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  Lanny set Ricki down almost with reluctance. He was loath to lose the good feelings associated with holding him. His universe was in harmony, the celestial spheres hummed along on their appointed rounds, and melody filled the void. He was wonderfully relaxed.

  Before Ricki left, he handed Lanny one of his cards. “I hope to see you again.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Lanny watched Ricki go, mentally comparing this hug to the one he received from Cy. The ibuprofen tablets were still in his hand, but he found he didn’t need them anymore. A flood of endorphins had resolved the problem.

  A couple of days later, Gene swam a mile—sixty-seven laps—in Lanny’s pool, and then relaxed in the spa. Lanny pulled him onto his lap and carelessly rested a hand between Gene’s thighs, toying aimlessly with what he encountered there. Gene accepted any movement Lanny made, but he looked like a man controlling his expression, bent on hiding a grimace.

  “Gene, what the hell is it? You’re not very happy.”

  “I don’t know what it is. I come here looking for one thing, but another happens. I don’t know why.”

  “Why do you come?”

  “I like you, Lanny. I like your company. We’re a mind match, but physically, I dunno if there can ever be anything here for me.”

  “Are you giving it…me…a fair chance? You haven’t even tried…”

  “It’s like I need permission to move.”

  Lanny wondered how he could possibly make it clearer than he had that he wanted Gene to act freely with him. Where is the breakdown? What music plays in Gene’s head at times like this? “I don’t understand. In all your experiences, you’re always the top man, the aggressor. You never needed anyone’s permission.”

  “It’s like you’re my father; I do from you.”

  In a flash of insight, Lanny connected Gene to Cy and Ricki.

  “Am I treating you like a child?” he asked Gene.

  “Yes,” came the reply, without a moment’s hesitation. No emotion was attached. It was stated flatly, as a fact.

  Lanny moved swiftly. “Get off my lap.” He stood up in the water, spilling Gene onto his feet. “Give me your hand.”

  Gene was startled, and looked puzzled as he complied. Lanny pressed Gene’s palm squarely against the center of his chest and said, “This is my body. You have permission to touch it. This is me. You have permission to touch all of me…anywhere. I hereby, now and forever, voluntarily relinquish all rights to control over the attraction between us…if there is any. From now on, you are responsible for anything that happens between us…or nothing. Your choice.”

  Gene’s eyes narrowed as he took all this in. Slowly, he moved his fingers, buried deep in the gray, hair-filled crevice between Lanny’s pecs, as though he had never done anything like it before. His face relaxed, banishing the grimace. He raised his other hand to Lanny’s shoulder, and slowly began to knead the prominent muscle there. He moved on to encircle the back of Lanny’s neck, which he grasped in a manner that clearly implied possession.

  Lanny’s arousal was obvious. It was wonderful, finally, to be connected to Gene by Gene’s arms and hands instead of his own. Gene reached under the water and pulled Lanny toward him. A self-assured smile broke out on his lips.

  “Come here, old man. Let me introduce you to the way we do it in the nineties.”

  Tate’s Death

  1

  Tate’s death ripped a hole in the lives of those who loved and adored him; of those who adored him without having had the chance to love him; and especially of those who loved him and were then discarded, one after the other, like so many banana peels. Ben Lyman fell into the latter category, which seemed unfortunate at the time, but now that Tate was gone, Ben reflected that having known Tate at all was probably worth the trouble.

  They met on one of Tate’s rare “off” days. He looked small and dejected in a windbreaker with its collar turned up, hands in trouser pockets, shoulders hunched forward. Ben wouldn't have noticed him except Tate stopped him as he passed. “I wanted to introduce myself,” he said in a tentative voice. “I’ve seen you in the bars, and I think you’re very handsome.” Ben tried to place him. The uncertainty hurt Tate but, as recognition grew in Ben’s eyes, a sheepish grin spread over Tate’s face. Ben said something complimentary about his smile, the cinematic flash of white teeth against a year-round tan, and continued on his way. He was surprised Tate looked so unprepossessing; it didn’t fit the image he had of the most desirable young man in town.

  Six months later Ben received an email: Tate couldn’t get Ben out of his mind; he hoped he could visit for a weekend—all expenses paid. He would put Ben in a hotel and stay with him. Ben’s antennae went up; he deflected the invitation by asking Tate if he was using his own money. He replied openly that it was his lover’s, a wealthy man who was away for a few weeks. Ben thanked Tate for thinking of him but didn’t feel he could allow that.

  In the next six months they exchanged many emails and photographs. Tate left his lover and now lived alone. Would Ben visit? Since Ben had plans to return within the month anyway, he said it could be arranged, but not in a hotel. They chatted back and forth about life experiences in several message and telephone exchanges—Ben loved Tate’s languid and resonant baritone—and agreed to meet on a “no strings, no baggage” basis. They wouldn’t talk about lovers or past errors; they wouldn't owe each other a thing after the three days were over; and probably they would never meet again.

  In mid-afternoon Tate opened the door wearing a paisley silk dressing gown whose color exactly matched his deep tan. In bare feet, he looked large to Ben, larger than life, actually. The difference was that he was smiling broadly and standing tall. He was trying to impress, and he succeeded.

  The one-bedroom apartment was bright and spotless. An antique armoire stood open in one corner of the living room, forming a small office that held a computer. Its inner walls were papered with a montage of older men’s pictures—all past lovers— interspersed with school schedules and photos of uncut penises. It wasn’t difficult to figure what Tate liked. The tiny kitchen alcove was dominated by an Italian coffeemaker Ben had once priced at three-hundred dollars.

  For experienced men, they danced around the reason Ben was there like school kids in awe of each other’s reputation. Both had had a succession of lovers, discussed at length in emails. Ben knew from long experience that young men were fickle partners, with too much to learn ahead of them, too many decisions to make: he enjoyed them while they were content to be around, and let them go whenever they decided the relationship was over. Tate had a new lover every two weeks; he was a honeybee flitting from flower to flower, drinking his fill from a field of older men more than willing to satisfy his needs. The two men suspected they would each be a notch on the other’s belt after the weekend was over.

  They sat stiffly at opposite ends of the long sofa. Ben inquired about a picture of Tate’s parents on the coffee table and made other small talk until Tate interrupted to ask him to take off his shoes and put his feet on the sofa. He massaged them as they chatted and, after touching so innocuous a part of Ben’s body, the barriers came down. Twenty-nine-year-old Tate could put a man in his sixties at ease like a pro. He turned on some easy-listening music and extended a hand. As Ben stood, he came up against Tate face-to-face. Tate was taller by an inch, much broader in the shoulders and narrower in the hips. “Shall we?” he smiled. “Sure,” Ben said. Tate shrugged the gown off his shoulders and the effect was breathtaking—solid plates of bronzed muscle greeted Ben’s eyes when it slipped to the floor. Ben’s throat constricted and stayed that way. Tate was as beautiful as any model in a magazine.

  He drew Ben into the bedroom and removed his clothes. Ben was turned on as never before but, where Tate stood erect, Ben remained limp. “Never mind about that,” Tate said. “I’ll supply the action.” The lovemaking was glorious for both of them—how could it not be? For Ben it was like being in bed with a buff movie star, and Tate was getting wha
t he’d been chasing for a year.

  They showered and Tate suggested they get a bite to eat, rent a film, come back and watch it. They slipped into his Mercedes SLK…well, Tate slipped in; Ben had to figure how to bend a sixty-two-year-old body to fit. It was not a practical car for a lover of older men, but visually it suited Tate to perfection. With the top down on the tiny two-seater, Tate reminded Ben of a centaur: half man, half auto.

  He’s hooked another one, that sonofabitch! He’s doing it again. Him and his fancy Mercedes. He’s good-looking enough—Not! Almost built well enough—Not! But inside he’s slime…nothing but a slimy faggot. Worthless turd. All the toys in the world ain’t gonna make him worth shit.

  They watched the film lying naked on the sofa. Tate lay in back with his arms around Ben’s chest. Ben was frustrated that he could neither see nor stroke him, but could feel his body pressing against his, and was contented with Tate’s warm breath on his ear and an occasional nip on the lobe. Then they washed up and got between snow-white sheets that smelled faintly of chlorine. “I know,” Tate acknowledged. “I use too much because I like the smell. It makes me feel clean.”

  He sat propped on pillows and held the television remote in his hand. Ben, who anticipated a need to urinate in the middle of the night asked for the side of the bed closer to the bathroom. Tate watched a late-night talk show while Ben watched his deep tan glow against the snowy sheets. He waited fifteen minutes before reaching across to place a hand on Tate’s ridged belly. He was working his hand lower when Tate asked, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m stroking the most beautiful body I’ve ever touched.”

  “No you’re not…you’re groping.”

  “You call this groping? I call it starting to make love.”

  “I don’t make love at night. It’s too disturbing.”

  “C’mon, a little release will make you sleep soundly.”

  “It’ll make you sleep soundly; it will keep me from getting to sleep. Look, I expend a lot of energy during the day. I throw myself balls out into everything I do. I eat to refuel my body, and I need a good eight hours to recharge my battery. Sex would be fine except I’d get all worked up and it would be hours before I relaxed again.”

  “And the television?”

  “Part of my routine: that’s how I wind down.”

  “OK. I’ll leave you alone.”

  Ben kissed him lightly and turned away to sleep. Ten minutes later he found he was listening to the television while Tate softly snored. He considered his options: first, he took the liberty of peeling the sheet back partway, and leaned on one elbow to gaze in admiration at Tate’s form. Next he reached over him to shut the TV off. He felt the heat of the gym-trained body he was not allowed to touch radiating against his arm. The control was locked in Tate’s hand. With difficulty Ben pried his fingers off one-by-one.

  He fell asleep wondering what Tate was trying to tell him.

  In the morning, Tate woke Ben by rolling over on top of him. Ben found Tate’s breath still sweet, the pressures of his warm body pleasant against him. “Am I too heavy for you?” Ben massaged the bunched muscles on Tate’s back as, leaning on his elbows, Tate began to kiss him in a sleepy, dreamlike way. His voice was liquid with sex.

  Keeping up a running patter, he made love culminating in a repeated, rushed, breathy, “oh, baby; oh, baby,” after which he collapsed onto Ben. Ben enjoyed holding the firm body in his arms until Tate gathered himself up with a broad smile and said, “That was wonderful. Thank you.”

  He washed off and left the room, returning robed, with two cups of steaming black coffee. Ben sat up. “There’s one thing wrong with this picture. Must you wear the gown? It cheats my eyes.” Tate crinkled his nose and shook out of the robe. “I get cold,” he said.

  Ben hoped Tate would climb back into bed; but no, it was time to check email. Self-conscious about touching him, Ben sat beside him and timorously placed an arm around his muscled shoulders. He was relieved that Tate tolerated it, but the telephone interrupted. “That’s my man,” Tate grinned. He picked up the phone and said, “Hi Fred, how’re things in Bedrock?” and the conversation went on for another half hour.

  Replacing the receiver, Tate laughed, “That’s my friend, Fred Flintstone. He calls me Barney because he says my life is a rubble. We talk every morning at 9:30 sharp. We have lots of meals together—he’s a great cook; we take each other to the airport, water plants, watch each other’s back. I tell Fred everything.”

  “Is he a lover?”

  “No. I have friends and I have lovers. Fred’s a friend.”

  They ate a heart-healthy breakfast. Tate took time to answer phone messages, several from exes trying to stay in touch—plaintive callers who hoped they could get to see him again. Ben was somewhat embarrassed by the needy sound in their voices, and thought there was a group he never would join. Tate responded to each call in a friendly but firm negative. They made the bed and headed for the gym.

  There they go. Screwed all morning, now off to get beautiful. Poor old guy doesn’t know what’s in store for him. Serves him right, getting sucked in by a brain-dead pretty boy.

  It was a gay gym. Ben signed in as a guest. A youngster at the counter told Tate he was with the best-looking guy in the gym. Even the counter clerk flirted a bit with Ben.

  Tate handled Ben with kid gloves. He set his weights, advised how each rep should be approached, and clucked like a mother hen as Ben complied. Ben was happy in a gym for the first time in memory. He was with the hottest man in the room by far. Even though several were taller and many larger, Tate was a standout—Ben watched men glancing at him, checking out his moves. Everyone had a smile and a good word for him.

  They alternated sets despite the need to continually lighten the weights for Ben’s turn. For his part, Ben never cared for exercise—it was far too much work; but watching Tate drive on through heavier and heavier weights, every eye-popping muscle strained to the max, was a new pleasure great enough to counterbalance his laziness. He saw a determination in Tate’s approach that assured him Tate possessed amazing reserves of willpower, concentration, and a great need to succeed.

  Back in the apartment, Tate immediately ate. He popped open hard-boiled eggs, discarded the yolks, and downed the whites. He was boiling more eggs as he consumed them. Ben couldn't bear to see the yolks go to waste, so he rescued a few and ate them.

  “Hey, that’s bad shit, man,” Tate said, juggling a mouthful of whites. “That stuff’ll kill you.” He washed the whites down with a glass of skimmed milk. Ben laughed. “There’s no way on earth I could ever get my body fat down to 6% like you, baby. I’ll only eat a few.”

  They put on suits and went to the pool. Tate had to study and made clear to Ben that study time was sacred—no interruptions under any circumstances. He gave Ben a couple of papers to read that he had written for class. Tate put on earphones plugged into a CD player and was isolated by sound filling his ears. When Ben tapped his shoulder and asked how he could concentrate, Tate replied it was the only way he could concentrate.

  They sat in the sun for two hours. Ben was impressed by what he read. Tate was direct, coherent, and had an original turn of phrase that formed a consistently interesting voice. Later, when he told these things to him, it made no impression at all. Tate saw writing as an uphill battle, a hill he could climb but never conquer. Nothing Ben had to say about his apparent talent could sway him.

  They took a dip to cool off and went in for a nap. One way Tate’s life was synchronized to an older man’s was that he could nap anytime as a way of refreshing his body and, although he hit the bars frequently, he was always home by ten for a good night’s sleep. When they awoke in the nude beside each other, Ben felt an urge for contact. “You may be a morning person,” he told Tate, “but I peak at four p.m. and at four in the morning. If we’re going to get along, once a day lovemaking ain’t gonna hack it, buddy—I want a piece of you now.” Tate put up no argument, and when Ben was finished,
the muscular youngster lay back, totally relaxed, and said, “Wow! That was great. I needed that. I didn’t know how much I needed that.” He had a dreamy look on his face. “You were fantastic.”

  “I was inspired by my partner.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. That’s how they’re spending the afternoon. I hate this guy. He gets anything he wants, everything he wants: it all comes easy. And he deserves nothing, he earns nothing, he returns nothing. He’s a scab on the human race.

  They ate a light dinner and dressed in trousers for happy hour despite the warmth. To Tate, the bar was a place to dress up. Others didn’t see it the same way, but that’s the way he liked it. They pulled up in the SLK. Tate was greeted by name, and the car was zipped into an open spot, front and center, reserved for it in a row of larger Mercedes’.

  “Impressive,” Ben commented. He was met by the usual broad grin as Tate flipped some bills at the attendant. It took a while to work their way to the bar because everyone had to glad-hand Tate, press his shoulders or arms, give him a kiss, a hug, or try to engage him in conversation. Ben stood by and absorbed the atmosphere of the crowded bar. He expected that being with Tate would always entail this star-like popularity. As they elbowed to the bar, the bartender showered Tate with the same deference. At Ben’s request, he ordered him a Campari and soda, and a bottle of water for himself. The tip was large, commensurate with the fast service.

  “That’s a lot of money for water.”

  “I’m an alcoholic. That’s all I drink when I’m out.”

  “Heck, I don’t have to drink. I’ll join you with water,” Ben offered.

  “Not necessary. I’m used to it. It’s not a problem.”

  Ben was introduced to two dozen older men that night, too many to remember. He also met a few youngsters. “I don’t have many friends my age,” Tate said. “They’re the competition.” They chatted about the business project of a man named Joe who was with a young lover from LA, in for the weekend. The young man took a liking to Ben and began touching him as they conversed. Ben clung to Tate’s arm, trying to discourage the fellow without insulting him. The conversation ended abruptly as Joe dragged his youngster away in a huff. “Don’t worry about Joe. He’s not very lucky in love, probably because he’s so insanely jealous.” Ben shrugged. It was no concern of his—he had what he wanted.