Ryan Patrick Coburn
Ryan came out of his Aunt Elissa’s office and strolled through the open office area her office faced. He wondered how she worked in such a space. The full height windows overlooking the city, he understood, but the glass interior partitions in lieu of walls, so she was always visible to the staff was altogether something else. He knew she considered it a way to keep watch, to have everyone feeling her stare. But it meant every person under her could stare back.
He was one of her field agents, going out to meet clients looking at commercial real estate. He had his father’s knack for small talk and his mother’s understanding of human nature. His Aunt thought he was just cunning like her, but it was simpler than that. He just understood people in a manner that allowed him to know what they wanted. He just had to find it or provide something that would work with some minor modifications or in a way the client had not considered.
It made him the number one seller, even better than his aunt. It made his parents proud of his accomplishments and his older brother and sister, if not outright jealous, then envious. He was twenty-eight years old and owned a colonial style home in Myers Park, drove a new Polestar 3, and already had three investment properties in areas that were starting to see improvements. Inquiries had begun on two of them and he was just biding his time, poised to strike when the time was right.
Ryan Patrick Coburn considered himself a success story by every measure, except one. His personal life had become routine and lacking. He had friends he socialized with on a regular basis, had no trouble finding a date, but anything long term escaped him. It was beginning to frustrate him.
Some guys who went out with him would soon pull away, one telling him he was too intense. Wanted life to be perfect, too organized, everything in its place from how his kitchen was organized to where his toothbrush was to reside on the vanity. That he never seemed to relax and just enjoy life.
Other guys wanted him to be their caregiver, to allow them to lounge around while he was supposed to clothe and feed them. To buy them nice things, take them on lavish vacations, or out to dine at the most expensive restaurants. After four guys who expected this easy life, he swore never again. He wasn’t a snob, would easily go out with someone of lesser means, had done so often, but for the guy to expect him to be, and he fucking hated the term, their sugar daddy, infuriated him.
In the elevator, he rode down to the parking level, getting off on B3, and strolled down to his SUV and climbed in. He came out of the parking garage to traffic slowly making it way out of downtown. When someone let him pull out, he fell in line and patiently made his way with traffic, knowing most had a forty-minute drive or longer when he would be home in fifteen minutes, his neighborhood just outside the inner loop around downtown.
He made his way down the hill that was downtown, under I-277, and continued onward passing Kings Drive. The road changed names at Caswell Road, and it was like a demarcation of him leaving the inner-city area and entering one of the old neighborhoods that surrounded it. He drove with the flow of traffic, reminding himself to swing by the grocery store on the way home. His cellphone chimed with a reminder from the pharmacist that his allergy prescription was ready to pick up. He didn’t need it because his allergies were not acting up, but he didn’t like to not have it on hand and would swing by the drug store once he left the grocery store.
Ryan moved through the produce department, double checking his list of items he needed. He went to the heirloom tomatoes, surprised to find Striped Germans in stock. He picked up one after the next until he had two that were satisfactory. He stepped over more surprised to see Costuolo Genevese tomatoes, and he put a dozen in his produce bag, thinking he could make a nice tomato sauce on Sunday.
He moved to the strawberries, looking at a few containers, disappointed by each one having a few already going bad. At the onions, he selected three yellow onions, then reached over and picked four shallots.
He moved to refrigerated display, scanning the mushrooms. He picked a small container of Morel mushrooms, then a few Shitakes, gently placing them in a small produce mesh bag.
He circled the remainder of the section, picking up three carrots, arugula and Romaine lettuce.
He headed toward the back aisle, passing through the wine department, glancing at the selection knowing he had recently bought a few cases at the Wine Cellar, the small independent retailer in Myers Park, and doubted anything in the grocery store was as good.
Ryan skipped most aisles, all the prepackaged items, swinging through the spice aisle, the bread aisle for some English muffins, a guilty pleasure with his morning cup of coffee.
At the front, he skipped the self-check out section, refusing to do it, and got into one of the full-service lines.
He put the groceries in the back of his SUV then headed to the drug store. He parked in front, located in one of the few old buildings remaining along Providence Road, and entered through the old double doors.
“Ryan, come for your prescription?” said one of the pharmacists behind the counter.
“Yes, Elizabeth.”
“I’ve got it right here.” She turned and flipped through the few prescriptions they expected customers to come for right away.
Ryan signed and took his receipt. “Thanks Elizabeth,” he said as he took the small white bag and headed out.
Ryan entered his home, put away the groceries, dropped the bag from the drug store into the recycling bin, then headed to his bedroom to put the prescription away. As he went through the house, he called out to the home system.
“Alexa; play Violin Concerto Number One by Bruch.”
Andrew Louis (Dusty) Irvine
Dusty strolled through the greenhouse, passing customers browsing the cacti and house plants, until at the small structure near the entry gate. He moved behind Sheila who was checking out customers and pulled out his old backpack, one he had used all through college and for the last four years working at the nursery.
“Are you heading out?” said Sheila.
“Yes, unless you need me for something.”
“No, we’re good. Barb is in back if I need help.”
“Grandmother is sending more monstera and fiddleleaf fig in the morning.”
“Good, for we are almost out of the monstera.”
“I’ll see you on Monday,” said Dusty, and he went through the doorway in back and made his way through the office area and to the back exit. Crossing the gravel lot, he went past Sheila’s Prius and Barb’s Subaru, smiling at the ridiculous joke all lesbians drove Subarus, but in this case there was some truth to it. He saw a new bumper sticker on the rear: I can shit a better president. He laughed out loud as he came to his car, a 1972 Alfa Romeo GT 2000. It was a maroon, or what the factory called Rosso Amaranto with a black interior, and despite all the warnings by his father and some friends, the car would be unreliable, it had been a faithful little pleasure. It helped, he enjoyed doing routine maintenance and some minor repairs.
He started the car; let it idle a minute while he checked his phone to see what his friends were doing. Some were going to hear a band he didn’t care about, and others had engagements that he was not a part. He smiled because it meant he would just relax at home tonight. He pulled out on Monroe Road and headed back toward town, making a turn on Commonwealth Avenue cutting over to Plaza-Midwood.
Andrew Louis Irvine, Dusty to his family and friends, was twenty-six and worked at his grandparents’ nursery operation. There were greenhouses outside Matthews and the retail nursery on Monroe Road in the city, where he worked. His parents lived in Durham working at the college there. The nursery had been his grandparents’ thing, something that went from a small florist shop to eventually operating a landscape company which over time changed to include greenhouses for growing some of their own plants.
He swung into the grocery store, parking along the perimeter, and headed inside. He grabbed up a blue basket, and cut through the produce area, picking up a salad mix, a few tomatoes, then circled by the apples putting two in his basket. He moved to the deli department and picked up a baked chicken and a tub of potato salad. Cutting across the rear of the grocery store, he looked with desire at the cookies, knowing he had to refrain from all the process sugars. At the beer aisle, he grabbed a six pack of Lazy Bird Brown Ale by Birdsong, one of the local breweries.
Back at the front, he slipped into the self-checkout, opened two reusable bags, and rang up everything, tapped his card on the monitor, grabbed his receipt, and strolled out.
He cut around the business district and pulled in at the drug store. He rushed in to grab his allergy prescription that had been ready for the last week, hoping it had not been reshelved.
Tossing the prescription in the passenger seat, he pulled out to head home. He drove down The Plaza to his street, turning right. A couple of blocks into the neighborhood and two more turns later, he pulled under the Porte Cochere at the side of his house. It was a 1923 bungalow with a porch across the front and a deck on the rear that was ten feet above the rear yard with the slope of the site. He had gotten the house repainted, and the bathroom renovated, and hoped to renovate the kitchen in the next few years.
Entering through the side door, he set everything on the counter to come back to after he grabbed a shower. He went by his laptop on the island and turned on some music, a mix of alternative rock and old electronica, then headed to his bedroom to get cleaned up.
Ryan Patrick Coburn
Ryan looked in the mirror to check his appearance. He was dressed casually. A black wool sports coat, white banded collar shirt, and black slacks. He straightened his belt until it was perfectly centered, slipped the watch with the black leather band on, and headed downstairs to leave.
He was meeting Charles and Stephen at Cohen & Fontaine, the art gallery in the Crescent Building downtown. It was opening night for an artist from Brazil, and he looked forward to it because it had been some time since there was anything of interest at an art gallery.
The night was warm, and the pavement was still wet from an afternoon shower of rain. Ryan came out of the parking garage on the other side of the street, making his way across and up the steps to the main entrance to the building’s lobby. The gallery was off the lobby, located in the rear of it where the building sat on a courtyard space between it and a condominium project facing the next street. It allowed the gallery to have a few windows facing it.
He entered the lobby, with polished marble floors and wood panels on the walls with a decorative ceiling, complete with a chandelier hanging in the middle of a tray ceiling. He strolled past the other guests milling about and entered the gallery. It continued the theme of the lobby with a polished marble floor, but the walls were stark white, and the ceiling was suspended wood slats stained dark brown, with everything above matte black that concealed ducts, conduits, and structure.
He looked at the painting at the entrance, the one that gave the theme of the artist’s work. He nodded in approval, then moved further in, looking for Charles and Stephen. He spied them at the wine bar talking with a couple, one Ryan knew was the owner of the gallery having seen her photograph in the announcement.
Andrew Louis (Dusty) Irvine
Dusty came out of the bathroom towel drying his hair, telling himself he should have gotten it cut sometime in the past week, but he never thought about it until it was getting long and unruly. He tossed the towel over the footboard of his bed and picked up the jeans laying over the straight back chair in the corner. They were his favorite pair, slightly worn and faded, and he slipped them on. He started for the closet to get a shirt, then decided to just wear a white T-shirt.
He slipped a black jacket out, one from the outdoor clothing store, with a small, banded collar and pockets with zippers on the front. He checked himself in the mirror on the back of his closet door and smiled. He wasn’t muscular like some guys, but he knew he was still attractive to other guys with his lean build.
He wondered who would be at the gallery opening, knowing a few friends said they were going, but as usual none of them committed. It aggravated him at times, how they always were looking for the next big thing and often not showing up for something they had planned to do, and if showing up, doing so thirty minutes late or longer.
He went into the garage at the pack of his property, got into the old Alfa and started it up. After the car warmed up, he backed down the drive into the street and pulled away.
The gallery was on the north side of town above NoDa in an area that had not yet been caught up in the redevelopment that had changed NoDa over the last twenty years. It was unrecognizable from its early days as the place for art crawls, bars, and restaurants. It still had bars and restaurants, more in fact, but not one gallery remained, replaced with bank branches, a bike store, and a bakery. The art scene moved to other locales that were affordable, at least for the time being.
Dusty drove up Thirty-Sixth then cut over to the other side of the light rail line moving past abandoned factory and warehouse buildings until he came to the one lit up at a side entrance and a parking lot nearly full. STUDIO 212 was painted black on the wall in a stencil font, angled at forty-five degrees. The building had a rough white finish, paint peeled off sections, making the lettering stand out even more.
Parked in the back of the parking lot, he made his way up the metal steps to the concrete landing and through the graffitied solid metal doors. He could hear some old rave music playing as he made his way down a wide corridor until in the main room. Large square concrete columns divided it up, and white partition walls about eight feet high further divided the space. He moved into the room, admiring the art hanging on the walls and the sculptural pieces arranged on the bare concrete floor. About halfway into the room he found the bar set up in the middle of the room and grabbed a beer.
“Dusty, over here.”
Dusty turned to see Jacob, Mark, and Sheila standing at a large painting of two men wrestling but being naked it gave the piece a homoerotic tone, no doubt why Jacob had dragged Mark and Sheila over to it. He waved and headed toward them.
The Farmers Market
Ryan parked out from most of the other cars, afraid someone would open a door into his SUV, and made his way toward the metal buildings that housed the city’s farmer’s market. He came every other Saturday, and when the best produce was arriving, once a week. He had four mesh produce bags knowing he could easily fill three of them, and all four if there was something special on display. It was already warm, and he had dressed accordingly, khaki shorts, a light pink polo, and his favorite straw sun hat he had purchased in San Miguel de Allende a few years ago while on vacation.
He entered the building seeing fans were on the floor at each end and he was glad he didn’t wait until the metal roof and walls got hot in the sun, for he knew it would be uncomfortable inside. He ambled down the left side, picking up a few items at various tables, and gave himself the guilty pleasure of checking out some of the men operating stalls. Farmers who had calloused hands and tanned skin tones and unruly hair protruding around caps. Stephen referred to them as savages and he knew he could sleep with a savage but did not dare say it aloud, not in front of Stephen.
Dusty drove into the parking lot proud of himself for getting to the farmers market before ten o’clock, but he had a list of things he really wanted to get and if he waited, he could be forced to go to one of the grocery stores in a part of town where he hated driving. There was a grocery store near the main mall, a nice one, but the traffic around it was horrific, and the grocery store itself was laid out on some forty-five-degree angle making it maddening to shop.
He swung the little Alfa into a space out from the building, just so no one messed with it and climbed out. He adjusted his white T-shirt and strolled toward the building. Entering through the rolled-up garage door, he moved right, for eggs were first on his list and the man who always had them was about halfway down on that side. He moved among the others, checking out the men. There were some couples, men who spoke to each other in that way he could spot a hundred yards away. The leaning close, talking low, and chuckling or smiling, then one would put a hand on the other’s back, moving along to where they were headed. It made him smile to see it, thinking of the last boyfriend. It hadn’t lasted three months and since then he had found himself so busy and let himself be occupied by doing things with friends.
He came to the man who raised chickens for eggs and waited until his turn.
“Hey, I need a dozen,” said Dusty.
“A dozen coming up.”
Ryan made his way across the end and started back up the other side. He looked at herbs, some potatoes, deciding to pass this week, then headed toward the man with eggs. As he approached, he saw a guy about his age paying for a dozen. Tousled black hair, lean build, a bit taller than him, and he felt an attraction. Then he took note of the sloppy attire, an undergarment for a shirt and jeans that were worn out, and the worst horror, flip flops on the feet. Was it so hard to put on decent clothes, like a shirt with buttons or a nice polo instead of a white T-shirt. And those jeans would have long since been donated to a charity. But he found his eyes going over the body, how the T-shirt hung on the shoulders and loose around the waist and the jeans fit nicely around the ass, and when the guy turned toward him, he saw they bulged enticingly at the crotch.
As they passed, Ryan noticed the green eyes and how they gave him a quick glance then turned back to the produce on display. Probably straight with a girlfriend he thought as he moved into the short line for eggs.
Dusty held the eggs in one hand and his produce bags in the other, making his way down the aisle. He looked up to see an attractive man coming his way. About his own age, with brown eyes and light brown hair mostly concealed by a straw sun hat. Then he took note of the pink polo, and the khaki shorts that looked as if they had been pressed. On the feet, brown loafers rounded off attire that seemed out of place in the farmer’s market. Probably someone from old money out with the masses preparing for a special dinner that night.
He made his way to the end and circled back, picking up the items from his list plus a few other items that had both of his produce bags full. He made his way out, crossing the parking lot wondering if he would mow grass that morning or wait until the afternoon. It would be hotter then, but the grass would be dry and not clog up in the mow forcing him to hose out the underside.
As he approached his Alfa, he saw the guy in the sun hat admiring it, and to his way of thinking, it was something to admire, more so than any of the new cars he considered mostly plastic. As he drew near the guy looked up and for a second looked surprised, then he nodded in that way two strangers would greet each other when unexpectedly coming face to face again after passing each other.
“Nice car. A 1974?”
“It’s a ’72.”
“How often do you drive it?”
Dusty knew most would store the car and drive it only on nice days. It would be in some warehouse, locked up with a Jaguar or a Corvette, maybe Ferrari. They wouldn’t dare make it a daily driver, and looking at the guy in front of him, he knew this was just such a guy.
“It’s my daily.”
Another surprised look, as expected.
“Wow, is it reliable?”
“It has been. I keep it maintained.”
“You do it yourself?”
Was it so incredulous he owned the car and maintained it too, Dusty wondered.
“Yep.”
“Well, it is a nice car. It’s a shame there are no new cars like this.”
“It is. What do you drive?”
“The Polestar 3,” the guy replied, pointing one row over and a bit further out.
“It’s an EV, right?”
“Yes.”
“I keep telling myself to look at one, but it would mean selling or putting the Alfa in storage.”
The guy smiled in a way that made Dusty reconsider his early assessments of him.
“It would be a shame to lock it away. I’ve taken enough of your time and really must be going myself. It’s nice to see someone enjoying one of these.”
The guy strolled toward the white Polestar 3 and Dusty watched him, wondering what kind of personality he possessed. He was attractive and he was a sucker for dark brown eyes. Then he shook his head at how he must need to hook up with someone and soon. He climbed into the Alfa, fired it up, and eased out. As he headed to the road, he saw the white Polestar 3 behind him. It would follow him as he crossed Woodlawn, heading for the ramp to get on the interstate to make the best time to get to the other side of town. They would merge on the interstate and all the way to the loop around downtown.
They would exit together, turning on Fourth Street and where it intersected with Kings Avenue, Dusty would turn left and the Polestar 3 would go straight, no doubt heading into Myers Park or one of the other higher end neighborhoods.
Produce
Ryan entered the grocery store in Plaza-Midwood, not his usual stop for groceries, but he had been to lunch at a new restaurant with friends. It was in an old church and surprisingly good, good enough, he planned to put it on his list of restaurants to suggest when friends wanted to meet for lunch or dinner.
He had entered on the street corner side and stood a second getting his bearings on the grocery store’s layout. The produce department was to his left and he moved through the wine section to avoid shoppers coming toward him, then cut back over entering near the vegetables. He needed a couple of onions and a few chili peppers. He moved past potatoes and around to the side with onions, picking out three yellow ones.
As he headed to the peppers in the next display, he saw the Alfa owner coming in the doors from the parking lot side. He watched him push a cart toward him while looking at the fruits in the first section. He found the guy attractive but wished he was more attentive to his attire. A blue tank top that was loose over the upper body. It revealed too much, but then again, the reveal of the shoulders and arms was making him have those thoughts. At least he wore khaki pants this time. When the guy circled the end of a display, Ryan frowned. The khakis were cut off into shorts.
The guy seemed to know he was staring, looking up to catch him. For the longest second the guy stared back, then with recognition, smiled, gave him a friendly little wave, then proceeded over to the pre-mixed salads.
“Heathen,” Ryan uttered under his breath, smiling back with a nod of recognition. He didn’t know if he meant it as a slur or a compliment. The guy was attractive, and he gave thought to what it might be like to have sex with him. Would it be sensual, or playful, or rough and physical. It didn’t do to dwell on it, and he spun around and headed to the checkout at the entrance where he came in.
Dusty entered the grocery store not sure what he wanted. He was sick of eating out over the last few days, one friend or another getting him to go. Maybe a simple salad, or maybe a bowl of pasta with something sauteed over it. He moved past the fruit, heading over to the plastic boxes of pre-mixed salad greens, circling the next display just to see if anything jumped out at him.
As he moved toward the refrigerated display cases along the wall, he glanced across the produce section, and he saw a guy staring at him. Did he know him? Was it someone he had hooked up with sometime in the past. The guy looked familiar but not like anyone he had hung out with.
The attire was too neat, dress slacks and a dress shirt that looked starched and pressed within an inch of its life. He tried to think of the word to describe him. Stoic was wrong and pretentious was too harsh. Maybe ostentatious. A bit showy. Then he remembered. The farmer’s market last Saturday. It was the guy who had been looking at his Alfa. So, no one he knew but just someone he had crossed paths. He gave him a friendly wave.
The guy smiled back and gave him a slight nod of the head.
Dusty picked up a spinach spring mix blend and turned to move on through the produce to pick up a tomato and a cucumber. As he headed to the next display fixture, he saw the guy was going toward the checkout at the street corner side. He picked up a tomato, a cucumber, then made his way back to the deli department.
A Good Cause
Ryan hadn’t been to the White Party in years, preferring to just send in a check and enjoy a quiet evening with a couple of friends at a restaurant, but Stephen had gotten tickets and made Charles and him promise to go. So dressed in white slacks he usually only wore in the islands, and a white dress shirt, he strolled into the event to the sound of Erasure being played over the sound system. He dropped a check in the wood box, got his name tag, and followed his friends as they made their way to the bar.
“Ryan, you made it.”
Ryan turned to see James Goodwin approaching him, someone he had dated years ago and maintained a cordial friendliness toward, although they never socialized. “James, it’s good to see you. How’s Timothy?”
“Oh, Ryan, we broke up months ago. I’m seeing Philip Thompson.”
“I’m afraid I don’t recognize the name.”
“Where have you been; he used to strip at the Back Door then went to California and did porn for a few years. Don’t you remember him?”
“James, I’m sorry, I don’t. But I assume the dating is going well.”
“Oh, yes,” James replied as if he wanted to reveal more.
“Ryan, Lucy Stewart wants to speak with you,” said Stephen coming alongside him.
“Oh, I should see what she wants. James, it’s good to see you.”
Ryan let Stephen pull him away and saw Lucy really did want to speak to him.
Ryan followed Stephen and Charles around the room, greeting old acquaintances and ex-boyfriends, until Charles pulled away to talk to someone he was interested in and Stephen excused himself to hit a bathroom.
Ryan felt exposed in the middle of the room, so he moved to the hors d’oeuvre table for something to nibble on. As he moved along the table he glanced up, naturally curious as to who was on other side. A white t-shirt with beads around the neck, he came face to face with the guy that drove the Alfa.
“Hey, we cross paths again,” said the guy.
Dusty strolled in with Aaron, Mitchell, and Ian, three of his closest friends and the three that reminded him of the events they should attend. The pride festival and different charitable events, such as the White Party. They all wore white jeans and white T-shirts, with a collection of Mardi Gras beads around their necks, something to liven up the place a bit.
They got their name tags, slapped them onto their chest, and headed to the bar. As they moved across the room, they spoke to those they knew and checked out those that caught their eye. For Dusty, it was the guy with dark hair talking to a couple of women, the red head wearing a tank top revealing a muscular upper body, then there was the cute guy that upon closer inspection looked so young he wondered how the guy got into the event. Then he saw how the guy was interacting with an older guy, and he smiled knowing it was a daddy/boy thing in the making.
After making a round of the room, Ian and Mitchell pulled away to go talk to someone they knew from their college days, and Aaron was pulled to the side by someone who Dusty knew Aaron was interested in, so he slipped away heading to the table with appetizers.
He fell into the line and picked up a bruschetta for the tomato looked good, a couple of stuffed mushrooms, then considered the dip, wondering if it was a spinach artichoke. As he contemplated what else to put on his small plate, he glanced up just to see who was moving along the opposite side.
“Hey, we cross paths again,” he said when he saw the guy who had admired his car and was in the grocery store the other day.
“Yes, it seems we are running in similar circles.”
“I’ve been in the city for most of my life, so I assume you’re new here.”
“No, actually, I’ve been here for years, ever since tenth grade when my parents moved back to the city.”
“Wow. We’ve not crossed paths until recently, and I thought this city was too small.”
“It seems to be larger than we realize.”
“It has changed a lot since I was a kid. I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. I’m Dusty Irvine.”
“I’m Ryan Coburn.”
“Coburn? Are you related to Elissa Coburn?”
“She is my aunt and boss.”
Dusty smiled at Ryan, for it now made sense. The attire, the concern for appearance, for the Coburn’s dealt with some of the big players in development, in the city and across the region in certain select markets.
“My grandmother had met with her a few years back when she thought there might be a need for a new site for her nursery.”
“Elizabeth’s? The nursery on Monroe Road?”
“That’s it.”
“Dusty, come on, the auction is about to start,” said Ian, coming up behind him.
“I’ll see you around,” said Dusty, stepping back and going with Ian back across the room.
As they strolled toward Mitchell, Dusty wondered what Ryan was really like. Was the attire a costume to uphold appearances for the sake of his aunt or was he someone who preferred to present themselves always neatly attired, never in a T-shirt or worn jeans. Dusty wondered what it must be like to have to maintain such appearances, for it seemed tiring to him. He was glad his job with his grandparents didn’t require dressing up.
One Too Many
Ryan pulled into the parking lot behind the old shopping center. It was one of the few that never went downhill, instead it had been rejuvenated. A mild face lift and some new tenants and the old ones maintaining their presence in the marketplace, the center even had success at the back of it. In buildings along the back of the property, restaurants, a garden shop, and dance studio. And tucked in the back of the center in a basement level to the front, a lower entry to the hardware store, an English pub, and in one corner behind a metal door, a speakeasy bar and restaurant, something most customers to the center didn’t even knew existed. It catered to a select clientele and Ryan was one who had visited it frequently since its opening, mostly with Stephen and Charles.
On this evening, Ryan was alone and despite telling himself to just go home, he found himself walking up to the door and entering the dark interior. He had been in a foul mood since lunch, when a client he had been working with for three months announced he had found an alternative site and was going with it. Ryan had been setting up the deal with his utmost care, jumping through one hoop after the next for it would have been one of his biggest to date. Now, all that time was for naught. He could have done two or even three other deals in the time he had wasted on this one.
He sat at the bar, not even looking around and grateful he had not heard from any of his friends. He wasn’t in the mood for their banter or worse, the unending questions about what happened.
The bartender came over and gave him a look that showed it was obvious what kind of mood he was in.
“Your usual?”
“Yes, please. Thank you,” Ryan replied, doing his best to sound civil.
The bartender set a glass in front of him, with what would no doubt be right on the money for a two-ounce pour. Ryan had seen him pour enough drinks to know the consistency of each one.
“Run a tab?” asked the bartender.
“Yes.”
Ryan was tempted to sling it back, just drink the whole damn thing in one go, like he had seen some guys do. He thought back to his college days, when some of the guys in the fraternity would get wasted knocking back shot after shot. But he sipped it, savoring the warmth of each swallow. And after a while, soothed his frustration and anger. Despite telling himself to go slow, far too quickly, he sat an empty glass down on the bar.
“I’ll have another,” said Ryan when the bartender looked his way.
Dusty pulled into the shopping center and drove down the main drive along the front.
“Where is this place,” he asked Ian, who was on the line. He had his cellphone in a window mount; the only place he could put it without messing up the car’s dash. His car didn’t have a console, just the gear lever sticking up from the transmission hump and parking brake between the bucket seats.
“It’s in back. You know where that bakery is located?”
“Yes.”
“Just past it and right before the hardware store’s lower entry.”
“I’ve not seen a restaurant and bar there.”
“You won’t. Look for the metal door and next to it a small metal plaque with Cellar Door on it.”
“No wonder I’ve not noticed this place.”
“We’re in the parking lot just past it. We’ll meet you at the entrance. Did you remember to get a membership?”
“Yes, I remembered,” said Dusty sounding exasperated they would ask, but knowing he was usually forgetful about such things. “I’m at the end of the center about to drive around.”
Dusty climbed the steps up to what was once part of a loading dock and followed Ian and Aaron into the establishment. It was different from the microbrewers or restaurants he typically found himself, high ceilinged spaces with concrete floors and basic wall décor, most often just painted gypsum board, and exposed ceilings. The bar was low ceilinged, low lighting, and wood paneled walls and leather furniture around polished thick wood top tables.
“We have a reservation for three,” said Ian. “Ian Swenson.”
“Yes, right this way,” said the hostess.
They were led to a four top table at the back of the dining room. Dusty sat with Ian on one side and Aaron on the other.
“Guys, this is too much. We should have gone to—”
“Dusty,” Aaron interrupted, “we’re good. It’s your birthday tomorrow, and we wanted to do something nice. You helped me with my landscaping project.”
“And my boss with their landscaping for their new home,” added Ian.
“So, this is cheap compared to what you did for us.”
“But this is…” Dusty looked around the room shaking his head, “not us.”
“What? We can’t enjoy a nice place occasionally,” joked Aaron.
“I guess.”
“And for god’s sake don’t fret over the prices,” said Ian.
A waiter came to the table. “Welcome to Cellar Door, can I start you gentlemen off with drinks?”
“Yes,” said Ian. “I’ll have The Richardson.”
“I’ll take a Gin Mule,” said Aaron, “and he’ll take an Old Fashion,” motioning toward Dusty.
Dusty smiled, for Aaron knew he liked most bourbon drinks, but especially an Old Fashion.
“Very good, I’ll get those drinks while you look over the menu,” said the waiter.
They had finished dinner and were having one more drink before calling it a night. The dining room was still busy and the bar more so. Dusty looked around, admitting to himself he had enjoyed the evening with the guys. It was a splurge they had not done in a long time.
“I need to hit the men’s room,” said Dusty.
“It’s over there,” said Ian pointing across the room.
“I see it,” said Dusty, climbing to his feet and making his way through the dining room. He had to pass by the end of the bar and when drawing near recognized Ryan Coburn sitting at it, alone and looking a bit inebriated. It wasn’t obvious, not at first, but he recognized the signs; the posture, how one hand lay limp in the lap, and the way Ryan was pushing an empty glass around. He went on to the men’s room wondering if he should check on Ryan when he came out since he appeared to be alone. Maybe his companion was in the men’s room and would be back by the time he came out.
The men’s room was empty and Dusty used it while wondering if Ryan could really be alone at the bar. He washed his hands and headed back. At the bar, he couldn’t stop himself from at least checking on him.
“Hey Ryan, are you okay?”
“Huh?” Ryan uttered, then turned to Dusty and he smiled. “The sloppy dresser…David…no that’s not right. Darrin…Dusty. Dusty!”
“Yep, I’m the sloppy dresser. How did you get here?”
“I drove,” Ryan replied, as if it was the dumbest question Dusty could ask.
“I see. Is there someone we can call to come pick you up?”
“No, no, that won’t do.”
Dusty smirked, finding the concern for appearances after a bit too much to drink humorous. “Have you settled your bar tab?” He wasn’t going to let Ryan drive. He didn’t know him well and thought him a bit aloof but it was no reason to let him get in trouble.
“No…not yet.”
“Settle up and I’ll be back.”
Dusty drove down neighborhood roads he had never been down. It was a neighborhood too expensive for him or any of his friends. But obviously it was one his passenger could afford. He looked over at Ryan Patrick Coburn who was asleep. He now knew Ryan’s full name, having to get him to fumble out his wallet so he could get Ryan’s address. He and his friends decided to leave Ryan’s car in the parking lot and leave him a note informing him of such.
One more turn and he knew it was the third house on the left. He pulled into the drive and looked in surprise at the colonial revival home in dark red brick. It was picture perfect, a place that should have a Mercedes Benz or a Range Rover in the drive, not some Volvo offshoot. But the Polestar spoke to some awareness that some of Ryan’s financial status would not possess. He eased into the drive, wondering whether to circle around to the front door or take the drive to the rear of the house where a detached garage was visible. He pulled through the brick screen wall to the rear and pulled up to a sunroom that jutted out from the rear of the house.
“Ryan, wake up. We’re at your home,” said Dusty.
Ryan stirred, opened his eyes, but the look in them was as if he were not seeing anything.
“Ryan? Can you get inside, okay?”
Ryan opened the door and tried to climb out of the Alfa as he would his taller SUV and tumbled out onto the ground.
“Shit,” exclaimed Dusty. He jumped out, rushed around the front of his car, and helped Ryan to stand. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”
A Hangover of Regret
Ryan opened his eyes and for a few seconds was confused. He didn’t remember getting into bed. His last thought was being in the bar, then vague recollections of someone helping him from the bar, then…
“Fuck.” It was uttered with embarrassment, for he had fragmented images of Dusty. Of being led out of the bar, of getting into that little sports car, then helped into his home and upstairs to his bedroom. Of being in the bathroom puking his guts out as Dusty held a washcloth to his forehead.
“Fuck.”
Ryan lay still. He still felt like he could be sick, and to move meant he had to get up and face the day. He didn’t know which roiled his stomach the most. He held up his left hand and looked at his watch. 10:48 A.M. The morning was nearly over, and he slept through it. He hadn’t slept this late since college.
Sitting up, Ryan saw a note on his nightstand. He picked it up to read it.
We left your SUV in the parking lot outside the bar.
He looked over to see his keys lying on the nightstand and grimaced with the thought of calling someone to come get him to retrieve his vehicle. Maybe he would call one of those uber rides or a taxi. Then he thought better of it. He looked for his cellphone then realized it was still in the pocket of his pants. He slipped it out, groaning with the effort, and pulled up the number for Charles, who would give him less grief about having to leave his car overnight at the bar parking lot.
“Hey Ryan, what’s up?”
“Are you busy?”
“No, just got home from the gym and about to jump in the shower.”
“When you get cleaned up, can you come get me and take me to the Cellar Door.”
“It’s a bit early to start drinking, isn’t it?” The tone sounded amusing, as if Ryan was making a joke.
“I had to leave my SUV there last night.”
“Whoa, Ryan Patrick Coburn went out and had too much to drink?”
“Well…yes, enough I didn’t want to drive home.”
“How did you get home? You hate calling a taxi.”
“Someone gave me a ride.”
“Someone? And who is this someone?”
“Just a guy I’ve crossed paths with lately. I don’t really know him.”
“Do you want to get to know him?”
“What? No, no, I don’t think so. He’s a bit slovenly.”
“Oh dear. He must wear jeans and T-shirts and drives a pickup.”
“Actually, he drives this old Alfa.”
“Really? Maybe you can introduce us.”
“Don’t be wanton.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to drag him home and fuck him, not at first. But he might be an interesting date.”
“Can you come pick me up or not?” Ryan replied sounding flustered. He heard Charles laugh on the phone.
“Yes, Ryan, I’ll come pick you up to go retrieve your SUV. Give me about thirty or forty minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Ryan sat down in the living room, curtains opened so he could watch for Charles. He had taken two aspirins, but his head still throbbed. He thought it served him right for being a fool and drinking too much. He pictured himself at the bar ordering a drink, then another, and another until everything went hazy and he wasn’t sure anymore about what he had done. Then he pictured Dusty and how he must have looked sitting at the bar inebriated. It was regrettable, but there was nothing to do about it. What did he care what that slovenly dressed Dusty thought. It’s not like they ran in the same circles. It was a fluke they had crossed paths so many times of late and after last night there was a good chance he would not see him again. The city was large enough for it to be possible.
He hoped so, as Charles drove up to the curb in front of his house. He climbed to his feet, preparing for more ridicule from his friend.
Chance Encounter
Dusty entered the mall looking around at the changes since his last time inside it. He tried to remember how long it had been. Two years or maybe even longer since he last entered the mall. It had been for something to wear to a friend’s wedding. He smiled at how history was repeating itself, for he was back for the same purpose. This time the wedding was more formal, and a coat and tie was expected. He had a couple of sports coats, but neither were suitable for a formal wedding. He needed a black coat, not a blue and green plaid or a grey coat.
He wondered which store to go to first. There was the local department store that had a nice selection of coats and suits, then there were the higher end stores, ones he knew he would feel guilty if he splurged too much for something he would probably only wear a few times. He strolled down the main aisle debating where to start, deciding to go to the nicer stores first to see what was on offer. If he got lucky, maybe one of them had a sale going on. If not, he would circle back to the local department store, forcing himself to decide on something. It was Thursday evening, and the wedding was the next day and putting it off another day was out of the question.
An hour later, Dusty entered the local department store, roaming through the cosmetics and jewelry departments to get to the men’s suits. He looked at the displays of dress shirts and ties until he was at a rack of sports coats. He flipped through a few of them knowing none were appropriate for the wedding. He turned to head into the main section of suits and coats and smiled.
Ryan stood in front of the mirror having the fit of his latest suit jacket checked by Howard Jacobson, one of the longest serving employees at the store, someone who had built a large client list for men’s suits and accessories. Ryan was part of his clientele, had been since a teenager buying his first suit for a charity event organized by his mother.
He looked at the way the dark blue jacket hung on the shoulders. He held up his right arm, then lowered it at Howard’s request. He felt a slight tug, then a hand moving down his right side.
“I think the fit is good. What do you think?” said Howard.
“Looks good.”
“Then you’re all set. Go change back into your clothes and bring me the suit and I’ll get it in a garment bag.”
“Thanks Howard,” said Ryan, stepping back from the mirror. He turned and froze for a second, then smiled with a certain sense of frustration. Not again, he thought as he looked at Dusty Irvine standing not ten feet away.
“I take it you’re lost,” said Ryan, wanting it to sound like a joke, but he let some of his frustration slip into his tone, making it sound accusatory.
Dusty smiled back, shaking his head. “Yes, I would say I’m lost,” he replied good naturedly, either ignoring Ryan’s tone or not noticing it, ‘but unfortunately I have a wedding to attend tomorrow night and need a suit.”
“Tomorrow night?” said Howard and Ryan together, and they looked at each other with amusement.
“You’ll be taking something from the rack without alternations,” said Ryan.
“I assumed as much, but honestly, after tomorrow night I’m not sure I’ll have a need for it for some time,” said Ryan.
“So, something cheap to just get by,” said Howard.
“No, it needs to look nice and who knows, maybe I’ll wear it some, or at least the jacket.”
“With jeans, no doubt,” said Ryan.
“Don’t knock jeans. They are comfortable.”
“I’m just finishing up with Ryan, so if you want to look around and see what you like, I’ll be with you shortly,” said Howard.
“Thanks,” said Dusty, and he gave Ryan a shrug. “See you around.”
“It seems so,” said Ryan.
As Ryan moved into the area of fitting rooms, Dusty browsed the racks for suits.
Ryan came out, dressed in his black slacks and slate grey jacket, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, for he had taken off the tie and left in his SUV. He strolled to the point of sale where Howard was already ringing him up.
“I’ll use my debit card, Howard.”
“Yes, sir,” reaching out for the card. “It’ll be $2,349.95.”
“Damn.”’
Ryan turned to the voice, seeing Dusty a few feet away with a surprised expression. “I pay more for a suit that fits well.”
“I see,” said Dusty.
“Your card and if you could sign the screen,” said Howard.
“Thanks Howard,” said Ryan, slipping the card back into his wallet then signing the screen. Taking the garment bag, he turned to Dusty. “Good luck finding a suit.”
“Thanks,” Dusty replied.
Ryan strolled away, hearing Howard approach Dusty asking what he was looking for in color and cut.
Ryan moved down the main aisle thinking a suit with a trim fit would look good on Dusty, maybe a black suit with a black tie and white shirt, something trendy rather than classic in appearance. He had to admit he was curious what Dusty would look like in a suit because he, when honest with himself, had to admit he found him attractive. He glanced back seeing Howard holding a black suit and Dusty pulling another one from the rack.
As he moved into the section with ties, he began to browse, telling himself he never had too many ties. He moved around the display tables, picking up one tie or another, until at the main display in the middle of the intersection of two aisles where the ties were in the glass cases. Ties that cost more than the suit Dusty was likely to purchase. As he moved around the displays, he kept looking back at Dusty and Howard. He told himself it was because he was curious what Dusty would choose, but he knew it was for more of a carnal reason. How long had it been since he even went out with someone? A month or had it been longer? And despite the casual attire, Dusty was attractive, and seemed to have a pleasant personality.
“Can I help you with a tie?”
Ryan turned to the young woman standing behind the display case. She had the salesperson smile on, and he knew she was probably desperate for some sales even if just to occupy her time for the mall seemed slow on this Thursday evening.
“Yes, I’d like to see this tie in the herringbone pattern, and maybe that dark grey paisley one on the shelf below it.”
Ryan looked at a few ties, laying two aside, then moved around the central display to look at ties in different colors, focusing on those with red as their main one.
Movement to his left and he glanced up to see Dusty moving around a display table of ties, a frown on his face.
“Not thrilled with having to wear one of them?” said Ryan.
“Not exactly, more like I have no idea what to pick. What do you think about this one?” said Dusty holding up a charcoal check tie.
“Not for a wedding. A bit too casual.”
“What about this one?” Dusty held up a chevron patterned tie, red the main color but with black and an icy blue as accent colors.
“That one…yes, that one would be nice.”
Ryan watched Dusty flip it over and look at the price, chuckling aloud.
“Pricier than you expected?” said Ryan.
“Everything is pricier than expected. I haven’t spent this much on clothing in a long time,” said Dusty, “but it is for a close friend’s big day,” he added. He held the tie up, “thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Ryan watched him come to the counter, pulling out his wallet. Dusty handed the tie to the salesperson, tapped his card, then took the small bag from her.
“Thanks again,” said Dusty.
Ryan would wonder for days afterward what made him do it. Dusty was so far from the guys he normally asked out for dinner, but there was something about their differences. Maybe polar opposites do attract; he mused.
“I was wondering, have you had dinner? The restaurant across the street is quite good.”
“Huh, dinner?” Dusty replied, genuinely surprised by the offer.
Ryan smiled. “I owe you after all for the other night. My treat.”
“Yeah, sure. That would be nice. Better than what I had in mind.”
“Drive-thru fast food?”
“OH no, never that bad. I was thinking of just making a salad when I got home.”
Ryan considered it a good sign that Dusty wasn’t entirely as he had painted him from first impressions. “I just need to check out, and we can be on our way.”
“Okay. I’m parked in the parking deck in front.”
“That is where I’m parked.”
The interior was a low ceiling wood louver and the floors a black stained wood with white stucco walls. Thin steel framed windows were spaced along the exterior wall and on the interior side, an open kitchen and staff service area. Dusty slid into the small booth opposite Ryan glad the restaurant was a nice mid-scale one, not one that required a reservation and jacket.
“This place has a few entrées that I enjoy, so hopefully you’ll find it satisfactorily,” said Ryan.
“It looks good,” said Dusty as he glanced over the menu.
“Should we have a glass of wine or a cocktail?”
“Wine would be good.”
“Here comes the waiter now.”
It was late, nearly ten thirty when Dusty followed Ryan out of the restaurant. He was pleasantly surprised by how much he enjoyed his evening with Ryan. He had thought they would differ more and much of their conversation would be difficult and uncomfortable. But even when they strayed into politics, he found Ryan progressive on most issues.
“Thanks for dinner; I had a nice time.”
“You’re welcome. It was my pleasure.”
“So, I’m not too rough around the edges for you?” said Dusty in a joking manner.
Ryan looked at him surprised, then smiled, shaking his head. “I have to admit I considered you…too different, but I really enjoyed your company tonight.”
“Well, you’ve thanked me, and I guess you can return to hanging out with guys more in your class.” Dusty chuckled but saw Ryan was somewhat put out by his statement.
“Do I come off as a snob?”
“No, nothing like that but look at us?”
Ryan smiled, then chuckled. “I guess I do prefer to be dressed up, and you do like your jeans.”
“I love my jeans,” Dusty joked and they laughed.
“But seriously, thanks for tonight. It was nice,” said Dusty, and he turned to go to his car, parked to the left.
“Dusty, wait,” said Ryan, and once Dusty was turned toward him, he said what he did not think he would say to him until tonight. “Would you like to do dinner again one night?”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Sure, I’ll go to dinner with you again. Or how about you come over to my place, and I cook.”
“You can cook?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Sorry.”
Dusty smiled at how he had Ryan discombobulated. “Do you like food with a bit of spice to it?”
“Yes.”
“I do a mean penne All’Arrabbiata or I could do a Scarpa Riello, or I can do roasted tomatoes and chicken shawarma.”
“Italian or Middle Eastern?”
“I try to eat something better than pizza or hamburgers, not that I don’t like a good burger.”
“All of those options sound good, and I would love to have dinner at your place.”
“What about Saturday night?”
“I’m free Saturday night.”
“It’s a date.”
Date Night
Ryan pulled into the drive and looking through the Port Cochere saw the garage straight ahead at the back of the property. One door was up revealing the little Alfa. He considered the bungalow, how the porch across the front looked so inviting, like anyone walking past should stop and socialize. He climbed out and followed the walk from the drive to the steps centered on the porch and the front door beyond. As he came up the steps the door swung open, revealing Dusty in a white T-shirt and jeans with an apron tied around his waist.
“Come on in, I’ve got a bottle of wine open, and dinner nearly complete.”
“I brought a bottle,” said Ryan holding up the bottle for Dusty to see.
“We can have it after dinner; unless you want to flee afterward,” Dusty joked, stepping aside to let Ryan enter.
“Cute,” Ryan uttered as he entered the house. He came to the cased opening for the living room and stood surprised. Mid-century modern furniture, some obviously original pieces, and over the fireplace a painting of a scene of a Portugal or Spanish street, the colors vibrant against the cool blue-green wall.
“Your home is very nice,” said Ryan as he looked into the dining room seeing a sleek wood table with chairs that he wasn’t sure if they were mid-twentieth century or some new production. “The dining room furniture; is it mid-century?”
“No. I tried to find something I liked but, in the end, I bought that from a company out of Vermont.”
“Well, you did well for it works with the rest of the furniture.”
“Thanks. Now if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the kitchen and sitting room.”
“Sitting room?”
“Family room doesn’t seem right for a gay man.”
Ryan smiled. “Yes, I guess not.”
Ryan followed Dusty to the back of the house, coming into a room with a large leather sectional sofa in a chestnut brown facing a large flat screen, and in the corner a contemporary metal fireplace hanging from the ceiling. He turned to the open kitchen to his right and saw a contemporary layout with appliances nicer than those in his home and countertops in what he knew to be a blue pearl granite for the same granite was in his kitchen.
“I loved the living and dining rooms, but I must say I’m impressed by your kitchen.”
“It cost me a fortune, but I love to cook so consider it a fortune well spent.”
It was then Ryan finally noticed the smells coming from the kitchen and it made his stomach growl with his hunger. “Smells good, and if I had to guess I think you chose one of the Italian dishes.”
“Yes. Now take a seat and I’ll get you a glass of wine and we can talk while I get dinner finished.”
Music played in the background, some electronic ambient mix that was something Ryan would never buy but found soothing in some odd way, or he had once again had one glass too many. He sat on the sofa with Dusty just around the elbow of the sectional, their feet close together. He had sat his empty wine glass down some time before, refusing another glass, and had sat back listening to Dusty talk of his life at the nursery, how it was just one component of the operation, the greenhouses his grandparents oversaw down in Matthews and the landscape company run by a first cousin.
“The nursery seems to be doing well,” said Ryan.
“It’s just too seasonal for a steady income, but my grandparents made us all partners in all three operations, to level out the slow periods.”
“Smart.”
“What about you? Commercial properties would seem to be very lucrative in this market.”
“Most of the time, but there is such a focus on apartment developments with little else to balance it out. It makes me worried.”
“And the other night you were talking about some deal that fell through.”
“The night at the bar…”
“Actually, after I got you into your bed. You were really upset with a Gregory.”
“He had led me on for three months then pulled out of the deal. Three months I could have been working deals that I could have closed on.”
“Why the focus on this one?”
“It would have been the most lucrative deal of my career to date. It would have rivaled any the company has made.”
“Sounds like the guy never intended to close on it.”
“I think that is right. But enough work. Favorite book, or do you read?”
Dusty laughed. “You’re not going to quote John Waters, are you?”
“John Waters, that trashy director? I think not. Why, what did he say?”
Dusty’s face turned beet red, and he grinned. “He basically said not to go out with someone who didn’t read.”
“I couldn’t agree more, but he actually said something a bit coarser than that, I take it.”
“Something like that. But as to books, I bounce between genres and have favorites in most. Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous was a favorite, until I read Blackout. I like the science fiction of Octavia Butler and the humor of Jonathan Coe.”
“Jonathan Coe? I’m not familiar with him.”
“He’s British and not as well known here in the states. What books have been your favorites?”
“Ulysses by Jame Joyce—”
“Really?”
“Why, yes. It’s themes of identity and the complexities of everyday life are fascinating.”
“Okay, Mr. Scholar, go on.”
Ryan smirked then had to smile as Dusty grinned at him.
“I’m frustrated and captivated by William Faulkner.”
“I remember being shocked at the storyline of As I Lay Dying, where the buzzards were flying over the wagon near the end.”
“Yes, it was quite a metaphor.”
“What else?”
“Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez are favorites.”
“Any current novels make your list?”
“Yes, I’m not stodgy.”
“Okay,” said Dusty, as if he wasn’t so sure.
“Wolf Hall, Hamnet, Klara and The Sun, The Overstory—”
“Oh, Richard Power’s book. I loved it.”
“I have his new book on my nightstand to start.”
Their conversation drifted from books to music, and back around to some current affairs that neither wanted to delve into for fear of ruining the mood. At some point, a quiet settled over the room, and they looked at each other sheepishly.
“Do you mess around on first dates?” said Dusty, trying to make it sound like a joke, but both knew it was no joke.
“Sometimes before a first date,” Ryan joked in reply.
“So, you’re really not stodgy.”
Dusty had given Ryan an opening, permission to take things further. To let him throw caution into the wind and pursue what he wanted. He leaned toward Dusty and once almost halfway to him, Dusty closed the gap, and they kissed.
Dusty held Ryan by the hand and led him to his bedroom. At the foot of the bed, he faced him, close, the dim light making Ryan a dark silhouette, one he knew was staring back. He held the back of the neck and kissed him again, pulling their bodies together. It aroused him, the press of their bodies against each other, how every move felt.
Dusty pulled back and began to undress Ryan. He worked buttons free, tugged the zipper down, slipped shoes and socks off each foot, and pulled each garment free, playfully tossing them over a chair. He touched the bare skin, moved his hands over it, feeling the smooth warmth of it. He kissed down the neck, the place just below it, downward until he tongued a nipple. He flicked his tongue across it until the center of it protruded out hard, then he nipped it, tugged lightly with his teeth making Ryan shiver and moan.
He moved down into a squat and fondled the cock, tugged on it, stroked it, then he dragged his tongue over the head and down to the base of it. He licked the nuts, took one into his mouth and tugged on it.
“Jesus,” uttered Ryan.
Dusty moved back to the cock, slipped his lips over the head and pushed down letting it fill his mouth. He moved on it as he fondled the tightening sac. Once Ryan was so erect he was beginning to move his hips, pushing the cock deeper into his mouth, he pulled back and stood. He guided Ryan to his bed, pushing him to lay back. He stripped and crawled on the bed between the legs and he sucked the cock back into his mouth. He worked his lips and tongue up and down its length and he toyed with the nuts in the tightening sac, and when the knees rose, moved his fingers further down, rubbing the tight opening.
“OH,” Ryan cried out.
Dusty sucked and penetrated the ass. He bore his middle finger into it as far as it would go. He manipulated the cock and the ass, pushing Ryan’s arousal until he knew he really wanted it.
“Fuck,” Ryan exclaimed. “Fuck me…do it. Let me feel you inside me.”
Dusty rose, hooked his arms behind the knees, and moved over him. He pulled the legs up and over and when the ass aligned with his cock, he penetrated it with his cock. Ryan shuddered with the penetration, and he leaned down and kissed him, taking the hard exhale into his mouth. He pushed deeper, slowly, feeling the tightness around his cock. Over halfway into the ass, he held still until he saw Ryan’s head tilt back and heard the soft pleading.
“Fuck me.”
Dusty kissed the exposed neck as he worked his hips. He tugged outward, then pushed back into the ass, working up a steady pace. He fucked Ryan, fucked him with a physicality that pushed his arousal, made him not slow, instead kept up his pace until he felt feverish. Body heated up, sweat beading up on his skin. The bed squeaked beneath them as he pushed into Ryan’s depths.
“Fuck!” Ryan exclaimed.
Dusty smiled, then kissed the place just below the right earlobe, then he took it in his mouth, tugging on it. He pushed up on his hands where he could move more freely, and he fucked harder, hips smacking against the upturned ass.
Then he slowed, his body undulating with the primitive nature of his thrusts into the ass. He could feel every inch work through the tightness. Hands touched his chest, raked over the sweaty skin, across sensitive nipples, making him shiver.
“Fuck me. Fuck me harder,” uttered Ryan breathlessly.
Dusty pulled outward until nearly slipping free, then he slammed into Ryan’s ass and fucked. Fucked hard. His hips smacked against the upturned ass. The bed rocked and squeaked. Ryan grunted and moaned. And he increased his pace until gasping for breath and sweat rained down on Ryan. He fucked until pushed to the ragged edge. The need for release built until he was jamming cock into the ass, shoving inward until hips pressed against it. Then he came, shuddering and jerking with release.
When Dusty collapsed on Ryan, he felt the heat of the body against his own. His legs slipped from the arms, and he stretched out beneath him. He felt the cock slip from his ass and his own pinned between them, so hard he ached for release.
“What do you want from me?” said Dusty in a quiet whisper.
“Fuck me again,” Ryan replied.
Ryan felt the body undulate against him, pushing against his cock and rubbing his flush skin. Then it rose and he watched Dusty go to his knees.
“Roll over,” said Dusty.
Ryan moved to his hands and knees. He felt cum trickle down his thigh and looked down along his body at his cock hovering beneath his stomach. Precum drooled from the head. Hands held his waist, and he saw Dusty’s knees walk up to his ass. Cock slapped it, rubbed across the cheeks, then pumped along the crevice and over his lower back.
“Tell me. Tell me what you want,” said Dusty.
Ryan felt the cock press against his opening. “Fuck me,” he uttered, then moaned as it sank into his depths.
He raised his head as he rocked with Dusty’s fuck. It was even more physical, with hips banging against his ass. His own cock flopped back and forth between his thighs. The hands tightened their hold on his waist. Dusty fucked with such physicality he became lost to it. It seemed impossible that he could feel such a fullness of every thrust into his depths. He began to sweat, his body burning up, and sweat trickled down into his face.
A hand slid up his back. It moved over his neck and to the top of his head. The fingers curled into a fist taking him by the hair and pulled his head up and back.
“Fuck. Take me,” exclaimed Dusty.
And Ryan took him. Every thrust into his depths. He rocked with the physicality of Dusty’s fuck, the bed too. It made him feel his own body. The nakedness of it, how his cock swung freely between his thighs and his skin flushed hot. He felt his sexuality in a way he had not felt before. No holding back, giving himself totally to their fuck.
Ryan took his cock and stroked it roughly, trying to keep pace with Dusty. He stroked his slick cock as Dusty pummeled his ass.
“Fuck; I’m going to cum,” Ryan exclaimed.
“Do it. Do it. Cum for me,” exclaimed Dusty.
Ryan gasped, felt his body tense, his toes curled, then he cried out as he came. His cock flexed with each ejaculation, spurting wad after wad.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Dusty.
Ryan shuddered with the feel of Dusty’s fuck as his ass spasm around the thrusting cock. Then Dusty shoved into his depths and tried to push deeper, shuddering with his own release.
Ryan had his forehead against the tile wall and hands bracing him as he rocked with Dusty’s fuck. The shower ran hot, steaming up the bathroom and it made him feel loosened even more, open to Dusty’s fuck, and he took every thrust easily, greedily, wanting it not to stop. Hands held his waist, and lips touched the back of his neck. He didn’t know how Dusty had the stamina to fuck him again so soon, but he relished it. Relished the feel of the cock boring into his depths.
The right hand on his waist slipped around it and was soon fondling his cock, tugging on it, working the head, then held it firmly, stroking it to bring him off.
A nip at his right shoulder. An increase in pace, Dusty fucking harder, faster, smacking against his ass. And the hand kept stroking him until he couldn’t take it.
“I’m going to—”
Ryan shuddered with his release. He shuddered as his cock flexed in Dusty’s hand. He shuddered and jerked with every ejaculation until Dusty pushed him against the wall, shoved cock into his depths and came.
The Morning After
Dusty opened his eyes to sunlight filtering through the blinds illuminating his bedroom with a soft light only morning could bring. He looked at the lines of light across the ceiling and smiled. The room felt different, and he looked to his right at Ryan lying next to him. Ryan was lying on his side facing him. He rolled to his side and looked into the sleeping face, how relaxed it appeared.
Who are you? Dusty thought, for Ryan was nothing like he first assumed. He had seen the stoic nature fracture. To pull back revealing the person Ryan seemed to feel a need to protect. After last night, he wondered if Ryan would still feel a need to protect his stoic façade, to put the mask back on. Or would he begin to take down his guard, open himself to him.
Ryan opened his eyes. He smiled at Dusty.
“Good morning,” said Ryan.
“Good morning. Do you feel like some breakfast?”
“OH god yes. I’m starving.”
“After we eat, do you need to rush off?”
“I have no plans.”
“Would you like to go with me to the bookstore, then maybe we could knock around until this afternoon, then if you feel like it, we could go to this gallery opening a friend of mine is having.”
“I love a gallery opening.”
“Probably not like this one.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s in an old warehouse building and the art is a bit unorthodox.”
“Sounds interesting. I’ve not been to an opening like that in a long time. My friends always want to go to one of the more established galleries.”
“So, you have been on the wrong side of town?”
Ryan laughed, then rolled to his back, staring at the ceiling. “Not in a long time. When I was in college, I went all the time, but working with my aunt, there were appearances to keep up. Don’t get me wrong, I still like to dress nicely.”
“You don’t like the jeans and T-shirts.”
“Not really; not my style.”
“So does that make me not your style?”
“Not at all. It makes you different. It makes you someone I don’t have to worry about appearances.”
“So, you’ll go out with me again?”
Ryan turned to Dusty, leaned over and kissed him. “Of course.”
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