By John Yager
Some time ago I posted a series of four very short pieces under the collective title Seasons.
Many readers have since written to ask if I would do further such little vignettes. What follows is one such piece, part of a series titled Places, based on my own memories of some of my favorite cities and locations around the world.
Andrew, thank you again for so much help, for good advice, for proofing and editing and, most of all, for making me look so much better than I am.
This work is copyrighted © by the author, 2003 and may not be reproduced in any form without specific written permission from the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.
"I swam," he said, his voice soft, almost impossible to hear over the pulse of the music and the party babble.
"Yeah? Me too."
We talked a while, leaning in to speak directly to each other's ear, swapping stories, talking about meets, events and times, his best, my best, a minor state record held for just one year till somebody younger broke it.
Timmy was ten years younger than me, a foot shorter, fifty pounds lighter, and he spoke not with a lisp exactly, but in soft whispers meant for only me to hear.
I never really liked effeminate men but Timmy made me feel protective, like I wanted to somehow nurture him.
I guess that was exactly what he wanted me to do.
I looked across the crowded room and saw Steve, my boyfriend chatting with a tall, blond guy.
We were leaving the next day, my boyfriend and I, for a long, hot weekend on the coast. So why was I hitting on this kid, this Timmy, the ex-swimmer kid.
Did I know it was ending with Steve? Did I know the relationship had run its course? Sure, I knew, in my gut, in the proverbial back of my brain. With Steve the sex was great but the bickering was becoming more trouble than it was worth.
Was I chatting up this kid because I knew in a week we'd be back from California and it would be over with Steve? Was I subconsciously lining up a little extra in the wings, a nice bit on the side?
"Look, Timmy," I finally said when Steve raised an eyebrow and pointed toward the door. "I'm leaving town tomorrow. How about me calling you in a week when I get back."
"Yes," he smiled shyly. "I hope you will." He wrote his phone number on a little scrap of paper and I shoved it in my pocket as I left.
Ten days later I found the crumpled paper in the khaki slacks when I turned the pockets out before adding them to the wash.
Timmy, the little, effeminate breaststroke kid. I pictured him in Speedos doing his thing, churning the lanes, muscles straining, lungs burning, driving for all he was worth, his smooth body cutting through the water like a trout.
Steve was gone by then, the trip over, the last act played out.
I called Tim standing naked in my bedroom, thinking evil thoughts.
"Hi, John," he said, his voice as soft as silk.
"What's going on?"
"I hoped you'd call."
An hour later he was in my bed.
I fucked him silly for three weeks, not steadily, of course, but three weeks, hard, most nights, half a dozen times on weekends.
Sex with Timmy was total submission on his part. He gave himself absolutely, always bottom, never one thought of any initiative on his part. He was twenty-three and looked fourteen. His body was an amazing mix of man and boy all rolled into one.
Timmy was like the mascot for some crazy club of my own invention and I was its only member. He was the boy next door grown up, but not quite, the guy who lived three streets away and came to my door, to my bed, any time I called. Some boys deliver pizza. Timmy delivered himself; there in twenty minutes, guaranteed, prompt, hot, supreme.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" I asked the night I ended it.
"Could you take me to a party" Timmy
asked shyly, "where I could meet nice older men?"