Date: Sun, 23 Nov 2008 06:16:54 +0100
From: Julian Obedient <julian.obedient@gmail.com>
Subject: On His Own 5

Talbot Donaldson was impatient. He was not accustomed to having to set
his clock by somebody else's watch. But now he was being forced to if
he was going to get what he wanted.

You can't make the grass grow by pulling on it, Ned offered.

I know, Donaldson answered.

And Nick said there'd be a wait.

I know, Donaldson repeated.

Nick was in the last stages of preparing a group of pieces for an
exhibition at the Port-Holt Gallery in SoHo and would not be able to
begin designs for furniture and an abstract caryatid for the entrance
hall of Donaldson's place in East Hampton for at least another week.

After the exhibition had been installed, Donaldson took Nick to dinner
to discuss his project but once they'd agreed on the work, their
conversation turned to Howard.

He is not himself, Donaldson said. There is anger I see in him that I
have never seen before. There is something hungry in his eyes that had
not been there before. On the program, it gives him an edge, but in
personal dealings, he's almost abrasive. I hate to say it, but I think
it's on account of his encounters with you.

Nick held the piece of grilled salmon he was lifting on his fork to
his mouth in mid-air.

I don't know what I can do about it, he said, and continued to eat.

I know, Donaldson said.

I like Howard, Nick said. He can be brave -- like talking about prop
eight the other night, and I appreciate everything he has done for me,
but every time I tried to get close to him, he recoiled and then
became mournful at having lost what he had rejected.

Donaldson took Nick's hand.

I hope that doesn't happen to us.

Why should it? Nick said, batting his eyes.

It shouldn't. Come back to the apartment with me.

Sure, Nick said, hoping that Ned was in town, too.

I'm alone, Donaldson said, as he pushed the door open and let Nick enter first.

Not quite, Nick said.

Donaldson looked at him.

I'm here. So you're not alone. Where's Ned?

In London. For a Ballanchine festival. Dancing. Disappointed?

He's very beautiful, Nick said, not quite answering.

So are you, Donaldson said.

Nick blushed.

Take your shirt off, Donaldson said, please.

Only if you take yours off, too, Nick said.

I love your work, Donaldson said as they pulled off their shirts.
Stand there. I want to look at you as you look at me.

Can you see the desire in my eyes? Nick said.

I want to feel it in your lips.

They stepped close to each other and took hold of each other as if
they were going to dance. Their gazes drifted deep within each other's
boundaries and they pressed their lips together. Donaldson began
gently to rub Nick's nipples with the strong, soft, warm tips of his
long fingers.


Howard took a long swallow, finished the drink, ordered another. It
was hot in the bar. His silver hair alternately was tinged with red
and blue and yellow highlights cast by the rotating gels in the
ceiling spotlights. He was wearing a leather vest hanging open over a
smooth, well-wrought, bare chest, a pair of Levis ripped at the knee,
and motorcycle boots. There was a ring he had inserted in the piercing
of his left nipple. There was a delicate outline of coal black
circling his steely blue eyes. He cruised Benny's, drink in hand. He
had developed a good intuition for sensing the insecure ones, he
thought, the ones who were looking for a strong, handsome father
figure to obey. The trouble was his intuition was sometimes fallible.

He stopped: he saw Luke; he was sure it was Luke leaning against the
wall; it was Luke;
his back arched, his flat, ribbed midriff bare, his lithe, muscled
arms stretched over his head grasping a kind of chinning bar suspended
from the ceiling. A really built beautiful guy, skin bronzed the color
of tawny maple syrup, knelt in front of him, naked, caressing his
torso with open palms, lost in the rhythms of devotion and desire.

It was good enough to be a poster or the design painted on an antique
Attic amphora. Howard was transfixed, watching, fascinated by the
roping muscles of the kneeling one's back and thighs as he worshiped
the boy Howard thought was Luke.

But it was not Luke, for at this moment, Luke was sitting on the edge
of his bed wishing he could be with Nick.

Instead he is listening to Cynthia complaining that he is treating her badly.

You make me a caricature, she said. You turn me into a grasping,
suffocating monster.

Luke put his palm to his forehead and took a deep breath.


It was only a roll of the dice. Howard liked it that way. You could
never abolish chance. The excitement of cruising, the rush of
adrenalin that felt almost like anxiety, cleared his mind and made him
feel like he was walking on air, as if he were floating. He knew what
it was like to be light-hearted. Nick was a million miles away and he
could breathe again. He felt young.

What are you drinking? He said to a kid leaning against the bar.

Hey, the kid said.

What are you drinking? Howard repeated pointing to the kid's nearly empty glass.

Whiskey sour.

Jody, Howard said catching the barkeep's attention, one whiskey sour
and one vodka on the rocks, Grey Goose. And he winked an eye with
effortless grace.

Thanks, the kid said, as they touched glasses.

How come a beautiful guy like you is alone? Howard said.

I could ask you that, too, the kid, who looked to be in his early
twenties, answered.

But would you? Howard responded with a hook in his voice.

Instead of an answer, the kid pressed his mouth to Howard's and kissed
him savagely.

I'm gonna take you home, the kid said.

Come to my place, Howard said.

No, the kid said. I want you on my turf. Finnish your drink, he said,
and took the last swallow of his own.

It's in the neighborhood, the kid said.

They turned off 72nd onto Columbus Avenue and stopped by a restored
tenement on the corner of 73rd.

This is it.

Howard noticed by the light of the lampposts the intricate masks of
Zeus and Poseidon that the, probably, immigrant Italian stonemasons
had carved into the cornice over a hundred years before.

The kid unlocked the front door and held it open for Howard.

I'm Keith, by the way, he said, putting his hand on Howard's shoulder.

Howard, Howard said, turning towards him as they stood waiting for the
newly installed elevator.

Welcome to my home, Howard, Keith said.

Thank you, Howard said as he stepped out of the elevator wondering who
this person was whose apartment he was entering.

Keith lit a few candles but did not turn on the lights.

Maybe this'll be better than another drink? he said taking a rolled
joint out of a desk drawer.

Sure, Howard said.

In the flash of the flame that flared when he fired the joint, Keith
was bathed in a glow that made him look angelic, especially since he
was wearing, to the degree that he was wearing anything at all, all
white, a torso-hugging white sleeveless top that stopped above his
waist, with narrow shoulder straps, and a tight pair of low rising
white vinyl shorts that gave a perfect edge to his lean thighs. His
ankle-high boots were also of white vinyl.

Wait, Keith said. He filled his lungs with a long drag of pot, twined
himself around Howard, kissed him, and slowly released the smoke into
Howard's mouth, which he kept sealed by the pressure of his lips.
Howard drew the kid's intoxicating breath into his depths and then
released his breath. The scent of Eau Sauvage was like a nimbus around
the kid.

Wow! he said.

 I'm going to teach you pain, Keith whispered seductively.

What are you talking about?

You'll love it. You'll beg for it. Do you know how to beg?

Howard looked at him a little blank.

Show me how you beg. Go ahead.

Howard looked at him, not knowing how to respond, as if asking for help.

You know how to beg, Keith said, almost as if talking to a child...or a dog.

Get on your knees, he said, indicating how he was to beg.

Howard did.

Good, Keith said, stroking Howard's skull. Very good. Now smell me.
Put your head right here by my crotch, he said, unfastening his
shorts, letting them fall to the floor, stepping out of them, and
pressing Howard's face into his cock's muff, and breathe deeply until
you recognize my smell, until my smell intoxicates you and you become
addicted to it.

Howard was nearly faint. He felt himself throbbing with desire. A
pulsation of musky warmth formed an olfactory halo around Keith's
genitals. He breathed deeply and felt Keith's rising power subduing
him.

Then Keith roughly pushed him away.

Now show me how you beg for it.

And Howard did, lost in a world he had never been in before but which,
nevertheless, was familiar. It must have been the residue of a memory
of some Arabian harem movie he had seen as a kid.

He touched his forehead to the floor before Keith's feet. He licked
Keith's boots and then he carefully removed each one. He kissed each
foot, the toes, the ankles, the insteps. He leaned back and placed his
hands together in supplication, as in prayer, and whispered, Please
Master.

How did he know so well to do this?

What is it you want? Keith said.

To lose myself in the warmth of your smell, Howard said.

Yes, Keith said.

To worship you, Howard said.

Yes, Keith said, if I permit it.

Just at that moment, as Howard sought to worship at the fountain of
Keith's masculinity, Keith's cell phone rang.

The kid picked it up from the desk nearby and as he snapped it open,
he curled his toes and gave Howard a sharp push in the solar plexus.

What the fuck! Howard said.

Keith ignored him and walked to the window.

Yeah, I can see you, he said. Come on up. I got a number I picked up
at Benny's here, but I'll get rid of him. See you in ten.

Turning to Howard, who was sitting on his haunches, he said, It's time
for you to go.

But, Howard began, mystified.

Keith waved him away.

Maybe some other time, he said. Leave your phone number or your e-mail
address, he said.

What about yours? Howard said.

Get up, Keith said, ignoring his request. How long is it gonna take
you to get out of here?

You little bastard, Howard said, in amazement, but he stopped when he
saw the kid was holding a knife.

Do you think I'm fooling around? the kid said. It's time for you to go.

Outside Howard walked east to Central Park and could not keep from trembling.


He didn't see a cab with its roof light on and it had begun to rain.
Whoever had been hanging round the park had gone somewhere else.

Howard was wet to his bare skin. Finally, he spotted a cab and hailed
it, but it failed to stop. And then another came and swerved towards
the sidewalk and picked Howard up.

At home he took a hot bath and made a cup of chamomile tea and set it
on his bedside table next to his copy of Paradise Lost. He took
several swallows of the tea and put the cup down. Naked, he got under
the covers and propped himself up using Debra's pillow as well as his
own. He read several hundred lines of Milton's great epic and fell
asleep.

[When you write, please put story name in subject slot. Thanks.]