Date: Sat, 23 Oct 2021 15:04:08 +0000 From: MC VT Subject: Green and Black Gay Adult-Youth Green and Black Extreme loss alters perception, smudges the lines between reality, dreams and heated memories. Widower undergoes a strange series of events and then turns to offer tradition to a kid. Green and Black Worst time of year, February and March. Can't remember the exact dates, they don't matter. The events of those two months several years ago still rip me apart. Early spring is disconcerting. I keep crying, and can't rest. Body stays tense. Can't sleep till I'm exhausted, then unable to push it away. Fall into deep dreams on the porch, sitting in the car in the garage. Took a REM-nap at the kitchen table and left a puddle of saliva on the place mat. Personal Happiness Last stop. I get off the 113E, no cars allowed here any longer. Big parking lots where tourists used to park, now empty acres of asphalt. Several kids skateboard on the gentle slope in front of the boarded stores. Sea gulls station themselves uniformly on the arms of street lights. Get out of the house. Good way to distract myself from myself, memories. Past the lot, a calm sea. Trinket shops cluster on a narrow strip of sand. Several people shopping, their clothing, hair fluttering. Strangely, few people were out; overcast but warm. A nice-looking older lady exits the bus behind me. Dressed like she's going out, classy get-up. Her clothes are a style from years ago; something my mother would have worn to church. Navy blazer and matching cloche and jewelry; she glitters with heavy rings, pins. Red glossed lips, same shade as an oval ruby brooch on her lapel. Diamond dome ring on her right hand. ... Down the shoreline, sauntering past the shops I hear people abuzz about a tunnel. I listen to a brief conversation and wonder. Tunneling in the sand would be futile -- where are the caution signs? Where is the construction equipment? They must mean a funnel structure to divert rising tides. The shell shop exhales a calcified, dry smell; there's the bearded man with the parrot hawking hermit crabs from. Familiar faces, places; soothing in their familiarity. Walk the shore, smell the sea's soup of life and death. My ocean's pale in soft light caressed by warm breaths of breezes. Peaceful. ... Ahead is a cluster of folks -- only ten, twelve, all dressed in high style. Grouped where the old highway ends at the beach. By twos and threes, they stand close talking quietly. Row of creosoted stumps barricade the end of the old road. The stumps give off the stink of iodine. It scents the scene oddly. Closer, I see the people standing near the opening of a tunnel which extends toward the dunes then it tapers into the sand. A tall man in a suit with a narrow, black tie approaches, "You're here about the funding?" "Funding?" I retired from that decades-long migraine of a career. "For the tunnel." "I just found out there is a tunnel. What's it about?" "Let me show you." Overly modulated baritone voice. He took me to the opening. It's finished off smartly but only about seven feet high, roundish opening decorated with brass trim on shellacked wooden beams. A heavy herbal smell of joyful anticipation envelops me -- aroma of fresh mown grass issues from the entry. Inside, I see everything is black and green, like black and white, but a deep kelly green and dark shadows -- blackness. Green lights above make stark images at the entry. Walls are cluttered with framed photos, shelves holding small objects. "Harsh décor, why is it like that?" Visually jarring. He explained to me that every so many feet, the color changed, "Fuchsia, amber, violet, every color. The tunnel is ten miles long." "Ten miles?" Genially, he described cultural displays set up inside, each epoch lit with a different color flooding the old photos, bits of the era. Said people liked it, "Soothing with the old curiosities; mementos, delightful for others who like the color. The darkness -- unimportant details." He glances at my jeans; my groin; half-smile. "Soothing, colored oddities for ten miles?" I consider that for a moment; "Preposterous." ... Here comes the lady from the bus with another lady, both dressed to the nines, decked-out in jewelry. Smiling, holding hands.... They twirl two swiveling chairs that are affixed to a small track which runs into the tunnel. As they seat themselves, they're talking about musicals, marcelled hair, rumble seats. My eyes follow them as they sit, cross their ankles. Much further ahead in the tunnel, a dot of the aqua and black section; another period. Elliot had a '58 Impala that very color. The chairs move them away as they chatter about a man named Cab. Strains of "Crazy Reefer Man" shot a bolt of melancholia through my guts. Elliot had all his music. ... "Where does the tunnel go?" I ask the man, "How do they get back or can only one group go at a time?" "They don't come back." He whispered, gave me a kind look, tilted his head. "Don't come back?" I didn't understand, "What's your rate?" "No charge, that's why I asked about funding. EPA and the county PHC are sending someone. Thought that might be you, hoped it might be you." Another half-smile. EPA I knew, "PHC?" The man glanced around, "Personal Happiness Committee. Part of the Travel and Tourism Consortium with the county." No government could ever manage such a program. Adjunct to those idiots in Tourism? Blood pressure rose, an achy anger stretched through my torso. "My personal happiness has never been on the county's agenda." I spat at him and stomped away. ... Took an hour to calm myself; required a banana shake with butter brickle ice cream and a steak sandwich. Blood pressure stayed high; I took a pill, then another. Banana shake and steak sandwich; Elliot's favorite on Saturdays after he mowed, while I raked. Weekend guests came often, stayed late; guests became close friends, almost brothers through the decades. Islands of ease they were, now gone. Still irritated when I got home. Grabbed Elliot's green polyester apron and went to my lounger. Tossed his apron over the lampshade, turned it on and looked through the boxes of old photos a pool of green light. Evening shadows deepened to hide the clothes I hadn't taken to the washer, the cups and trays of half-eaten microwaved dinners. Held a photo of Elliot in his black knit trunks at the beach, strutting his big, hairy body, hoping to impress me. There's me in baggy trunks hoping he wouldn't notice I had nothing to impress him with. Young, queer, unknowing and thinking my life would span few years, I didn't return his smiles. For a million painful reasons, I thought I'd only weigh on the planet's resources briefly--my secret, my distress, allowed only short-term plans. My self loathing was compounded by county officials. They didn't want gays, lesbians and several other categories of folk to ruin the conservative, family-oriented ambience at the beach. They set a covert plan in action, issued ordinances. Hey, I was born here, and felt an invisible boot in my butt when I heard about the prohibitions. Men moved their sunbathing to South Beach. I followed. Fresh Cut Grass Elliot must have known his hyper-masculine display made me tremble. Braggadocio became benign curiosity as we spoke. Said he recognized parts of himself in me. Elliot offered what I needed: acceptance. Acceptance evolved to lust, then love. Holidays, dinners, vacations, all captured under the gloss on the photos. Closed my eyes and remembered our lovemaking. Elliot was a big man in every respect. Always burned. Now, only my eyes burned. First time, last time sharply replayed in my head. Pad of my thumb rubbed the edge of that old photo at the beach, tears ran, breath speeded. Hard, him leaving. Harder being the one left. Never thought I'd impress a man more than twice my age, twice my everything. I must have; he cherished me until that early spring when our cherishing tied us together across a span greater than ten miles. Spanned thirty-three years. It passed so fast, seems like a dream now. Dreams and memories are getting harder to sort. ... Startled awake by the doorbell, someone banging on the front door. Silhouetted against the setting sun, my yard boy Bret stands with his fist raised to knock again. "Is it Thursday already?" "Yeah. I'm late. Sorry. If you turn on your patio lights I'll get the back done, by then the street lights'll be on. I'll get the front." "Gate's unlocked. I'll be in the kitchen with your check." Some relative of his worked with the city, I'd seen the county car parked out front. I'd ask him about this bizarre tunnel project. ... He came in, stopped,, "Phew! You need to take the trash out." "Yeah, I know." "I'll take your trash to the alley tomorrow at four if you bag it up. Fifteen dollars." "It's a deal if you take the bags in the garage as well." I wrote his check out while he got his soda and plunked down in the chair Elliot always used. "Been to the beach lately?" I glanced at him, "There's a tunnel." "Heard my dad's friend talking about it. Have you seen it?" Nodded. "Strangest thing, all these colored lights and artifacts, music." "There's some guy, Will Ross -- Willis Ross, can't remember. He's the head of it." "If you want to see it, we'll go down tomorrow after you take the trash out." As he left, I noticed his ear was pierced; no stud. ... Spurred to clean that night and the next morning. Living on the brink of hoarderdom's ugly. Sorted, cleaned with the image of Bret, sound of his voice in my head. I liked that boy in an odd way, comfortable being around him. Bret wasn't a classic beauty; teen with a long face, straight nose. Pale skin, his hair was dark brown and straight; sun had bleached random locks to a rusty color. Narrow and flat, he was trim from mowing a number of lawns in the area. He'd bulk into a real gem of a man soon. Out of place, they seemed; he had full, rounded lips. Like the kind painted on dolls. Around midnight, I researched Will Ross, checking different combinations of the names Bret mentioned. No one by that name in our area. Tourism page was down on the county site. Alike Got up and even showered, shaved. Overdue for a haircut -- gelled it back. Eight full bags of trash, the stench in the garage slammed me back into the house. Held my breath, opened the garage door; sea breezes and purpose brightened my tired mind. Started the laundry when Bret arrived. He swung into work while I opened the windows in the den. "Do you have your learner's permit?" I held the car keys out. "Yeah." "Take the old road, I've got to look for something." When we got to the old road, "Whatcha looking for?" "Construction equipment, disruptions in the dunes." Nothing. That damn tunnel wasn't ten miles long. At the beach, he parked blocks away; we walked. Vendors had packed up. Jogged across the empty lots, down to the sand, then back to the blocked road. Nothing, till we got closer. The tunnel opening had been bulldozed, scraped up and hauled off. Bits of ceramic, paper, glass littered the spot. "It was here." "What was here?" "The tunnel." The kid must think I'm nuts, "Hey, how about a burger?" ... Asked how he was doing in school. He planned to go to a small private school.. Something about chemistry, lab work. Sun almost setting. "Better get you back home. Your parents'll worry." "Nah, they're out." He looked out the window. Deep sigh. Comfortable silence until he told me he knew I was gay. I nodded, "Okay." "Your boyfriend died a couple of years ago. I saw all the men coming over to your house, the flowers on the door." Bit my tongue. "Elliot passed... the love of my life." "How did you meet him?" Squirting catsup on his fries. Had to dodge, "Later, not here." ... In the kitchen, I brought my box of photos. He smiled, seeing Elliot in the ancient styles of swimwear, "You were so skinny." "Like to call myself extra-svelte." He asked me how I came out to my parents. "Are you just curious or do you need some ideas?" "I'm already out. They don't hassle me too much." Looked away, shifted his body. Rush of deep memories about being his age and so different. "Are you okay with it?" No answer, he rummaged through the photos instead, then shoved the box aside. "Did you really see a tunnel at the beach?" "Sure thought I did. Talked to the manager, saw people going in." He stared momentarily, "What was inside?" "Lights, music...." My mind had turned that over a number of times considering the history I lived. "I think it was a form of voluntary euthan--." Stop. Don't say it. "Youth in what?" "Youth in Vietnam, South Korea... fundraiser for an exchange program. Something like that." Thinking quickly. "The house hasn't had a good cleaning for a long time. Do you know a good service?" "Me." Made a deal for Sunday afternoon. Kinda looked forward to him helping me ditch the clutter; put parts of my life back in order. ... Sunday, I didn't hear him knock, he came through the back door. A huge vacuum sat on the patio. "I'll scrub the carpet when we're done. Smells funky." Both started cleaning, washer began chugging. Cab Calloway wailed as we scrubbed and dusted. Bret sprayed spot cleaner, brushed away dried dinner droppings. Windows opened, breezes blew away more of my melancholia. Took a break, ice cream and barbeque sandwiches. Found myself smiling when the kid suggested I put my photos in an album. "Elliot had a hot bod, you could get that one of him at the beach blown up into a poster. Frame it and hang it in the bath." Done for the day, I sat on the back porch while he scrubbed the carpets. Gathered my courage as I wrote out his check, "Could you help me clean out Elliot's closets?" "When?" "Soon." Having the kid with me might make it less painful. "Thursday, after school?" "Okay. By the way, your parents don't mind you coming to help me?" "They like me making money for my gap year." ... Gathered bags and boxes, stacked them in the bedroom. Got the paint out and repainted the trim around the kitchen window, ordered myself new clothes, towels. Kept Calloway on the stereo, between Vivaldi and Mathis. Being around that kid dashed my dismal thoughts, changed my perspective. I went into town for a photo album and began noting the dates and remembrances on the back of the old pictures. Sorting things out; putting the past away, regaining control over my tear ducts. Small mountain of suits, shirts, and geez, Elliot saved every pair of shoes he ever bought. Clothes horse -- he always looked great. ... Bret took a step back seeing the mountain of clothes, "Wow. These look expensive. You don't want to resell them?" "They're so old. Really, would someone buy them?" "Sure. We'll check online." He looked through a few piles. "Where are those swim trunks? "Huh?" "The old knit trunks in the photo from the beach. Elliot's black swim trunks." Dug through the hall closet, handed him the trunks, "Forty dollars." "Ha!" He took them down the hall and returned, taking his shirt off. Pointed his toes and modeled those old trunks for me. Nah, they didn't fit, looked like a skirt hanging around his narrow hips. Bret stepped near, put his arm around my neck; put my hand on his waist. "I want the first he gave you." Took a moment to understand as his hard cock rubbed against my jeans. Looked into his eyes, "How did you know?" He only smiled. Uncomfortable enlargement began leaking in my briefs, I smelled pre. Whose was it? ... Thoughts of statutory rape, corrupting youth -- all replaced with images of my painful, embarassing and entirely transformative first time. The excitement. The awe. Took him to the bedroom, shoved all the clothes on the floor, threw the cover back and stacked the CD player with Calloway. Embracing him, kissing those sweet red lips, I slipped my hands downward and found the drawstring, pulled. Trunks fell to the floor, kept our lips in action as he held my face close. Each of my hands grabbed a cheek, soft, full. Pressed him to me, his dick felt full, strong. "You want what I got?" "Yeah." I stripped. He rolled over and opened the night stand drawer. "My parents keep their toys next to the bed." Grabbed the bottle of lube, read the label then moved to sit on the side of the bed, taking my rod in his hand. Rubbed the lube along my shaft. Kept rubbing, brushing my foreskin lightly along his lips. What's this coming off here? Smells like the good old revival days -- Yawza, yawza... Knees trembled, looked down at his eyes looking up at me. "Yesss. Yes." Solid grip on my shaft, he stroked, nuzzled his face into my groin. Cool inhales on hot skin. ...Red hot hoochie-coocher... Ho de ho de ho -- Hi de hi de hi de hi... Leaned over him, pushing his shoulders back. He pushed me back, popping the lid off the lube. Smiled at me as he applied it in one heavy squirt -- down his bobbing dick and between his legs. When it dripped to his cleft, "It's cold." He tossed the lube, grabbed my hand putting it at his hole, then smiled stroking his pale pink rod. "Warm it up." Not like my first time, but a fine second first time. Dick ached for his heat, his grip around my cock. Smooth skin, little bunch of hair around cock and tight balls -- the same thing Elliot enjoyed with me. One finger, two... he grinned, then his jaw fell open. Found the spot, tapped lightly, he grabbed his shaft and stroked fast. Grimace, "Harder." His right hand rubbed fast, left hand kneaded his sac as he moaned. Face, neck reddened quickly. You'll hear the sounds come a-floatin' through `long about midnight... A few drops flew from his slit as his spine twisted him away from my fingers. Leaned over him, licked his cum. Young body jerked then stilled. His moist skin glowed. Licked his nipples, along his torso. Here's the kind of music that keeps you alive.... Grabbed his legs, lifted and folded them alongside his chest. Poised my eager knob against his hole. Pushed. Fast penetration; the heat I needed. Tight grip of his muscles felt like they squeezed something apart inside me. Eyes wide, he looked up at me expectantly. I waited, hard to hold myself back. Wake up and live -- don't mind the rainy patter. You'll find It's mind over matter.... Bit my tongue to keep myself in check. Hips yearned to plunge deep, fast, feel his velvety folds part ahead of my shaft. Needed to find the deepest place inside him; fill it. Fill it full. Slow, short strokes; faster, deeper. His wide eyes were still fixed on my face. Quick smile then I found the depths my cum would suffuse. Sperm would dissolve, be absorbed and I'd be part of his lithe body. Elements of me flowing through him, to his bones, to his brain, saturating this boy who wanted me. The thought touched me deeply, drove me to grab his hips and begin in earnest. Squinched my eyes, hips stopped their frantic thrusts. Positioned myself above and shoved, as hard as I could as my entire being felt itself emptying into him. Froze to feel the surges, leaving me to permeate him. A few more noisy thrusts and I fell on him. Holding my head against his chest, he kissed my hair. My tears attached our skin to each other with our warmth. Drew him close, "Being queer is a heavy load when you're young," I whispered, "and your shoulders aren't as strong now as they will be. Don't try to bear it alone. Come to me, anytime, anytime." Fulfilling my own unmet needs until I found Elliot, "Give that load to me until it slacks. Don't let your pain make you..., do anything that can't be undone. We'll get through it." When he cried, trying to choke back sobs, I knew how very much alike we were. ... Past the next year, Bret came over every Friday; Sunday afternoon. Tried to get him interested in LGBTQ history, the famous people. No, he wanted a blow job. He'd hold my head, lift his hips and give me the tastiest teen cum, then faint away for a few moments. Smiling, he'd come out of his trance and kiss me. Reciprocal acts, those were. Lust reawakened. ... Eighteen months of bliss with the kid. Graduation and his gap year would pull him away; we devised a plan. Instead of staying in a hostel, I'd fly out, get us an air-b-n-b until he left for a student tour of Latin America. Sale of Elliot's clothes funded my trip in style. Met Bret at LAX, and took him straight to the shops and splurged. Bought the boy the skimpiest pair of trunks we could find, bright shirt, sandals and sunblock. On to Venice Beach, Muscle Beach. Dazed and amazed all afternoon. The parade of crazies and half-naked men was incredible. By dinner time, we'd had enough. Showered, Bret fell asleep on the bed; I tiptoed out of the room, down to a nearby cafe. Texted Bret my location, picked up a LA Blade, ordered wine and leaned back, reading. Over the top of the paper, a nice looking man sat alone. A little younger than me, nice looking; he smiled, stood and approached me, "May I join you?" Nestling his rear in the seat next to me, "Name's Liam." "Dave. Vacationing?" "Live here, where're you from?" Soft voice. "East coast." We ordered appetizers and a bottle of wine. Smiles, leaning near to speak, touching my hand, I was taken aback it'd been so long. He was flirting with me. Spoke about earthquakes, high tides, seafood, spas.... This was an opportunity I'd not expected. Liam told me about a number of different bars, bathhouses, asked me to join him. As I contemplated or fantasized, here comes Bret. Leaned in to kiss my cheek, sat facing me. "Your son?" "I wish. This is Bret -- he's about to roam the hemisphere before college. Bret, Liam." Bret smiled, my twink was twinkling that night, bright shirt, he seemed to glow with the adventure ahead of him. We talked movies, music, cultural events; Bret didn't say much. Soft conversation over a light dinner. Bret didn't order, said he wasn't hungry. When our entrees arrived, took me to the hallway. "I'm going back to the house, watch a movie." "Are you feeling okay?" He looked around, "That guy Liam, he's, he.... He's hinky." Wrinkled his nose, turned and left. Hinky's not a word I'd ever used, but knew it. Liam hadn't said anything out of the ordinary. I'd never dated, and had no experience with anonymous sex, one night stands. Thoughts muddled, I needed more information. Went back to dinner; I decided to pitch a little test at Liam. "Liam, what line of work are you in?" He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a business card, "William Rose, Promoter, Sales Manager," and only a phone number underneath. Couldn't help but notice the large ruby ring on his left hand, and a diamond dome on the other when he handed me his card. "Nice rings." Laid his card aside my wine glass. "Old pieces I had reset." He smiled, "There's a hot tub at my complex, how about a soak in the moonlight?" His hand on my thigh, "Eight inches of fun awaits." He winked. I continued eating, thinking about the word' hinky.' "Have you ever been on the East Coast?" Kept a calm face, though I was disturbed by the coincidences that kept arising. "Fire Island a few times. Miami. The rest of the beaches are dumps; too consevative -- can't innovate." "Ever been to Rehoboth? We've got a tunnel -- a mighty fine tunnel." He stopped, stared at me. "Cultural-historical affair. Something like a circus with colored lights, music and it's free. You need to see it, go back in time -- enrich your personal happiness before you see the dunes." Liam wiped his mouth, grabbed his card and stood, "I'll take care of the bill on my way out since you aren't interested." Ordered take-out for Bret and went to find my lover watching porn and pulling off. Watching the boy with one hand on his dick, the other grabbing a french fry, it all became crystal clear. Heavy thud hit my solar plexus as everything fell into place. Dreams, memories, marched into the past leaving me in the here, the now. The here and now was warm, comfortable. Watched the boy who wanted me, even if it was for a short time. Part of the process, both of us offering acceptance, safety to each other. Acceptance and shielding against pain made a place of transformation, him becoming whole and strong, me living in wholeness again. While Bret traveled, I sold my house. Moved into town near the hospital -- ambulances weren't too bad until the holidays. Got a condo, no yard to mow, but a patio with a grill. Installed a hot tub and hung a dart board. Bret returned, started school and moved in -- most of his classes were in the hospital. Tall and slender with an easy smile, couldn't help but adore him -- in the same ways Elliot adored me.