By the end of March, our new arrangement had started to take on the coziness of established routine. A freak late snowstorm the second week of April nearly kept us home that Saturday, but after dithering for half an hour over dessert, we changed into our preferred cruising outfits–Jim’s torn jeans and leather vest, my sweater over a button-down shirt–and headed off.
Surviving a Midwestern
winter, only to think you’ve seen the end of it, and then to find it’s returned
for one last, frigid, gusting fling–it’s enough to keep even horny men at home
with lube and a towel. The bar was emptier than it’d been in bleak mid-winter.
We split up inside to cruise on own for a quarter of an hour, then found
ourselves side by side, the separation apparently pointless amidst the dearth
of likely hookups.
Around the
peripheries of the bar, over a soundtrack blaring at a level even more stupidly
pumped up than usual, men were trying to talk to each other in twos and threes.
Across the room, Kurt leered at us from over a beer bottle upended into his
face. His other hand was cupped over the mound of his jeans where his leather
chaps exposed the denim of his crotch. Lowering the bottle from his lips, he
wiped his mouth with the back of the hand that held it, set it down, and strode
over to us.
He smiled and nodded
at me, then turned to Jim with a gruff, “Hey there.”
“Hey there,
yourself,” Jim growled back.
I couldn’t explain
the surge of animosity and resentment that washed over me. Jim’s story of the
night Kurt had fucked him hadn’t just gotten me hard the first time I’d heard
it the next morning. We’d rehearsed it to each other more than once in
subsequent weeks, Jim getting off on the raunchy retelling, and me getting off
on watching Jim’s erection swell up over his thigh as he repeated the details
of what had happened that night. But this was a new twist: a man back for more,
a trick who on the second fuck might become a buddy. But more to the point, who
simply presumed it was OK to saunter over and lay his claim when the two of us
stood together.
Or maybe I was just
jealous. Kurt’s buzzed red hair stood out again the pallor of his freckled
white neck; his limpid brown eyes danced above a tightly clipped beard of
copper with a first dusting of forty-something snow around his chin. His chest
swelled in the black T-shirt under his leather vest. Jim melted into the crook
of his arm as soon as Kurt raised it to clinch Jim’s shoulder. I couldn’t top
Jim myself. But could I be Kurt’s boy right beside Jim, the one he turned his
mitigated attentions to when he’d already pounded my lover into a happy pulp?
Could I coax the two of them along, grabbing Kurt’s balls from behind while he
plowed into the man I loved? Could I brace Jim’s chest against my arms while
Kurt rammed him toward bliss?
There wasn't time to
sustain such fantasies for long. Kurt was in no mood to beat around the bush.
As he pulled Jim into a rough kiss, the muscles in his neck told me his tongue
was well on its way to my boyfriend’s tonsils. Neither one of them showed much
sign that my presence was cramping their style. Across the room where Kurt had
stood before he made his move, the two friends he’d been with smirked at the
three of us.
Kurt and Jim
unclinched long enough for Kurt to turn and face me. “Looks like I’m gonna take
your boyfriend here home to fuck,” he winked. “He’s pretty hot for it, and I
gather it’s OK by you if I borrow his hole.”
I wanted to throw my
drink in his face, but I stood stupidly, watching Kurt pull Jim away by
the finger he’d hooked into his front pocket, the heel of his hand flattened
across the fly of Jim’s worn jeans, his thumb pressed possessively into the
denim. Beyond the doorway of the next room, Kurt turned around, pulled Jim’s head
roughly forward into another long, greedy kiss, the hand he’d used to haul him
by the belt-loop now reaching inside his shirt to knead the loose meat of his
chest. Jim melted into him again, his face slumping into Kurt’s neck, his arms
clinging around Kurt’s shoulders. Kurt looked up, and our eyes locked. He read
my resentment, hesitated, and then his eyes hardened.
Prick, I said to
myself, turning on my heel and heading for the door.
The cold air cleared
my head a little. The mostly deserted street seemed as good a place as any to
shake off the rage that had boiled over at the sight of Jim necking like a
teenager. The snow had stopped, and the moon had risen in a sky now full of
scudding clouds. Up the block, I could hear the crunch of boots as the two guys
who’d left the bar just before me trudged through a drift across the sidewalk.
One of them I’d almost connected with myself. Stopping by a grey Honda, he
fumbled with his car keys. From down the block in the other direction came a
peculiar, soft whine, the spin of wheels without the sound of a gunning motor
to accompany it.
At the end of the
block, an electric wheelchair rolled halfway up the raked curb at the corner,
pushing forward a foot, then sliding back. As it careened forward again, it
listed to the left, and two arm braces that had been hooked over the backrest
dropped off into the snow. A guy in black jeans, a green hooded sweatshirt, and
a leather jacket leaned from the seat, made a swipe at the closer brace, and
fell out of the chair into the snow. “Shit,” I heard him mutter softly, but
with a clarity that fresh snow on a cold night somehow brings even to faint
sounds at a distance.
He didn’t seem hurt,
but I sprinted down the block. By the time I’d reached him, he’d already pulled
himself up to retrieve the braces.
“I thought you could
use a hand, but it looks like you’ve got things under control,” I said as he
hooked them over the backrest again and lowered himself into the seat.
“I could still use a
push, thanks. This thing’s made for Florida, not the Midwest,” he said. “I saw
you coming out of Underdog. Place is busy?”
“Not on a night like
this. Anyway, I’ve had enough for one
night.” I boosted him over the curb onto the level pavement and walked along as
the chair whirred up the block, skidding a little on a couple of patches of
drift that pedestrians hadn’t tamped down. “How far have you come in that thing
on a night like this?” I asked.
“I live three blocks
over,” he said. “Stupid night to try this. Cabin fever and horniness trumped
good sense.” His sidelong grin was a little sheepish. It was a smile you
couldn’t help but smile back at.
“I’ll wish you
better adventure than I had tonight,” I smirked back. “I’ve never seen you here
before,” I added.
“Just moved,” he
said as we rolled up to the door. “My first time here. I gather it’s the only
game in town.” He looked around. “And ain’t no ramp in sight. You?”
“Here the last year
and a half.” I looked at the braces. “Can you make it in with those?”
“No problem. As long
as I can find a place to sit.” He reached around for the braces, fitted them
over his arms, then pushed himself up to a standing position with an obvious
reserve of strength in his upper arms. The heft of his shoulders filled out his
jacket. “I’m Paul. Can I buy you a nightcap to thank you for being a good
scout?” He had tousled black hair, olive skin and a thick five-o’clock shadow
across his jaw.
“Um, it’s
complicated,” I said. “I really don’t need to go back in there tonight.”
“I’d just ask you to
walk me home and I could offer you a beer there,” he grinned again, “but I’m
staying with my sister, and she’s not keen on unannounced gentleman callers
late into the night.” This time the grin had a little less sheep and a little
more wolf to it. I noticed that inside the jacket, the sweatshirt seemed to be
stretched across a chest massive enough to go with the shoulders. “Maybe some
other time.” He paused. “Too bad I can’t ask you back,” he added. “I really do
give the best blow job most guys I’ve slept with say they’ve ever had.”
I laughed, more than
a little jealous of his chutzpah. He laughed too and looked like laughing came
easily to him. He nodded to the stairs at the door. “If you could just spot me
up those, it’d be a big help.”
What the hell, I
thought. “Maybe I could spot you up the stairs to my house instead,” I
suggested.
“Well, wonders never
cease. A boy who knows good head on wheels when he sees it.” He started to hook
the braces over the chair again, then instead held them out to me. “Tricking
with me involves chores,” he said.
“I don’t think we
can get the chair into my car,” I hesitated.
“It’s OK. I can
drive over myself. If you can see me through the snowdrifts back to my place
and then pick up your car, I’ll follow you home.” He laid the flat of his hand
on my flank, just above my hip, his thumb digging into the hollow of my thigh.
“Like a dog in heat.”
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