrong so many times, I ought to be used to it by now.” Fuck it, I pulled my tie loose and tossed it.

“Hey, mom really liked you; she kept telling me how I ought to be nice to you! I promised her I would.” He stood up, “I gotta use the john, okay?” He took his beer, kicked off his shoes at the door. I rubbed my face; the aspirin was trying to kick in, the beer helped. I couldn’t get the words together, something about how I shouldn’t have taken advantage of his financial needs ... I wanted words that put all the blame on me, didn’t want to be telling him he wasn’t enough.

I lit another cigarette; he was a long time in the bathroom. I looked around at the glass doors just as he came out of the bedroom; he had a fresh towel, drying his hair ... naked. Beads of water sparkled along his shoulders. He’d had a shower. He waved me to come inside, big smile. “Sun out there’s just gonna make your headache worse. I had to chill, I was about to pass out with that heat.” He came over where I stood, just inside the door. He closed the curtains. “Mmm. Thanks”, he took the cigarette from my lips and put it to his.

“When your mom said to be nice, I don’t think this is what she meant.” My face relaxed, headache eased.

“Long as I come home with some money, she don’t give a shit. It was her idea I ought to work in shorts and pull off my shirt, said I’d get bigger tips. She was right.” He grinned. “Besides, I want to be nice to you, real nice. Nobody ever looked at me like that, like you doing now. I keep thinking you know something...something I want to know. You know secrets, Dean?”

“I know I don’t know anything about what matters most. I know sometimes it’s best to not know stuff, to just feel. When I look at you like this I ain’t thinking... I’m just feeling.”

“Yeah?” His eyelashes fluttered, he unzipped my pants, pulled out my hard cock. “What you feeling, Dean?”

I sighed... “I donno,” I kissed him and he kissed back.

He lost the teasing grin, shuddered as if with sudden chill. He couldn’t meet my eyes. He took my hand and pressed it to his cheek. His lips touched my thumb and it slipped inside the wet warm kiss. He turned and tugged me towards the bed. My cock stabbed at his back.

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