Date: Sun, 15 Jun 2008 21:42:24 -0700 (PDT) From: Ted M Subject: Taking Mark's Virginity: No Place Like It - Part 4 Vin's Mark raises his glass of warm, green beer. There's still a glass of that green crap beer in front of me, despite the fact that I had ordered another JD and Coke. She never brought it. Ugh. I didn't want to drink cheap beer in the first place and now it's room temperature. Nevertheless, this is Mark's toast, so I raise my plastic green cup and don't look forward to the prospect of tasting this lukewarm shit. "To African Kings." Mark says slowly, looking at me. Vin cheers up and gulps it down. I start saying, "To Afri--" And then I see the look in his eyes, this Mark. It's fierce. It's like Tiger Love in his eyes. He isn't toasting all African kings...it's me. He's toasting me. And it's not just 'thank you,' it's wilder than that, stronger. I don't think there are words for that kind of piercing glare. He's shaking just a little, quivering. Like he might explode with this energetic vibe. And the message behind the toast, Mark's truth behind what is true is this: 'You saved this one who is my love. You saved him. You are mine now. You are one of mine.' And just like that -- with a fierce stare from some punk Jersey kid who looks like he's 19 -- I now have three little brothers. I am surprised. And as a man who was a cop for 37 years, this is no small thing, to be surprised. I stare at Mark while we both raise the cheap beer to our lips and without breaking his fierce eye contact, we both take a mighty gulp. The beer, surprisingly, tastes cool and good in my mouth. I have three little brothers now. Three. Vincent. Vin. And Vinsmark. Who knew that life could ever be this good? *** "Hey, are you okay?" I ask Marky in the truck on the way home. "Upset?" He shrugs. "Yeah. Some." More than some. But it's still my birthday, so we'll talk about this another night. It's going to be okay. I'm a little sad that he's sad, but other than that, I'm feeling pretty great! I was a big fucking drama queen about nothing. He doesn't hate me! He doesn't hate me. Or rather...not me...but that I used to be Melvin the Rat. I would have seen it if he did. You can't hide a truth like hate. And if I know Marky, he's probably trying to figure out something wonderful to say. Maybe we'll shower at home with magic soap to wash the stench of Melvin the Rat down the drain. "Hey," I put my hand on his knee. "That loser is long gone. Melvin the Rat is dead." "You asshole." he says, staring out the window. "You're a real fucking asshole." Oh. Wasn't expecting that. Mark turns to me and his face is red with anger. "You ASSHOLE! Of all the... -" He's wiping his furious tears. "Pull over." I obey and park the car. Mark is fuming and continues through gritted teeth. "Of all the people who were shitty to Melvin the Rat, you're the fucking WORST because you know what he went through and you're still mean to him. You still hate him!" I can't even speak. "You asshole." He repeats, but it's softer now, which is to say still angry, but more under control. "He's not dead! Melvin the Rat is still sitting alone in his stupid room with white walls and one shitty band poster, waiting for someone to come be nice to him. And you let him out of his room every St. Patrick's Day and then you SLAM the fucking bedroom door shut! And you prop a chair under the door knob from the OUTSIDE -- so he can't get out, year after year. He's still alone, you fucker!" I should have known how Mark would show compassion to the one person for whom I can show none. Compassion, after all, is the trademark of a King. "Well this changes," says Mark, not moving my hand from his knee, but not touching me either. His voice is calmer but still vibrating with anger. "Starting now. He's no longer off-limits. I get to ask questions about Melvin the Rat and you have to answer them. Where he slept...how he learned to read, why..." Mark pauses and breathes a few times before he can continue. "...who broke a bottle on his head when he was ten." A thrill of anger races up my spine. He looks at me fiercely. "ANYTIME I want to know, and not just on stupid St. Patrick's Day! He's NOT sitting alone in the room anymore. Do you understand?" I stare out the windshield and I refuse to look at him. He has no right to demand this. No right. "HEY." Mark says in a sharp voice. "I'm TALKING to you! You're going to stop being mean to Melvin the Rat, you damn bully!" Bully? My breathing is shallow. This won't work, I don't want him back. He's not welcome for dinner at OUR house. No way. But this fury is melting as I try to sculpt it higher, seeping around my feet because Mark's fierceness for the forgotten always makes me softer, more filled with love. I can't get angry like I want to because he loves Melvin the Rat. Everyone wants more 'love' in their life, but when it shows up in an unrecognizable form, we don't want it anymore. Not like THAT. I'm guilty. I get a lump in my throat and the two of us sit there in silence. Bully. He's right, of course. I didn't ever see it that way, though. But I guess I took over where the other kids left off: I've been bullying Melvin the Rat for 25 years, telling him that it's a good thing he's dead because nobody wanted him around anyway. Mark is generally right about these things, I must admit. He saw Chipotle through the dog's first night of not peeing in the house. When I awoke next morning, Mark was asleep next to Chipotle on the bedroom floor, being his friend. And it was Mark who trained Romero to stop jogging away with our shoes and all he used was his own loving voice. I'm sure Marky sees something in my face, some change, some softening, because he slides across the cab to me and puts my arm around his shoulder, a leftover move that recalls when we were first dating. Almost seven years ago. I am breathing heavily and I don't like this, befriending Melvin the Rat. I don't like this at all. But sometimes it's best to obey Mark. I take deeper breaths until I relax a little more, soften a little more. Then, completely unbidden, a picture from our future opens before me. In my mind, this fantasy, it's St. Patrick's Day next year, or maybe the year after. We're getting home from a steak dinner, some restaurant that's not splattered in green. "Go." I will slap his ass when we get in our front door and he trots away, knowing what to do. I will head to the back porch and let out the dogs, our mutts, all of them goofier and more wonderful than the next. I never knew I loved dogs until Mark. I will bite off the end of a cigar and give it a few deep puffs to make sure it's embers glow orange. I don't smoke 'em that often, but the luxurious scent is intoxicating. Every now and then when Mark needs a little reward, I light up and get him drunk on its delicate smoke. The bedroom door will be cracked open and intermingling shadows from the candles will dance against the opposite wall. I always love this moment. Mark will be naked and on all fours, ass raised. The soft illumination and shadows will bounce off his strong arms, his chest, the curve of his butt, those strong legs, illuminating our bed and his glowing form. Years ago when he moved in, he gaped at all the satin sheets I owned and while clutching them in his hands, he laughed out the words, "You whore! How can you own five sets of satin sheets and yet not even have an electric can opener?" "Six pair." I said pointing to the ones he missed. He looked at them and then at me. "Okay, those are just totally swank." Cranberry. So that special night, that future St. Patrick's Day, the cranberry sheets are on the bed, slinking dark shadows and glowing a crimson fire around the shifting weight of his legs, knees, and palms. Making love on that smooth, pomegranate is the raunchiest, tender sensation I have ever known. I will stand at the door and admire his strong, supple body. I imagine that he and Kevin will still be weightlifting partners as they have been for the past number of years. Mark has gotten a little thicker since I have known him - his muscles plumping out just a little more, bouncy planes, smooth and warm. His ass will continue to be a masterpiece and my future self is salivating, I'm sure of it. Go for it, Future Me. If this Future Me is anything like Current Me, I'll be dripping precum before our bodies even come in contact. I think that Future Me will probably dab a little juice right at the tender hole. That is, if he's anything like me. I hope so. Mark will flinch. "Something wrong?" I ask quietly. Future Mark shakes his head no. I rub the head of my cock over him, smearing it around a little bit and listen as the tiniest moan escapes his lips. "Something you needed to say?" I ask a little sharper. No, no. He will shake his head happily. He likes it when I'm a little on edge at this stage. I lean forward and clamp my right hand on the back of his neck, which I'm sure will send my hard dick nosing up his ass crack. "Oh." He says, every single time. It's like it's still a surprise to him, ever since that night in the parking lot where I clamped the back of his neck and he was worried someone might see us. The crimson sea will shift beneath us, sending lightning flashes across the sheets, and I blow a cloud of smoke around Mark's head. I can just see him perk up like a dog, sniffing the air and panting just a little, pushing back gently, just a tad, to let me know he's mine. We stay like this a moment, Mark breathing heavily, me gentling sliding an inch or two up and down, just enough to let the underside of my cock head graze his button. I'm sure I'll mentally debate whether to start with eating his ass or fuck him for ten minutes first, just enough to make him ache for more and then pull out and slobber over his writhing body against the cranberry. I like watching him writhe, so the Current Me sitting in the front of my truck with Mark nestled into my side will coach Future Me to eat him out. 'C'mon buddy, do it.' I'll drop and bite his butt. I'm sure he'll yelp a little in surprise, but not much surprise because I do this quite regularly. The 'newness' of my best moves is long gone. Now, the pleasure for us is knowing each other' scent and taste, greeting each other in the ancestral field of kings. I slobber my tongue over that sleek plane of muscle, my flat tongue mopping the entire region, leaving behind my spit, my scent, all of me slathered over him. He pushes back, pulls away, undecided as to which sensation feels unbearable, too much, too tingly or tender, and he will squirm, that monkey, while I tickle the front of his thighs with my thumbnails until he can't take it and he slides onto his stomach, pushing his muscular butt back into my face. I attack him with my tongue and massaging hands, his body squirreling all over the sheets happily. I pull him towards me, and he'll scoot across the sheets whimpering, ready and eager now. I grab the cigar from the ceramic bowl I sometimes use as an ashtray and blow some dry smoke against the soaked region. "Oh, Daddy..." he will groan and I love that voice. Mounting him in this position is always hot, because I always bite the cigar hard and clamp his neck, pushing him into the mattress. When this happens, he pants in shallow breaths like a fish out of water, and I'm the water that he finds so cool and refreshing. This future St. Patrick's Day, I will slide in easily, slowly but surely, never hesitating because I know this terrain. I know it. And he will clench tight as I invade so that he can grip every inch, feel all of me as I pass through his ass channel on parade. He grips his best salute to the general. So deep inside him I push a little further, that spot that never seems to quite get touched enough despite that it's really never that long between my frequent visits. In my imagination he growls and twists his head, and I guess it will be that kind of fuck, the kind where he ends up howling at the end, a howl which scared our neighbors a few years ago after they had moved in. Whenever Mark howls, the dogs echo their boss, and then I have to howl too because I don't want to be left out, saluting the moon and welcoming that strong, masculine energy. Back then, Mark told them it was the dogs and then he blushed when Debra said, "Really? Because I thought the dogs were in the back yard." When I got home from the garage that night, Mark complained. "Guess what? We have to soundproof the whole house." But this memory is a distraction from Future Me who is having a really good time. I'm fucking Mark, sweet slow strokes where I tenderize his insides, softening him to the stronger assault to follow. And this fuck is extra special because it's next year's St. Patrick's Day; the curse will be broken because Mark loved me enough to call me an asshole. Being inside Mark on St. Patrick's Day will be thrilling because it hasn't happened before (except today and that was with the assistance of a magical item pocketed from a fancy hotel). Next year will feel brand new, a new virginity to take. Perhaps that's the secret of our love, why it feels 'new' so frequently. Each time one of us exposes a little more of the shadow within, the ugly truth of our fractured and human frailties, the other one of us says, 'Ha. You think that would make me stop loving you? You're so wrong.' And whenever we join physically after that that renewed declaration of love...it always feels physically new again...like we are rediscovering each other in that cheap hotel the weekend we met. It seems like I am continuously taking Mark's virginity. And perhaps he is continuously taking mine, both of us becoming new, better men in the process. Next year's St. Patrick's Day, I jab in his ass to the left, to the right, watching his breath and his body twitch as Malcolm instructed me so long ago. I measure his readiness and what kind of workout he needs: a full gallop, a brisk canter, a slow and leisurely stroll through our own enchanted forest, my pelvis will slap his ass like slapping a saddle, until I see him craning his neck stretching it giraffe-like, because the fuck will have reached sensations all the way up there. There are certain nights when we're clip-clopping along through this kingdom we've created and he's looking into my eyes, mining the depths of me (because that's what he does). On those nights he smiles and he asks as a statement, "Tell me a story. A lost and found from before we met." That's what he calls them. The lost and founds. "Want to hear the story of King Perry the Forgiver?" I might say just if I feel like teasing him. "There was a baby duck involved." "Heard it." Mark often replies. "That's a good one. But someone new tonight." "Once I met a lost king in a supermarket parking lot." I might begin. "Tony." Mark will probably twist my ear in exasperation as he often does when I am being dense with him. "From Canada. C'mon, Vin." During these times, I pretend to reminisce for a moment, ruminating over names so he forgets that I'm fucking him and then I jab him good and deep, not slamming into him, but reminding him that the sex is the story and the story is the sex. But this future St. Patrick's Day won't be a King Story night. That night, we won't allow anyone in bed except for us. I picture myself pumping my dick into Mark, the heat of him twisting my insides pleasantly, the most wonderful, comforting glow to be inside Mark. I pulsate inside him, stretching his ass out as I was meant to do. He'll be on his stomach, pushing up to meet my slow strokes, and my arms are wrapped around his firm chest, either tweaking a nipple of his or massaging his neck below the ear, which makes him squirm. I will turn his head to meet mine and kiss him gently, just lightly enough that the kiss is almost more smell than actual touch. I have sometimes threatened to hire a professional photographer to come and photograph us like this, my thick body pressing into his from behind, his handsome face turned to meet mine, mid-thrust. He never knows quite whether to believe me, but I try to convince him that this is our most 'natural' shot, when we are deepest inside each other, loving each other this way. And while we're big fans of marathon fucking in a variety of positions, I think the end of the St. Patrick's Day curse will be more about love than our acrobatics, so I'll probably finish up inside him like this. After all, next year's St. Patrick's Day is on a Sunday, a work night. (This is how married couples think, you know.) One hand of mine sneaks down to find his cock buried in the crimson bed sheets, and my hand will be slippery with my own spit. I always enjoy teasing his cock head, gently letting it push through my fingers with maddening lack of grip. Mark always squirms when I do this and any sort of squirming is good when it comes to butt fucking. I whisper my king energy into him, some of it verbal, much of it not. Mark will shove back harder suddenly, having reached a saturation point where he feels loved and loving almost to the breaking point. I have always envisioned that a moment like this is when I would whisper his king name to him, tell him as we're both hovering on the brink of explosion, after an hour of sharing our love. "King Mark," I will whisper. He will shove back with greater force and I do so love it when he fucks himself back onto me, desperate to get my nut load inside him. The hunger for it builds up until he can't stand that I am denying this gift which is for him and him alone. And so I cross over, whispering his king name, quietly at first because I don't want noise to distract him from what's happening between us... I have trained him to feel the pulses, to know the exact second when it happens, when I shoot my love into him. And perhaps if I know his king name that night, the growl building into him will be stunned into something else, a low moan, a deeper sound, the sound of an ancient oak door creaking open. I grip him so tightly as my dick unloads, squirting whatever reserves of semen I've been able to save up since the last time he did this to me, reminded me that love is more than physical, that love can -- "Vin," Mark interrupts this reverie. I guess I'll have to finish the fantasy a little later. Maybe a shower scene... "Your pecker's hard." He says, pointing towards the lump in my jeans. Oh. He's right. I twitch it in my jeans so he can see it move. "Of course it's hard." I snort. "I was thinking about you. " Mark leers at me. "We should go home. Like, now." The future got here sooner than I expected. Hi, Future Me. I start up our cherry red Toyota Tacoma. (But Subarus are still the best cars in the world.) This erection is very good news, very good. Because as much as I love Mark, I can't help but think about the Civil War DVD series I saw gift-wrapped on the living room couch before we went to dinner. If I can't keep this boner, we'll probably have to watch an hour or two tonight. (Small but satisfying consolation: Fredi brought in a small birthday cake for the two of us with thick frosting roses. I love the roses.) "Oh." He sits up straight before we reach the end of the next block. "OH!" "What's up, Sparky?" We had too much drama tonight, too much mothball misery. We've snapped back the other way, to punchy. "I know what to get you for your birthday!" he says with excitement. "How late -- ?" he checks the clock on the dashboard and says, "Almost 8:30. Damn. Well, I'm not giving you the gift I bought. You'll have to wait a little bit. Not long, but just a little bit." I laugh. "Whatever you have at home is fine. Don't sweat this." He shakes his head adamantly. "No, I got it nailed. This year, I got it. Seriously. This is gonna kick ass. It's going to make up for the fruit-preserves-of-the-month club." "That was Christmas." I remind him, nudging him. "And March's apricot jam was pretty awesome." I tease him and ask for clues as we head home, but he reveals nothing. He bounces around on the seat with punchy excitement and I must admit, his mood is contagious. "I know what to get you, I know what to get you..." he sings for the remaining two blocks to our home. I pull up right in front of the house, easy parking. "I know what to get you." He grins at me and slams the truck door. He races towards the front porch, running fast. "Oh, Marky, baby." I laugh and zig around the car to catch him. "I already got it." Mark's about to get fucked. I stop and stare, suddenly distracted. "Didn't we leave on the living room lights for Romero?" "I know what to get you." He sings at me from the front porch, and then twists the door knob easily, disappearing into the dark house. I freeze. Lights are off. No dogs barking. The front door was unlocked. No. No! Oh god, no, oh god. Please god, nothing can fucking happen to him! I feel like our whole life together flashes before my eyes, as I take off running towards the house: meeting Mark at the convenience store parking lot and seeing his beautiful hesitation, the night our life began together...fucking him gently that dive motel, pizza at Romeros, champagne with Roscoe at the fancy restaurant, visiting Patty's graveside, because he wanted me to meet his older sister. Mark showing up with the U-Haul, and our first dawn together! I fly up the sidewalk and my heart is pounding. That first dinner at Fredi's house, BBQs with Kevin and Roger, Fried Chicken Night, and our wedding night, which I just found out about this morning over eggs! All our crazy dogs and the life we have made! No! It can't end like this, not on fucking St. Patrick's Day! God please, not on St. Patrick's Day! I fight it as much as I can, but Malcolm's words seep into my brain as I leap the front stairs in one jump and land on the porch. 'Grief and love dance together like that sometimes, you open your heart to one kind of love...' Malcolm, help me! I race through the front door, my brain empty and jangled. There's a softball bat in the hall closet, but I can get to the fireplace poker faster and it's sharp - The lights flip on and there is Mark. And fifty people. "SURPRISE!" they scream mostly in unison. "SURPRISE!" scream the stragglers. Cameras flash and I am blind. I am so blind. And when the world comes into focus it's overwhelming, overwhelming. There's Kevin and Roger wearing ridiculous party hats. Well to be fair, most people are wearing the ridiculous hats, same as Mark was wearing this morning, shiny silver and pointy. Roger is blowing a New Years' Eve horn non-stop at Fredi and she's laughing. Her husband, King Thomas the Quiet Strength, is holding their son, Vincent. Our neighbors are here, Donna and Ricardo, and Tina and Debra. Debra is kicking balloons at me, fat yellow and blue and purple ones. I'm guessing Mark specified 'NO GREEN.' Mark's Mom is standing there under colorful, twisted streamers, (his Mom came!) smiling her best amongst all these strangers, being mostly okay with everything. Mark's brother Anthony and his gorgeous wife Amanda hoist a beer when I meet their eyes, grinning and holding each other around the waist. Their youngest daughter, Patty, shrieks, "SURPRISE UNCLE VIN! SURPRISE!" They moved to St. Paul a few years ago after falling in love with the area during one of their visits. When we go on night walks, Patty insists on holding my hand. I am showing her the stars, telling her their stories. I am dazed, dazed. There are more of them -- friends of Mark's from graduate school, and all my mechanics. King Joel is back from Seattle and he's holding a football with a mischievous gleam in his eyes that says, 'cover your crotch.' Friends of ours we have visited in hospitals and at grave sides, for dinners, and evening walks when we can't agree on a movie to see. The old growly couple across the street who Mark befriended last summer are standing near what certainly must be Fredi's greatest masterpiece: a four-tiered, white frosted miracle with fat pink letters and scores of lavender and pink roses draping each level. It's perfect. And it seems those grouchy neighbors *can* smile, contrary to popular neighborhood myth. Tony, the Canadian King I found in a parking lot is eyeing Fredi's cake as well. He apparently drove down from Toronto. Last week he sent me a short email stating, 'Found another lost king. Bringing him back. Details soon.' King Ted the Orchard Tender is here from North Carolina and it looks like Scott and his shy boyfriend Ryan are behind the neighbors. Greg is wearing a tie and lightly touching his new beau, someone Mark thought would be perfect. Kevin is wearing his emerald king shirt and his lip is trembling while he grins at me; his eyes are full of happy/sad tears. Malcolm is standing tall in back, arms crossed in pleased satisfaction, lips curled into his trademark 'Gotcha' smile and I begin to doubt that there was even a retired policemen's conference this weekend. That's my big brother. It's too much, it's too much. Mark laughs and throws his arms around my neck and there is cheering and Roger keeps tooting that damn horn and there's yelling and it's towards me, but I can't hear anything else because Marky is yelling in my ear. "The civil war DVD set was a decoy, ya loser." He laughs. "I knew you'd find it. I hid all of Romero's toys under the bed. Don't you remember me asking if you had seen Mr. Bun Bun about four or five days ago?" I hold him tight, inhaling him, the smell of him, and as much as I love this surprise I know it will be hours and hours before Mark and I are alone and I can show him my love, all my love. All these years and still, sometimes I can't breathe just being around him. Tomorrow he'll tell me the details, how he made all the arrangements and how his original plan was to stop for a short walk to give Malcolm a few minute to get to the house and park on a side street. But I was such a dick and he was so sad about Melvin the Rat that he didn't need a diversion. "I knew what to get you this year for your birthday," Marky yells into my ear, laughing and earnest all at once. "For you, Vin, and for Melvin the Rat. A family." I have a family. Tomorrow I will tell him his King Name, for I know it now. I know. I will tell him he is King Mark, Finder of Lost Dogs. A friend to those who could never actually have a friend. King Mark, you found me. I am found. After all these years, I am found. Patty yells again, "SURPRISE UNCLE VIN, SURPRISE!" Her Dad tells her, "Baby, that part's over now." Everyone laughs and I remember we're not alone. But I can't seem to let go of Mark and I am in the timeless place of no thoughts, no thoughts and yet my heart is slamming against my ribs with leftover adrenaline, pounding this two-part beat over and over: I'm home I'm home I'm home I'm home I'm home... There's no place like it. <> The End <> *** This concludes the tales of Marky and Vin. As a result of writing these stories, I have been blessed more than I thought possible. I am truly grateful for everyone who wrote me offering love, feedback, and even just telling 'what this story meant to me.' Thank you. I feel like a King. mpls_ted@yahoo.com