Blue Christmas

Christopher Dillon looked toward the right, where all of the activity was in the homeless shelter being conducted in the half-basement of Cleveland’s Payne Avenue Episcopalian church on Christmas Eve. He was well away from where dinner was being served, the TV room was being provided, and, later, the fellowship hall would be cleared for cots to be put out for the sixty homeless men being sheltered there the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day. He, at thirty-two, a member of the church and lead in hosting the homeless in this shelter, was a handsome young and prosperous-looking man, as indeed, as owner of three jewelry stores in downtown Cleveland and the suburbs, he should be.

He’d had a rough year in his personal life and was graying at the temples, but on him that looked good. The grief and worry had, if anything, enhanced his look and aspect. He’d trimmed down to having a hard body, and life had mellowed the edges of the attitudes he showed. He was less judgmental and showed more interest in and concern for others. The other members of the church working with the hosting of the homeless, all of whom thought the world of Christopher and were protective of him on this night of all nights, had urged him not to be there on this night, knowing how Christmas Eve would affect him. But Christopher told them he had needed to be here. He had a need that required him to be here that was somewhat different from they, with universal sighing, thought. They thought he was dedicated to this responsibility and was a saint of putting others first.

Christopher wasn’t here this night exactly to put others first. He had a burning personal need.

The door to the bathroom remotely located in the church basement that had been renovated with a shower to accommodate the church’s homeless shelter program—each of several churches in this Cleveland State University section of the city taking a week each winter season to shelter the homeless—opened and Jamal, one of the homeless guy regulars, filled the doorway. He had showered but he hadn’t dressed other than his socks and heavy boots. The clean clothes he brought to put on after his shower were folded and under his arm. His free hand clutched at the bath towel around his waist. Jamal was black, big, and muscular. From his high school days he’d put all of his eggs into the basket of becoming a pro team football tackle. That dream had ended early in college when he couldn’t keep up academically and wasn’t deemed quite good enough at the sport for the college’s football program to prop him up. The subsequent crash had carried the now twenty-two-year-old to the streets.

Jamal was in the know of what was up this evening. He’d seen no reason to get fully dressed after his shower.

Seeing that no one was looking from off to the right, toward the homeless shelter activity, Christopher took Jamal’s elbow and guided him off toward the right, deeper into the church’s basement complex, into the area of the preschool rooms, declared off limits to the shelter activities and marked just beyond the shower room door with a screen across the hallway with an “Off Limits” sign on it. Night lights were attached to sockets along the corridor to provide just enough light so that someone wouldn’t trip over anything. Christopher guided Jamal around the screen, down a dark hall, and into a room lit only by the moonlight reflecting off several inches of snow in the church parking lot beyond two large windows.

They didn’t need to speak about where they were going and what they intended to do. This wasn’t the first rodeo for either one of them. The deal had been set earlier in the evening, when Christopher had seen Jamal’s name on the intake list at the reception desk and had eyeballed him. There was an undercurrent in Christopher’s social world of who would do what for how much, and Christopher had been looking ahead for some time for Jamal’s name to appear on the church’s homeless shelter list. It was unfortunate that it was Christmas Eve, but, even there, perhaps, Christopher thought, it would be a good distraction for him from the grief of this anniversary. He certainly was in heat for such a distraction.

Without saying anything, Christopher backed the hefty and hunky black Jamal against a low counter running under the windows and went down on his knees, pulling the towel off the black stud’s waist in the process, leaving the muscular, chocolate-brown body bare except for the socks and the boots. Having been in anticipation of this and finding Christopher arousing, Jamal was in magnificent erection. He had given the shelter guy relief like this before. The man had a real honey of a body, he paid well, and Jamal had his own needs for regular release. Christopher immediately went to servicing the young black’s cock with his mouth.

While he gave Jamal head, Christopher used his hands to strip himself—to unbutton his Brooks Brother pristine white shirt and drop it to the side and to unbuckle and unzip his Levi jeans and push them and his Calvin Klein briefs down to his knees. His hands then went to gliding over the bulges of the black stud’s body and to lacing fingers through Jamal’s meaty balls and rolling and distending them. He groped for his own erection with the other hand and stroked himself.

The black bull groaned for Christopher and leaned over him, running big beefy hands down the willowy back of the well-toned thirty-two-year-old, the fingers of one hand running into Christopher’s butt crack and finding and penetrating the man’s hole, pressing in—and out and in—opening and stretching the hole. Christopher moaned for him and took his mouth off the cock long enough to murmur, “Yes, yes. Fuck me. Now.”

“Sure, you’re paying for it,” Jamal said, as he pushed Christopher off his shaft and back on his haunches. “Right here, now?” he asked.

“Yes. Here. Hurry.” What Christopher needed on Christmas Eve was to forget that it was Christmas Eve—to erase other Christmas Eves from his mind.

“You’re probably not open enough,” Jamal muttered, as he pulled Christopher up as if he was light as a feather and turned him, butt perched on the low counter between to the two windows overlooking the snow-covered parking lot. As he settled Christopher on the edge of the counter, he reached down and stripped the man’s jeans and briefs off his legs. Now all that either man was wearing were Jamal’s socks and heavy boots, and Christopher’s silky socks and Gucci loafers.

“Just do it. Hurry,” Christopher begged in a breathy voice. “I don’t care. I want to suffer.”

Jamal did it, and from the sounds of Christopher’s panting and groans, he suffered from taking the thick shaft without greater preparation. But take it, he did. Jamal pressed Christopher’s back against the wall between the two windows and grasped the trim-bodied man’s ankles and hooked them on his beefy shoulders. Christopher had handed him the golden condom packet and lay there under the hunk as Jamal extracted the disk and rolled it on his cock. Christopher pressed his hands to the black man’s bulging and swirly tattooed pecs and panted and groaned and grunted as Jamal worked hard to penetrate and stretch him and to be fully saddled with his thick, long, jet-black shaft.

When he was in and leaning in toward Christopher’s chest, his eyes latched onto the jeweler’s eyes to capture the effect of being inside the man, deep and throbbing, He grasped the older man’s ankles and raised and spread his legs wide to give him maximum openness and access. Christopher, in good shape, managed the wide stretch and rolled his pelvis up to accord access of the thick shaft, huffing and puffing both his need and the taxing of the extra-large man. He knew Jamal was hung. Knowing that had been part of his obsession of having him and to experience him at the next opportunity, here at the church, on Christmas Eve, when there was risk, Christopher having responsibilities to the shelter program.

Christopher moved his hands to the black stud’s bulging biceps, and dug in. His eyes rolled back in his head and he emitted little yipping sounds from his slack mouth, as Jamal started thrusting hard, fast, and deep, causing Christopher’s body to jerk and his back to rub up and down on the wall between the windows.

“Please,” Christopher begged as Jamal pumped him.

“Please, what?” Jamal growled.

“Please, not so hard, not so deep,” Christopher moaned, less insistent now that they had actually gotten to it. “Give me time to adjust.”

Jamal laughed. “I know what you want.” A beefy black arm snaked under the other man’s waist and pulled him in close, in a tight, controlling embrace. Jamal thrust hard and deep. Again and again. Christopher writhed under him, murmuring, “Oh shit. Oh fuck.” Jamal was in full control, pistoning his shaft, drilling the older man cruelly. Christopher collapsed in his arms, whimpering the totally mastery of the big, black bull.

“Yes, yes. Fuck yes! Give it to me!” Christopher cried out as Jamal tensed and jerked and came, tensed and jerked and came, releasing thick wads of come into the bulb of the Trojan Magnum.

It had, in fact, been just the way he’d wanted it—just the way Steve used to give it to him, taking him beyond the comfortable, getting wild, making him admit he wanted it rough and overwhelming. Steve had been hung like Jamal was. Christopher had found a few men, for casual sex, after Steve, but none of them had taxed him like Stever—and now Jamal—could.

Both men sighed and expended contained air, which covered the sigh that came from just beyond the doorway to the hall leading back to the shelter area. Someone else had followed them beyond the barrier next to the shower room and had watched the fuck unfold. As Jamal pulled out of and away from Christopher, ripped the condom off his cock and dropped it to the floor, and reached for the towel to dry himself off, the figure beyond the door zipped himself up, turned, and melted back toward the shelter area.

“Finish me,” Christopher begged, and Jamal turned to where he was still collapsed on top of the counter. He moved Christopher’s ankles back onto his shoulders, grasped the man’s erection with one hand and stroked it, as he inserted a beefy finger in Christopher’s hole and finger fucked him until the man, with a heavy sigh, released his load.

“Thanks. You have no idea how much I needed that . . . on this night especially,” Christopher whispered, as, deed done as contracted, Jamal busied himself with dressing. “Will you . . . are you available to . . . ?”

“We’re booked here for the rest of the week,” Jamal said, not looking up, continuing to adjust the clean clothes that had been washed for him here earlier in the day. “So, sure. When I’ve got the time and you’ve got the money. You’re a good lay; you’ve got a great body.”

There had been no kissing or other sign of affection. It had been a straight, negotiated and paid-for fuck. But Christopher was satisfied. It was what he had wanted. He didn’t think he could take any form of affection on this night of all nights. But he had needed the fuck, and it had been a good one. He’d had a fascination about black men and their reported outsized endowments. That hadn’t been a requirement here—knowledge of what Jamal would give and opportunity were more the issue—but Christopher had been pleased from previous servicing by Jamal to know that there were black men who lived up to the legend.

“Hand me my trousers, please,” Christopher said, and when Jamal had done so, Christopher pulled three twenty-dollar-bills and a home address and phone number card out of a pocket of the jeans and handed it to the black stud. “Take my card too,” he said, “in case we want to be in touch after this week.”

“So, I did you real good again,” Jamal said. “Good enough that you’ll want Jamal’s cock again.” It was the first time Jamal showed he needed reassurances as well. The earlier times, he hadn’t stayed around afterward. He’d fucked and left.

Christopher didn’t answer beyond a grunt of agreement, but the answer was self-evident to both of them. A grinning Jamal counted the money, gave Christopher a salute, and turned and was gone, into the dimness of the hallway leading back to where his clothes were waiting for him.

Christopher lay there, collapsed on the low counter, for a few more minutes, a slight smile slowly turning into a grimace of grief as memories flooded in. He wiped a couple of tears from his eyes, thoughts of the previous year’s Christmas Eve flowing back into his mind. Oh, well, he’d had moments of distraction. With another sigh, he pushed himself off the counter, picked up the spent condom and packet from the floor to cover in a paper towel to be disposed of elsewhere—somewhere outside of the church—went into the preschool bathroom and cleaned himself off, dressed, and slowly, after pausing by a trash bin outside a door onto the alley to relieve himself of the evidence of the indiscretion, returned to his duties where dinner was being served to the sixty homeless men registered for the night.

When Christopher came back to the other side of the church basement, where the shelter was being held, he saw that Jamal was at the intake desk, checking out. The woman there was saying, “You realize that if you check out you can’t come back in tonight.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jamal was saying. Christopher avoided looking at the black man as he passed. He had heard, along with being told what services the young man could render, that Jamal had a cheap wine habit. He wouldn’t get that here with dinner. He’d had dinner before he had been scheduled for the shower room, so Christopher could only suppose that the man was willing to be out in the cold all night in exchange for finding an all-night convenience store to buy wine with the money he’d given him.

That wasn’t Christopher’s worry, even though he did allow it to bother him a bit. He walked on to the kitchen, where they’d be winding up serving the food. He was in charge of the cleanup. He’d bury himself in a different kind of effort for the rest of his shift here.

* * * *

In walking by the intake desk en route to the kitchen, Christopher saw that his relief, the night supervisor, had arrived already. Christopher could go home soon—not that he wanted to go home. His coworkers this evening had seemed surprised that he’d want to be out and here on Christmas Eve this year considering what had happened the previous Christmas Eve, but he couldn’t have been home alone this evening. Sandy, the night supervisor, was talking with Ben Thomas, the off-duty cop, who volunteered to spend the night here in case there was trouble. You never could tell with homeless men. Some of them were hopped up—especially since this was Christmas Eve, when emotions were high.

He found Mae Manning and Frieda Halpern in animated conversation when he entered the kitchen from the main hallway.

“Christopher. It’s good you’re here,” Frieda said, turning to him.

“Let’s not bother Christopher with this tonight of all nights,” Mae said, giving the other woman an admonishing look.

“Not bother me with what?” Christopher said. “If there’s a bother here, it’s my responsibility,” he added, knowing that Sandy didn’t officially relieve him for another hour.

“There’s a new man out there at one of the dinner tables—a very young man,” Frieda said.

“Frieda, don’t. We’ll tell Ben,” Mae said. “Christopher doesn’t need to get involved with this.”

“Yes, a new young man?” Christopher said. “What about him?”

“I think he has a gun. They aren’t allowed to bring guns in here,” Frieda said, breathless.

“Which one is he? Show me,” Christopher said. She pulled him over to the passthrough window, past a clearly disapproving Mae, and pointed to a table out in the fellowship hall, where the last of the evening meal was being finished by the last round of diners.

“That one there. The young man who seems withdrawn into himself. The one not talking to the other two at the table. I saw the butt of the handgun inside his jacket. It didn’t register to me that it was a gun when I first saw it. But now I’m sure it was.”

“OK,” Christopher said, picking up a deep service tray and a towel from the drying rack, “you’re about to take that platter of cookies out to the serving table for dessert, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Mae said, stepping up to him.

“Put a few on a plate for me and one of you go stand by the serving table to keep those other two at the table talking if I can get them to go for cookies and get that kid alone—you, Frieda, if you would.” Frieda was younger and a lot better looking than Mae was. She could hold those two guys’ attention.

Christopher walked out to the table with a plate of three cookies in one hand and the towel and serving tray in the other. “Here, son. Here are the cookies you requested.” And to the other two men at the table, he said, “The cookies just came out, over there at the serving table. You guys might want to get to them first to get the ones you want.” The two men got the message, rose from the table, and approached the serving stand, where Frieda stood, somewhat nervously, with a welcoming smile and the promise of a bit of conversation. Mae was looking disapproving from the kitchen, beyond the passthrough window.

“I didn’t ask for any cookies,” the young man said.

“I know you didn’t, but we have a problem here that I want to help us solve without others knowing about it or getting the police involved, if we can.” Christopher sat down across from the young man at the table. “And I think you’ll like these cookies anyway.”

“Problem? What problem?” the young man asked. He looked almost too young to be out on the street. He also looked like he hadn’t been homeless long. He just didn’t belong. His clothes weren’t tattered enough. He had the despondent, down-on-his-luck look that many of the homeless exhibited, but he just didn’t look fully into the role. He was tall, blond, and well built. He could easily be a college basketball player. He was achingly good looking but highly tense. Frieda had been right; the handle of a hand gun showed under the flap of his not-warm-enough-for-winter jacket at his armpit.

“The gun. That’s a problem here. Let’s get that put someplace safe before Officer Thomas sees it.”

“Officer Thomas? There’s a cop here?” the young man asked, as he pulled the jacket flap over the handle of the gun.

“What do you need a gun for here anyway, son? This is a church and we’re just trying to give you guys something to eat, a warm place for a few hours, and a place to sleep safely. All the guys know firearms are off limits here.”

“Safely,” the boy responded with a snort. “You don’t know homeless guys. You don’t know what it’s like to be young among homeless guys like this.”

“Young and good looking?” Christopher couldn’t help saying. The young man looked up into his eyes then.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“What are you going to do with a gun?” Christopher asked. “My name is Christopher, by the way. What’s yours?” Getting them on a name basis was basic training for working with a homeless shelter, Christopher had been taught.

“Evan. My name’s Evan,” the young man said. “I haven’t decided what to do with the gun yet. Certainly nothing here at the dining table. I could rob a bank or just end it all. This life’s the pits. I haven’t decided yet.”

Christopher’s stomach turned over at the mention of ending it all. The Christmas tree in the hall was beyond Evan. Christopher looked at the young man, the tree glittered behind him. Christmas Eve. It was almost too hard to take. “It can’t be that bad. You could get hurt trying to rob a bank or store with a gun.” He couldn’t bring himself to address the other issue Evan had mentioned.

“Yeah. Death by cop is one way out,” Evan muttered. “And if it didn’t get there, there at least would be a warm jail cell and free food.”

“It’s warm here and the food is free, Evan, and it’s about a lot more than you here. If Officer Thomas had to shoot you, it would haunt him for the rest of his life. It’s not fair for you to transfer your problems to him. And If someone is caught bringing a gun in here, we could get shut down completely. All the guys here would be out of someplace safe and warm, with free food, on Christmas Eve. You don’t want that, do you? Not for the other guys here. Give me the gun. I’ll take it away someplace safe—for the night—you can have it back when you leave in the morning. Here, when no one’s looking. Place it in this pan. I’ll cover it with the towel and go put it someplace safe. What do you say? Eat your cookies, go watch a movie in the TV room, and find a warm cot here for the night. It will all look better in the morning.”

There would be no giving the gun back in the morning, of course, Christopher knew. Christopher wouldn’t even be here in the morning. But if the young guy handed over the gun, they could all continue as they were into Christmas morning.

“Yeah, I guess,” Evan said. He surreptitiously slipped the handgun into the tray, Christopher covered the tray with the towel, and he got up from the table.

“Good. Thanks. I’ll go put this in a safe place and then come back and we can talk.” The last thing he wanted to do was to talk with a confused young man on Christmas Eve who looked so achingly like Steve had, but he was oddly compelled to do so. He was drawn to this Evan. He was heartsick, but he felt the need to connect with this young man—to find out what was wrong, what had brought a beautiful young man like him to a homeless shelter on Christmas Eve, and maybe to help provide some healing that he hadn’t been able to do—hadn’t been given the opportunity to do—the previous Christmas Eve.

“It will be fine. Trust me. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said, and he took the tray, being careful not to permit its contents to rattle around in the metal pan, back to the kitchen. Frieda was still talking with the two men who had been at the table with Evan, and Christopher gave her a smile and a nod of thanks as he passed her. Mae had gone to fetch the off-duty policeman, Ben Thomas, and the two of them were in the kitchen, watching Christopher approach.

“Mae told me . . . is it in there? Let me see it,” Ben said. He reached out for the tray and Christopher gave it to him. “Maybe we should—”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Ben,” Christopher said. “These men have no place else to go and it’s taken care of now. The young man doesn’t have the gun anymore. Let’s just put it somewhere safe and be happy it’s taken care of. I’ll go back and talk to him—his name’s Evan—and I’ll try to find out what his situation is.”

“There was no threat,” Ben said as he examined the gun. “This won’t fire. No firing pin and it’s not loaded. It’s a piece of shit . . . sorry. I guess it’s OK. No harm can be done with this.”

“Unless he brandished it about and whoever confronted him—possibly armed themselves—didn’t know it wasn’t able to fire,” Christopher said.

“Yeah, I guess there’s the danger of that.”

“Put it somewhere safe, Ben. I’ll go talk to the young man.”

But when Christopher went back to the table in the fellowship hall, Evan was gone—and Christopher wasn’t able to find him anywhere else in the building.

* * * *

“Bundle up. You’ll find an even snowier Christmas out there than when we came in,” Mae Manning said as she passed Christopher at the intake table, where he was pulling on galoshes to protect his treasured Gucci loafers.

“Yes, it’s going to be a cold one tonight, Mae. These men will be glad they got in here to mark their Christmas Eve.”

She stopped and put a hand on his arm. “You take care tonight, Chris. You really didn’t need to come out this evening. We all understand.”

That came as rather a revelation to Christopher. Mae Manning was definitely old school and one of the more judgmental grand dames in this neighborhood. She obviously hadn’t approved of the whole situation before and he would have thought she’d just avoid talking about it. But she hadn’t. She was showing sensitivity and giving support. “Coming here and making myself useful was better than sitting at home and brooding,” he said.

“Still, I think it was really unfortunate about the issue you had to deal with this evening. But you handled it admirably.”

The first thing that came to mind was him having it on with Jamal in the preschool area, and he had a flash of fear that she’d seen them. He’d had a sense that someone had, but it hadn’t been more than a fear they would he assumed. “Oh, the young man with the gun. We do have some unusual experiences with this program, don’t we? And, don’t worry about the gun. There were no bullets and it wasn’t capable of firing anyway.”

“I didn’t see that young man again . . . after you’d talked to him,” she said.

“Neither did I. I went looking for him, but I didn’t find him. I certainly hope he didn’t go out into the night again.” That brought Jamal into his mind. Jamal had gone out again. Getting drunk was probably the worst thing Jamal could do on a night like this out there. He could go to sleep drunk and not even realize he was freezing. Maybe he should drive around a bit and see if he could find him.

But when he exited the church he found that the young man, Evan, had gone back out into the snow and finding that out completely knocked the thought of Jamal being in danger out of his mind. Evan was huddled in the shadows at the end of the portico just outside the church door, shivering, in a coat not quite heavy enough for this weather and crouched over a duffel bag not quite big enough to be carrying what a homeless man needed to survive.

“Evan. Is that you?” Christopher said, coming over the young man and crouching next to him.

“Sorry. I’ll move away from the church. I know we aren’t supposed to stay around if we leave.”

“You look like you’re freezing, son. Why did you leave? We had it all under control. I came back looking for you and you were gone.”

“You took my gun. I didn’t feel safe staying here any longer.”

“Why did you need a gun in the shelter? And I found your gun wouldn’t fire anyway, nor did it have bullets in it.”

“Yeah, but the other men wouldn’t know that.”

“So what? Are you saying you were afraid of being assaulted by those on the staff or the other homeless men?”

“The homeless men.”

“Did that happen to you in a shelter before, Evan?”

“Yes.” He clammed up then and wouldn’t comment further.

“Well, you can’t stay here and you can’t get back inside.”

“My other bag is inside. I only brought this one out.”

“OK. Come with me. I live just a few blocks away, over the East 65th street. You can bunk there tonight and I’ll bring you back here for breakfast and you can retrieve your bag.”

“You could just go in and get it for me, couldn’t you?”

“Yes, I could, but that would still have you out on the street in the cold and snow on Christmas Eve. I couldn’t sleep myself knowing you were still out. It’s OK, I have a guest room. Come on, my car is just over there, in the parking lot.”

“So, you won’t get my other bag back for me unless I go to your place?”

“I won’t unless I know you are in someplace warm and safe.”

“Safe,” Evan said and snorted. But he didn’t resist moving to Christopher’s SUV. He sat in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead, clutching his duffel bag in his lap while Christopher cleaned the snow off the top and windows.

In the car, en route to Christopher’s townhouse on East 65th Street, which, indeed, was just six blocks from the church on Payne Avenue, Christopher pursued the issue of needing a gun. “What is this about needing protection at homeless shelters, Evan?”

“Apparently I’m the type for a certain kind of man among the homeless—as well as elsewhere.”

“Is that what made you homeless? You don’t seem to fit any of the molds that produce homelessness. I’d say you haven’t been knocked down and out—at least not for long—and I don’t sense any mental issues. Have you had trouble of this nature elsewhere?”

“It isn’t trouble about preferences. I’m gay. And I like going with me just fine. It’s an issue of having it pushed on me. A couple of men who come to these shelters—but before that . . . my mother’s boyfriend. I couldn’t stay around for that.”

“Here in Cleveland?” Christopher asked, but then, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Evan had tensed up and, knowing that they were drawing close to his townhouse, he decided to back off in case Evan bolted out into the snow. “Sorry, I don’t mean to probe. You don’t have to answer that. Here, this is it,” he said, drawing up onto the driveway in front of a garage door.

“You need me to get out and pull the garage door up for you or do you have an automatic opener?” Evan asked.

“No, we’ll leave the car here. I don’t use the garage anymore. Come on inside.”

“Nice place,” Evan said when they went up a floor to the living, dining, and kitchen area, which, indeed were quite plush, the living room being open another story to the ceiling, the master bedroom and bath being above the dining room, kitchen, and small study. “You must be rich.”

“I do OK. I have a couple of jewelry stores here in Cleveland. You look like you’re soaked to the core. Did you get a shower at the church?”

“No. I was scheduled for after dinner, but . . . well, you know.”

“The guestroom is downstairs, behind the garage. There’s a bath and laundry room down there too. If you toss your clothes out before going to the shower, I’ll put them in the washer down there. You’ll find clothes that I think will fit you in the guest room closet and the dresser. I’m sorry I don’t have a tree up to make it feel like Christmas in the house, but I’ll get the fireplace going and there will be Christmas music stations on the radio.”

He turned to see that Evan was looking at a photograph he’d picked up on a credenza in the living room. “Who’s this with you in this photo?”

Christopher grimaced. “That’s Steve.”

“He’s in the photo over there too. Is he your brother? Does he live here?”

“He lived here, but he wasn’t my brother. He was just someone special.”

“He looks a lot like me, I think.”

“Yes, he does—he did,” Christopher answered.

“You say ‘did.’ He’s not around here anymore?”

“He’s not around anywhere anymore. He hasn’t been around since last Christmas Eve. He died. Last Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosey. I can go if you don’t want to have me around tonight—especially as I must remind you of him.”

“No, please stay. It helps that you remind me of him. Downstairs. Go down the stairs and turn right and you’ll find the guestroom. Remember to toss your clothes out into the hall and I’ll put them in the washer. I can have them dry by tomorrow morning and we’ll drive back to the church. Come upstairs, to the fire, after your shower. I think I could use the company this evening. I really should have put up a tree.”

“Thanks,” Evan said, moving to the staircase. “Thanks for not leaving me out in the snow . . . and for not turning me over to the police back at the church. Your house is a whole lot nicer than a jail cell would have been.”

Evan had handed the photograph back to him rather than putting it back on the credenza. Christopher studied the photo and ran his thumb over the image of Steve. He hadn’t really thought of it, but, yes, this Evan looked quite a bit like Steve had. He wondered if that had been what had drawn him to the young man in the church hall and had made him feel protective toward him. He felt himself tearing up and hastily put the photo down, the image turned to the surface of the credenza and, giving a sigh, he went over to the fireplace to get the gas logs started up.

It was a good thing, he thought, that he’d had the sexual encounter earlier in the evening with the black giant, Jamal. Otherwise, he knew he’d surely be having the same arousal feelings for Evan now that he’d always had with Steve—especially since they seemed so much alike.

He couldn’t say, though, that he wasn’t having arousal feelings toward Evan. Not that he’d do anything about it—especially not on Christmas Eve.

* * * *

Christopher gave up trying to maintain control. He relaxed, sank back into the sofa facing the fireplace, encased Evan’s waist between his hands, and concentrated on the penetration and slide of his sheathed cock inside Evan’s channel, as the young man perched in his lap, facing him, feet flat on the sofa cushions on either side of Christopher’s hips, and rose and fell on the shaft. Christopher lay there, head lolling to the side, eyes focused on the gas-fueled logs in his fireplace, and murmuring his pleasure. His Levi jeans and Calvin Klein briefs were puddled on the floor in front of the sofa, and his Brooks Brothers shirt was unbuttoned and flared open. Evan’s face was leaning down, his mouth latched on Christopher’s left nipple, sucking on it, as his pelvis raised and lowered on Christopher’s erection.

Evan had appeared from downstairs, returning from the shower, with just a towel around his waist. He was a beautiful young man.

Hearing him come up the stairs, Christopher, who was sitting in front of the fire on the sofa, turned away from the stairs and called out, “I don’t know what you want to drink. A Coke or beer? Wine or something harder. I’ve poured myself a beer. Your clothes are in the washer. I hope you found clothes in the guest room that . . .” But then he’d swiveled his head around and saw that Evan was just in a towel. And then Evan wasn’t anymore. He dropped the towel, showing that he was in erection. Christopher sucked air.

“Evan, you don’t have to . . . I didn’t bring you to me house to . . .”

“I want to. It’s not just that I want to show my gratitude that you brought me in from the cold—or saved me for doing something drastic tonight. I saw you. I saw you at the church with Jamal. You go with men. You don’t just let men fuck you, do you? You fuck men too, I hope. I want you to fuck me.”

“You saw me? You saw me with Jamal?” Christopher whispered, but it was all he was able to say before Evan had approached the back of the sofa; leaned over it; cupped Christopher’s chin, pulling the man’s head back; and took his mouth in a deep kiss. Christopher didn’t resist, coming out of the kiss only once before Evan was straddling his hips, fucking himself on Christopher’s cock; and for that brief moment, Christopher murmured, “Steve. Oh, Steve,” before going under Evan’s control again.

During the kiss, Evan unbuttoned and flared Christopher’s shirt with the hand not cupping the older man’s chin and then ran his hand down lower, unbuckling, unzipping, and flaring the fly of the jeans, taking possession of Christopher’s hardening cock, and stroking him into total possession. The older man completely subdued, Evan came over the back of the sofa, into Christopher’s lap, impaling himself on the older man’s cock, slowly, languidly, rising and falling on the shaft, and then there was no further talking—just sighing, groaning, and murmurings of “Yes, yes, just like that,” until they’d both released.

Christopher normally bottomed, as he had done with Jamal earlier in the night—but with Steve, and now with Evan, he became the top of sorts. He wasn’t dominant; he still was submissive to his partner. But it was Steve, before, and now the very similar Evan, who was riding the cock—but from the top.

Upstairs, on the master room bed, after Evan, who had been riding the prone Christopher’s cock in a reverse cowboy in their second coupling, rolled off the older man’s body and stretched out beside him, letting his hand glide across Christopher’s trembling body and fondling the older man’s cock and balls, the first words since it had begun were spoken.

“Was it Jamal you were afraid of among the homeless men at the shelter?” Christopher asked.

“No, Jamal’s cool. And he gives good fuck. Don’t you think? Didn’t he do you real well?”

“Yes,” Christopher admitted. “He did. Real well. I don’t know how I could have made it through Christmas Eve without him . . . and now you.”

“So, it’s OK that I came on to you?”

“Yes, it’s more than OK, Evan. But I hate to think I’ve done to you what you were running from.”

“You haven’t. I left home because of my mother’s boyfriend, Matt. It’s not that I didn’t go with men. I want to pick out the men I go with, and I didn’t want it to be someone who was doing my mother too. She deserves better than that. She’s had a rough time and doesn’t pick men well.”

“She must be frantic, not knowing where you are—that you’re safe—tonight.”

“Am I safe with you?” Evan laughed. “I guess I am. I’m the one doing all of the aggression. I suppose you’re right about my mother, though. None of this, other than her bad judgment in men, is her fault.”

“Your mother must be frantic with worry. How long have you been on the street, Evan?”

“Nine days, no, ten days now, I think. But I’m of age. I shouldn’t be living with my mother now, anyway. I should be off, making my own way.”

“Probably,” Christopher said, “but that should be something the two of you work out. Do you really think you should do it this way—become homeless; not let her know where you are and whether you’d doing OK?”

“I’m certainly doing OK here. Oh, shit, that feels good.” Christopher had taken possession of the younger man’s shaft with a hand and was stroking him.

“Shush now. It’s true, you are an adult, old enough to make your own decisions. I don’t want to lecture you. I want to make love to you now. It’s been so long. You are truly a Christmas gift to me.”

Christopher rolled over on top of Evan and took the younger man’s mouth with his. Coming out of the kiss, he buried his face in the hollow of Evan’s throat for several minutes, both men concentrating on their cocks pressed against each other as they engorged. Their bodies were in motion, slow-dancing against each other in close embrace. Evan groaned as Christopher worked down his trembling body, Evan moaning as Christopher kissed and nibbled with his mouth and worshipped with his hands until he reached and inhaled the younger man’s shaft. Evan grasped Christopher’s head between his hands and moved his hips in the rhythm of the suck until, with a little cry, a long sigh, and a collapse, he came in Christopher’s throat. The older man than moved back up Evan’s body, between the younger man’s open thighs, reached down and placed his cock head in position, mounted and penetrated Evan’s channel, and took him in long, deep strokes. Christopher was in the saddle now. Steve was the only one he’d taken like this before.

“You whispered his name—Steve—several times while we fucked,” Evan said when they were stretched out beside each other again, their hands roaming on the other’s body.

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I understand—well, sort of. You said he died last Christmas Eve. How did he die?”

A heavy silence ensued and Evan said, “Sorry, if you don’ want to talk about it.”

“No, that’s good. I need to get it out. You were sent to me tonight, I think, to help me get past this. He shot himself. Here, in the house . . . in the garage . . . while I was at the church, helping with the homeless shelter there.”

“Shit. And I gave you a problem with a gun tonight.” Evan started to roll off the bed, but Christopher held him tight, in place.

“No, don’t. Tonight was all for a purpose, I believe. There was nothing wrong between us but not openly facing the situation. Steve had found he had lung cancer—advanced. He smoked like a chimney and I had always been after him about stopping. It suddenly was there between us, rampant guilt on both sides, and we weren’t facing it. I should have told him that it didn’t matter between us—that I’d be there forever. I didn’t say it, though, and he took what he thought was the loving way toward me out. It wasn’t. But it was my fault for not making that clear to him. I’ve let it ride me. I see that now. And I see that with you. Sorry, but I think I do need to lecture. Your mother must be frantic. I’m going to shower and dress now. Call your mother. Tell her you’re OK. That’s what I should have done for Steve. I should have told him I was here—that it would be OK between us, at least, no matter what happened.”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” Evan said.

“She won’t care. She’s probably sitting by the phone now. Call her or not, but think about it while I shower.”

Christopher rolled off the bed and went to the bathroom. When he came out, Evan was sitting on the side of the bed, talking on a cell phone. Tears were streaming down his face.

“You’re right. She said she’d been sitting by the phone,” Evan said to Christopher as the older man redressed himself. “She said Matt confessed to her what he’d been doing and she threw him out. She wants me to come home.”

“What do you want to do, Evan?”

When the young man didn’t answer for moment, just sat there trying to pretend he wasn’t crying, Christopher said, “Where does your mother live?”

“It’s the middle of the night. My other things are at the church,” Evan mumbled.

“Where does your mother live?”

“Cleveland Heights. Glenwood Road.”

“We could be there in a half hour. We can swing by the church and I’ll get your other bag.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s Christmas. You were put here to help get me straight, and I’m here for you in the same plan. It’s out of our hands.”

“Will I see you again?”

“I’ll give you my card. Call me anytime. If you need a job, I’ve got them to give. Shower and dress. Your clothes should be dry now. We can get you home in a half hour.”

When they came back downstairs, Christopher saw that his glass of beer, untouched, still sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa and that he’d forgotten to turn the gas-logs fireplace off. He chuckled that they had moved so quickly into having sex and then to moving it to the bedroom.

* * * *

When Christopher drove back into his driveway, the snow still falling and beginning to provide some depth on the ground, he found what looked like a pile of rags shoved up on his front door. The reflection of the street lamp off the snow caused the glass bottle floating up and down in the pile of rags to sparkle. Getting out of the SUV, he said, “Are you going to drink all of that wine yourself?”

“I was if you didn’t come home pretty soon,” Jamal answered. “This is good stuff—a fine balance of quality and cost. I didn’t want to drink it all alone.”

“How did you find where I lived?” Christopher said, shushing through the snow up to his entry.

“You gave me your card. You made quite clear you wanted to enjoy me again.”

“So I did and so I do,” Christopher said. And now that he thought about it, he suddenly felt free and ready to live again.

“Are you going to ask me in?” Jamal asked. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.”

“You’re not carrying a gun, are you?”

“What in the hell would I need a gun for?”

“Just checking. Sure, you can come in, if you’d like. I can get a fire going in the fireplace, but I’m sorry that I don’t have a Christmas tree up this year.”

“You don’t? That’s sacrilege. It’s Christmas. Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

“I think it’s coming back,” Christopher said as he unlocked the door. “There will be a tree next year, for sure.”

“You know that if you let me in, I’m going to fuck you into the new year.”

“I’m counting on it. I’m counting on that for sure,” Christopher said as he latched onto the pile of rags and dragged Jamal into his house.