Don't Wanna Be Lonely Tonight

Chapter 1-2

He must have been pleased by what he saw as we faced each other, for his soldier was standing tall.

I held out my hand, and he took it.

“Come,” I said. “I’ve been aching to do this since Jim introduced us.”

“You never noticed my erection? I was hard all evening.”

I’d tried all evening not to stare at his package.

“Poor thing! Let’s do something about that.”

Having read this far you are probably thinking that we jumped into bed and began to bang away. That’s not what happened.

He gently pushed me onto my back, lay beside me, and began to lick. He started with my ears. I kept turning my head so we could kiss, but he’d grin and then pull away. Moving maddeningly slowly, he lapped at my neck, my pits, my pecs, my abs, my navel. Then he started on my inner thighs. All I could do was lie there and moan as I ran my fingers through his auburn mop. By the time he’d worked his way back to my genitals, which he hadn’t touched except to move them out of the way, I was in a frenzy. I wanted to f**k him, but for some reason at that point I wanted even more for him to kiss me.

Perhaps the kiss was some sort of test. Some guys won’t kiss when having casual s*x. But for me this wasn’t casual s*x. I already knew this man was important to me, that I wanted him in my life. So, much as I wanted to put a lip lock on him, or have him put one on me, I didn’t push. He’d come around eventually, I hoped.

Sure enough, he asked for the lube and a condom and soon we had ourselves ready. After a f**k that started out tender and turned out to be mind-blowing, I stretched myself over him and we kissed almost to unconsciousness.

After that, as I lay beside him, giddy from it all, he said, “Little man, you are something else.”

I rolled over, propped myself on an elbow so I could look down at him, grabbed his balls, and said, “You call me that again, and you’ll soon be missing these.”

He grinned. “I meant it as a term of endearment.”

“Sorry. It’s just that I’m sensitive about the height thing.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be. You’re a stud. And,” he wrapped his fingers around my now-limp c**k, “this amply compensates for your vertical issues.”

* * * *

When I woke up, the room was full of light. Squinting, I looked at the clock. It was eleven o’clock. Russ was lying on his stomach, still asleep. I got up, went to the bathroom, and got back into bed. I needed to do my weekend grocery shopping, but if necessary I could do it the next day, Sunday. I peeled back the covers and began to lick his elegant ass. I didn’t know at the time whether it was lots of squats or just genetics that gave him such tight little glutes, but I wasn’t about to let that treat go untasted.

Russ woke up appreciative, and we had another round of s*x before showering together.

He left after breakfast because, like me, he had weekend things to do. He came back that night, however and spent the rest of the weekend, during which I learned he was from Cincinnati, where his father was some sort of executive with Proctor and Gamble. He’d gone to the College of Wooster, which is where he played his last football, and thence to take an MBA from the Weatherhead School at Case Western Reserve. After that he’d migrated west to Zenith and had worked here ever since.

Russ had an air of relaxed confidence about him, but I sensed almost from the outset there was a restless energy underneath the calm. He could seem so completely at ease, he appeared to become a part of the chair he was lounging in, one long leg slung over its arm. As I came to know him, however, I could feel an underlying tension even as he treated me to one of the lazy grins that gave me the shivering fits.

He had been the vocalist—and a decent guitarist, he claimed—in a rock band in high school, but these days he said though he occasionally enjoyed classical concerts his passion in music was country, especially Alan Jackson and Tim McGraw. My own musical tastes included classical as well, but my enthusiasm was for jazz, particularly vocalists and piano trios. Of course both of us remembered the rock of the late eighties and early nineties with some nostalgia, just as we tended to sneer at rap and other divagations. We were subsequently to spend many happy hours listening to and arguing about music.

Although no vows had been made, no protestations of eternal love offered, we both soon knew we were supposed to be together. Busy during the week, we spent weekends at his place or mine, often going to movies, concerts, plays. Zenith has a rich cultural life, with an excellent symphony orchestra and a fine repertory theater. Besides that, the University provides many ways to while away a Friday or a Saturday evening.

Our only real problem was that we lived on opposite sides of a fairly spread-out city, and it took the better part of an hour by car to get from his place to mine, or vice versa. And though the Rapid got me downtown easily, its West Side service didn’t go within miles of Russ’s condo. So we planned our weekend activities carefully to cut down on cross-town commuting. Living separately as we did during the week, however, each of us had to do things like grocery shopping and taking care of laundry and dry cleaning on Saturdays.

* * * *

That dinner at the Goodmans’ had been just after the University’s fall term started.

One Saturday afternoon in early November when he arrived at my place for what was left of the weekend, Russ said, “Baxter, I’m getting pretty tired of all this running back and forth.”

I felt a cramp in my stomach. “Does that mean you’re ready to dump me?”

He grinned. “Don’t panic! Of course it doesn’t!”

I took the garment bag he was carrying and laid it across the back of the nearest chair. I pulled him to me and rested my head on his shoulder. Which wasn’t such a good idea, because when I began to talk I was speaking to his chest.

“I’m glad to hear it. You know, gorgeous, you could move in with me.”

He stroked my hair. “That had occurred to me. You don’t think it’s too soon?”

“Two months might seem pretty quick to some people. But I’d love to have you here every evening, being domestic—or f*****g with a frenzy.”

“Yeah, but will you respect me afterward?”

“I know what you’re getting at, babe, but this feels awfully good to me. I can’t help thinking I’m in it for the long haul. But if you have doubts…”

“No. My folks might be a little worried, but I’m not.” He gave me that lazy, sexy grin and continued, “But, dammit, I’m thirty years old. I’ve found myself a really good man, and I like the idea of domesticity—and all that f*****g you mentioned.”

“So you’d consider moving in here?”

“Well, this place is pretty small.”

He was right, of course. I’d been putting by money for a down payment on something of my own since I’d come to Zenith, making do in the meanwhile with a place that had a small bedroom, a smaller bedroom, and one bath. The kitchen was dinky and the table was actually in one end of the living room. I stayed there only because of, well, as they say, location, location, location.

He pushed me away from him, holding me by the shoulders. Looking serious, he asked, “What would you think of buying a place together?”

I took his hand and led him to the sofa.

“Do you want coffee or wine or beer or something?”

“No, and don’t try to change the subject.”

“I’m not trying to change the subject. But this is, oh god, this is so important. I can’t believe you’re talking about doing that.”

He smiled. “Bax, baby, calm down. Maybe a glass of whatever’s open in the fridge would settle your nerves.”

I gently shoved him down onto the sofa and went to the kitchen. I came back with two rather full glasses of Piesporter which I kept around mostly because I knew he liked it.

“Look,” he said as we sat on the sofa, turned so we could face each other, “I think I knew how I felt about you after that first weekend we spent together here. I realize I haven’t told you in so many words. I just assumed you knew.”

“Oh, God, I’ve felt the same way. But I’ve just been afraid to say anything. For fear of spooking you, you know?”

His brown eyes seemed to darken and become more intense as he looked back at me. “Baxter, babe, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be in any doubt how I feel about you. I love you. Honest.”

This isn’t how I thought it would happen, being told by Mr. Perfect that he loved me. But I wasn’t going to mess things up. I took a deep breath and said, “I’ve loved you almost from the minute I saw you. Do you want a house or a condo?”

That made him laugh. “I think location is the most important consideration. We could look for someplace downtown, like Jim and Helene have, but it would be pretty expensive. I wonder if there’s anything available in this part of Fair Hills. It’s a nice old leafy suburb, I love the area with the bookstore and the cinema, and with the Rapid it’s really convenient for getting to work.”

“I’d love to stay in this area. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Let’s find a real estate person and see what’s available.”

Using the Gay Yellow Pages, we found Larry Carson, who was an agent for a well-known local realty firm. He told us later he sang in the Zenith Gay Men’s Chorus. Once we’d explained what we were looking for, he showed us several places. There were a couple of large old two-story brick colonials, but neither of us was interested in doing yard work and gardening or in keeping sidewalks and driveways shoveled. Then one day I got a call at work. It was Russ, who’d heard from Larry. He was excited about something he’d found and made an appointment to show it to us that Saturday morning.

Russ stayed at my place on Friday night, and we met Larry at a row of new two-story townhouses. The developer had purchased several old frame houses from the twenties, persuaded the zoning commission to issue a variance, razed them, and built a unit with six side-by-side condos. The unit Larry showed us was on one end. It had three nice bedrooms, two baths upstairs and a half bath downstairs. There was a great kitchen, an eating area, and a living room with a fireplace that had gas logs. Since it was an old neighborhood, from the upstairs windows, back and front, one saw mostly trees. There was parking behind the units. And there was a utility room with hookups for washer and dryer. That alone was a bonanza for me. After hauling my stuff to a laundromat ever since I’d left my parents’ house, I thought having my own laundry pair was nigh unto heaven.

Larry made an excuse to go out to his car, tactfully leaving us alone to talk about the place.

“Do you want to think about this? Or keep looking?” I asked Russ. “It is a bit steep.”

“Take my word for it, Bax, it’s a good investment. Property in this area is going to keep appreciating, even if there are dips in the housing market from time to time.”

“You know how much money I have to put toward the down payment. You’ve never told me if you can match it. Or whether you have student loans you’re paying off.”

“Not a problem. I’ll match what you have, and that’ll be plenty. We won’t have any trouble getting a mortgage. I have contacts in the financial community, you know.” He grinned, those chocolate eyes making my knees week.

* * * *

We were moved in by mid-December. Although we were both eager to spend the holidays in our new home, there was the matter of visiting our families. And introducing our mates.