Soulmates

I know you're never supposed to believe a married man when he says he'll leave his wife for you. But Tim Rogers was living with me when he said it. Actually living with me, day in, day out. 

It wasn't like that at first. I'd met Tim at the exurban gym we both went to. The kind of place with lots of weekend dabblers in the weight room. Tim and I stuck out as the guys serious about lifting without being outright meatheads. We became workout buddies and hit it off. 

Half the time we'd lift, and Tim would come over to my place after. We'd talk. When it wasn't sports or work shit, the guy would unload his problems, and I'd listen. Tim actually could have used a real therapist, but he didn't have the money for that shit, and even if he did he would have been too proud to go. 

So I heard about his shitty marriage, and I'd suck his cock. Then he'd suck mine. 

I wasn't closeted, but I wasn't actually out and proud either. That worked for the ex-baseball player, who felt more comfortable coming over. More comfortable kissing and making out. He asked me to take his cherry, so I did. Tim fucking loved that. The next night he made an excuse to come over and get fucked again. 

I had a great body. Being a single, gym-obsessed gay dude will do that for you. Tall and well-proportioned. But I couldn't believe I was having sex with Tim on a regular basis. He worked construction jobs, and that kind of manual labor had a way of aging you, quick. But Tim was 26 and goddamn beautiful. Blue eyes, dark brown hair, killer smile, dimples. Muscle on muscle that even the ex-jock padding didn't hide. Incredible ass that I'd bone up looking at.

He stayed over at my place whenever he and his wife had a fight. They were fighting more. We called them Doghouse nights, but the fourth was the last. Tim never went back to his wife.

I'm a red-blooded man, horny as any, I guess, but I was unprepared for Tim's amped up sex drive. I was ten years older than him, so teased me for being an old man. But I don't remember having a libido like his in my 20s. I blew him a couple times a day to take the edge off. And in the evening, every evening, I fucked him in my bed. Our bed, now.

My name is Mark, but Tim called me Cleve, after my middle name. Mostly to tease me, but the nickname stuck as a pet name. I called him Six Gun, or Gunner, since I'd once gotten him to cum six times in 24 hours. 

The divorce came, finally. I found out Tim had been dragging his heels to avoid alimony. I told him not to worry about a thing. He had a place to live, and I wasn't gonna charge him any goddamn rent. We celebrated the day the papers were finalized. 

The man got in shape. I mean he already had that incredible ex-jock muscle amped up from hard work and the gym. But he lost the beefy thickness and slimmed down. I didn't care, I loved it either way. But he seemed happier, more thrilled with his body and the way I pawed at him.

I don't even know why I didn't realize we were more than live-in fuck buddies, but I was watching Tim make his egg-white omelet one morning and it hit me hard. I was in love with the man. Deeply, tragically in love with him, body and soul.

I started crying.

"Cleve, what the fuck?" he asked. Thinking something was wrong.

"I love you, Gunner," I managed to say.

His concern grew to a smile. "I love you, too, doofus," he grinned as he mock punched my shoulder. "Damn you look like a wuss when you cry," he teased.

"Asshole," I shot back playfully. I knew this was Tim's defense mechanism, and it actually made me laugh.

I stood up and our bodies met as we kissed. Tim's omelet would have to wait. We couldn't get back to the bedroom quick enough. A BJ wasn't gonna cut it. I lubed up, put those strong legs on my shoulders, and entered Tim as we locked eyes.

"Love you, Mark," he hissed as I breached him. "So much."

"God, Tim," I grunted. "Gonna be hard to hold back." 

I meant with my orgasm, but Tim took it a different way. "Don't. Fuck me, Cleve. Fuck me hard."

I did. Almost exploratory thrusts to see if he meant it. That ex-baseball jock did. Taking my hard shoves deep into his guts and looking up at me with a silent plea for more. So I fucked rougher. It was intense for him, but just fueled his orgasm as he jerked that thick tool. I pounded to fuck the cum out of him, then pounded to get off myself. It took seconds. 

It was the closest thing to make up sex, because Tim and I never fought. He said he'd had a lifetime's worth of fights with his ex, and didn't want any more.

To the outside world we were roommates. If that was the kind of thing that bothered me, I would have moved from our town years ago. 

Tim said he missed sex with women sometimes. "If you ever want to Gunner, you should," I told him. "I'm serious," I added when he looked at me skeptically.

He did, a few times. Each time he came back home, quiet. He never talked about it but the next time we fucked he'd ask me to go hard. Eventually he no longer went on Tinder and no longer hooked up with anyone else.

I got used to taking charge of things. Finances, household stuff, setting up retirement savings for Tim. So I was surprised when Tim booked a vacation for us.

"It's our fifth anniversary," he beamed as he showed off the place he'd booked. Not only a gay resort in Palm Springs, but one of those clothing optional places. "Figured we could use a little getaway."

"Anniversary of what?" I asked.

He shrugged. "My divorce papers. At least that's when I stopped pretending."

I didn't realize Tim ever pretended. Then I didn't realize he'd ever stopped.

The vacation was incredible. It was our first time having sex with others. Yeah, a part of me was nervous, but my boyfriend loved showing off his body and being the attention of hot guys. He loved looking at me with a giddy, kid like expression as some muscle dude blew him. His enthusiasm was contagious. 

We went back home feeling like something had changed, in a good way. 

As much as I craved routine, I had to admit it was a way Tim and I didn't deal with things. But now we mixed it up. He took on more of the household chores, and I tried to be the one to come up with the fun ideas for date night. Tim started going down on me before work, as a surprise. I asked him if he ever wanted to top me. He did, and while he confessed he preferred being on bottom, occasionally we'd switch, or even better, flip. 

We were two men who weren't in touch with our emotions. We still didn't know how to talk. We got used to each other's nonverbal way of talking. That's why I wasn't surprised when Tim blurted out what had been bottled up. Out of the blue, while we watching some baseball game.

"We gotta move, Cleve," he said. Frustration in his voice, but I knew it wasn't frustration at me. It was frustration at his life, this town. "I've done the numbers. We'll probably take a hit on the house, but we can make it work."

He looked at me in a challenge. Ready for Mr. Routine to dig his heels in. Or at least ask why.

But I goddamn well knew why. "Yeah," I said.

We didn't fight, but we argued about where. Tim hated the cold, and I hated the heat. Being in construction, he'd find work more easily than me. Besides, I wasn't close to my family, but I hesitated to move too far away.

In the end, I let Tim pick. I was in love with him, now more than ever. And at 31, he was still the most goddamn beautiful man I'd ever known.

We got excited making plans, talking about our future. Then, right there on the living room couch, we made out and fucked.