New Traditions

New Traditions by Nicki Bennett 1 What was I thinking? For at least the tenth time over the last two days, I asked myself that question. After hearing Brendan confess to the rest of the programming team that he’d be spending the Christmas holidays alone, my libido overruled my good sense. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could recall them. I’d been fighting my attraction toward the newest member of the software development staff ever since he’d transferred to LA from our London office six months earlier. Even though he was intelligent, gorgeous, and openly gay, I’d always shied away from workplace relationships, with either men or women. Truth be told, it had been awhile since my last relationship, period. I wasn’t the most extroverted guy to begin with – computer geek, after all – and I was getting to the age where one-night stands had lost their appeal. There was just something about Brendan, though – his unaffected friendliness, and the way he always remained cheerful despite the tightest deadlines and thorniest coding obstacles, drew me out of my usual self-conscious reserve. I’d been expecting Brendan to fly back to England to spend the holidays with his family, anyway, but his sister Sarah had won a sales contest at work, the prize being all-expense-paid accommodations for two at a luxurious country resort. She and Brendan’s mother would be spending Christmas week pampering themselves with all sorts of indulgent spa treatments, my alluring co-worker had complained, leaving him to knock about on his own. “Spend Christmas with me” was out of my mouth before I could bite back the words. My son Andrew – the only good outcome of my brief marriage before I’d come to terms with my sexuality – would be spending the holidays with my ex-wife and her new boyfriend, where my presence would certainly not be welcome. I’d planned to spend a quiet week at my small vacation cabin in the Sierra Nevadas, catching up on my sleep and decompressing from the long hours of debugging and

New Traditions by Nicki Bennett 2 regression testing our latest software release. Having some company – especially Brendan’s company – would actually be welcome. I certainly hadn’t expected Brendan to accept, though. An avid extreme sports enthusiast, he was the antithesis of the typical programming nerd – surely he had more exciting options than a week in the middle of nowhere with a boring middle-aged geek like me. The eagerness of his response surprised me, and I tried to be sure he understood that there wouldn’t be any activities like the ones he describe to us over coffee breaks in the company cafeteria – just a quiet Christmas in the country. Brendan insisted that a week of peace and quiet was exactly what he wanted. I’d begun to think that maybe the two of us weren’t quite so different after all. I should have known better. No sooner had we arrived at the cabin, after stopping at the little market in the nearest town to stock up on groceries for the week, when he’d started fidgeting. I’d given him the cook’s tour of the place – which didn’t take long, it wasn’t very large after all, just the two bedrooms, the room I used as a darkroom for my photography, the large common room, and the kitchen – and a short walking tour to point out the boundaries of the property and its few external amenities – the empty stables, the garage he’d already seen when we parked, the small pond that filled from the trout stream. Less than two hours, and I’d already exhausted my repertoire as a host. Brendan spent another hour or so in his bedroom, presumably unpacking the sizeable suitcase he’d brought with him. My own wardrobe for the week consisted of a few pair of jeans and a handful of faded flannel shirts, but Brendan had apparently packed the same colorful wardrobe he wore to the office. Once I’d shown him his room, I’d headed out to the woodpile to split a week’s worth of fireplace-sized logs. I hadn’t gotten past the first two nights’ supply when he appeared on the porch watching me, shivering in the cold in baggy jeans and a skin-

New Traditions by Nicki Bennett 3 tight t-shirt that was totally inadequate protection against the stiff breeze. The shirt fit him so snugly I could see his nipples pebbling beneath it as he rubbed his arms with his hands. Swallowing hard, I told myself the sudden heat that ran through me was due to my exertions with the axe. Right. “Why don’t you put on your jacket?” I suggested, pausing to wipe the sweat from my forehead and trying not to let the hunger to taste those delectable nubbins show in my face. The designer leather jacket he’d brought was more fashionable than practical, but at least it would remove the temptation from my sight. The expression on his face as he replied was slightly strained, and I wondered if he’d somehow managed to read my thoughts after all. But then he broke into that wide, unrestrained smile that never failed to make me grin in return. “Didn’t want to take a chance of tearing it if I’m going to help you,” he confessed as he loped down the stairs, stumbling over the last one before catching himself, but not before my heart had turned over in my chest. For someone who regularly surfed, rock climbed and snowboarded, Brendan was endearingly klutzy in everyday life. There was no way I was letting him anywhere near the axe. In fact, the way my stomach was fluttering just having him this near was making me wonder if I ought to be using sharp implements myself. “You can stack what I’ve already cut on the porch,” I told him, thinking that should be an innocuous enough task to let me get my libido under control. I hadn’t counted on the enticing view of his firm backside every time he bent to pick up another armful of logs. And I still had five more days’ worth to chop. What was I thinking? I asked myself that again later in the afternoon, as we trudged through the pine forest looking for the perfect Christmas tree. After we’d finally finished with the firewood, I’d heated up some soup for lunch.

New Traditions by Nicki Bennett 4 Brendan had gone to change his shirt, which I’d thought could only be a good thing until he’d returned, wearing a thin lemon-yellow silk confection that slid lovingly over his willowy body as he moved. My hands ached to slide over it too, while lower down I just ached, period. Thinking that more time in the cold might deaden the effect – it would at least force Brendan to put on the damn jacket this time – I’d suggested driving up the road to find a tree for the living room. “You don’t have an artificial tree?” he’d asked in surprise. “For some reason, I didn’t imagine you wanting to cut down a live tree.” “Trees are renewable resources,” I told him. “And besides, there’s nothing like the smell of a real Christmas tree.” I’d spent too many years as a child hating the artificial tree my parents put up in our small apartment – as an adult, I opted for a real tree whenever I could. Brendan was enthusiastic in his agreement – what wasn’t he enthusiastic about, come to think of it? – but I soon found he was even worse than Andrew about finding the “perfect” tree. At least a dozen totally adequate specimens were rejected for being too short or too thin or too crooked or “just not right”. I was about ready to demand that we cut down the next tree we saw when Brendan squealed – there was no other word for it – with excitement and pointed to a tree that had to be at least twelve feet tall. “That’s it! It’s perfect!” “I’m not even sure it will fit under the ceiling,” I groused, knowing I couldn’t say no to him. But damn, it took forever to bring it down with my hand axe! Brendan was hopping from one foot to another and shivering by the time it finally crashed to the ground. As I’d suspected, the leather jacket was all but useless in keeping him warm.

New Traditions by Nicki Bennett 5 “Here,” I offered, stripping off my suede and shearling barn coat and wrapping it around him. I wanted to wrap my arms around him too, but forced myself to focus on doing up the buttons. “I can’t take your jacket – you’ll freeze yourself!” Brendan objected, even as he pulled the collar closer around his reddened cheeks. “I worked up plenty of heat taking down the Rockefeller Center tree here,” I countered. “Besides, someone has to drag it back to the jeep.” The tree was every bit as heavy as it looked, and both of us were panting slightly by the time we finally got it settled in its stand in the living room. Brendan seemed surprised again when I produced a storage box full of lights and ornaments. “I expected to be making popcorn strings and cranberry wreaths, or at least paper chains the way we did when I was a kid,” he challenged as he fought to untangle a string of lights. “This isn’t exactly the Walton Family Christmas, Brendan,” I protested. “I do have electricity and everything. I have a few candles to light on the tree on Christmas Eve, but it’s too dangerous to leave them lit for long….” I trailed off as he climbed onto a chair to begin stringing the lights at the top of the tree, over-reaching himself and nearly falling and taking the tree down with him. I caught the back of his jeans to stop his fall and held his waist to stabilize him until he could reach the lower branches without the chair. This, of course, put his tempting ass directly in my face. The flex of his limber muscles beneath my hands was pure torment, and I was rock-hard by the time I finally helped him down from the chair. “Think you can manage the rest without knocking over the tree?” I barked with unnecessary gruffness, turning away from him quickly, ostensibly to unpack the rest of the ornaments, fighting to get myself under control before he noticed the state I was in.

New Traditions by Nicki Bennett 6 What was I thinking? Brendan took his time examining the selection of ornaments – a hodge-podge of Andrew’s childhood creations, a few souvenirs my exwife had picked up during our marriage, and a treasure-trove of ornate antique glass ornaments. “Why would you put a glass pickle on your Christmas tree?” Brendan demanded, eyeing the colorful gherkin with a leering smile. “Seems sort of kinky if you ask me…” “It’s a symbol of good luck,” I told him, hanging a woven paper heart and wondering if I ought to trust him with my mother’s fragile glass heirlooms. Brendan treated them with the respect they deserved, though, and before long the tree was resplendent in lights and colorful keepsakes. “All it needs now are some gifts to put beneath it,” Brendan approved as he sprawled on the faded red sofa. I hadn’t really thought about gifts – I’d shipped Andrew’s packages to his mother’s house before leaving LA – and started mentally ransacking the contents of my closet for potential presents. I had a colorful striped scarf, a gift from a distant aunt that I’d never worn, that would look perfect framing Brendan’s dusky beauty. There were some photos I’d taken of him at the company picnic earlier in the year that I’d never shown him – I was too afraid they’d telegraph the fascination I was still trying to fight – maybe I could print and frame one of them. By Christmas Eve, Brendan was beginning to fidget again. “I can understand you don’t get internet access up here, but who doesn’t have a television?” he grumbled. “How can you not watch ‘The Snowman’ or ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ or ‘A Christmas Carol’ over the holidays? What do you do around here all day, anyway?”

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“Nothing, mostly,” I answered. “That’s the appeal. I read, or write, sometimes I play around with taking pictures. I think Andrew left a pair of skates in the garage; if they fit you, we could see if the ice is thick enough on the pond to go skating. Or you could always chop a hole in it and go ice fishing,” I teased. Brendan wrinkled his nose so adorably I had to ball my fists to keep from reaching for him and kissing it. “The only fishing I do is for compliments,” he laughed. “But maybe I’ll go for a walk to check out the pond for later. Can I tempt you to join me?” He batted his eyelashes at me in mock-flirtation. You already tempt me way too much, if you only knew it, I thought to myself. “I have some things I need to do around here,” I demurred, knowing I needed some time apart from him if I was going to survive the week. Maybe a quick hand job in the shower to take the edge off…. “Then do you mind if I borrow your jacket again?” he asked shyly. “Any time, Brendan,” I assured him. “Everything here is yours to use as you please.” I cringed mentally as I realized how full of innuendo that sounded, but I’d been remembering hanging up the jacket after we returned from the tree-cutting the night before, burying my face in the lining just to breathe in his lingering fragrance. Definitely a hand job in the shower, because the words he murmured as he turned away must have been “thank you” and not, as my imagination insisted, “I wish….” What was I thinking? Feeling more in control again after my shower, I pulled out my mother’s battered recipe book and gathered the supplies for baking. My holiday traditions are a bit of a hodge-podge – my father was Hispanic, my mom Scandinavian (I’d inherited her light hair and blue eyes, which

New Traditions by Nicki Bennett 8 had garnered me a fair share of teasing as a kid based on my last name). As an adult, I’d learned to celebrate my mixed heritage, carrying on the traditions I enjoyed most from both cultures. When it came to Christmas cookies, though, I still craved the spicy treats Mom always baked when I was a kid. Handel had given way to George Winston on the CD player and I was elbows-deep in flour when Brendan returned, ruddy-cheeked and glowing. His expression lit up even further when he saw what I was doing. “Christmas biscuits!” he burbled, snatching a pinch of dough from inside the mixing bowl. His face puckered as he swallowed the spicy morsel. “What the hell kind of biscuits have cloves and ginger and cinnamon and allspice and cardamom in them?” he grumbled, examining the jars that lined the countertop. “What the fuck is cardamom, anyway?” “Danish Christmas cookies,” I answered. “These are Brun Kager – my tante Britta’s secret recipe.” “Can we make sugar cutouts next,” he asked hopefully, “the kind with sprinkles?” I shook my head regretfully. “Got no cookie cutters, and no sprinkles.” I offered the springerle rolling pin to him in appeasement. “We can make Anis Kager … or Pebernødder….” “What about chocolate chip?” I had to shake my head again. “Oh, c’mon, Alec, who doesn’t have chocolate at Christmastime!”

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He looked so heartbroken I was seriously considering the fiftymile drive into town when inspiration struck. “Check in that cabinet over there – the one over the fridge.” Brendan stretched to reach the cupboard, his shirt riding up to expose a wide expanse of smooth, honey-colored skin as he did so. My heart swelled in my chest, and my cock swelled farther down, the unconscious sensuality of his movements almost more than I could bear. “What am I looking for?” he asked, turning to smile over his shoulder at me. I had to swallow twice before I could answer him. “A block of chocolate,” I answered. I had to be falling in love with Brendan if I was willing to share my secret stash of 85% cocoa, extra-dark Swiss with him. “You’ve been holding out on me, Alec,” he complained as he brought the bar to the table. “This looks positively sinful.” I bit back the obvious retort and nodded toward the knife block. “Chop some of that up into bite-size pieces– carefully, mind you – and we can make cookies with it.” “I’ll have you know I’m an expert in bytes,” Brendan answered, eyeing me with what I was beginning to believe was more than mere friendly interest. “I’d be happy to demonstrate for you any time.” “It’s too bad I don’t have my laptop with me, or you could show me what you’ve got,” I muttered, trying not to blush since I wasn’t talking about programming. “I don’t need a laptop for that,” Brendan countered, but when I looked up he was innocently chopping up chocolate. This has to stop, I

New Traditions by Nicki Bennett 10 told myself. I was wound so tight I was imagining double entendres in every conversation. I definitely didn’t imagine the moan of pleasure that issued from Brendan’s throat a moment later. He licked his lips indulgently and slid a second piece of the dark candy between them with another groan of bliss. “This is positively orgasmic,” he moaned. “Chocolate sex. You have got to try it.” “It is my chocolate,” I smiled at him, even as my cock tightened inside my jeans at his words. He held out a chunk of the chocolate, beckoning for me to take it from him. I held up my flour-coated hands, imagining the patterns they would make on his dark jeans. He leaned over the countertop and held the candy to my mouth, rubbing it temptingly over my lower lip. When I opened my mouth, he placed it on my tongue, his thumb dragging across my lips as he drew his hand away. It took all my will-power not to suck his fingers into my mouth and lick them clean. I closed my eyes, pretending to savor the taste, until I could trust myself to look at him again. “Brilliant, yeah?” he purred. “Seems a shame to keep it to yourself. Pleasure like this is meant to be shared.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was being deliberately provocative. “Well, make the cookies and you can share them all you want,” I ground out. “Get a bowl and take some butter out of the fridge so you can cream it.” “Is it better to start with it hard if you want to cream it?” Brendan asked with an all-too-innocent smile. What was I thinking?

New Traditions by Nicki Bennett 11 “We aren’t having Christmas goose?” he asked in disbelief as we put away the last of the cookie sheets. “We always have goose at home on Christmas Eve. Can’t you just go out and shoot one or something?” “I’m not a hunter, Brendan,” I answered as calmly as I could. “I haven’t shot anything since I accidentally killed a squirrel with my BB gun when I was nine, and I was so heartbroken I never fired it again.” Brendan reached up and squeezed my shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “OK, no goose then. So what are you making for Christmas Eve dinner, Alec?” “I’m not making anything. A neighbor is bringing us tamales and empanadas. She makes them every year. I tried making them myself once, but Maria’s are so much better, as good as the ones Tia Rosita – my father’s sister – made when I was a kid.” I had barely finished explaining the Latin American tradition of serving tamales on Christmas Eve when Maria was knocking at the door, carrying a huge platter of steaming goodness. I introduced her to Brendan with a smile. “Maria and her husband John own the ranch we passed down the road. They raise horses and run a stable. If you’d like, maybe we can go riding one day before we leave.” “John’s finished refurbishing that old sleigh,” Maria told me. “He’ll be taking people out for rides all week. The two of you should come some night. The stars are magnificent.” Spending an hour pressed next to Brendan beneath a carriageblanket with the Milky Way stretched above us sounded like sweet torture to me. I was shocked when Brendan bounced with excitement at the offer. “A real sleigh? The ‘one-horse-open’ kind, like in ‘Jingle Bells’?” When Maria assented, he turned to me eagerly. “Can we, Alec?” he

New Traditions by Nicki Bennett 12 pleaded, for all the world like a little boy begging for a puppy. “I’ve always wanted to ride in a sleigh, can we?” “I’ll call you later in the week to line something up,” I told her, handing her a tin of cookies to take home to her boys. “Feliz navidad, Alec, Brendan.” “Feliz año nuevo, Maria.” Brendan was already lifting the foil to peek at the contents of the platter. “How do you know which are which?” “The little pillows are empanadas, and the ones wrapped in corn husks are tamales. Try any of them, they’re all good.” I unwrapped a tamale and broke it in half. “See, this one is chicken.” I offered him half but instead of taking it from me, he leaned forward to capture it with his mouth. “Mmnnn, delicious,” he agreed, unwrapping another and breaking it in two himself. He held half to my lips. “What kind is this?” he asked. We fed the delicacies to each other, the understated eroticism growing as we moved from the savory tamales to the sweet empanadas, licking our fingers and watching each other with a hunger that grew with each morsel we consumed. I could no longer doubt that Brendan wanted me as much as I wanted him. The question was whether I was prepared to act on it, whether I could survive a purely physical relationship with him when I was starting to long for so much more. What was I thinking? I had just finished adding the last of the spices to the pot of glögg simmering on the stove when Brendan’s voice called me urgently from the living room.

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“Alec, c’mere, you have to see this!” I turned off the heat and walked into the living room, dark but for the lights of the tree and the flickering glow of the fire. Brendan stood before the large window, hands wrapped around his chest, his forehead pressed to the cold glass. “It’s snowing.” I stood behind him for a moment, watching the fat flakes drift and flutter, coating the trees and the grass and the rooftop in white. It was the most natural thing in the world to wrap my arms around him. My hands were holding his slim hips before I realized what I had done, and once they were there, it felt too damn good to move them. Brendan didn’t seem to mind, leaning back against my warmth and resting his head on my shoulder. I breathed in the fragrance of his hair and held him quietly. For once, neither of us needed any words. “What do you see when you look at the snow?” he asked finally. I thought for a moment before answering. “A new beginning,” I said eventually. “It’s like the world has been created again and everything made fresh.” He considered my answer in silence. “I see peace,” he told me finally. “Calmness, quieting all the noise and chaos. That’s what you mean to me, Alec.” He looked up at me, and I lowered my head and his mouth opened beneath mine. Any last doubts I might have had disappeared. Nothing that felt this right could be second-guessed. Our lips brushed and slid and clung until they found just the right angle. When my tongue sought a hesitant entrance into his mouth, Brendan moaned and turned

New Traditions by Nicki Bennett 14 in my arms, and our bodies molded together as the kiss deepened and all the unspoken longing and need was admitted and accepted. I pulled my grandma Nielsen’s quilt from the back of the couch and tossed it on the floor in front of the fire, lowering Brendan down gently. He opened his arms to embrace me and I settled between his legs, our lips meeting hungrily. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” Brendan whispered between kisses. “I was afraid if I came on too strong, I’d scare you away.” Our hands mapped long-anticipated contours and fumbled with too many clothes and there, on a nest of pillows beside the glimmering tree, we touched and tasted and teased and tantalized each other. I unwrapped Brendan’s body from his clothes with as much anticipation as I’d torn into my Christmas presents as a boy. My lips skimmed over every inch of his honeyed skin, finding it sweeter than any holiday treat. Every kiss Brendan returned, every soft sound of pleasure as I caressed him with my lips and my fingertips, convinced me that the feelings growing between us were more than just desire; that maybe, just maybe, we were starting something that would last beyond this week. For his part, Brendan kissed and nibbled and fondled until I was shaking with need. “You’re so beautiful,” he told me as his hands followed the flickering patterns of the firelight over my skin, and for the first time in my life, he made me believe it. For just a moment, he turned away to reach for his jeans, rolling back to press a condom and lube into my hands. “Make love to me, Alec,” Brendan urged, and when at last I slid into the welcoming warmth of his body, we discovered we fit perfectly there as well. No poetry could be more eloquent than the gasps and moans and whispered words of love we shared; and the joy we gave to one another was the greatest gift of all. “What are you thinking?” Brendan asked later, as I lay wrapped around him before the gentle glow of the fire.

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I couldn’t help but laugh softly at his words. What was I thinking, indeed? “I’m thinking this is how I want to spend every Christmas.” “Sounds perfect to me. Happy Christmas, Alec.” “Glædelig Jul, Brendan.” And that was the start of our favorite holiday tradition.

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