Date: Fri, 16 May 2008 23:03:49 -0700 (PDT) From: Ted M Subject: Taking Mark's Virginity: There's No Place Like It - Part 1 I hate this fucking day. I lean over and blink my weary eyes at the angry red numbers on the night stand. 4:30 a.m. Well this sucks. The day is only 4 and a half hours old and I'm already thinking this way. Mark and I have experimented with meditation during tantric sex, so I am trying to use the breathing techniques I know to put me back to sleep. It's not working. Hasn't been working for the past few hours either. A half hour later, Mark's cell phone starts vibrating and he grabs it quick off the nightstand and slips it under the covers to turn it off. Sleek. Sneaky. He pulls away from me slowly, moving my arm carefully to extricate himself. He thinks I'm asleep. The metal clinking of rustling dog tags sounds from several spots on the floor, everyone in the room curious as to why Mark is up and leaving so early. "No." he whispers to Chipotle. "Quiet! Guys!" They can't help it. He's the leader of the pack. It should be quite adorable to me right now, watching mark's brown and hairless butt jogging softly from the room leading a parade of medium-sized dogs who are wondering if food is somehow involved in this expedition. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. Mark will want to have sex this morning. But he also knows I can't do it. He'll still try. I can't even masterbate on this day. And today...well, it's going to be a disaster. I know it. He's back in a few moments, so I close my eyes and feign slumber. Whatever he's doing, I don't want to ruin his surprise. Clearly, he's got something up his sleeve. Well, metaphorically. He's still naked when he climbs back into bed, his warm skin touching mine. All three dogs are smacking their lips so I am sure there were bribes involved for their complicit silence. Mark stealthily snuggles in next to me and pretty soon he's backed up against my chest, his head pulling forward and his arm dragging mine across him to curl my hand into his. It's nice, like this. Better than nice. Better... The alarm goes off. I must have been dozing. It's now 5:50, which means another hour and 20 minutes of the day are over. Good. Every little bit helps. Mark flips over slowly into my arms so we can kiss. He always wants our kiss to be the first thing he experiences in the morning and the last thing he experiences at night. I do my best to oblige. But today is slightly different. I'm not sure he's going to want to kiss me at the end of the day. But he really is waking up which means that he also fell asleep during the last 40 minutes. The elastic pinching his cheeks and neck is an instant reminder to the silver gleaming cone attached to his skull. "What day is it?" he chomps his lips together as his eyes flutter open. "What day...?" "Oh right." He gleams at me and his goofy grin is curling into itself. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Mark screams into my face. "HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" I chuckle because his screaming because has made the dogs bark and the Marky lunges himself onto my lips. We are serenaded by a chorus of barking. We're kissing and laughing a little and the party hat is actually very cute on him. It's like I brought home a stripper last night who didn't quite get out of costume. If I weren't so sick to my stomach it would also be quite charming that he wants me to be excited about my birthday. Every year he tries to incite enthusiasm and every year I go along with it the best that I can. It's like he's training me to be excited about my birthday. But it's not working. I don't give a fuck about numbers on a cake. No, that doesn't upset me. I have had more good years than I think I probably deserve. And amazing years since I've been with Mark. Seven (almost seven) amazing years. If I get hit by a bus tomorrow, then hey, I have no cause for complaint. Life turned out pretty damn good. Truly unbelievable to have found what I have found here. With him. But I think the odds are higher that the bus will kill me today. St. Patrick's Day. I hate my birthday. His hand goes right to my cock and he squeezes its limpness. "Oh, please." He says softly. "Like your being limp ever stops me." "That's because I'm never limp around you, Champ." "Except today." He says, still smiling. Like it's no big deal. I smile warmly at him and kiss his forehead. It's cool. We worked through this years ago and he knows I can't get hard on my birthday. But he takes it as a personal challenge to give it his best shot. Some year, he will surprise me. "Wait here." He says and hops out of bed. "I got the morning covered." Mark throws on sweats and takes out the dogs, or rather, they take him out and the four of them run around in the backyard. It's March, so of course there is still snow on the ground. He throws snowballs at Romero who a few years ago would have taken such a personal assault as a confirmation that 'we're sending you away,' and he would have run to hide in the hall closet, eyes all sad. But Mark changed that. He loves that dog, all of them, in a way that defies human understanding. He has this ability to love them so richly that they believe in him and his love. Romero used to hide all his toys under our bed. This made it difficult for us be as uh...physically expressive...as we like to be. Every time I'd go to throw Marky on the bed, he'd cry out, 'Check for Romero! Check for Romero!' Kind of a mood-killer when the sad dog under your bed is chewing a rubber chicken. So Mark fixed it. He sat down Romero one day and looked into his eyes. He said, 'We need to talk.' I happened upon this moment and Mark said to me, 'Go away, Vin. This is private.' I obeyed. Sometimes it's best to obey Mark. Ever since then, Romero never dragged his toys, one by one, to hide under the bed. We never again found pig's ear remains or his favorite stuffed bunny pushed under the center. What could Mark have possibly said? I will not ever know. Some things are private. Well, Mark's speech had worked until three days ago. This week Romero's toys started disappearing, one by one. I noticed before Mark did, so I went hunting and looked under the bed. There they were, including Mr. Bun Bun. This is an omen. Dogs can smell it first. They know. They get afraid. Plus, my birthday present was hidden under the bed. It's a eight-hour DVD series about the civil war. Oh god. A few months ago I made some casual comment that I didn't know enough about the civil war, and this was the response. Eight fucking hours. And I think it's narrated by Shelly Long, if I'm not mistaken. This is an omen. Mark returns and shuts the bedroom door before his entourage can enter. They whine. "Quiet." He says in a slightly different tone and they are silent. Sometimes it's best to just obey Mark. "Fredi opens the garage today." Mark says proudly with his eyes laughing at me. "I asked her to. So you can't be late today." "Just lie there. Listen." He says and strips easily and then he disappears into the shower. Fredi is opening the shop today. Vincent's Garage is in good hands. Maybe she'll bring frosting. Oh, right. She'll probably bring a birthday cake today. Somehow, even that doesn't encourage me. And I love Fredi's cakes. Mark turns on the shower. We finally got to break the glass frame which kept her $20 bill frozen in time, because Fredi finally broke down and fell in love with another mechanic in the shop. She kept promising to never do it and pointing at that damn $20 as proof instead of a wager and so we bought a bottle of champagne for $19.99 and told Fredi to keep the change. Oh and this was interesting - Fredi and Thomas got engaged on the same night Mark and I did that abduction thing. Three years ago. That was a bizarre night. I still can't quite put my finger on what happened that night. An ineffable change, a shift occurred, that night when he yelled out my name, Melvin, so loud and so strong that he shocked me and I felt small around his power, not small exactly, just smothered in light, like his scream was pure light, making it hard for me to breathe. I sometimes can't breathe around him. I should ask Mark how much he thinks about that night. Was it important to him like it was to me? Did he feel the shift? I mean, yeah, we never fought about him sleeping with other guys. Sure. But something else. I dunno. I wonder if he named it, like he named Awful Baked Potatoes night. Tuxedo Night. He does that sometimes. Maybe I won't ask him. Maybe I will wait for him to reveal the name of that night to me, which he will do on a day when I am truly lost and afraid. I will wait and trust in his wisdom on that. But you know what? Hopefully he will tell me the name of that night over breakfast this morning. Yeah, today would be good. Over eggs. I can hear him showering. Fredi still comes around a lot, which is good, 'cause I would die without her being my friend anymore. She is like air to me. I did not have a friend who was not Mark or Malcolm until Fredi. One day I realized she had been trying to be my friend for a long time and nobody who had ever tackled this curious chore had kept at it for so long. I'm not that easy to be friends with, I guess. But Fredi never gave up. Sometimes Fredi brings leftover frosting from weird cakes because she started doing the cake thing more full time when she was about four months pregnant. She and Thomas didn't think it would be good to be around all the gas fumes during the pregnancy. But she promises she's coming back to the garage, maybe in a year or two, and when she does that I can watch the baby while she fixes cars. Last St. Pat's we were still working together when we fought about the baby's name. The baby was pretty much just an abstract idea at that point and I think we were both still mad that soon we were about to not see each other every day all day. Change is hard. "You got to be shitting me." Fredi snapped. "I finally got the chance to name a person 'Vin' - and then boss him around for 18 years - and you want to deny me that? Pick a different name?" She raised herself fully. "Bitch, please. You do not step in on the Queen's domain. You may be a king and all that shit and I love that you made Thomas go through his shit because finally I get a king of my own. But you do NOT step in on the Queen's domain, which includes giving her baby his first name." Fredi had decided the baby would be a boy. It comforts me that Fredi never forgot that she was a queen. It gives me hope for the world that some people are already sparkling and not at all forgetting. It was Thomas who first uttered her Queen name aloud. 'There goes Fredi,' he said one night at closing when she was carrying out two bags of new cake pans. 'The Rose Maker.' Queen Fredi, the Rose Maker. It was truth. And it's not just frosting roses, either. She grows beauty all around her, thorns and blossoms dancing together in various pinks and soft red energies. The world vibrates when she's around, and it's softer too. And on that night I looked at quiet Thomas and his gloomy eyes revealed his secret truth: he was in love with her and waiting for her to notice him. 'Love me back,' he might say if only he wasn't so shy. But last year on St. Patrick's Day, she and I fought about the name Melvin. She countered every argument or busted my every evasive lie. She even threatened to take the frosting away. However, during the argument, Fredi informed me that I had been persuasive enough so that she was now considering an alternative name: Dumb Ass. Also in homage to me. In the end, she demanded to know what the fuck was so wrong with the fucking name Melvin? Yeah, it's nerdy as shit, but it's beautiful in the -HEY ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME? I had no defense. "It's just... " I said to her quietly, "parents should not name a boy Melvin." Eventually, she offered a compromise. And it was beautiful, just like their son when he was born. But still. I hate St. Patrick's Day. Mark is showering and I'm listening to the sounds of him humming or breaking into song. He wants to make sure that I hear him, so he sings a little bit louder, getting me to imagine him soaping his meaty chest, his round muscle butt, a silky brownish hue, a genetic gift from his Italian forebearers. His small thatch of black hair under each arm, his strong and solid neck, possibly stronger for how often I have my thick, calloused hands wrapped around it, helping my man deepthroat my bear dick. And he's showering his stomach and then his own junk, a respectable 6.5 inch peter which has gotta be surprised how much work he has gotten in this life. Probaby thinking, 'I didn't sign up for this many orgasms. Not like this! I didn't choose this!' Well, buddy. Sometimes you don't get to choose. At least you're getting less action that Mark's butt. Poor little muscle hasn't caught a good vacation in almost seven years. The water shuts off and three minutes later Mark emerges in roughly the same outfit he wore seven years ago. The afternoon I said goodbye in our cheap fleabag motel. He's shirtless. Wearing jeans. He stands in the bathroom doorway. He knows this is normally my kryptonite, which is why he tried this three years ago on St. Patrick's Day. It almost worked, too. I don't know why, but it's a sexy, sexy position to see a man that way. "Hi." He says softly, but that doesn't fool me. This isn't spontaneous. This is going somewhere. He's still drying his hair with a towel. I look at him with curiosity. "I have a surprise for you. He says with bright chocolate eyes. "As you know, I just showered." "This is the soap." He says, holding up a small beige bar. Okay. It's not our normal soap, but you know, as far as surprises go, I'm not overwhelmed. "There are only a few bars of soap like these in the world. Less than six." He says, gripping it tightly. "Because they're magic. Magic soaps." "I used one of them when I first moved in. Well, we both used it for like, a week. I was washing off my old life, rinsing in my new life with you." He has captured my attention. Something is percolating in my brain. "The second bar I opened the night we first fought about me sleeping with other guys. The first big fight. You were so mad. I was so hurt. But I insisted we shower together and I used the second soap and you were grunty, and complained that it wasn't your precious Irish Spring. Remember? We needed magic soap that night. To get through this thing, this ugly door that had opened." He finishes the last dabs with the towel and throws it to the ground. "The third bar I used on our Wedding Night to wash it all off, all those sad memories of our almost breaking up over being so much in love. Down the drain went all the crap of not being sure about staying together. Washed away. See, we were joined at last because you heard me calling you back. We used the third, magic soap the entire first two weeks we were married, loving each other in the shower, and sometimes we showered alone, soaping us in each other. We fucked like dogs in heat that week. Even though we both had to work every day, still it was our honeymoon." I am getting wet-eyed and confused. "This is the fourth soap." He announces. "Because you agreed to let Malcolm tell me the story of you. Tonight. And you need this today. I'm bathed in it, right now, this love from when you took my virginity and you kept it. You and I will shower later with this. We need this magic today." I nod but I cannot breathe. I remember. I remember now. "It's from the fancy hotel." He says somberly. "On our first weekend together. In New Jersey. At the time I wondered why they would put out five soaps. I said, 'who needs five soaps?' But at the time I didn't know they were for us. For our life. That they were magic soaps. Whenever we totally needed the magic of that first weekend." I rise. "Stay." He orders me with a gleam in his eye. "I'm in charge today." Okay, now I'm surprised. "Most days it's best you're in charge, Vin. Most days of the year, it's best for both of us. But not today. Today I'm the boss, big guy. Today, you're my - " "You do not - " I interrupt him. "want to finish that sentence." I tell him this with affection and a pinch of seriousness. We are equals but not equals. "Mine." He says at me, trying to keep his face serious. "You're mine." I have to surrender, I have to. I can't win this. Today is the day when my mojo is weakest because he is here. He is here all day today in my every thought with every shallow breath. He smells like basement, cold and dark. Oh yes. The darkness has a smell. His rotten, moldy jeans and his fucking dirty hair. I hate him. I hate who he was. Melvin the Rat. Wait a minute - we had a Wedding Night? Mark lunges across the room and tackles me to the mattress which is at once ferocious and, of course, adorable. I can't help it. Even when he's at his warrior strongest, I am forever seeing his greatest gift, his loving heart. Mark pins down my forearms and he's growling at me, this little lion king. Well...not little. He has matured. He has aged into himself wonderfully. It's a damn good roar, I must admit. He locks his lips onto mine and his teeth grab my lower lip and tug it faux-roughly, chew it, soften it up. He's in charge. And it's some damn good kissing. It makes me sad and confused all over again that I can't discover his King name. Why won't it come to me? Why won't the name reveal itself as so many others did? The Finder of Beauty was easy, low hanging fruit. I had accidentally observed Fitch dump some guy in a coffeehouse, a brutal, cold ending where Fitch just concluded with, 'Hey bud. That's just how it is.' The guy across the table was heartbroken and yet he replied, "It's cool," in this empty voice. His words crumbled like dust. I was at the next table. Fitch sauntered away, noticing all who noticed him on the path between his devastated lover and the front door. Maybe it was only a one-night-stand, but I don't think so. I didn't think so at the time. I was captivated. The Shadow King at his finest. Outside the café, a four-year-old dropped his ice cream bar right by Fitch's foot. I caught it all through the floor-to-ceiling windows. This kid's eyes went wild, stunned that such a mighty tragedy should befall such a young king! Fitch knelt immediately and brushed it off, and gave it to the kid before the nearby Mom had time to stop him. He smiled at the kid a gorgeous, heartbreaking smile that said, 'I have dropped things too. Things that I value. I understand, your majesty.' The glory of that moment! Golden King Fitch! That's when I began the hunt. But I can't find Mark's name. And I've looked everywhere. While we make out, he's rubbing his cock against mine, his jeans rough and grating against my crinkled nut sack. Hair from my stomach tickles his warm body and I inhale deeply to smell the smell of that hotel. He grinds against me and the interesting sensation of his rough jeans against my silky cock meat tricks my dick into lengthening. I am very very surprised by this, but in my defense, he used magic soap against me. He chomps onto my left tit in one strong motion and his teeth are instantly clutching it hard. My mouth opens and no words come out, just a big fat surprise. He chews and tugs with a little more edge than normal. He knows how to read me, how to read my body. My cock makes that final stride to fully hard, yup, it's hard. Wow. Surprise. He lunges at it like a wild cat whose prey has finally dared to rear is head in the tall grasses. And he gets the head. Outlines it hard with his lips and then suction-squeezes the rest of me into his throat. I groan. Oh man. It's my fault for training the guy how to love dick, to love sucking it. To create his own repertoire skills better than the ones he was taught. My cock is subjected to a seemingly random pattern of swirling lips and bottoming out in his throat while he licks my nuts with the tip of his tongue. And then somehow he gets it deeper. Holy shit! You know how hard it is to keep sex alive after almost seven of living together? Well, turns out, not very challenging at all. Not if you treat each other like kings. Mark's doing a little king worship right now, the back of his throat squeezing the trunk of my cock, his eyes open and staring up at me, helplessly. Lovingly. A tear streaks out the right eye and I my cock jerks in response, my meat gets a little harder. I think I just spurted precum. Holy shit, he's done it. He did it! And on my fucking birthday! I'm in. This little fucker wants to hear the whole sordid story of Melvin the Rat? Fine. I will grieve that later. But he has awoken the fire of my king. It's on, Marky. You win and I submit. I flip him over, so he's flat on his back and his arms flop to the side. My cock is drooling now. Oh yeah, Marky. Only you could work this miracle. I have his skull in my right hand and have tilted it towards my sternum. And I start fucking his mouth in long majestic strokes, the tip of my head pausing only for a second on his rosy lips before disappearing into the warm home I have come to love and know so well. Being inside Marky. There's no place like it. At this moment, my cock slit is aligned with the angel kiss above his upper lip and my dick spasms out a little sloppy precum. His eyes have glazed over as they often do when he is in the trace, the glowing, sticky haze of our mating. He feels the sloppy precum against his nose, run down the side of his cheek and he groans and pants, the tiger in shade. So I feed him what's left, a few wet drops racing down the sides of my smooth rocket-shaped head, and he gurgles his throat when that tributary meets the river of semen I keep regularly flowing through my guy. It's a bit intoxicating. So I fuck him with leisurely strokes because there is no danger of my hardon slipping away now. Not when we have found each other on the ancestral plane and have acknowledged each other's kingdom. I am safe here, I am alive. I belong here. The trouble is that on St. Patrick's Day the skies are cloudy and there's no ancestral spark to draw me in. But apparently that's not today's problem. Mark is purring from his power center, his sternum buzzing. My pre-jizz is slicking his throat. He's coaxing me there. I keep dragging my cock across his tongue and throat muscles and it keeps getting more and more slippery in there. Which is good because it feels like my cock is expanding, getting fatter. A bloated balloon of nerve and muscle and goopy VinJizz just waiting for one of the secret needles in Marky's sternum to pop the flesh and send its contents splattering everywhere. "VinJizz." Kevin said to me one evening after we had worked in his garden. "You know that's what he named your sperm, right? It's like a fucking brand name with him. VinJizz." I laughed and we talked about it over some beers. Mark was visiting his Mom back in Jersey and I missed him a little bit. Kevin was keeping me company. "You should hear him," laughs Kevin. "We'll be at the gym and in the steam room and all these guys will be leering at him and he'll just be yapping away about something at vet school or you or something he's thinking about for the dogs and then he'll interrupt himself and say, 'Hey, Kev, I gotta go pick up some VinJizz. I gotta head out.'" I roar with laughter that Marky would name part of me that way. But then again, Mark likes to name things. "Oh my god," Kevin is laughing so hard that beer comes out his nose. "It's amazing. This one time we were in the steam room and this Russian muscle queen is stroking himself, this big hairy brute, waving his 10 inch cock at Mark while playing with his fat hairy nipple. 'Oh please,' Mark says as he declines the offer with a wave. 'I only drink VinJizz." We laughed very hard that night. Kevin and I have about six years of memories and friendship. Oh and then there was the weekend we met when he remembered his kingship and prophesized Mark's arrival. And he doesn't even remember that part. He swears that he only remembers we had to get up before dawn. He's kidding. He remembers everything. I do too. We were in love for those 30 hours. We toasted with beers. Mark. Roger. Me. Kevin. The lost kings. The found kings. I told him tales of other kings, men I found. And without too many details revealed, some of their trials. When he asked me how Malcolm trained me, I could only smile and say, "it was very interesting." I can't really visit those years without standing too close next to Him. Not my problem right now. There's been a special order placed for seven strong squirts of VinJizz and I hate to keep the customer waiting. It's churning in my nuts ready to shoot, but it took a while. My fat, heavy balls were surprised to have to work on what's traditionally their only holiday. Mark misses the next stroke intentionally and my bloated dick is dripping in spit and shivering against his cheek instead of the warm mouth where it normally winters. And hell. Summers. "DROP TO THE BED." He barks at me. This isn't him pretending to be strong. This is him strong. "DO IT NOW!" I spin and drop so that I am suddenly sitting on the periwinkle comforter in big surprise. Oh. Didn't expect that. He scrambles and then drops on me hard, one fast move and he's instantly clutching my cock inside that beautiful butt, I'm fucking him as deep as is humanly possible, well the inch after that. And his arms trap my skull tightly in a tangled embrace and my foot is kicking the tangled yellow sheets, lemon yellow like his shirt at the restaurant where Roscoe served us champagne and I'm forced into his armpit where I smell him, the musk you can't shower away, and soap! The Soap! I took Mark's virginity. "You'll always be Vin." He whispers to me and I start shooting and shooting. Oh god oh god oh god it can't be this strong but it is, all of me racing out the quivering steel shaft and punching into ass with warm splattering bursts. Oh god he - there's no place - ! I keep cumming and my nuts are quite irritated and are thinking of unionizing because they have a tough job anyway, but this was a holiday and now it's overtime work. Mark has locked himself onto my giant surprise of a mouth and his tongue is insisting on hospitable welcome, the right of a visiting dignitary. I suck his tongue and keep cumming, keep humping him because it's incredible to have this much love in your life. Mark is still tongue-fucking my mouth but his hips are now rising and falling on my still-shocked cock, milking me, owning me. He's like half-python, this kid. Taking what is his, what's his right. The VinJizz. He just emptied out the store. I'm gasping for air. That little monkey. "And that," he says, panting. "Is how we do things in Jersey." I laugh because he can make damn funny faces sometimes. We're panting for a minute, happy and in love. "You didn't cum." I say to him in more normal breaths now. Still a little stunned though. "I know." He puts his hand on my cheek. "Today's about you." He picks up the silver cone hat from his nightstand and puts it back on. "Tonight's gonna turn out okay." He tells me with his hand on my cheek. "You'll see." I nod. "You have to trust me." He says. "I am strong, you know." I nod my love to him. I know. I know you're strong. We sit like this for a moment while he stares at me, filling me with his love. Then he takes my hand and pulls me out of bed, towards the master bath. When he picks up the magic soap and I can see a silver trail of my VinJizz running down the back of his leg. It's not that I think he's going to leave me. We're over that. But there are worse things that can happen than a relationship ending. Like, the relationship continues but he stops thinking you're wonderful. Amazing. He starts thinking about how ordinary you are, how you're...you know... nobody special. Yeah. There are worse things than the relationship ending. *** "Let's get started, Malcolm." Mark asserts cheerfully after setting down his green beer. But the smile doesn't fool me. He's ruthless, this kid. Mark. Vin's Mark. Vinsmark. Honestly, that's how I think of this guy. Vinsmark. Vinsmark. He's been with my little brother Vin for the past six years. Coming up on seven years pretty soon. Yeah, he's good people this little Italy boy. Good man. Good for Vin, always good for Vin. Even when he's fuckin' with Vin's heart much worse than he realizes. Like right now. I question Vin with my eyebrows raised, and he nods. So I'll answer Mark's question, but I'm still not clear which meeting I should tell was the first. "Yeah, sure." I say with a chuckle, masking my quick sorting of possible stories to tell. I stir my JD and Coke lazily with my hand. I don't do green beer. Vin's Mark is watching me carefully to see where the lie begins. Most people in the world don't realize that if you can stop your judgment of people and just watch who they really are, you can then actually see words twist into a falsehood. The words come out of the mouth a certain color, different for each person, but all of 'em with a grey chalky residue that creates dust and craps in your eye. People don't get that lies have a smell, like basement or forgotten clothes. They fail to look closely at the mouth, the way it speaks truth, the way it twitches when it slips in a lie...nobody looks closely at lies, not the way a cop does - the way he watches words. And I was a cop for 37 years. I taught Vin this skill. Partially because Vin already had the skill, he just didn't know how to use it for shit. And Vin has apparently taught this Mark a thing or two. Maybe just refined what Mark already knew. Like I did with Vin. Vin's Mark is grinning and sincere, but he's serious. Don't fuck around – his eyes are telling me - answer the question. "St. Patrick's Day." I toast in his direction. "Vin's green birthday. First time we ever hung out. He invited me out – " "No, no." Mark says and his eyes are sparkling. "The real story. The first, first time, Malcolm. Don't shit me. Tell me about Big Bad Vin and how the handsome black cop saved him." Vin is scowling and his eyes are almost angry with me. "I promised Mark you'd tell him. All of it." I look at him closely. Huh. He's telling the truth. But I know that Vin does not want this door opened in his life. I know that. So I nod slowly, trying to work out the lie close enough to be believed. There's an Irish cheer two tables away. Glasses clink. "I can't do it. Can't talk about it." Vin says and won't look at either of us. "But I want him to know, Malcolm. I really do. So tell him the real truth. It's okay." "Unedited." Mark insists. "We've got time. You don't have to be at your retired-cop-thing until 8:00, right? So we've got three hours." "And what exactly is the retired cop convention doing tonight?" Vin asks with a smirk. "I can only assume there will be drinking and rolling bums." I study him. "Still not a fan of police officers, huh?" He stiffens slightly towards me. "Some are alright." Mark is grinning impishly and despite being 26, he looks like he's 19. Well, everyone under 30 looks like they're 19 to me, they're all so distant. I retired as a Chicago police officer seven years ago when the new recruits looked like high schoolers. I was so upset to see all those little boys with loaded guns that I had to retire. And don't get me started on these 'toddlers' in junior high with cell phones. Ugh. I didn't think I'd turn into that kind of guy – one who mutters, 'kids today...' But fuck it. Here I am. Vin, you'll be 66 one day and then you'll fuckin' know. Hell, I used to be the baddest south side cop for 37 years. Four of those years - when I was in my 30s - I walked with a cane. And I refused a desk job during that time. Shot two times. Both times in the same leg. After getting into town last night, I had dinner with Mark and Vin in their home in South Minneapolis. Vin actually cooked a decent spaghetti with bacon and carmelized onions. I can say it - it was fantastic. Who knew the little bro could cook like that? Mark had baked a peach pie for dessert and we watched the snow fall outside with a fire in the fireplace. Sometimes we talked, sometimes just watched the March snow and the glowing embers and drank it all in. Life can be pretty good sometimes. We caught up on Mark's path to becoming a veterinarian , Vin's plans to open a third garage, and my volunteer work with at-risk kids. The life stuff. But tonight is for stories. "The real story?" I ask Vin. "Yes." Mark answers for him. "No bullshit." "Yeah. For him." Vin says distantly and he looks uncomfortable. And if I'm not mistaken, Vin is smelling his arm. Mark sees me notice this with questioning eyes and says simply, "Magic soap." These two have a language all their own. "It's your birthday." I say to Vin in a low voice. "We don't have to do this on your birthday." Vin shrugs. "He should know. He's earned that ten times over. And it's not my birthday." Mark has lost his goofy edge, sensing the story is not quite as fun as he has perhaps imagined. "Wait –" he turns slowly to Vin. "What do you mean that it's not your birthday today? You're kidding right?" Vin's Mark, meet Melvin the Rat. "Tell him." Vin says but not looking at us, instead watching drunks get drunker. I can't help but grimace. And if Vin weren't miserable right now already, I'd whap my big black 'I TOLD YOU SO' hand upside his punk head. I told Vin - told him years ago when he was 22 - that this was a shitty, shitty day to pick as your birthday. Vin is shredding the beer coaster into tiny bits, which in my experience with Melvin, means that he's afraid. Bad afraid. The past can do that. Okay, Vin. The truth. "The Tuesday I met Melvin," I turn to Mark. "It was two days before his first murder and three weeks from his imminent death. Melvin was about to die and he didn't even know it." *** Feedback welcome and appreciated. mpls_ted@yahoo.com