Chuck sat restlessly in his hotel room. He was meeting an old friend for dinner at 7:00, but it seemed like an eternity away. He thumbed his phone, he toggled TV channels, and he poked at the novel he had started on the plane. In the end, he couldn’t spend more than a consecutive minute on any of them.
“Why am I so agitated?” he asked himself, out loud. At last, he flung his Michael Chabon across the room. I gotta get out of here.
Chuck stepped outside the Ritz into a brilliant, brisk, spring day. He stood in the center of Copley Square and circled slowly on the cobblestones. He frowned when he realized his old favorite newsstand was no longer there. He smiled at the lions in front of the Library. His smile broadened as he looked upon the reflection of H.H. Richardson’s church in the crystal blue panes of the Hancock building. As much as he loved this place, it was hard to believe he hadn’t been back to Boston in well over thirty years. He had gone to school here; come of age here; come out here. Why so long? he asked himself.
“Where to?” he whispered under his breath. Walk down Boylston to the Public Garden? Newbury street? Pick up some souvenirs for dear hubby? Head up to The Fenway? In the end, his feet took him where he really wanted to go.
Chuck crossed Huntington Avenue into the South End. When he passed Columbus, he realized how swanky his old neighborhood had become. It was polished and white, and straight. When Chuck had lived here, the South End was a neighborhood “in transition.” The truth was, it had been that for its entire history. Built in the eighteen-eighties for an upper-middle class that mostly never arrived, over the next one hundred years, the gorgeous collection of brownstones instead housed successive waves of immigrants, the great black migration, and, eventually, gay men.
He passed the spot of his first mugging. And, shortly thereafter, he passed the second. The Jamaican barbecue place was now a French restaurant. That little Italian place with the five-dollar spaghetti had become an expensive tequila bar. The big house on the corner that used to host the wildest of raves was a quaint-looking bed and breakfast.
Chuck traversed Tremont until he came to his old street. For reasons that Chuck never learned, his block was populated with cherry trees rather than the maples and sycamores that towered over most of the neighborhood. That was one thing that hadn’t changed: The blossoms were past their peak and had mostly fallen to the brick sidewalk, but the scene was still strikingly beautiful. Halfway down the block, Chuck slowed. Was it this one? No, the railing is wrong. That’s it. Yes, with the double bow window.
Chuck glanced around and then sat on the stoop. He’d spent many a morning in this very spot. Pink and white blossoms swirled and settled like drifting snow at his feet — just as they had so long ago.
~~~
Cheerios never tasted better. Chuck’s basement apartment didn’t get sunlight until afternoon, so on a bright morning like this one, he would take a cup of coffee and his breakfast to the shared front stairs. As he spooned sugary rolled oats, he watched cherry petals fall against the backdrop of an opal blue sky. How can everything be so beautiful and yet so fucked up?
He felt a chill. He was just wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans. I should head back inside. But instead, he lingered. That handsome guy from the Chicken Soup Brigade should show up any minute.
“Oh, hey, could I ask a favor?”
Chuck turned and looked to the top of the stairs. The handsome Good Samaritan had already arrived.
“I’m sorry to bug you,” he said, managing a half-smile. “Jim can’t get up and down the stairs anymore. I need to move his bed into the living room, and I really need a hand,” he said, holding his palms together in a pleading manner.
Jim owned the building. He lived on the two main floors and rented the basement unit to Chuck, and the two floors above to a couple of women. He had full-blown AIDS and, in the six months Chuck had lived there, had really gone downhill fast. He wasn’t alone. There were several others on the block in various stages of decline. It was now rare that an ambulance did not block the narrow street at least once or twice a week. It was a collective nightmare.
Check stepped through the vestibule and followed the handsome man into Jim’s apartment.
“No matter how many times I walk in here, I’m always awestruck,” Chuck said as he waved toward the meticulous cornice work, the hand-painted patterned walls, the ornate fireplace, and the huge bow windows.
“Oh, hey, I’m Chuck.”
“Yes. Sorry. I’m Peter,” Peter said. He shook Chuck’s hand and locked eyes. So fucking cute, Chuck thought. He liked Peter’s coal-black eyes and his warm, somewhat lecherous smile sneaking out behind a full mustache. He was tall and fit, like a runner. Italian? Greek? Jewish, maybe? Chuck asked himself.
There was an awkward pause as Peter processed how he was going to put Chuck to use, at the same time, part of his brain was distracted by how he wanted to use Chuck. Chuck was stocky, and muscular, with bright blue eyes and a boyish face. Peter guessed that Chuck was no older than twenty-four; six years his junior. Yum.
“Hey, Sweetie,” Jim called from the dining room. He was seated in a lounge chair that Peter had moved from the living room. He was in a velour dressing gown and was so bone-thin that his teeth stuck out. His hair seemed to recede farther every time Chuck saw him, and his forehead had two large sores. Chuck averted his eyes.
“Aye, Sir,” Chuck called back, nodding to Jim’s Navy past that was evident by the black and white photos of a younger, healthier Jim that decorated the entryway.
Peter and Chuck commenced carrying the bed and mattress up from the lower (ground) floor. It took five or six trips to get all the parts and pieces to the living room. Jim kept the heat on high and the windows sealed tight. The air was a stifling, stale mix of aged laundry basket, bad breath, and Vick’s Vapor Rub. Chuck started to help Peter reassemble the bed, but at a certain point, he felt like he was suffocating and had to bolt.
“You o.k.?” Peter asked, putting a hand on Chuck’s muscular shoulder.
“Yeah, sorry, I don’t what happened,” Chuck said, embarrassed.
“Oh, I think I do,” Peter said, staring at a weeping cherry tree. “Being around dying people is never pleasant. And when you think it could be you — soon. And you have no idea why — it’s fucking terrifying. I’ve had more than one panic attack, I assure you.”
When Chuck turned to look at Peter, he realized they both had tears in their eyes. “Hey, I have almost a whole pot of coffee downstairs.”
They sat in uncomfortable tag-sale metal chairs at the small, round folding table that passed as Chuck’s dining table. They looked through French doors toward the now unkempt back garden that had been one of Jim’s many passions.
“How long you been out?” Peter asked.
Chuck laughed, “Ha! To be honest I probably only have a leg and an arm out of the closet at this point. I only broke up with my college girlfriend a year ago. My mom knows — has always known, it turns out. Most of my friends. No one at work.”
“Best to keep it that way,” Peter said with a toast of his coffee cup. “I’m not out at work, either.”
“My timing was great!” Chuck said with false enthusiasm. “Stepped right into the ‘Gay Plague.’ Can you even qualify as gay if you never have sex with anyone?” Chuck continued with a cracked voice. Peter thought he was making a joke but then saw tears were back in Chuck’s pretty blue eyes.
“Do you think they did it to us? The Immoral Majority, or the CIA, or whatever?” Chuck asked.
“I would not put it past them, but no. They just don’t give a shit, because it’s us,” Peter answered.
They sat in sad silence for a bit, until Peter asked, “So, how long has it been? I mean, since you had sex?”
“I’ll tell if you will,” Chuck said with a hint of flirtation.
“Hand job with a guy at the ‘Y,’ a couple weeks ago. They say hand jobs are ok as long as you stay away from the spunk. Whoever ‘they’ is. And blood is a no-no, of course. So, there have been a lot of hand jobs the last few months. Before that … my boyfriend, almost a year ago. He was way back in the closet. Married. AIDS freaked him out. Loser. Now you, you tease.”
“Literally right before I moved in here. I blew a cute Northeastern guy in The Fenway on my way to check this place out. Once I moved in, and got to know Jim, and witnessed the godforsaken ambulance parade, I quit, cold turkey. Now it’s just me and my toys. It’s the fucking worst.”
“I’m getting pretty fantastic at hand jobs,” Peter said with a salacious smile.
Chuck smiled back. He looked at Peter’s warm brown eyes, his high cheekbones, the full lips, and the dark stubble spread over his dimpled chin. “I’m not letting you near me until I have a shower.”
“How about while you have a shower.”
Chuck’s heart beat wildly. He’d gotten a place by himself precisely because he wanted to have real sex, with real men, that wasn’t tearing one off in a park, or behind a fire station, or in an alley, or random car. And here it was, happening. Though his original vision did not involve risking his life.
Peter, with a rigid prick, stepped into the shower behind Chuck. The young cutie he’d been exchanging smiles with for weeks had proven to be an Adonis. Chuck had the broad shoulders and thick ass and legs of a rugby player. He was blonde, with little hair other than the perfect coiffure on his head. Quite the contrast to his own hairy torso and thighs.
Peter wanted to dive right in, but Chuck seemed tentative. Chuck spun under the shower stream and then moved to the side so that Peter could take a turn. It was awkward and not as sexy as either Chuck or Peter had hoped. When they switched again, Peter ensured that his hard cock slid, slowly, across the firm globes of Chuck’s ass. Chuck moaned slightly as he felt it. He returned the favor on the next switch.
On the next trip, Peter faced Chuck, and their cocks slid across one another. They were like middle school kids pretending that these incidents were inadvertent, and Peter was over it. He pulled Chuck to him. He gave him a closed-mouth kiss as he ground their cocks together at the same time that he cupped Chuck’s massive ass. Chuck moaned, half in pleasure, half in pained longing.
Peter picked up the bottle of drug store body wash from the tiled shower floor and began to put it to liberal use. He ran his hands ran over Chuck’s firm, smooth body. He passed his soap-slick hands over Chuck’s pecs and rippled abs and then along his lats and back. Chuck uttered something between a laugh and a groan as he broke their embrace long enough to get his own supply of Suave Ocean Mist suds.
He mirrored Peter’s movements. Peter was a little taller than he, and while quite fit and sinewy, possessed a very different body type. His chest, forearms, and groin were covered in course dark hair. He was fucking manly, is what he was.
Peter’s hands roamed freely. He slid his full hand into the cleavage of Chuck’s ass. He leaned in to kiss Chuck and this time opened his mouth. After hesitating, Chuck opened his as well. He then felt Peter cup his balls and then his ass again, this time from below. Peter was more aggressive this time, stroking more firmly against Chuck’s taint and asshole.
“Fuck, that feels good,” Chuck gasped as he broke their kiss.
Peter smiled. He re-positioned his hands once more, now holding both their cocks together. He drew Chuck’s hands to join his. They formed a tunnel of sorts, and slowly thrust their soapy cocks against and past the other. Peter angled his own cock to ensure that their sensitive tips touched on nearly every pass. Chuck’s knees buckled at the sensation.
“Oh my God…Jesus…fuck,” Chuck babbled.
“Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Peter said in deadpan anger. Chuck was briefly taken aback until Peter laughed.
“If you’re going to take God’s name in vain, then I’m going to take your cock in my mouth,” Peter said, as he knelt.
“Uh, should we?” Chuck exclaimed but stopped caring when Peter’s mouth enveloped him. Peter was good. Far better and more practiced than he. Peter easily took Chuck’s six or seven inches down his throat, but it was his artful teasing of Chuck’s head that made him crazy. He was on the edge of cumming when his small water heater gave out. The cold water put a temporary halt to their lovemaking.
“Maybe we should take this to my bedroom,” Chuck said.
They rolled onto Chuck’s unmade bed, barely toweled-off.
“You a top or a bottom,” Peter asked, matter-of-factly, as he kissed his way along Chuck’s muscled chest and torso.
“Um …,” Chuck hesitated. “I’m…lonely.”
“Ha! O.K.,” Peter half-laughed. “Let’s play this by ear.” Peter maneuvered into a sixty-nine with himself on top.
Chuck willingly accepted Peter into his mouth. Peter rocked in and out, mostly gently, as he at the same time put his experienced skill to work on Chuck’s balls, while at the same time jerking him off. He toggled his mouth back to Chuck’s cock, but only so long as to add a fresh layer of spit, before returning to Chuck’s peach fuzz-covered nuts.
“Oh, man. You’re amazing,” Chuck moaned. “I…won’t…last…much…longer. You should stop.”
“Fuck that, baby,” Peter said, breathlessly, before putting his mouth back to work.
“Ah, ah, Argh!” Chuck groaned as he shot four strong ropes onto the sheets, thanks to Peter’s careful aim.
Peter disentangled himself and knelt over Chuck with pride. “So, anal o.k.?” He asked though it wasn’t really a question. He was just being polite. Chuck disguised his hesitation with his still heavy breathing. Truth was, he’d never really done that, with a man. He had his toys, and in the sad, waning months of his time with his girlfriend, they’d tried pegging. But he’d never had the real thing.
“Um, sure,” he finally managed.
“Where’s the lube?”
Chuck pointed toward the nightstand.
“Holy, shit, kid,” Peter chuckled as he held up a large, but mostly empty, container of Astroglide to the light. “Beat off, much?”
“Fuck off.”
“Condoms?”
Chuck shook his head. “Sorry...I…”
“You’re kidding me. Dammit. Really?” Peter said, frustrated to the point of anger. “Fuck it. You’re too goddamn cute not to fuck. I guess we’re going to roll all the marbles,” Peter said as he squirted a generous amount of the slippery goo onto his veined, weeping cock.
Chuck pulled his knees back toward his shoulders. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, in his ears, and in his anus. His breath shortened with excitement. Peter worked his head against Chuck’s asshole, and when he met resistance, he squirted the last of the lube directly into Chuck’s ass.
Chuck groaned slightly as Peter finally passed through his muscled ring, and he grimaced as Peter began to thrust. It didn’t feel great. Peter seemed to sense it and slowed down and shortened his strokes. In just a few minutes, Chuck opened nicely, and Peter lengthened his strokes but kept it slow. Chuck’s grimace turned to relaxed joy. Peter angled himself in such a way that he hit Chuck’s prostate on every upstroke, and it felt fantastic. So fantastic, that Chuck’s dick had returned to near full strength. He spit on his own hand and then tugged at his meat, looking up at handsome, dark Peter giving him a full fuck.
“You are so fucking cute, you fucking little tease. You like my dick? You like getting fucked, you slut?” Peter groaned as Chuck nodded vigorously.
The dirty talk, so opposite of how Peter was in every other aspect of his life, nevertheless spurred him toward his own nut. He rutted into Chuck with a few extra deep thrusts and then withdrew suddenly, as he fisted his slick cock to his finish.
“Ah! Fuck, yeaaaah…,” Peter moaned as if in pain as he emptied his balls onto the sheets between Chuck’s outstretched legs. Peter collapsed against the footboard, sweat matting his hairy chest. “We are a couple of bad, bad boys. A couple of stupid, bad, boys,” Peter said, shaking his head in disbelief at their own actions.
~~~
“Can I help you?” Chuck heard from behind him. A young woman with a baby carriage was angling through the heavy wooden doors.
“No, but I can help you,” Chuck said as he hurried up the stairs.
The woman was apparently completely unthreatened by a sixty-something, balding, slightly pudgy man in an expensive Italian wool blazer. She willingly allowed Chuck to help her carry her precious cargo down to the sidewalk.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile to this random grandfather on her stairs.
“I used to live here,” Chuck said.
“Oh, that’s nice,” the young mother said, disinterested, as she rolled her way toward the park on the other side of Shawmut.
Chuck watched her for a bit but was once again distracted by the beautiful “snowfall” of cherry blossoms. He shuddered. Not from cold, but from his own bittersweet memories. How lucky he and Peter had been, to not make one another sick. How lucky Chuck was, that, against all odds, he never got sick. Peter was not so lucky, Chuck had heard through the grapevine, years later. So many had been unlucky. So, so many.
With tears in his eyes, Chuck turned back toward Copley. With each step, he re-entered the life that had come to be. And, while the truth was that it had been a labyrinthine path with its ups and downs, in this moment it felt like a happy thirty-five-year straight line, starting on a clear, spring morning in the South End.
