Windows

Windows by J. M. Snyder

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Copyright ©2002 by J. M. Snyder

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Windows by J. M. Snyder

There's a U-Haul truck parked in front of the house next door when I step out on my porch to check the mail. I hear the back roll up, boyish laughter, a man's voice saying something low and unintelligible, more laughter, another man giggling, "Rudy, stop it." Kids, I think as I pull the few bills and mail-order catalogues from my mailbox. They shouldn't sell homes to the college students—they turn the places into party houses, people crawling all over the yard, cars up and down the block. That's the last thing this neighborhood needs, you know? And why'd it have to be the house next to mine? From inside the truck, I hear the scrape of heavy furniture, something dropped, a gasp and the same guy calling out, "Watch it! That's authentic. Rudy, honey ... no, wait—" A loud crash and I stop, interested in spite of myself. The guy has one of those voices that you hear and just know he's into boys, it's painfully clear. A little queeny, with that slight lisp the comedians always make fun of in gay jokes. Leaning over the railing, I flip through my mail halfheartedly, waiting to catch a glimpse of this kid and the Rudy he's now bitching out for dropping the vase. He actually says vaaz, that makes me smile. Maybe a new neighbor won't be so bad after all. When he finally steps into view, I have to catch my breath. Damn, I think, and I know I'm staring but ... just damn. Short dark hair, real short, cut close to his head with bleached blonde bangs combed down flat in a monk's cut. No shirt to hide his thick, tanned arms or his broad chest, smooth and muscled. Swim trunks, tanned legs, strong thighs—I'd swear the May heat just went up another ten degrees. No shoes, 3

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that's cute. I like the way his shorts hang a little low on his hips, and they pull down further when someone inside the truck throws a ring of keys at him, it falls through his hands and he has to bend to pick it up. No tan lines, I'm impressed. The boy screams summer. I stare at him and think of beaches and Frisbees and surfing, boardwalks, those red-andwhite striped changing tents that are synonymous with the Beach Boys and the sixties. "You didn't have to throw them, Rudy," the guy says, and then he pouts, God! Crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares at the truck like a little kid, pulling off the wounded diva stance perfectly. I want to call out to him myself, apologize for Rudy's behavior, tell him to come on over here and I'll kiss that pout away. Careful, Thom, a voice inside my head whispers, sobering me up. The smile dissolves from my face and my hands tighten around the mail unconsciously. You don't need to be getting involved with anyone right now, least of all the new guy next door. Remember John? My lover of seven months, how could I forget him? It's been three weeks since I came home early from the plant and found him in the living room with Sean, "the friend" he swore was nothing to worry about, "the friend" he told me I was silly to be jealous of. I can close my eyes and still see the surprise written all over his face as I walked in on them, both naked, sweaty, John on his hands and knees on the floor and Sean plowing into him from behind. I can still hear John's gasp, his "Thom, I can explain," my own strangled voice unrecognizable as I told him to get out. Three weeks. It feels like just yesterday. 4

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No, the last thing I need is to fall for someone new. Still, I linger a moment, curious about this Rudy—I can hear his deep laugh as he jumps out of the truck, and the boy in the yard pouts harder, if that's even possible. I'm not sure what I'm expecting, another hunk maybe, another graduate of Gold's Gym, but Rudy dresses a little more conservatively, jeans and a t-shirt, and he's tall and wiry, olive skin with black corkscrew curls and cruel eyes, one of those scowling Italian guys you'd swear has Mob connections. The Godfather type. I don't like him. I can't imagine how anyone else does. Arms extended, he cajoles, "Brad, baby—" "Brad-ley," the boy corrects, still pouting. "I don't like Brad, Rudy, you know that." "Brad-ley," Rudy amends. He runs his hands up those thick biceps, I can hear the rasp of skin on skin from here, and when he kisses him it's not a friendly peck, it's hard and deep and I swear I can feel it in my knees, that kiss. When they break apart, Bradley's pout is gone, replaced with a mischievous grin that makes his blue eyes sparkle, and Rudy glances my way. Mine, that smirk of his says, and one of his hands trails down Bradley's back to squeeze his firm, round ass. Hands off, capeche? Yeah, yeah, I get it. "Rudy," Bradley whines. He looks over at me, another pout already pulling at his lips, and I stand up, stretch, turn away. Just what I need, two boyfriends next door, getting it on and me all alone again. No matter how much I tell myself I'm better off without John's cheating ass, it doesn't make my bed any less empty at night. 5

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As I go back inside, I hear the jangle of keys, Rudy's harsh laughter, Bradley's voice as he cries, "Rudy! Give those back! It's my house, dammit." Oh yes, this is going to be worlds of fun. Somebody shoot me now. **** The house next door's been empty for a good six months, and I remember John talking about buying it at one point, even though he was living with me at the time. Two houses, that would've been classic—he could've kept his playmates over there and I'd never know. We even took in the realtor's open house once, looked around inside, but that's as far as he went with it, thank God. I don't know what I'd do if I had to see him now on a daily basis. My hands still shake with anger just thinking about him. It's a small house, one story, what they call a bungalow because it has a front porch with wide columns and dates back to the late twenties. A Sears home, I think—mine is, too, but I have the second floor option with two bedrooms upstairs. I'm in the middle of redoing one of them, the one where John used to keep his clothes and things to separate them from mine. I'm putting in a computer room there, though I've only managed to get the walls stripped so far, I haven't really had the time to devote to the project until now. I've got the next few weeks off—shutdown at the plant, plus an extra week and a half for vacation, I'm taking it all this month, starting Monday. I'll get the room knocked out and that'll finally be the last trace of John from this house. 6

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I do like the house, though, it's cute. It's only a few feet from my place, and my windows look into every room. There's a kitchen, a large combination living room/dining room in the front, two small bedrooms and one bath, that's it. A privacy fence hems an in-ground pool, and there's a patio out back too, I like that a lot. It's not too private, though— from my second room I can look down inside the fence at the tiled deck and the pool, empty now. I wonder if Bradley's the swimming type. With those trunks he had on, that tan, those arms, I don't doubt the backyard was a big selling point for him. I should go over, do the good neighbor routine and just say hi, introduce myself since our houses are only four or five feet apart and my chain-link fence stops where the wooden pickets of his begin. But I remember that look Rudy gave me, possessive, smug, and that stops me. I don't like that man. I'm not playing Mr. Rogers to someone like him. Because it's nice out and my windows are open, I hear them all day long, moving in. Bradley is loud, to say the least—always laughing or pouting or shouting for Rudy to put that down, right there, right there, is he deaf? The type of guy that makes a big production out of everything, I like that—I must admit, I've always been partial to the flamboyant ones. Me, I'm wallflower material, I disappear in crowds and nobody really looks twice at me, no one really notices I'm there unless I want them to. I'm unforgettable, I know that, and I'm a damn good lover—I bring home flowers and chocolates and I'm amazing in bed, I know that too, but I'm not one to do the whole club scene or cruise the muscle 7

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bars, I'm not one to hold hands in public or kiss in the front yard. I'm sure of myself and my sexuality but it's private, it's mine, and I don't have to flaunt it. But a guy like Bradley thrives on that. I can so see him on the beach hitting on anyone with a dick in a tight Speedo, or in a movie theater giggling with his lover as they share a tub of popcorn, or in the grocery store flipping through the latest issue of Cosmo and asking if these actresses even look in the mirror before they leave the house, who'd let themselves be seen in public dressed like that? He'd make life fun, I suspect. He'd make it dramatic and real and alive, every emotion felt to the hilt, every day lived to the fullest. Yeah, I could really use a boy like that, if only to lose myself in, make me forget about John, help me move on. Only this one's with that Rudy jerk and I don't need anyone else right now, I'm doing fine, really I am. So I turn on the TV, loud, but it doesn't drown out the sound of Bradley's voice or his bubbly laughter, and when I heat up a frozen dinner in the microwave, I stand at the sink and tell myself I'm not watching him through the window, I'm not. But there are no curtains next door yet and I can stare straight into the living room, where Bradley's stretched out on a couch with his arm over his eyes, the light from a floor lamp casting his skin into bronze. His chest and arms and legs look so smooth, sculpted like a work of art, and I can see the thick bones of his hips, the slightly rounded abdomen beneath his belly button where his trunks hang down too far to be decent. I don't realize I'm staring until the microwave goes off and 8

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startles me. As if he hears it, Bradley stirs and calls out, "Rudy? I'm hungry." If Rudy replies, I don't hear it. Come over here, baby, I think, extracting the hot tray from the microwave. I got something I think might fill you up. Where the hell did that come from? I'm not like this, I don't talk trash and moon over boys like a lovesick teenager. I'm thirty-two, my pining days are over. And Bradley has a hellacious body but I wouldn't be surprised to find out he's barely legal. He bought the house, my mind whispers. I try to ignore it—I'm not going after someone right now, especially not anyone I live next to and not anyone who already has a lover, I'm not playing that game at all. Still, the voice is insistent and as I eat my dinner over the sink, I watch Bradley on his couch and tell myself banks don't finance mortgages for kids just out of high school. And he keeps saying it's his house—I hear every word he says, like he's onstage and the whole world is an audience to his life. I wonder what it'd be like, to live that large. Bradley draws in a deep breath and calls out, "Ruuudy! Baby, I'm hungry." I smile into my tray and wonder what it'd be like, to love someone like that. **** After dinner, I head upstairs to work on the windows in the second room. It's late but I need to get the paint chipped off the best I can before I lay down the first coat in the morning. There are two windows in this room—one looking over 9

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Bradley's fence and one facing his house, which lines up with the window in one of his bedrooms. With no curtains, I can stare straight down into that room as I work, and I tell myself that's not the reason I decide to work on this one first. Because the light's on next door, I can see boxes stacked up in the center of the room, headboards propped against the wall, a mattress tossed carelessly onto the floor beneath the window. Every now and then Rudy comes into view, stepping onto the mattress and then out of sight again as he starts to unpack. I wonder if this will be their bedroom. I wonder why I care. It doesn't take me long to get the rest of the paint off the window and just as I'm about to move onto the next one, I hear Bradley's voice drift up from the other house. He's so loud. "Rudy, darling," he says, and then he laughs, that magical sound that's begun to bring a smile to my lips whenever I hear it. I've decided I quite like that laugh. "You know that's not where I want that dresser to go." Rudy says something indistinct and then Bradley laughs again. Against my better judgment, I pull the sheer curtains in front of the window and peek out between them. Down in the room below, Bradley steps up onto the mattress, tanned legs and thick arms and the broad expanse of his back just begging to be touched. By me, I think as Rudy comes up to him, rubs his hands down the bunched muscles in Bradley's arms. I don't need to be watching this. But I can't turn away. I remind myself of the other window, the dishes in my sink, my bed, things I can be doing, should be doing, but I can't seem to turn away from the 10

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window. Rudy leans close to Bradley, whispers something that makes him giggle, and then starts to knead his lover's arms, his shoulders, his neck. "I think he's kind of cute," Bradley says in reply. My breath catches in my throat. They're not—God, I wish I could hear whatever it is Rudy says that makes Bradley turn around and glance at my house, up at me. They see me, I think wildly, and without thinking I cross the room and hit the switch to cut off the overhead light. My heart beats like a drum in the darkness, hard enough to bruise my ribs, they saw me. Saw me watching, and Bradley said what? I think he's kind of cute. Jesus Christ. Go to bed now, Thom, my mind whispers even as I start towards the window again. They've got names for guys like you, watching your neighbors through the curtains. You want this kid to call the cops on your perverted ass? Just go to bed and forget all about him and his tight skin and his infectious laugh. Only I can't, and this time I stand to one side of the curtain, out of sight. I pull the edge of the fabric away from the window just enough so I can see, and I promise myself one more look, that's it, just to see if they're still talking about me and then I'll go. I swear— Bradley stands at the window now, hands on the sill in front of him, legs spread wide, head thrown back. Behind him, Rudy has his jeans down to his knees, his boxers open, working his dick hard with one hand. The other is in the front of Bradley's shorts, squeezing, stroking, I can feel that hand, it tugs at my own erection, rolls my own balls in the palm, 11

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fondles me. My own hand strays below my belt, rubs against the thick swelling at my crotch. I'm not seeing this, I think. I'm not watching it. I'm not. Rudy's dick stands up from a dark swirl of hair, angry and red. He pulls Bradley's shorts down in the back, exposing a tight ass. No tan lines, I think absently. How cute. Suddenly Rudy disappears. "Come on, Rudy," Bradley moans, grabbing at the front of his shorts. "Please. I need it." I ache at that voice, that plea. Another few seconds and I'll rush over there myself, take him in my arms and thrust into him, I'm hard enough already. But Rudy returns, his erection glistening from a lubricated condom, and he swats Bradley's hand away as it kneads the thick shaft that tents his shorts. "Rudy," Bradley starts, and that's as far as he gets before Rudy shoves into him, his hands finding their way into the front of Bradley's shorts again. Bradley's eyes slip closed, his lips part, his cheeks go slack and what I wouldn't give to have him lean back into me like that, to moan my name instead of Rudy's, to cry out yes, please, harder, God YES for me. Even from this distance, I can hear the steady uh uh uh as he meets Rudy thrust for thrust, and each moan makes me tremble, each gasp makes me throb. "Rudy," he sighs, arching back against his lover, bucking into him, harder, faster, setting a furious rhythm that ends with Rudy collapsing onto his back and the front of Bradley's shorts growing damp. I sink to the floor, my knees to my chest, my pants viselike around my own raging erection. I can hear Bradley giggle, breathless, and then Rudy says something I can't 12

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quite catch. I'm sure it's about me, they know I'm here, they did that just for me. Don't be silly, that voice in my mind tells me. They're lovers. First night in a new house, worked up a sweat all day, of course they were looking for release. In the window. After they saw me watching them. Yeah, right. I wait until the light down there clicks off and then, somehow, I make it to my feet and down the hall to my bedroom. I'm still hard as I undress but I don't touch myself, I don't take care of that business because I like the ache, it's a penance I feel I must pay for what I've seen tonight. What I had no right to see. But when I crawl between my sheets and close my eyes, I still hear Bradley's laughter, and this time it's me driving into him, it's my name he cries out when he comes. **** I wake with sweaty sheets, sticky with my own cum. How old am I again? The last time I pulled this crap, I was barely twenty years old—I don't have wet dreams anymore. I don't remember what it was I even thought of in sleep that would make me do this, wake up slicked with my own juices— Bradley, I think, and that's true, I probably dreamed of the boy. Still, I hate the way the sheets peel off of me as I stand, I hate the morning air on my clammy skin, I hate the smell of sex that hits me like a slap in the face when I tug the covers off the bed. Throwing the blankets onto the floor in a tangled heap, I strip the top sheet off, then the bed sheet, ball them 13

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up in an embarrassed fist and shove them deep into the bottom of my hamper, where I don't have to think about them. In the bathroom, I run the shower hot enough to pink my skin, but the scalding water, the humid steam, it's not enough to wash away the feeling of disgust that clings to me. I'm older than this, I tell myself, scrubbing down beneath the hot spray. He's just a guy, nothing to get excited about. I've had guys before. But I've never had one quite like him, with that champagne laugh that intoxicates the more you hear it, or that body of Adonis, tanned and buff. And I don't have him, either—he's the guy next door, the new kid on the block, and he has a boyfriend so even if they were talking about me last night, even if he does think I'm cute, there's nothing I'm going to do about it. I may not like Rudy, no, but I remember all too well the way it felt when I came home and found John, my John, with another man. My heart still twists in my chest when that scene rises unbidden in my mind. No, I don't need to put anyone through that. When I step out of the shower, the bathroom mirror's fogged up and I have to wipe a circle in the condensation so I can watch myself while I brush my teeth. First day of shutdown, I've got that whole room in the back to work on, and as I look at myself—my shaggy blonde hair, my own dark eyes—I wonder if Bradley works. He probably took some time off to move in, so he'll be around all day ... I stare at the sink and avoid my own reflection because there's a glimmer of 14

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something in my eyes, something I don't want to see. Hope maybe, and I don't need that. Downstairs I make a pot of coffee to get me through the day. As the java brews, I keep stealing glances out the window but the other house is dark, silent. It's still early, and I'm used to first shift so I'm always up at this hour—my body hasn't yet figured out the term vacation yet. But it would be nice to hear Bradley's voice now, probably groggy and thick with sleep, or to see him shuffle through the living room, mussing his hair as he yawns. Admit it, I think, stirring sugar into my steaming cup, you're hoping he sleeps naked and forgets to dress before he heads into the kitchen first thing, that's all you're banking on here. You want to get a good look at what's coiled between his legs and you'd love to see that ass again, wouldn't you? I don't even bother with a reply. I take my coffee out onto the porch, where the night chill still clings to the shadows. The swing creaks when I sit down—I'll have to oil that—and the faint cree cree as I slowly push off the floor mingles with the distant coo of a morning dove. Beyond that the spring day stretches out forever, silent, peaceful. My chin and nose sweat from the heat of my drink. The moving van is gone from next door, replaced with a cherry red Camaro that has to be his. So the boys have already started their day, up before me, I'm impressed. I didn't hear Bradley, surprise surprise—I would've thought he'd be loud enough to wake me from a deep sleep, despite the fact that we're in separate houses. I wonder what it's like to wake up next to someone like him, to open my eyes and 15

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find him staring back at me, to feel his lips on mine first thing. Before coffee or tea, before the morning paper or the 6 o'clock news. Does he whisper when he's beneath the covers? Does his smile outshine the sun? Stop. I shake my head and sip at my coffee. I don't need these thoughts, clouding my head. I don't need to lust after someone, anyone, not right now. I'm still getting over John, I tell myself. I'm still "moving on." I hear the squeal of a screen door opening, and then a leonine yawn that can only be one thing—Bradley. Through the blooming azaleas that box in his porch, I can see him, bare-chested and barefoot, doesn't that boy own clothes? He wears just a thin pair of boxers, and when he stretches his arms above his head as if reaching for the ceiling, they slide a little way down his hips to rest just below that small concave belly he has. I sip at my coffee again, staring at him over the top of the mug. With another yawn, this one louder than the first, he slaps at his arms, his chest, until the tanned skin reddens. Then he scratches through his hair with both hands, it sticks up in every direction like rays of the sun in a child's drawing, and as he steps off the porch, he hitches his boxers up to his waist. They promptly slide right back down again below his hips. You're in your underwear, I think, watching him openly as he struts across the lawn. He doesn't appear to care—I can see a triangle of dark hair curled behind his fly and when he bends to pick up the paper, the material pulls taut across his ass. So nonchalant, as if he's the star in this number, this is his big scene, he knows the world is watching him and he 16

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wants to put on a good show. He unrolls the paper, glances at the headlines and then, as if finally feeling the weight of my gaze on his shoulders, he looks my way, at me. I swear he knows about my dreams, the ones where he bucked beneath me, the ones that left my sheets soiled this morning. He must know I watched him last night, watched Rudy loving him—he has to know I'm hard already this early in the morning and it's all because of him. Damn him. There's that sunny grin, that bubbly laugh, and he folds the paper back up, tucks it under one muscled arm. "Hey," he calls out, starting towards me. I almost choke on my coffee. I can see the way he fills out those boxers, the way his genitals swing beneath the fabric as he walks, and anything I might possibly say is gone. Leaning on my fence, he crosses his arms and rests his chin on his wrist, looks at me with large eyes as blue as the sky above, and gives me another smile. "Hey there," he says again. "I'm Bradley." As if somehow I might not know this. "Hi Bradley," I say. "My name's Thom." "Thom." His smile widens until his eyes scrunch up and disappear in his face. His teeth are dazzling in contrast to his tan skin, his wide lips. I try to think of something else to say, something witty, something to make him laugh and remember me, but nothing comes to mind. Any minute now he'll turn around and head inside, finish unpacking, and I'll have to watch him through the windows in the room upstairs, hating myself because I couldn't think of one thing to say. 17

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So it surprises me when he jerks his head slightly and says, "Why don't you come over here, Tommy? I don't bite." Tommy. I haven't been Tommy since I was eight, but I like the name in his voice, I like the lilt of his words, and I'm already halfway down the steps before I realize what I'm doing. I falter, but only for a second. This is just being neighborly, I tell myself, crossing the damp grass to where he stands, waiting. Just saying hi, that's all. I'm well aware of the way he watches me as I approach, as if I'm a display model and he's looking over the goods before he decides to buy. I'm wearing an old, faded t-shirt and paint-flecked jeans, and right now I wish I had thought to put on something a little nicer this morning. This wasn't in your plans, I remind myself. You're dressed fine for painting today. You didn't know you'd actually get to talk to him. Still, I can't stop from gesturing to my outfit and mumbling, "I look awful—" Bradley winks at me. "You're not so bad," he says, and then he laughs, I love that sound. Up close it washes over me like the tide, invigorating, renewing. My knees go weak just hearing it, and I hope it looks completely natural when I lean against the fence beside him, my coffee cup in both hands so he won't see the way I shake. I can see the muscles in his biceps, bunched and smooth and begging to be kneaded. I can see long hairs bleached by the sun and curved around his forearms. I can almost taste the salt of his skin. Stop. "Tommy," he whispers. I would've never believed he could speak so softly. 18

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Searching for something to say, I frown at the street and ask, "So did you guys get everything moved in yesterday?" Safe topics, that's what we need to keep the distance between us. Bradley shrugs, a fluid motion that mesmerizes me, his muscles like waves beneath his skin. He's watching me closely, as if trying to figure me out. "Most everything," he says. "It's thrown all over the place, though. I've never had my own house before. I got a pool in the back." I laugh at the boyish eagerness shining in his eyes. "I do!" he cries, standing up. "Come see it." I shouldn't. I can't—the minute this fence disappears, what will keep me from touching him, catching him in my arms, holding him close and never letting go? "Maybe later," I say. His face falls into that pout again, the one I want to kiss away, but I can't ... what if Rudy comes back and finds the two of us together? We won't do anything, I think, but I don't know that, do I? With a dramatic sigh, Bradley kicks at the fence and mutters, "You don't want to." "It's not that," I say quickly. He kicks at the fence again, and this time his bare toes curl through the metal links. He stares at them, fascinated, as he tugs at the fence, and I try to think of something to get that gaze back on me, I want him to look my way again. I'm not even sure what'll come out when I open my mouth until I hear myself ask, "Would you like some coffee?" Coffee. His eyes light up and his smile is back, and before I can even start for the gate, he swings one leg onto the fence, 19

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then the other. So much for keeping it between us, I think as the fence rattles beneath him. Then he's in my yard, dressed in his boxers, that's it, that's all. Cautiously I ask, "Your friend won't mind if you're over here?" Bradley frowns at me. "My friend?" He thinks a minute, and then laughs, his brow clearing. "Oh, you mean Rudy? What'd he care for?" Hello? Because he's your boy? Before I can say that, though, Bradley tells me, "We're not like that." I remember the scene last night, his body arching back into Rudy's, his hands gripping the window sill when he came. You weren't supposed to see that, the voice inside me whispers. It made you ache and it made you throb and did he just say they aren't like that? So does that mean there's something to hope for here, or what? Leading the way to my porch, I start, "You're not—" With a careless wave of his hand, Bradley tells me, "He works at the place where I rented the truck. I thought he was cute, that's all." So you fucked him, I think. Just because he was cute? Didn't you say last night that you thought I was kind of cute, too? I wish that voice would shut the hell up already, it's as distracting as Bradley standing so close behind me, scantily clad and mere inches away. With each step I take, my hand threatens to brush against his thigh. Onto the porch, into the foyer, he's right up on me. In the kitchen he leans back against the sink and watches as I pour another cup of coffee. "How do you like it?" I ask, stirring the black liquid. 20

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Suddenly his hand curves around my ass, between my legs, and the spoon falls from my nerveless fingers to clatter to the counter. He leans against me, half-naked and hard, I can feel his erection press into my thigh and he's smiling at me, his eyes promising something I'm so sure I want. But somehow I manage to pull back just enough for his hand to slip away, and when he reaches for me again, I clear my throat and explain, "The coffee. How do you like your coffee?" That pout again, a lusty sigh, and then, "Tom-my." I force myself to take another step back, but when I pick up the spoon, his hand covers mine. "Tom-my," he says again, softer this time, his fingers curling into my palm. I'm not looking at him, my gaze is on the floor and his bare feet on my kitchen rug, his strong legs that would feel so wonderful wrapped around me, the erection straining the front of his boxers. "Brad, no—" "Brad-ley," he corrects. He steps closer, his dick pressing into me again, and dammit but I feel a stirring at my groin in response to his nearness. His lips brush my cheek and I turn away. I don't want this, I have to keep reminding myself that. I don't want just this. It takes all the strength I have to extract my hand from his. "Brad-ley," I say, emphasizing the name, and when he pouts at me, I have to look past him at the wall because I'm trembling, I want him so bad. "I can't. I don't—" "You don't want to?" he asks, almost incredulous. I'm probably the first person to ever turn him away. The look on his face, heart-wrenching, makes me feel so cruel. 21

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But I do want to, I want him something horrible, my whole body burns with his touch and I want to take him right here, bend him over the sink and thrust into him over and over again until I find release. I want to take him upstairs, bury him in my bed sheets, love him until every memory of John has vanished. It'd be that easy, my mind whispers. He wants it, you know he does, he wants it from you— And anyone else who's willing to give it to him. Rudy was from the rental company? How many others have there been before him, guys Bradley thinks he wants to try so he takes them home for the night, a sample here, a taste there, and they're gone before the dawn breaks? I don't want that, I don't need that, I'm too old for those games. As gently as I can, I ease around him, out of the corner he's managed to back me into and out into the middle of the room. He turns to watch me, still pouting slightly. "Look," I begin, gesturing with one hand. I don't like the way it shakes so I pull it back, fold my arms across my chest, hide my hands away. "It's not that, okay? It's—" "What is it then?" he asks. He's not malicious or sleazy about it, he's not whiny or mean. When he looks at me with those impossibly blue eyes, he's like a little kid, told he can't have something and he's not sure yet why not. He's decided he wants me and he can't figure out why I don't want him in return. But I do, I amend silently, letting my gaze trail over that tan, hardened flesh. Oh God, I do. "Tommy," he says, reaching out for me again. "It's okay—" "Just no." I twist away from him and his hand merely brushes my sleeve in passing. "I'm not like that." 22

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With a laugh, he says, "I'm usually pretty good about things like this, you know? And I thought I was reading you right, but hey, maybe not. I could be wrong." He shrugs easily, reaches for me again. This time his hand smoothes along my forearm, and the hairs on my skin stand up beneath his touch. "It's okay, though, really. I've had straight guys before." Oh God. "No, I'm not—" I have to laugh at that, and with a sardonic look, I assure him, "I'm not straight." "I didn't think so," he says, relieved. His hand has worked its way up beneath the sleeve of my shirt, rubbing gently, and when did he get so close? His other hand has started on the underside of my arm, dangerously close to my stomach, I can feel his fingers through the thin shirt I wear, hovering just inches from my skin. "What is it, then?" he wants to know. "You have a boyfriend or something?" I think of John and snort derisively. "Not anymore—" He doesn't let me get any farther, just presses his mouth to mine and suddenly he's licking into me, his tongue parting my lips and filling my mouth, and he's a hundred times sweeter than I could've possibly imagined, minty and clean like a toothpaste commercial. My arms unwrap of their own accord, my hands find the back of his neck, they pull him down to me and I can't seem to let go. He leans into me and I stumble back against the stove, his hands easing beneath my t-shirt, his mouth alive and exciting and as heady as any wine. He rubs against me, hard and eager, and his skin is just as smooth as I thought it would be, his shoulders just as firm, his tongue and hands amazing. 23

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My whole body cries out in disbelief when I manage to push him away. "Tommy," he sighs. Nuzzling my neck, he pulls me back and purrs, "Stop doing that." He's so warm in my arms, so vibrant, so alive, and isn't this what I wanted last night? Isn't this exactly where I want to be? But I've never been one to just fuck 'em and leave, I've never understood that whole "one night stand" thing. I want a boy to hold for as long as he'll let me, I want a boy that's mine, only mine, not one who picks up tricks like a kid in a candy store. What I had with John was perfect, I thought—he never gave me reason to think otherwise, until it was too late. We lived together, loved together, he was the one I came home to and he was the one I wanted. He knew the way I felt about us, about our relationship, and I think that hurt worse than seeing him with Sean, to know that he knew what it meant to me when it meant nothing to him. Now Bradley's licking up my throat, his hands are cupping my ass, he's pulling me to him and my erection is crushed against his own, hard, demanding, insistent. When he kisses my jaw, my chin, the space above my upper lip, I force myself to turn away. "Bradley, I'm not—" I get my arms between us, push against that muscled chest. It'd be easier if my own body didn't want to betray me, I'm fighting myself and him here... He takes a step back and I'm free, out of his arms and suddenly so damn cold and alone, I have to hug myself to keep from shivering. "It's just not a good idea," I tell him, even though the two of us hooking up is the best thing I've 24

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heard in weeks. My voice is coarse, thick with lust and unfamiliar to my own ears, and I fall back on the only defense I can find. "We don't even know each other yet." He laughs. His hand is back on my arm, he's nothing if not tenacious. "I'm Bradley," he says again, as if that's all I need to know. "I think you're sexy, and I want to get with you. Anything else we'll find out along the way." I look into his light eyes, his childlike smile, and wonder how I can possibly tell him all the hurt and pain I've harbored these past three weeks—are there even words to describe the long, bitter nights in my lonely bed? The exhaustion I feel just looking at a happy couple in love? Can I tell him about the times the phone rings and I don't answer it, so sure it's John, the man I thought I'd actually marry before I walked in on him getting it up the ass from his best friend? All he wants is a good time, I think, staring at Bradley. It's just sex to him, nothing more. Something you do to pass the time and feel good and how can I hope to tell him that I want so much more than that from a lover when I'm not even sure if what I'm looking for exists anymore? Watching his own hand pick at the hairs on my arm, Bradley asks, "What did he do to you?" John—"You know?" I ask, surprised, before I realize I told him I didn't have a boyfriend anymore. He just assumes something bad happened, something to keep me from giving into him now. Before he can answer, I shake my head and tell him, "It's not that, Bradley. I just ... I just don't want to, okay?" 25

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"Ever?" Bradley asks. That pout tugs at his lips, as if he can't believe I don't want him. But I do, my mind whispers, and I want to feel that mouth on me again, I want to taste those lips, that tongue again. And I can't. With a tight smile, I shrug and try to sound nonchalant when I tell him, "I didn't say ever. Just not right now." Bradley's smile is like the sun breaking through an overcast sky, and when he looks at me, there's something shining in his eyes that makes my knees want to buckle. "So you like me?" he asks. So blunt, this one. I shrug again, but I can't quite meet his gaze and I feel my cheeks heat up with a thin blush, and I can't keep from grinning like a fool when I tell him, "You're okay." Clutching his chest, he gasps. "Okay?" he cries. "Okay? Honey, I am more than okay. I am damn fine." Secretly I have to agree with him. I can't believe a boy like this—muscled and cute and so dramatic it hurts—I can't believe he's even interested in fooling around with me. Not that it'll be just that, I promise myself as his hands smooth their way up my arms again. This time he doesn't surprise me with another kiss, and I don't pull away. I like his touch. I need you to prove to me, Bradley, that you want me, just me, none of these boys you pick out and take for a spin, just ME, and then we'll see where we can go from there. After the way I've been burned, I can't even believe I'm giving him this much of a chance, but I'll be lying if I say my body doesn't thrill at the prospect of something more between us. 26

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**** "Come help me unpack," Bradley says, like I have nothing better to do. He sits on the stool at my breakfast bar sipping coffee, and from where I stand across from him, he looks naked—bare arms and chest, one knee just peeking over the top of the bar. I have to keep this counter between us because his hands have a way of finding mine and pulling me to him, he's strong and quick, I'll give him that. And sexy and cute and staring at me with those incredible eyes, and when he sighs my name, I want to curl up in those muscled arms and give him whatever he wants. But I have that room upstairs I need to paint—the wallpaper is finally down, that marbled sponge look John favored with the ivy trim along the ceiling, all that's in the trash cans now, waiting for the next pick-up—and it's going to take a few coats of paint to cover over what glue I couldn't scrape away. "I can't," I tell him, steeling myself for his pretty pout. There it is—does he do that on purpose? It's probably worked for him since he was two, and why stop when you have a good thing going? "I'm working on one of the bedrooms—" I start, and that's as far as I get before he's heading for the stairs, my hand in his, dragging me along behind him. "Bradley—" "What're you doing up here?" he asks. He takes the steps two at a time, landing heavily on his heels, clomp clomp clomp all the way up. The extra room's at the top of the stairs and the door's open so I know he sees the paint and drop 27

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cloths covering the floor, but instead of going in there, he hangs a left into the short hallway that leads to my room. "I want an upstairs," he says, his voice loud in the close hall. I wonder if people outside can hear him in passing. "You have a pool," I remind him. Catching his arm, I try to stop him from going further, but he just pulls me along. "This one back here's where I'm painting—" With a mischievous grin, he pushes open the door to my bedroom and says, "So this must be where you sleep." And there's my bed, stripped down to the mattress, I forgot to put on new sheets this morning. The blankets are thrown on the floor, the pillows punched up against the headboard, and from the grin on Bradley's face, I swear he knows about the sheets rolled up in the bottom of my hamper. Edging past him into the room, I ease him back out into the hallway and say, "You know, it's sort of a mess right now so maybe—" He laughs, that sparkly sound that rushes straight to my head, and steps around me. "At least it's more than just a mattress," he tells me. "That's all I got right now. This bed is huge." I watch him pick up the blankets from the floor. "Not really," I murmur. He holds out the comforter, stretches his arms wide and frowns as if trying to figure out how the thing works. "Bradley, this isn't—" Another laugh and he jumps on my bed, the blanket falling down around him like an open parachute as the springs creak beneath his sudden weight. I don't need this, I don't need the image of him beneath my sheets to haunt me like this, I 28

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don't—"Bradley, please." One bare leg kicks out at me from under the covers and I catch it in both hands, try to pull him off the bed. "Come on, kid, this isn't funny. Brad." "Brad-ley," he corrects, sitting up. He grabs my arms, tugs me down beside him, rolls onto me until I'm trapped between his body and the mattress and that hard thickness is pressing into my groin again with a sweet ache that makes me quiver. With his face just inches from mine, his hands holding me down, he stares into my eyes until I'm sure he can read every sordid thought in my head and whispers, "Bradley. I don't like Brad." "Bradley," I sigh, and then I push against him ineffectually. "Let me up. I've got work to do." For a moment I don't think he's going to move. He'll kiss me again—I can see the lust in his eyes, the desire, he wants me and if he touches me in the right places, if he sighs into me, I won't be able to say no. It's been a while since I've had a man, three weeks or more—I tell myself I don't need anyone, I don't need to be loved, but my body knows it's a lie. A gentle touch, soft words, moans in my ear when he comes, release flooding through me, I see all of that shining in his eyes. If he kisses me here, burrowed in the blankets on my bed, I won't push him away again. But he rolls away from me, lies on his back and watches me struggle to sit up, and I tell myself it's for the best, really. This isn't disappointment that stings my heart. "Get up," I say, pulling at his foot as I stand. With a lusty sigh, he extracts himself from my blankets and rises to his feet, only now his boxers hang even lower on 29

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his hips, I can see the crack of his ass, and when he turns, I notice that one of the snaps has come undone. I catch a glimpse of dark hair, dusky flesh, and then I turn away. "I'm repainting the other room," I tell him, just for something to say. Bradley drops the blankets onto the bed and follows me from the room. "What color?" he asks. Before I can answer, he says, "Let me just tell you, my bathroom? A horrible shade of pink. You know any good painters I can hire to take care of that for me?" He squeezes my ass and adds, "I pay real well." I'm sure you do. Leading him into the other room, I point at the cans of paint stacked in the center of the room. "I'm just doing a neutral shade here," I say, hoping to change the subject. "Nothing fancy." Bradley's already at the window, staring down into his backyard. "Great view you got here. That's my pool." When I come up behind him, he nudges me with his elbow, winks at me over his shoulder, and whispers, "I sunbathe in the nude." "That doesn't surprise me," I murmur, keeping my voice low so he won't hear the tremble in it. "No, really, look." He starts to pull down his boxers—no tan lines, nothing but smooth skin, so inviting. I could touch him now and he'd let me, he wants me to, I can almost feel his desire radiating from him in waves. At the first tufts of hair, though, I close my eyes, and Bradley sighs. "Jesus," he mutters, hitching his shorts back up over his hips. He doesn't elaborate. I frown at the paint cans and tell him, "I should get to work." Stay, I want to add. Talk to me, put me at ease, tell 30

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me you're looking for a boy like me and I'll open up to you, I want you, I want to love someone like you but I'm afraid of getting hurt again, can't you see that? Just be patient and I swear I'll make it worth your while, you'll see. Only I can't say that, and with another sigh Bradley says, "I guess I'll go." He waits until I move towards the cans, until he's sure I'm really going to start to paint, and then he asks, "I didn't put you off, did I? I mean, it's not me, is it?" Oh God, no. "Bradley," I start, and then I shake my head, shaking away the memories of seven months shattered in the instant I walked through the door and saw John with another man. "If anything, it's me," I tell him. "I don't—I can't really..." This is hard, talking about it, I've never told anyone what happened, just that we were through. I look up at him with beseeching eyes and whisper, "Please understand. It's not you at all, I swear." Hands on his hips, Bradley chews the inside of his cheek, thoughtful, and then he declares, "It's just sex, Tommy. When I get with a guy? It's just to get off, that's it. If I were exclusive, I wouldn't fuck around like I do." If I were exclusive... Before I can answer, he pats me on the back like an old friend and laughs. "Don't be a stranger now, you hear? You get tired of painting, you come on over and help me unpack." I force a laugh that comes off sounding weak and shaky to my own ears. "I'll keep that in mind," I tell him. Then, as he heads down the stairs to let himself out, I holler, "You can always come back here and help me paint, you know. If you want." 31

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His laughter is the only reply. **** He's all I think about, that kiss in the kitchen, that body above mine in my bed. If I were exclusive ... I can't get those words out of my mind. He doesn't make it any easier, either, when he trots over to my house first thing each morning for a cup of coffee and all he wears are those low-hanging boxers. He watches me over the rim of his mug, sees the way I stare at him, his arms, his hands, his chest. He smiles into his coffee when he moves his leg and I can see the outline of his dick through his shorts, lying high across his thigh, half-hard because he's already told me he wants me. "You're just my type," he tells me. He talks about sex like it's the weather, no shame, no modesty. I envy that. "I like my guys a little on the thin side. I bet you have a big dick." God. What do you say to something like that? I gulp down the rest of my coffee, ignoring the scalding brew as it burns my mouth and sears a path down my throat, it matches the fire raging through my blood. By the afternoon of the third day, Bradley loses interest in unpacking and decides to check out his pool instead. From the room upstairs I can see him through the window, dressed in the tightest bikini I've ever seen, a bright shade of blue that should be illegal, the way it curves around his cock and ass. He has strong legs, a swimmer's build, and I'm only halfway around the room on the second coat of paint—I still have a lot of work to do—but I can't stop myself from drifting to the window, leaning out over the sill, watching him as he 32

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fills the pool. Hose in one hand, the other on his hip, he doesn't even know I'm there and I shouldn't do this, I shouldn't watch him, I shouldn't spy but I can't help it. With the noon sun beating down on him, he looks like a statue of bronze, his skin glistening with suntan oil, his bleached bangs the color of dandelions, the hair around the back of his head dark in comparison. I imagine running my hands through that hair, hearing the rasp of my nails against his scalp, tugging the short length between my fingers. It'd be dry in the front where he's over-processed it, but the back would be soft, fine, maybe a little greasy from the gel he uses, a little stiff. I want to bury my face in his hair, breathe deep the clean scent, feel the strands tickle my nose and crinkle against my cheeks. When he realizes it'll take a while to fill the pool, he sets the hose down and goes inside. Then he's back, carrying a long wooden lounge chair as if it weighs nothing at all. He sets it down near the pool, goes inside again, comes out with a small square table, also made of wood, laden with towels and bottles of lotion. When he sets the table down beside the chair, everything tumbles to the tiled deck, and I can hear him cursing from here—I grin at the way he says, "Dammit the fuck," as if the towels and lotion fell just to spite him. Finally he gets situated, spreads the towels out on the chair, arranges the lotion bottles just so on the table—another trip into the house to get a glass full of iced tea that winks like amber in the sun, and then he lies down. Not naked, as he claimed ... and I could say I'm not disappointed about that, but I'd be lying. He looks heavenly, stretched out along 33

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the length of the chair like a young god in repose. I picture myself down there with him, straddling his legs, my hands on his body, my fingers tracing the lines of his chest, the muscles in his stomach, drifting lower, lower, until I grasp at his thickness and he moans beneath me, he'd raise his knees up so I could get between them, he'd beg me to enter him, he'd say— Remembering the hose, Bradley rolls out of the chair, ruining the daydream. The pool's filled up now, water already spilling into the overflow channel that runs just beneath the edge. Back to work, I think, but I linger a few moments more, to see if he'll jump in now or what. I'd like to see that tight bikini he has on taut and wet, his hair slicked back, his body drenched with beads of water and sweat. Stop it, I tell myself, turning away. What happened to that "don't need anyone" mentality you adopted after you kicked John out of the house? That was before Bradley. Years before, it seems. Now that the pool's filled, I'll catch a sparkle from the corner of my eye, the sun winking across the smooth surface, and whenever I take a break, I'm at the window again, looking down at the golden boy below. He leaves after his morning coffee and takes a swim, a few quick laps around the pool before retreating to the chair and his iced tea. Then he lies out from ten to two, sheathed in lotion—peak times for the sun, he says. I don't tell him I watch him from upstairs, and it's taking longer to finish the room than I anticipated because I'd rather stare at him than paint, I'd rather touch him in my mind, remember his lips and his hands on me. 34

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Daydreams consume me, the two of us in his pool, my hands inside that tight bikini of his, my mouth on his chest, his arms. If I were exclusive, he whispers in these visions, and I let him push me back to the warm tile that edges his pool, I let him touch me in places that ache for his hands, I let him love me the way he promises he can. We don't talk really—just those few stolen moments in the morning over cups of coffee, where he lets me look at him and he tells me he wants me. "I've never known a guy for as long as I've known you and not fucked him," he says with a laugh, incredulous. Something in me finds that sad, the way he defines himself through others. He's like an actor who can't perform without an audience, a writer without readers, a musician without people to hear his songs. Everything he does is for attention, it's in his loud voice, his large mannerisms, his laugh. I get the feeling it's all a show to him, it's done for effect, it's the only way he knows to be. Look at me, his every action says. See me, feel me, love me. "You're holding out on me," he says. Another laugh, probably at the way my face heats up, and then he tells me, "It's okay. I like the challenge." "Is that all I am to you?" I ask, a little disappointed. We've known each other almost a week now and true, that's not long at all, but I'd like to think what we're building toward is more than simply another notch in his bedpost. But if I'm just a challenge to him, someone he wants only because he can't have me, what happens to all those dreams I've conjured up around him? What happens to what I want? 35

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He shrugs, sips at his coffee, admits, "Guys are easy to get with. Easier than you'd think." Glancing at me, he smiles and adds, "Most guys, anyway. Straight or gay, they're all looking for a piece of ass, that's it. Me, I like to give it up, it makes the time pass, makes me feel good and what's wrong with that?" When I don't answer immediately, he prompts, "I mean, really?" "Nothing," I whisper. But I wonder if it's all just sex to him. Hasn't there ever been anyone he's loved? Hasn't it ever meant something more to him, even just once? Before I can figure out how to ask him that, he stands and comes around the side of the breakfast bar, comes around behind me, his hands smoothing along my hips, his touch seeping through my shorts to stain my skin. He hasn't touched me like this since the first day we spoke—he's been playful, catching my wrist or my leg, pretending to bite at my fingers even as I pulled them away, ruffling my hair or smacking my ass, but nothing overtly sexual, nothing like this. This reminds me that his words aren't just talk, this hand on my hip, these fingers easing beneath my t-shirt to caress my stomach. As his arms tighten around me, he rests his chin on my shoulder and when he sighs, his breath is hot along my neck. "Tell me something, Tommy," he murmurs, his voice and his fingers twirling my stomach into a dozen knots. I grip my coffee mug in both hands and set it down gently onto the counter—I nod because I don't trust myself to speak. Bradley's hand slips lower, brushing over the waistband of my jeans, lower still, lower, until he finds my budding 36

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erection. He cups me through the pants, squeezes until I have to close my eyes, the sensation is too much, my knees waver and my legs turn to jelly and the only thing holding me up is his arms, his body pressed so tight against mine. Involuntarily I gasp his name, clench my fingers onto the edge of the counter, and I know he's smiling, I can feel the shape of his lips on my jaw, damn him for doing this to me. So much for my resolve. His voice is soft and low like distant surf. "When you watch me from your window," he purrs, his hand kneading me, working me hard, "do you touch yourself here?" For emphasis, he squeezes again, his fingers closing around my shaft and under my balls and suddenly my jeans are too confining, too tight, I want them gone. "Hmm? Do you touch yourself when you watch me, Tommy? Do you imagine my hand doing this to you?" I can't reply. He rubs into me, his own length hard against my buttocks, and if he asks now, I'll say yes, I'll lead him up to my bed and I won't let John's memory taint what we do together, I won't think twice about a roll in the sheets, I won't let my conscience bother me. I can make it love, I can show him how great it would be between us, I can erase all the other boys he's ever had and take the need that burns through him away until all he wants is me. If he just asks again... But he doesn't. Instead, when I don't answer, his hand drifts back to my stomach, his arms wrap around me tightly, he hugs me until I'm sure I won't be able to take another breath—I've never felt this safe before, not with anyone else, ever—and then he pulls away. He knows you watch him, my 37

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mind whispers as his touch disappears. I'm going to have to stay out of that room upstairs when he's laying out by the pool. I'm not a voyeur, I'm not perverted like that, I swear I'm not ... but I can't help it, I think as he touches the small of my back. His fingers curl into my pants and he kisses the nape of my neck, just his lips against my skin briefly and then they're gone. I want him, yes. I'm falling for him, who am I kidding? I want him to want me, to want ONLY me, and I don't know if he can do that. "If I were exclusive"—remember those words? He's not John, he won't fuck around on you, he said as much. Trust him. But I can't. I close my eyes and still see the fear and surprise in John's eyes as he knelt on all fours in the living room, my living room, not two days after he asked me if maybe we might want to think about putting his name on the lease. I thought we were headed somewhere—seven months wasn't my longest relationship, but it was almost a year of my life dedicated to that man, I gave him my home, my love, myself and he just threw it all away. "It's not what you think," he had the audacity to say after the two of them were dressed and I stood at the sink in the kitchen, waiting for them to leave. Now I'm alone, and he's with Sean or someone else, I don't know and I don't care, and what would it hurt to get with Bradley? To be held again, to be kissed and loved again? To hear someone whisper my name or giggle beneath the sheets or sleep beside me? "Bradley," I sigh as he leans against the bar to study me closely, his hand just inches from mine on the counter top. 38

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He strokes my wrist with one finger and asks quietly, "You want to tell me what happened, baby?" No, I think. Not really. When I don't answer, he asks, "How long were you with him?" "Seven months," I whisper. And one week, four days, but who's counting? Bradley whistles low, impressed. "Dayum, boy. Seven months?" I nod, and he laughs. "No wonder you're still getting over him. What did he do? Just up and leave you or what?" "I threw him out." When Bradley starts to speak, I shake my head. "I don't want to talk about it right now, okay?" There's that pout, I should've seen it coming. "I thought we were friends," he says, his finger drawing the number eight onto the back of my hand. An unending loop, the symbol for eternity. "You can trust me, Tommy. Who am I gonna tell?" "It's not—" I start, and then I shake my head again. "Please, Bradley. I can't—" With a dramatic sigh, Bradley says, "Fine." When I look up at him, his face is closed in anger, his eyes hard, his lips pressed together in a childish frown. "You know, Tommy, I thought maybe we were headed somewhere. I thought you liked me—" "I do," I tell him. "Brad—" He pushes away from the counter, mad. "I thought you were just getting to know me, and then you'd tell me all about the jackass who fucked you over and I could play the sympathetic friend, you'd find comfort in me or some such 39

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shit, and we'd both get something out of it. You're not the only one with daydreams, Tommy." He heads for the door. "Bradley, wait," I call out, following him. He dreams about me? For the first time I wonder if the images in his mind are the same as mine, the two of us together, naked and locked in throes of passion. He actually dreams about getting with me? Somehow that makes this seem like it's so much more to him than just another fuck, that I'm so much more. "Bradley." He's not listening, though, I've pissed him off and now he's going to pull a drama queen stint because that's just the way he is, and fuck it all to hell but I'm falling for that part of him, too. "I'm just the cute boy next door, is that it?" he asks, storming out onto the porch. As I follow him, I pray that none of the neighbors are watching—what if someone sees us? Him in boxers and bitching me out, the beginnings of an erection poking at the front of his shorts. God. "I'm just a slut," he continues, pounding down the steps. "Fuck anyone who'll shove it in me, is that what you think? You stare at me from your window and you get off on watching me and you know I'm all about hooking up but oh no, you've been hurt before, your heart's too damn fragile and you won't let me even try to prove that I'm not like your fuckhead friend. Seven goddamn months and you won't even give me a chance." "Okay, Bradley?" I try, trailing behind him helplessly. He swings one leg over the side of my fence, then the other, slides off into his yard and he's ignoring me now, he's just not listening. "Maybe we can take this back inside? We can talk it out—" 40

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"Fuck that," he mutters, but when he notices I don't follow him over the fence, he stops in the middle of his front yard and crosses his arms, glares around, waits for me to play my part. I'm supposed to rush over there and beg him to listen to me, let me talk, please, and he'll roll his eyes and sigh like nothing I have to say will be enough, but he'll let me coax him inside and then he'll let me make it up, he'll let my hands and lips make everything alright. We'll end up together in his bed, which I know he hasn't put together yet, it's still just a mattress on the floor, I can see it from the upstairs window— "I'm not playing this, Bradley," I tell him. I'm too old for games like this. He looks confused. "Playing what?" he asks. You know damn well what, I think, but I don't say the words. Instead I stand on my side of the fence and cross my arms just like he's doing, try for a pout and settle for a frown so fierce, it hurts my chin. He's not the only diva here. "I'm not ready yet, okay? Seven months is a damn long time and I can't just fling myself at the first guy who's willing to bend over for me. It's not fair to you—" "I don't mind," he says, but I cut him off, I'm not through. "And it's not fair to me," I tell him. "Yes, I like you. I like you a hell of a lot, okay? I've liked you since the moment I first saw you, and it's not just your ass or your dick, Bradley, it's who you are. I like everything about you." He starts to say something, but I'm not finished here yet. "You like living the way you do?" I ask, angry. "Fine. You pick up your boys and bring them home and ball them by the pool, I don't care. But 41

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I'm not like that, Brad-ley, I'm not the type to just jump into sex like you do. I've got to feel something in here—" With one hand clenched into a fist, I hit my chest right above my heart, and then I cup my sore cock through my jeans, still hard, still aching for him—"before I feel it here." Trembling, I turn and hurry into the house. My eyes sting with hot tears and I'm so sure he's going to call out to me, I'm so sure he'll say my name or follow me in, and then we'll both apologize, we'll move past the rising tension that's built between us these last few days, we'll move on, together. If he'll just give in... But he doesn't, and I slam the door on the world, lock it behind myself for good measure, and barely make it up the stairs to my bedroom before the tears start to fall. **** By mid-morning, I decide he's not going to come to me. He's not the type—he's the one who's been wronged, he's the one who has to be cooed to and courted. Fuck that, I think, though it takes all I have not to creep sheepishly next door and tell him I'm sorry. He has to realize I'm not like the other boys he's had, I'm not that easily manipulated. He wants something from me, something more than sex, a relationship, then he has to realize it won't just be on his terms. He has to meet me halfway, I'm not going to get hurt again. He's not John, that voice in my head whispers, and I know he's not, but he likes to play and I want him to see that he's not going to play around with me. If we get together, it's not going to be a damn Olympic event, each of us one-upping the 42

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other, him pouting and me giving over everything just to see his smile. Fuck that, I tell myself. Yes, I'd love to kiss away that pout. Yes, I'd love to take him in my arms and smooth away the creases in his brow and kiss his cheeks and chin until he's happy again, yes, but there will be times when he'll have to do that for me, too. I'm not getting into it with another selfish man who thinks only of himself and his dick and doesn't give two shits about what I want or need. I dread going into the second room just because I know Bradley will be outside, probably still pissy, throwing towels and kicking at his chair, or swimming angry laps around his pool. But I need to get the painting done—it's been a week already, shutdown's almost over and my vacation starts, I had hoped to be much further along than this—so I tell myself I'm not going to look out the window, whatever he does out there will just be for my benefit anyway, everything he does is a show and I just won't watch it this time. Only I can't help it, I'm painting the window frames and I have to look out, and he's not on the deck. I open the window, lean out as far as I dare, glance towards the front of the house, my heart in my throat... But he's not out in the front yard either, thank God for that. I could so see him still standing there like a lawn ornament, waiting for me to come back out, dressed in those boxers that hang lower and lower on his hips the later it gets. He's just inside, I think as I start on the window that looks down into his room. I can see the mattress pushed up beneath his own window and yes, there he is, stretched out on the dark bed sheet, naked. No boxers, no shorts, no swim 43

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trunks, nothing. His legs are slightly apart, inviting, one hand behind his head and the other fisted at his crotch, covering his cock. I can see dark hair curl around his fingers and wrist, the hint of red skin hidden in shadow, his muscled stomach and chest darker than usual. No lights on in the room, giving him that cool, dusky color like burnished metal. Asleep then. But naked? No, not asleep. As I watch, he fondles himself, the hand at his groin moving in a tantalizing, slow rhythm. His hips rise off of the mattress, he thrusts into his hand, his fingers curve beneath his balls and his lips part as he squeezes, I can almost hear the moan that escapes, I can feel that hand on me. He opens his eyes and looks up through the curtainless window, up at me. I can see the dull lust in those eyes, the thin beads of sweat above his upper lip that his tongue licks away. He sees me, I know he does—I took the curtains down yesterday when I started on the framework, he can see me staring at him plain as day, and his hand starts to pick up rhythm, he thrusts into it harder, he moans and this time it's loud enough that I do hear it, even from here. He's staring straight at me, a slight grin on his face that suggests he's been lying there for hours now just waiting for me to come along. His hand curls into a fist, pumps his hard shaft as he arches away from the mattress, a few fingers sliding below his balls to disappear into the shadows between his legs. My own hand drifts to my crotch, already burning with that sweet fire he sets in me, and when he starts that uh uh uh that makes my blood rush, I fist my hand in the fabric of my 44

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jeans, clenching the zipper so I won't open it, I won't touch myself, I won't find relief in this. Fuck him, I think, but isn't that what he wants? Me in that bed with him, I can almost feel how warm he'd be against me, how firm, his hands gentle, his lips soft, his dick hard and eager against my own. How's he do this to me? Why do I let him? He comes in thick spurts that slick his lower belly, tiny white droplets that catch in the folds of his muscles and trickle around his waist to the mattress below. He's still watching me, a hooded desire in his eyes, his lips curving into a lazy smile. In my mind I hear him ask, Do you touch yourself here? When you watch me, Tommy... My hand cramps where it's fisted into my jeans. Slowly I open my fingers, trying to ignore the throbbing beneath them that beats in time with my thudding heart. His hand rubs the smooth flesh just above his cock, his fingers smearing his own juices into his skin. I imagine licking those fingers, one by one, trailing my tongue over his quivering muscles, savoring the salty taste of his cum. His grin widens as if he's thinking the same thing. Come over here, Tommy, that grin says. You know you want to. I turn away. **** Bradley doesn't come over in the morning. I tell myself I don't care, but I make a full pot of coffee out of habit and pour two cups because I'm sure he'll wait until the last possible minute before trotting over here in those see-through boxers he favors. I stand at the sink and sip my 45

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own coffee, staring across the few feet that separate our houses, staring into his darkened living room, waiting. It's been a full seven days since we met and already it seems wrong that he's not over here by now, sitting at the breakfast bar with one knee up to his chest, blowing on he hot java and gazing at me with smoldering eyes over the top of his mug. He's stubborn, I think, just as stubborn as I am, and if he's still waiting for me to say I'm sorry, he'll never be over here again. I'm not the one who did anything wrong here. I don't have to tell him about John. For all your talk of wanting a relationship that's a two-way street, I think, frowning into my coffee, you sure as hell aren't making any moves to clear things up between you. I push that thought away. Shut up, I tell myself, I don't have to think shit like that. Bradley's the one who wants to get with me—he's wanted it since the day after he moved in, came onto me here by the sink, touched me in places I haven't been touched in forever, kissed me up against the stove, told me he could be exclusive ... he's the one who needs to get his ass over here and say he didn't mean to push me so far yesterday. He should realize I'm not as open as he is, I can't just hand over my heart, not when I'm still in the process of putting it back together again. You're afraid— damn that voice in my head. You're scared he'll fuck you and just want to be friends, you don't want to have to deal with that, you're terrified that you're falling for him and he doesn't feel the same. You let him in, he rocks your world, and the next day he's with someone else, he won't see the harm in that, and you're scared shitless he'll do you like John did. 46

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Admit it, Thom, it's fear that's keeping you from going next door and telling him you think you want to love him. I wait until nine—he's usually here by now—but the lights are still out next door and I haven't seen him moving around. I pour the coffee out slowly, watching it swirl away down the stainless steel drain, hoping against hope that he'll show up before it's all gone. He doesn't. The contents of his mug follow the rest of the coffee, and I can't finish my own drink because it tastes bitter and tepid, I spit it out into the sink and wash the mugs, the coffeepot. I tell myself I'm mad, fucking livid, because I don't know why I'm even letting him get to me like this. Because you can say it's him who wants you, I think, storming upstairs, but you're a liar if you don't believe you want him just as much, Tommy. Tommy. I miss that. How long has it been since he left here in a huff? One day, is that all? Yesterday after coffee, and I haven't heard his laugh since then, I haven't felt his hands on my hips or my arms, I haven't seen his smile since he masturbated by the window as I watched. He knows I watch him—does that turn him on? Does it make him like me more? Could he be exclusive, if I told him about John? If I told him I wanted to love him, only him, no sharing, no others, no fucking around? He said he could, I remind myself. But can I trust him? In the back room, I look around at the freshly painted walls, the one window I finished yesterday, the other bare and out of place, waiting to be done. I think about him in my bed above me or lying out by his pool. I think about his lips 47

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on my mouth, his tongue licking against mine, his hands firm and sure on my body. Yes, I trust him, I do, if only because I want to give him a chance. But it's me I'm not so sure about—can I love anyone else without comparing them to John? Without getting jealous and possessive because I'm afraid of being hurt again? Can I love Bradley simply for who he is and not all I'd like him to be? Give it a try. I don't even question that voice anymore, just turn on my heel and take the steps two at a time downstairs, tear the front door open, rush out onto the porch, I'll tell him it's me, I'm sorry, Bradley, it's all my fault, I'm so sorry, please— He's already in his Camaro—when did he wake up? You didn't come over, I think, helpless as I watch him pull away from the curb. He's wearing a tank top that shows more than it hides, I can see him through the windows, he has the sunroof open and I can hear a loud hip-hop beat pounding from his stereo. He glances at me as he passes, but he's wearing wraparound Oakley shades and I don't know if he sees me or not. He doesn't wave, doesn't smile, just leans back in the driver's seat and tears off down the street. Cruising. Oh God, it's too late. **** He's tired of waiting for me to come around, I don't blame him. No sex in a week—for someone like him? That's a lifetime. Upstairs I brush paint across the windowsill angrily and try to ignore the way the sunlight winks off the water in his pool. See what you've missed? I tell myself. You could be 48

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with him right now. You could've caught him before he left and invited him in and he'd be loving you right now, not trolling for boys in town. How long has it been since you've been with anyone? Since you've gotten off with more than just your hand? Sometime before noon, I hear an engine purr to a stop outside. Maybe he just went for groceries. Maybe he needed to get some things for the new place, maybe he wanted to buy a dog, maybe he just had to get out and think and he didn't even bother to find someone to bring home— I hear his laugh, bright as the sun, stabbing into the day and I know I waited too damn long. He already found someone, another guy like Rudy, someone else he doesn't know but wants to fuck. I hear another laugh, this one deeper, richer, I hate it. Fuck you, Bradley, I think as his voice drifts up to me through the open window. "Jeff-rey! Come help me with these bags, baby." Baby. How long have you known this one? I wonder. I should go out there now, tell him we need to talk, send this Jeffrey of his packing and just tell him... What? What happened with John? Does he even care? I hear his laughter again and hit the windowsill with the paintbrush in long, bitter strokes. Apparently not. Whoever this Jeffrey is, he says something in a low voice that rumbles like thunder and makes Bradley laugh again. One day, that's all it takes for him to move past me? Am I that easy to get over? I hear a car door slam shut, then more laughter, footsteps on the porch, they're inside the house and I'm glad I'm not at 49

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the window that looks down into his bedroom now, I don't need to see him fuck this one, too. He'll look up at me with those half-closed eyes, his mouth a perfect circle as Jeffrey baby enters him, and with each thrust I'll think it could be me over there, I don't need to see him get off ever again. Not when it should be with me. I don't hear anything for a long time. I don't want to hear anything, but I can't help straining my ears for the slightest sound, any indication that they're rutting like animals next door. But there's nothing. I finish the top of the window, work my way down one side, then the other, and stretch up to paint the bottom of the frame when I hear the unmistakable slap of a screen door snapping shut. Involuntarily I glance down at the pool and there's Bradley, now dressed in that second-skin bikini of his, his tank top long since tossed aside. He picks at the bikini where it bites around his ass, smoothes the tight fabric over his buttocks, and jumps feet first into the pool. Water splashes everywhere, like his laughter—I hear it rain down around the tiled deck and then he calls out, "Jeffrey? You coming out here or what?" No. I don't want to see this, I don't have to, but there's Jeffrey, skin so dark that it almost glistens with a red sweat. A shaved head, high cheekbones, sinewy arms and legs like rawhide and dressed in a pair of white shorts that dazzle against his flesh. It's his deep laugh I heard earlier, I hear it again, and before I can even think to look away, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts, pulls them down to his ankles, steps out of them, naked and gleaming like polished cherry wood. He's already half-hard, I see that when 50

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he turns to kick the shorts away, and then he slips into the pool. His teeth are impossibly white, wicked, when he smiles. With smooth strokes, he crosses the pool to where Bradley comes up from the water, his hair slicked back and his skin glistening. Mine, I think as Jeffrey's dark hands rub along Bradley's tanned shoulders. Mine, when he presses Bradley back against the side of the pool, his mouth like a leech on Bradley's neck. Mine, when he disappears below the surface of the water and Bradley grips the overflow channel behind him, pulls up slightly, his mouth and eyes wide at whatever Jeffrey is doing to him beneath the water. When he pulls himself up out of the pool, his bikini is gone, and water drips from the hair at his crotch, an erection poking from between the damp curls. Mine. Before Bradley can stand, Jeffrey is crawling over him, wet, naked, hard and already reaching for that secret place between Bradley's legs that I want, that's mine. Only he's not yours, I think, but it doesn't curb the anger flooding through me, it doesn't take the bitter taste out of my mouth. I'm going to be sick, watching him with another man—that first night, with Rudy? I thought I was trespassing, I was the voyeur, the interloper, the one who didn't belong. But now, watching Jeffrey touch him, watching that dark hand disappear in the tufts of hair at Bradley's crotch, watching his lips suck along those hard muscles, I'm the one who feels violated, like I did when I found John with Sean—I'm the one who's offended. So go down there and do something about it, I tell myself. Bradley leans back on his elbows, gasps as Jeffrey's tongue licks him in places I want to taste, I can hear 51

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him from here. The way he's angled, I know he sees me, it's in that cocky grin on his lips, the one that asks, See what you're missing? That voice in my head, the one I'm trying desperately to ignore, whispers, Go break up their little party, tell Jeffrey to crawl back into whatever hole he came out of, get Bradley back. Get him back ... did I even have him to begin with? Veiled promises, flirtatious talk, nothing solid, nothing real, nothing I can point at and tell him, Look, here's where you said we were together. Because we're not. And I guess we're not going to be, either. I throw the paintbrush into the can at my feet, splashing fresh paint in a spray along the wall beneath the window. I don't care. I'm not watching this, I don't need this pain. Let Bradley fuck whoever he wants and leave me the hell alone. I slam the door shut as I leave the back room. In my bedroom down the hall, I fall into my bed and pull the covers up over my head and try to block out the images of Bradley writhing beneath Jeffrey baby's dark, wet, naked body. **** I wake up with a start and for a moment I'm not sure where I am, it's dark and too warm and a dream of Bradley sleeping beside me lingers like a ghost, his hands phantoms on my hips and waist. Then I remember Jeffrey, I remember the smug smile on Bradley's face as he looked up and saw me watching them, I remember dark, bony hands encircling Bradley's hard dick and the way his eyes slipped closed in 52

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pleasure and I bury my head in the pillow as if to snuff out the images. I don't need this, none of it. The doorbell rings—that must be what woke me up, someone downstairs, what time is it? Pulling the blankets down just enough to peek out at the clock, I notice it's not yet ten PM—I slept that long? Great, now I won't be able to get back to sleep and I'll paint into the night, I'll have a clear view down into the bedroom next door, I'll be able to see those dark limbs entangled in Bradley's sheets and when they fuck I'll have a front row seat. I'm not getting up. Let whoever's at my door stay there. But what if it's Bradley? Bradley ... why should it be? He's got someone else already, he's managed to move on, he's better at this game than I am. For all I know he's still by his pool, even at this hour, gripping the sides of his lounge chair as Jeffrey baby goes down on him again. If he's here, it's only to rub in the fact that he's not interested in waiting around for me any longer. You want to hold out on me, Tommy? Fine. I'll get it from someone else, it's all the same to me. Exclusive, my ass. The doorbell rings a third time, then a fourth, then whoever it is leans on the buzzer and it rings incessantly, a steady two-step chime that can make you hurt someone, it's so damn annoying. There's no doubt in my mind who it is now, only someone like Bradley would pull a stunt so childish. "Alright already," I mutter, even though I know he can't hear me. Throwing the covers back, I stumble from the bed, out 53

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into the hall, down the stairs and if he doesn't get off that fucking bell I'm going to have to— I tear the door open and there he is, what a surprise. Dressed in his boxers, a thin afghan wrapped around his shoulders, a pillow in one hand. His hair has dried into stiff spikes that I want to smooth down, I hate that he can do this to me. No words yet and already I'm thinking of what I can say to get him inside. I don't need him, I tell myself, but I forgot how intoxicating he is up close and my body doesn't listen to my head. My heart's already skipping away at the sight of that petulant pout, those sad eyes. Before he can say anything, I sigh. "What?" "Let me in," he says. As if it's that simple. Another sigh. "Bradley, it's late—" He pulls the afghan tighter around his shoulders, but it barely meets across his broad chest. "My gas is out," he tells me. "I need to stay here tonight." Bullshit. "Your gas?" What's he talking about? With a nod, he mumbles, "Don't know what happened, just doesn't work. Maybe it's the pilot or something, I don't know, but it's getting cold—" "It's the middle of May," I remind him. Why am I even doing this? Letting him talk to me like nothing's happened between us. "Put some more clothes on," I say, then I force a bitter laugh and add, "Get your current boy toy to warm you up. What's his name? Jeffrey baby?" His pout deepens—that hit a nerve. His voice is barely a whisper when he tells me, "He's gone." 54

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Gone. That didn't last long, not that I expected it would. Still, Rudy at least stayed until morning, right? What did Bradley do, sex this one up before kicking him out, then trotted over here looking to score? "Gone," I echo, not quite believing it. "You get over them fast, don't you?" He grimaces, a wounded expression in his eyes that I put there, and suddenly I want to take that back, take it all back, apologize and start all over again, just rewind the clock until it's tomorrow again and this time I'll tell him about John. There'll be no trip into town, no Jeffrey, no sex by the pool and I wouldn't be feeling this shitty, he wouldn't be standing on my porch with his lower lip trembling like he's going to cry. Look what you did, that voice inside my head chastises me. "Brad—" "I didn't fuck him, okay?" Bradley shouts, the way a little kid will when he thinks no one's listening to him. When I try to quiet him, he shrugs my hand off his arm and continues in one long breath. "I thought I would just to rub it in your face so I went to the store and he was bagging my groceries and I told him I'd make it worth his while if he took off the rest of the day, I've picked up guys that way before, and he didn't have to be asked twice, he just jumped in my car and was all over me on the way home, and all I wanted was to prove that you weren't worth it, Tommy, I had to prove that I wasn't losing here, but when I saw you in the window I just couldn't do it." He hugs the pillow against his chest and buries his chin into it, doesn't look at me when he asks, "You were watching, right? You saw that." 55

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"I didn't—" What did I see? Jeffrey all over Bradley like an octopus, licking and sucking and kissing, but what did I see Bradley doing? Nothing. Not a damn thing. He didn't roll over, didn't fondle Jeffrey, didn't kiss him and didn't he even climb out of the pool first, as if trying to distance himself from the kid? You turned away, I think, watching Bradley struggle against tears that fill his eyes. He's still not looking at me, just pouts at the floor and waits. You turned away and left the room before things heated up so you don't know how far they went. "I left," I whisper. "I didn't want to watch." With a short laugh, Bradley mutters, "Never stopped you before." Ignoring that, I ask, "You didn't...?" Bradley shakes his head. "Can I come in or something? Please?" I stand aside and let him in. As he heads for the kitchen, I trail behind him, my mind running in a million different directions at once. He didn't fuck the kid—he picked him up to get at me and then he couldn't go through with it ... why not? He's here now, why? Blanket and pillow in hand, dressed for bed ... sitting down at the breakfast bar, he hugs the pillow tight and stares up at me with this little boy lost look on his face that makes me melt. "Can I just tell you how pissed he was?" he asks. "I'd never said no before, Tommy. I didn't think it was in my vocabulary." I have to laugh at that. "Coffee?" I ask, heading for the pot. Bradley shakes his head. "I'm hoping to get to bed soon," he admits, and there's something in the way he looks at me 56

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when he says it that suggests it's my bed he hopes to sleep in tonight. I don't know about that yet. "So what happened?" I want to know, curious in spite of myself. If he didn't fuck the boy, maybe there's hope for us yet. With a nonchalant shrug, Bradley tells me, "You should've seen it, Tommy. What a diva! Dayum, we're talking bitch goddess here. And you thought I was bad?" I laugh again, well aware of how easily he's managed to work his way back into my life. We're old friends again, me leaning over the breakfast bar and watching his face come alive as he tells the story, his elbow just inches from my hands on the counter and edging closer each second. "He's all I'll just take you anyway, like his scrawny ass could even hope to hold me down, and I was like oh no you didn't." He says di'nt as if he's from the ghetto, and his upper lip curls derisively, he gives me a look from the corner of his eyes that makes me grin. And I thought I was falling for him before? Shit, I already fell. He didn't fuck him—"So you threw him out?" I prompt. "Kicked his ass to the curb," Bradley says. "Called him a cab and told him to jerk off in the bathroom if he had to, I didn't want to know about it. I thought you saw all that. When he left, I wondered why you didn't rush over and sweep me off my feet." I don't reply, just stare at my hands and wish that I had stayed to see this happen, I would have loved to play the knight in shining armor. I wouldn't even have waited for the cab to appear, just gone over there and knocked down the 57

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door, told Bradley how I feel for him, how I want him to feel for me, and maybe it wouldn't be too late. Is it too late? "Bradley," I sigh, and he looks up at me, waiting. Frowning at my fingers, twisting together, I say softly, "I walked in on him, about three weeks ago. Four now. He had this friend, Sean? Best friend since high school, told me that he wasn't like that. Told me I didn't have to worry about him, and what was I to think? I mean, he was always over here, and they'd sit right up on each other on the couch, Sean loved to touch him in front of me and I wasn't supposed to say shit because he wasn't gay." "That's a fucking lie," Bradley mutters. "You don't have to be gay to love another boy." Apparently not. Looking back now, I can see all the signs that I should've seen before, all the warnings I should've heeded. The way the two of them would wrestle on the floor during football games, laughing and tickling until they ended up in a pile on top of each other, too exhausted to untangle themselves. The way Sean would just waltz into the bathroom to use the toilet when John was in the shower. The way John would rush in from the garden when Sean came over, start ripping off his dirty clothes before he even headed up the stairs, not the least bit shy around his friend. The way they laughed, the way they touched, the way they would look at each other and I would cease to exist, I hated that. I just became the man John slept with at night, and Sean? He was everything else. 58

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My voice is quiet and I can't look at Bradley as I say, "I came home early one day when they were ... well—" "Screwing," Bradley pipes in. "Fucking like dogs. In your bed?" "In the living room." Fucking like dogs, I like that. It makes it seem almost comical now, it takes the sting away. "I got the impression it wasn't the first time, either. I threw him out." "I'm sorry." Bradley's hand covers mine and now I look at him, and he raises my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles, his mouth warm and tender on my skin. "I'm sorry he hurt you, Tommy. But to be honest? I'm glad he did." As I start to pull away, confused, he holds my hand tighter and won't let me go. "Listen. I'm not glad you're torn up, baby, don't get me wrong. I'm just glad he's gone, you know? Because I want in." I stare at him, not daring to hope. His other hand rubs down my arm and he stands up, kneels on the stool, leans across the bar to press his lips to my chin. "I don't want just another fuck, okay? Everyone I meet, I put them to a test, I can't help it—I put on my tiara and become little miss queen, wanting this, wanting that, never satisfied. It's a way to see if they can really give me what I need. You understand?" No, not really, but I nod as if I do. His hand is warm in mine, his fingers are now beneath the sleeve of my shirt and kneading my shoulder, he can tell me anything he wants to and I'll agree to it, as long as it keeps him mere inches from my face, his breath on my cheek, his lips on my skin. "Everyone has always failed the test," he sighs against me. 59

Windows by J. M. Snyder

His tongue licks up the curve of my ear, his mouth closes over my earlobe, warm, wet. "I want a boy who can take me as I am, who can satisfy my demands and make me the center of his world. No one's done that before you." When I start to speak, he covers my lips with his to silence me. Then, pulling away slightly, he stares into my eyes and with a sunny grin, says, "I know you're thinking I'm not all that but you're wrong, Tommy. Admit it, I'm already everything to you. You want me, I know you do, and you watch me like I'm the best thing on TV." The smile fades, and his voice takes on a serious note as he adds, "I'm not going to hurt you, baby, I swear it. I'm not like that asshole, I'm not going to fuck around on you. I told you I can be exclusive. Give me the chance to prove it to you, okay? Let me in, Tommy. Let me make you my world. Please." I can't speak, can't think, can't breathe. All I can do is pull him to me, wrap my arms around his neck and cover his mouth with my own, until the world disappears and there's only his body against mine, him in me, and everything else stretches out between us with a promise as sweet and endless as a summer day. THE END

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