Date: Sun, 10 Jan 2021 00:47:58 +0000 From: Simon Mohr Subject: Widower's Share Club - Chapter 2 - The Setup Widowers Share Group Chapter 2 - The Setup Gay Erotic Fiction by Simon Mohr All Rights Reserved Adults Only - If this story is illegal where you live or a minor, please do not read it. No reference to persons living or otherwise, or specific places, is intended. Please donate to the Nifty Archive using the donor information guide on this site. Feedback appreciated! Mark Weinberg and Rod Taylor sat eating lunch on Wednesday. In the clouds, Boston's posh eatery, Trader Harry's, occupied space on a high floor in the same building as their Wealth Management firm. A well-dressed businessman came up to their table and sat down. "Pardon my joining you, but I ate here yesterday and was sitting at the next table and overheard you both say you were married at one point but lost your partners through death or divorce. Sorry, I forgot my manners. May I introduce myself?" "I'm Robert Parker. Yeah, that Robert Parker. Boston born and bred, as they say. Eavesdropping on private conversations isn't my usual style; at the same time, I was desperate to wrap up my situation. I haven't anyone with whom to share my thoughts. Do you belong, by any chance, to one of those widowers support groups?" Mark, the forward thinker, grasped the idea and moved ahead. "Yes, we have a group of two of us, now three, right here at this table. We need to have our next meeting in a conference room, easy to find, with chairs, a whiteboard, colored erasable pens, and various widowers. That and some coffee and sweet rolls, noted Rod, would bring half of Boston's back bay on any weeknight. He giggled silently. Robert Parker looked disturbed. "I'm a single dad, and I'm going nuts by stages. I bet other dads have issues they'd like to talk about and perhaps get an encouraging word or a tip or an invitation to meet another guy's sister . . . hell, I'm to the point where another guy's brother is starting to look good to me." Mark and Rod grinned a little uneasily and mutually figured they would sweat out the group's issues. Mark pushed on. "I'll book the room. I need your contact info, Robert, so that I can share it with you this afternoon. I already know where to find your ass, Rod. Are we all up for a Tuesday at 6 p.m. to begin?" "Robert, you do the marketing since you know people in this town, maybe all of em. You need to reach ten widowers by tomorrow night. It might not be easy, but none of this will be easy at first. Rod, can you come up with categories of items to discuss, perhaps a way to keep an informal log of questions and answers. I'll work on the guidelines and boundaries for discussion, and the three of us will meet right here for lunch tomorrow. Is anyone OK with any of that? Additions? Subtractions?" "Robert, join us for coffee and dessert. Let's try to channel a new guy in the group and the information that the group needs to cut him into the conversations, so to speak." "I'm a Southie, first and always." "Oh, that's it, I'm leaving," said Rod and made to get up and leave, then sat down. "Just kidding, Robert. It's my job in life to give people a hard time." "Dad was a butcher," continued Robert. "He brought home good union money. No brothers or sisters came along. My mom died from lung cancer when I was ten. Dad is gone now. Heart attack at home. I was at some kid's birthday party. I was only fourteen. My wife and I met in high school. Married twenty years. A drunk ran into her and killed her." "I've been alone with my thirteen-year-old daughter, Alice, for seven years now." "Great intro, Robert. Hard to sugarcoat that one. As Julia Roberts said, 'Surely that's worth the brownie . . .?' Remember 'Notting Hill', the movie? They were sitting around the table competing to tell the best and saddest life story, the last brownie on the plate, the prize." Rod asked, "I take it Alice isn't raising herself?" "She hates her name, hates where we live, hates me, hates school, has decided the Goth look is her, hates what we eat, and has decided she has no role at home, especially work. Her young male friends scare the hell out of me, and for some reason, they make my body parts twitch. None of them look like father material as ready to support Alice, yet all of them look like they could, and want, to father children with my daughter sometime in the next five minutes after walking in her bedroom door. I keep a close eye out when I'm home, but who knows what happens when I'm not there. I'm not ready to become a grandfather just yet. I've put the fear of God into all of them but fear only trumps lust on occasion." "Yep," said Mark. "for sure, you're a guy for this group. I hope they have some hot tips for you. You've already eaten the brownie. The remaining question is how to digest it." Robert left then after promising to return for lunch the next day on Thursday. When he arrived at the restaurant, the hostess directed him to the conference room. A circle of chairs sat in the middle, a table placed to the side with coffee service, sweet rolls, green table grapes in a bowl, and a whiteboard with colored erasable pens and fancy blank diaries. Mark handed Rod and Robert a Pilot pen, blue, fine point, each. "My contribution to society," he said. Mark and Rod threw their briefcases on the table, smiling. "Well, we got some work done and get an idea just how hard this is going to be for the first few sessions. Talk about amateurs talking with amateurs. Guess that's how the rubber meets that road, though." Their ersatz lunch, a choice of chicken salad sandwich halves and mayo, avocado, and bean sprout sandwich halves or both with hot tomato and roasted red pepper soup, got scarfed down alongside Coca-Cola, and the men began to compare notes. Rod passed out Snicker's bars from his briefcase. "No, no, don't thank me now. It's the least, the very least actually, I can contribute to lunch. If this goes well, we'll have caviar and toast points next time," he joked. "After the introductions," Rod began, "I will write down the age and reason for the widower status on the whiteboard. We should list the issue 'categories' numbered from one to fifteen (maximum) for quick reference." "They might include problems with finances, kids, romance, feelings (isolation and loneliness and the like), sexual frustration, changed status at home, diminished work opportunities sometimes, changes in work-family, change in social contacts, or loss of some friends, that kind of thing. We could include a miscellaneous or an 'other' category as well. We can add others from the issues that come up." "Good work, Rod." Mark was an encouraging kind of a guy, a natural leader. "Robert, what have you found?" "There are a ton of guys out there fresh out of a partner. Most widowers aren't listening to the radio now. They don't watch much TV, either. It's social media for most in closed sets of 'friends,' most of whom they have never met in person but might share religious, social, or political views. I recommend we begin with a Facebook page, a Twitter account, and perhaps an Instagram presence divided into Widower Share groups in Boston, Chicago, New Orleans, Los Angeles, Portland, San Francisco, Miami/Fort Lauderdale, and New York City." "The big cities have the numbers, and since social media isn't a geographically bound entity, everybody can join groups online eventually or locally if they can or form groups with guidelines and leaders we train." Robert told the others that he recommended a book by Michael Shernoff entitled 'Gay Widowers: Life After the Death of a Partner' he'd purchased through Amazon, that had informed him in a compelling and transformative way about portions of the grieving process that gay partners experience. "I'm impressed with your big picture thinking, Robert." He had surprised Mark. Rod was openly staring at Robert. "Problem is, our first Boston group must be our training, a microcosm of something larger if larger is the scalable direction someday." "How do we reach Boston, Robert?" Robert had already figured this out. "We'll slap posters on shop windows where men shop, bar doors and windows where they drink, and large office bulletin boards. We can recruit men to paper the buildings where they work for a first-come, first-served maximum of fifteen men for the first group with sign-up for new groups in the coming weeks." "I planned no dues except for a one-to-five-dollar donation for coffee and rolls each meeting, appointing one member to keep financial records of income and expenses, and asking venues for free space at first, like psychology offices, community centers, and churches." "Let's plan for a weekly series lasting five-weeks for every fifteen men and adjust up or down as needed. That will allow an introductory session, then five men to present each night after introduction night for three nights and a final wrap meeting on the fifth week." "If the group is interesting and they want to meet again, perhaps we have a product to sell." It was true, Mark thought. Robert was a genius at this and had done his homework. So, it happened. One week from the following Tuesday found fifteen widowers in a conference room at Tel Aviv health services, milling around a coffee table, stuffing themselves with sweet rolls, more than one a little uncomfortable in the setting. A bowl filled with fifteen one-dollar bills sat by itself. The Styrofoam coffee cups weren't fancy, but large enough, and the coffee creamers offered were the traditional French vanilla and hazelnut in the small packages. Every man took a number to find later that was merely a way to establish who spoke first in the circle and took a chair in a large circle facing the whiteboard. "Hello, gentlemen. My name is Mark Weinberg, and this is my friend Rod Taylor and my friend, Robert Parker. Each of us is a widower. You will learn more about us later." "Our names are on the whiteboard in the upper right-hand corner. I lead this Boston Widowers Share group, and Rod and Robert are my co-leaders." "Today, each of you will tell the group the items listed on the whiteboard, in case you forget what you've already said: name, where you're from, age, a one-sentence description of how you became a widower, two issues from the list on the left that concern you the most or would like to talk about at a future session or a new issue if you don't see it on the list (up to two total), the best day to meet for you, and the best time or place for you to meet if this time or place isn't convenient for you." "For fairness, please stick to these eight or nine items today. Can I get an upraised hand to volunteer to keep the financial records of the group? The hand there, stand up and tell us your name and background." "Jon Dennison. I have a background in bookkeeping, not currently working in the field. No criminal record except I ran a red light once taking a friend to the ER." Mark thanked him and continued. "Next visit, we'll dig deeper into things that affect all of us and each of us individually. Not everyone wants a group solution to an issue. Some may just want a sympathetic ear. Others may just need to vent." "What is said here is confidential, strictly so. Tape recorders and cell phones are left in small boxes at the door, please. No photos or notes are permitted. Never share your Social Security number in the group or your address or, obviously, your banking information or your net worth. Your privacy should be absolute here. If you see someone you know, focus on the group, not the person." "No subject is off-limits, however awkward, embarrassing, intimate, profane, or seemingly trivial. Any subject that is an issue for you is an issue for the group. Suppose you consider some behavior icky or not you, fine. Keep it to yourself. That's what a group is all about. In some sense, a group is a family of persons, though unrelated by blood, who consider burdens, share information, give advice, reject advice, and share feelings. It is led by someone who is a mother or father figure only in the sense that group harmony is maintained by minimal rules of social interaction, respect for everyone's point of view regardless of their situation now or their history." "In that spirit, the group may not vote anyone out. We don't do mob behavior. I can ask someone to leave if they are disruptive or continually break our rules, perhaps if they don't show time and again." With that, the fifteen men began to introduce themselves, not precisely knowing what benefit might come their way if any at all. Still, each hoped for some unknown answer to an as yet unstated question, however articulated. It took a strangely exhausting hour to get through the details, pausing for five minutes for a juice or coffee break, brief exercise, and liquid intake welcome to each. As much as being a widower was hard, Mark reminded them, it remained a labor of love to fine-tune the work. Meeting three times before the next Tuesday required some scheduling and hours of work, but the three leaders hammered out a rough understanding of the problems the participants faced. Venters accounted for about a third of the participants. Another third was just lonely, looking to replace what they had lost. A few had exotic issues that neither the group leaders nor participants had heard about or faced before. The rest had a variety of issues from sex to fatherhood to being short of cash to loss of social standing and former friends who had, in some cases, been family to their now ex-spouse or socialites having the ex-'couple' over for cocktails. In one case, hiking trips to the Maine woods had been a group activity every summer, but not now because one of the other hikers made it awkward being the new spouse of the member's 'ex.' "The next three meetings will be, as promised, in-depth listening. Nobody cracks insulting questions or rolls their eyes at something they think is stupid. We're all stupid and broken somehow, and mutual respect is a great way to heal. The fifth meeting will be our wrap-up session. Five of our members, chosen by drawing a piece of paper out of a clay pot with an 'X' on it, will be next week's presenters." "They should present a short history of 'what happened,' include their part, exclude blame on either side (guilt is a kid's game), and prepare to answer five minutes of respectful questions or comments from the group. Another five will present at our next meeting and the final five the week after that." "It is possible that you will recognize issues in each presentation that are similar to your own. Please exclude 'you' and 'your' issues from the questions and comments section of each man's presentation. You will get your turn in future sessions. By the way, I am requesting sobriety at these meetings and a no-smoking environment to honor those members who do not smoke for health reasons. Leave the flasks and tobacco and pot at home." One week later, Robert lifted a small, plain clay pot with a wide mouth full of fifteen folded bits of white paper and each widower picked one. Ten of the guys let out a deep breath, and another five shifted a bit on their seats, coming to attention. Rod asked the five with an 'X' to stand and identify themselves. The first man presenting was Don Rosellini, a 50-year-old. His hair, thinning on top, was dark, having brown eyes and a commanding facial expression with a nervous smile. Mark estimated his height at 5'9", perhaps weighing 160 pounds, muscular, little fat evident. Don seemed to be alert and aware of his surroundings. "Don, you have the floor." "Hi. I met my first and second future spouse in high school. The first had terrific breasts and legs and was cheerful, seemed to think I walked on water, and liked to kiss. Her game was 'naughty and nice.' She practiced nicely during the day and played naughty after dark behind the bleachers. She squealed pretty when I fucked her, and we both knew we'd marry after high school. I popped the question at a hotel restaurant in Bayonne, she said yes, we went up to a room I'd rented, and we were at it all night." "We eloped to the county clerk's office, and a justice of the peace married us. The first day went well." "On the second day, I tossed my shoes and socks off and kicked them on the floor by the sofa in our new apartment. I should have known all was not well when she morphed into this bitch from hell, screaming at me that she was going to tell me just once to put my socks in the hamper and my shoes in the closet side by side or forego sex." "That marriage lasted precisely one week before I divorced her. I told the justice she verbally abused me, and I saw an understanding look flash across the magistrate's face." "I saw Joey Cardone at a Bayonne diner ten days after the divorce. He brought his handsome face and muscles and large package over to my table, sat down, and asked me if I was finally ready to do what real men do." "I felt a twitch in my cock, my belly tightened, and I nearly came on the spot. I looked into his eyes, where I saw sympathy. In public, right there in front of God and Bayonne, he told me he wanted me, had since 8th grade, and if I was willing, he was." "We married a week later, lived on our combined income for thirty years or so, trading off who did what in the bedroom, had great relationships with our extended families, nieces, nephews, etc." "When he died two years ago of a sudden stroke at 2 a.m. or so in bed, I was asleep and found him passed on the next morning. It was difficult then. It still is. I want him back, but he'd have to die again. I don't want that for either of us. I guess that's it for me." "Wow, good job," said Mark. "Hey, keep standing for a few. Time for questions and comments." "Are you still living in the same apartment?" An older, shorter guy raised his hand and asked the question. "Yeah. I have the means to move and looked once, but the places didn't have any memories. They weren't familiar. Every corner of our apartment has a memory, a picture, something Joey liked." "Don, what are the chances you are getting Joey back?" A tall man, an average looking guy with a scar on his chin, was doing the asking this time. "Well, uh, he's dead. He's not going to come back to life, and I know that, but . . .." A short, skinny redheaded man of thirty raised his hand. "I'd like to hear the rest of what you want to say, Don. But what?" "But I want him back." Mark spoke. "Sounds like you do. He cannot come back. You want him back. So, who or what has to change to resolve that situation?" Don thought for a moment, "I have to stop wanting him back?" All the hands went up. It was Rod who said, "Perhaps not, Don. There's another way to solve that. What would happen if you decided to keep the 'wanting him back' part? I mean, you already have that part . . . and, to begin to move on at the same time in small steps. No solution happens overnight in life." "Solutions require thought and time and action, even if it is small steps at a time, right? Like Rome wasn't built in a day. You might consider holding on to the 'wanting Joey and loving him part,' and do some work to make forward progress, the only direction any of us are going." Don sat down looking like he'd just seen a vision, staring out into a future he hadn't thought he was going to have. The next speaker, Jack Smithson, was medium-build material, average in most ways, except he had a bushy dark beard and a mile-wide grin. "I got married to Donna, a waitress I met in a cafe twenty-five years ago, cuter than a bug's ear, funny, liked me a lot for some reason, probably because I'd inherited some money and laughed at her jokes. We were married twenty years, and she divorced me after I came home early one day and found a younger, muscular stud fucking Donna's brains out in our bed. I took exception, told the guy if I ever laid eyes on him again, I'd kill him." "He left rapidly, then I proceeded to make Donna's life miserable in a million ways, never forgave her, and she finally left. After a couple of weeks, I got the papers, signed those, and haven't heard from her. She never asked for any of my money, which I thought was strange. I don't know where she is now, and I don't care." "Thank you, Jack," Mark was determined to add a leader's positive comment whenever he could. "Please stay standing for comments or questions." A hand raised across the circle. "If that was Donna from Hobson's Cafe on Charles Street, I know where she is." Jack's eyes smoldered. "I'm Donna's father, Sam Hartson, and I'm glad to hear the other side of the story finally. Her story differs from yours, but that is behind us and shouldn't surprise anyone. What matters is her happiness . . . and yours, son." "I wouldn't have recognized you, Dad. I wasn't expecting you here; I didn't recognize you." "She had a breakdown after she left and can't work. I am supporting her and am happy to do that, of course. I struggle to know if she cheated that day as a lark or as an 'out' to a marriage breaking for other reasons." "I know that she loved you and was happy with you to some point. She still talks about you every day and what she misses about you." Robert interjected, "After five years, she's still mentioning his name?" "Yes. Donna is under no illusion that she cheated and expected nothing different, but her love for Jack seems to be undiminished." Jack took a deep breath. "I didn't include everything, guys. My erectile dysfunction began about fifteen years into our marriage, and at first, there wasn't a great cure, or meds, just pump implants and implantable plastic rods. By the time pills were widely available, I couldn't afford them since the insurance didn't cover them." "Donna loved sex, both the 'being close' part and what she called 'Mr. Bliss' making her physically happy. When I found them, I should have just been glad she was getting a need met, joined in, or watched in a corner and cheered or something. Anything but what happened next." "Instead, disgusted with myself and my inadequacies, I became furious. Once I put myself in that corner and painted myself in, I didn't know how to gracefully get out of it. I don't think any guy ever prepares for that situation." Sam stood. "Maybe I shouldn't mention it, but everything stays here, right?" Mark nodded. "Donna told me she hired an escort that day from a service that a friend recommended, and he made the physical longing go away. The guy had the equipment of a bull with the energy and used it, but he wasn't you, so she had already decided that wasn't an answer for her before you walked in the room." Jack's face flushed, and he looked miserable. "Sam, it wasn't her fault." Sam moved across the circle and took Jack into his arms for a man hug. "I know now, Jack. I know that." Both began to cry, their shoulders shaking, thinking of what might have been. Mark wanted to say something. "So, it ends here, right? Story with a sad ending or story with a sad interval and a happy ending? Waddya think, guys?" The group sat silent for a moment. Jon Dennison raised his hand cautiously. "Jon, what do you think?" "There are a limited number of options here, Mark. It may be too soon to choose the ending of the story or too late. Donna could call Jack and beg forgiveness, but she hasn't yet, and she may have a good reason for thinking that only pain could result from that call or doesn't want to put you into that situation." "The second and third options are choices only Jack can choose. Only he can decide what his heart is saying to him now that he knows what Sam told him whether there is healing for him and Donna, perhaps to contact her. Maybe coffee. Maybe lunch. A graduated series of getting to know each other better, deeper, than the last time. People can patch things up, and this variety of patches doesn't always show or mean much, like on a pair of pants. An emotional patch can be rewarding and lead people to a new place, a happier place for both." "A re-do might work for you, Jack. Some men have not solved their ED issues and allow their spouses to invite an escort over for 'tea and cookies' with the spouse and vicariously enjoy the show. That could be a fantastic date for a threesome of sorts. "Now those phosphodiesterase inhibitors (PDE-5) are a lot cheaper and even available on the Internet without an in-person doctor visit, ED can be a lesser obstacle. The larger hill to climb is the emotional one. Will fear of being hurt again, fear of self-devaluation, loss of self-control, or loss of pride prevent the emotional patch if attempted?" The room was silent for a few minutes, then Mark asked Jon Dennison, who had also happened to draw an 'X' to stand and be the third speaker. "My wife, Cissy Sparks-Dennison, died a couple of years ago from ovarian cancer. After the diagnosis in a hundred different ways—she suffered physically, emotionally, just one thing after another. I miss her a lot. The kids miss her. Holidays aren't the same. I hate sleeping in a cold bed at night." "I don't believe that she's in heaven. I'm religious and read the Bible, and it says that death is like sleep and that the dead 'know not anything.' How would a just God have someone up there watching their loved ones suffering without them? It just isn't Biblical. The view that people or 'souls' waft up to heaven after death is not backed by science, the Bible, or common sense. Some churches take in money from people for services and monuments that perpetuate the hoax." Several in the room gasped and angrily shifted in their seats. Mark reminded those present that everyone had a right to their own beliefs. "Sounds like life at your house isn't as you wish it to be, Jon. Tell us more about Cissy." "She was 24 when we met at the hospital. She loved nursing, and I was well on the way to beginning medical school after completing my bookkeeping career. I had a fractured leg from a hockey accident. She was the nurse who tended to me in the emergency room. Talk about love at first sight." "She was pretty, built, and vibrant. Oh, and she liked me. She gave me her number, and 'the rest was history' as is said in many contexts. I was busy, often unavailable as a husband and dad later on, but she seemed to know that the whole family was giving to the community when I got called out. "Did you become acquainted with her family?" "Yes and no. Cissy's brother, Ben, younger by two or three years, never came by. He was in the Air Force, always deployed somewhere. Her parents had passed a year before we married. We have just two children, twins Joe and Celine. They are ten now." "So, her brother, um . . . Ben, is it, and your twins are your family now?" "Well, my twins sure are. I haven't met Ben." "Did Cissy talk to Ben?" "Yes, they were constantly on the phone, email, Skype, FaceTime, you name it." "Do you think Cissy would want you to keep track of him for her?" "I won't ever know that." "Correct. If you don't keep track and it doesn't matter, that's one thing, right? If you keep track of Ben in her absence and it turns out to be the right thing, could you and your twins be one step ahead?" "I think I kind of resented her time with him on the phone when I came home tired needing food and a hug." "She's gone now, though, right?" "Yes, damn it." "I'm wondering if you need to catch up to the brother that was so tight with your wife? Would that involve too much pain for you right now?" Mark interjected. "Let's see what the room thinks. Please stay standing, Jon." Sam Hartson raised his hand once again. "Did you ever meet Ben?" "No, he was always deployed. I never met him." "Isn't that remarkable that Cissy never invited him to your home for that meeting at least once in your years of marriage?" "Unusual, probably." "Do you know if he ever wanted or offered to visit or how he feels about losing his sister?" "No." "What if he misses her as you do? Could your reaching out to him blunt some of his pain? Maybe bring a bit of Cissy back for your kids . . . even for you? Maybe you and the kids could connect him in some way to his lost sister?" Jon sat down his face a study, staring at the floor in a daze. The first crisp day of autumn surrounded the dorm at Ellison College that year, thirty-some years before the Widowers Group first met in Boston. The red and orange leaves on the giant maples hung on by threads as if the first windstorm might blow them to the ground. A few were already swirling down in tight circles. Aided by his younger brother Tom, Daniel Fortner was moving to Needles Hall, the men's dorm, for his freshman year. "Guess room 314 is on the third floor, Dan, whaddya bet?" "Sounds like a safe bet." The brothers hiked suitcases and boxes up the stairs. Daniel's folks had been generous with new clothes, a computer, a printer, and enough money for him to eat out once in a while and, as his dad said, 'drink a beer responsibly once in a blue moon.' Daniel wasn't sure that meant 'drink responsibly rarely' or "drink every blue moon,' but he didn't like alcohol that much. He'd tried it, of course, but found he couldn't study and remember things well with alcohol on board. His first year would be general courses. His long-planned goal was law, so he'd declare his pre-law major when the time came. When they found room 314, someone had already been there and put their stuff on a bed and the corresponding desk and closet. That person wasn't there at the moment; the brothers took the remaining bed, desk, and closet for Daniel. "Little bro, love you. Thank you for helping me move in. I'll miss you." He hugged Jimmy and got a hug back, slapping him on the back. "Same here, big brother, but remember to call home. I'll imagine your ugly face all the time when you call home." "I'm going to unpack, Sam. Drive safe on the way home." The unpacking didn't take long. Daniel found he had underestimated the number of hangers he needed and had forgotten the extension cord with multiple outlets that also had the surge protector, so he looked at the campus map, found the store location, and went off to hunt the items down. After buying what he needed, he came out of the store and turned back toward the dorm, passing a cafe. Warm and fragrant smells came out that door, drawing him back to what turned out to be a big part of the rest of his life. Daniel entered and headed to the counter where exactly one raised, round, red-plastic cushioned seat remained. He sat, twisted to make sure the stool revolved like the ones he was used to at his diner at home, reached forward to grab a menu, and a waitstaff dropped off a frosty glass of water with a straw. "Specials are meatloaf, fried chicken dinner, fish and chips, and turkey a la king. I recommend the chicken or fish. Meatloaf and turkey, you're on your own and stop at the pharmacy on the way back to the dorm." Daniel looked over at the guy sitting on his right and took in a deep breath at a guy looking at his menu. The neighbor on the right, he assessed, meets all requirements for 'get to know better' based on many factors. Looks, dress, looks, and looks. His neighbor took that moment to raise his face, turn it, and he looked right into Daniel's eyes. His neighbor's pupils dilated briefly, then said face flushed to a deep red, which complemented his blonde hair and blue eyes. The neighbor looked back down at his menu, looked around, and made the decision to speak. "Hi, I'm Russell Boudreaux. Are you new here too?" "New freshman. You?" "Same and hungry." "What for?" A long pause. "Hard to say." "I know the feeling."They continued to stare at each other. Daniel reached down to adjust a large problem, and Russell's gaze followed his hand's movement. "OK." Their meals appeared, they ate without other conversation, paid, walked out one behind the other, both headed back to the dorm. Russell stopped briefly to ask the monitor a question at the dorm, and Daniel ran up the stairs. At the door to the room, the keycard wasn't in the pocket Daniel thought it was, and he had visions of paying for another or retracing his steps to the store, the diner, and back to look for it. Just then, Russell arrived and looked at Daniel with that intense look again. "What brings you to my door?" "I'm to live here with a roommate this year." Russell trapped Daniel against the door with his powerful arms, leaned in, took Daniel into his arms right there in the hall, licked Daniel's lips, opened the door with his keycard, and all clothes were off within five minutes. Russell drove, and Daniel navigated, his first eager fuck a revelation and an intense outburst of passion. When the trip was over, they lay panting on Russell's bed, arms around each other, naked, Daniel's face pressed to the hollow of Russell's warm neck, and Russell began to speak again. "I waited all my life for you. Where have you been?" "I know. Me too. Just waiting for a guy who liked my face, I think, and that wasn't scared to make a move, that could read my mind or something." "I can't read your mind," replied Russell. "There are times when I don't know my mind. But when I saw you in the diner and then again at the door here, I figured one of us could always move out or we could fight, and you could kill me, but I'd die happy cause I'd seen your face, kissed it, and fucked you into next week." Daniel raised his head to kiss Russell at that. "I'm not a fighter that way. After seeing you today, your chances were 100% with me. By the way, you only fucked me into tomorrow. You're not getting off that easy. Talk to me tomorrow, and we'll see about being friends again." "First, I'll consult Mr. Happy and see if he wants more action tomorrow." "Mr. Happy? Oh. Tell him to discuss it with Dan Jr. here. I'm getting up now to hang up my shirts and plug in my computer." "Fine. Be that way. Leave the clothes and towels off. I want to watch your ass move around the room. By the way, that ass is now mine. Nobody else enters said place, capisce?" "I agree with the proviso Mr. Happy is mine only with side trips allowed to your hands only and then only with permission by me." "Ouch. That's pretty tight control." "Tight like me, right?" "Yeah, Daniel, tight like you." The Widowers club listened to an abbreviated version of the above. Daniel Fortner and Russell Boudreaux had drawn the 4th and 5th slips of paper marked with an 'X,' respectively, and had asked to present together for reasons they said would become apparent. Daniel told them that they had remained 'tight' through four years at Ellison College, then drifted apart as Daniel went to law school in New York City. Russell left to be with an elderly uncle in Pittsburgh, a retired union official at an iron fabricating plant. They saw each other once in a while, but less frequently because of the distance and duties. Both men felt pressure to marry and reproduce, pressure from work partners and family. They did marry smart women, neither of whom knew about their husband's former sexual preference until after they had given their husbands a son each. At that point, each wife had decided the work they put into motherhood, the role of lover and housekeeper wasn't worth the return and divorced their spouses. Russell's wife committed suicide by leaping from a tall building the day after her divorce. Daniel's wife simply disappeared for good to somewhere with someone. Daniel never knew where or with whom. Denny Fortner and Ron Boudreaux, their sons, grew up with their single dads and came alive for soccer. They both happened to be good at soccer, and at the New York City high school where they met, they competed. Ron's dad had moved up in union ranks, and the national headquarters in New York City became their new home two years before high school for Ron. After Denny and Ron's first view of each other on the field and afterward, briefly, a quiet attraction developed in the locker room and showers. They studied and played soccer together. Neither dated. They sometimes got a hot dog together, and that was that except for the time Ron came across Denny at a teen gay event during his senior year, goosed him, and whispered into his ear to follow him. Denny knelt before Ron in a dark corner, fellated him, and swallowed. Both were impressed by the experience. That became a favorite, repeated in different discreet locations often during the rest of that year. Neither met the other's dad. Denny disappeared into the Marines after graduation, and Ron, for some reason, had always wanted to be an attorney. He took pre-law, then the law, and joined a firm in the City. Neither of their fathers had a clue their sons had ever met. Denny got out of the Marines and came home. His first time out to a gay bar in the City, he struck pay dirt. A guy tapped him on the shoulder, older than Denny, very handsome, suave even, and asked him to dance. Denny went to Russell's hotel room that night. Russell told him that he almost told Denny at the club that he reminded Russell of someone Russell once knew but thought it was a corny pickup line to use, so he didn't. Their sex that night, for both, was off the charts. Denny hadn't come so often in one night anytime in the last year. Russell walked a little weird the next morning before breakfast. They met and cemented their physical and emotional attachment over the next few months. Ron Boudreaux's contract with his landlord wasn't clear on some details, causing some friction. Ron's attorney referred Ron to a specialist in tenant law, one Daniel Fortner, down in Soho. Ron had heard the last name before but never expected the attorney to be his friend's dad and didn't recognize him, having never met him. At that visit, Daniel gave expert legal advice, and Ron paid the invoice. At a follow-up visit to clear up the new contract's final details, Daniel happened to notice Ron's package, felt a corresponding jump in his pants, and on impulse, invited Ron for supper. "I'm single. I'm a good cook. My lasagna is world-class like my legal work, and if you swing by my condo at 6:30 p.m. I have a decent burgundy from France that I've waited to break out. You could do me a favor of drinking some of it. That way, I'm not tempted to drink the whole bottle. It would be sad if two attorneys couldn't handle an entire bottle between them." Ron accepted the address and cell number, and at 6:30 p.m. sharp was buzzed into the building. "I like that in a stud," said Daniel, "On time isn't a thing most people care about anymore." Ron stayed past supper, then spent the night with Daniel, both strangely comfortable in each other's arms. The sex was impressive enough. They didn't discuss their families but did continue to meet for said 'amazing' sex. Later that autumn, the National Ironworkers Union Executive Board met at the Park Central hotel. As luck would have it, Russell and Daniel both attended and met over canapes, introduced by a clueless lady union treasurer from Wyoming. "Russell Boudreaux, you must meet Daniel Fortin. Isn't he just the cutest tenant attorney you ever did meet?" Both men's faces were alive with pleasure and excitement at the meet-up. "I never thought I'd see you again, Russell. Can we meet and catch up in a more private place soon?" "Is your ass still mine?" There was a bit of an awkward pause before Daniel just ignored the question and smiled. "Are you seeing anyone now?" Then it was Russell's turn to clam up. Despite the hitch, they met again at Daniel's, this time for linguini and clams and a very good pinot grigio. The food and conversation were excellent and comfortable. Old feelings surfaced, and before morning sometime, Daniel's ass was, once again, Russell's. Russell and Daniel discussed the previous questions during their pillow talk. "I didn't know you were in the City, Ron. I met a kid, about twenty-two or so, a beauty, and we've fucked some. I do love him, and I think the feeling is mutual; I could fall for him in a heartbeat, the sex is white-hot." "I know what you mean," Daniel replied. "I had no idea you were home from deployments. I met a young man, almost the same age, I guess, and the same applies. He rings my chimes as loud as you did in college!" "Isn't that funny?" Dennis was on a roll. "We both found a kid to tumble, and it sounds like we both scored big. So, we now have not a love triangle, but a quadrangle or rectangle or a foursome or something." He grinned. "Wouldn't it be fun to introduce them to each other," breathed Russell. "Maybe we could buy a super king-size bed and enlarge the shower and . . ." "Hold on, stud. Maybe our lovers would be uncomfortable or awkward or something." "Wouldn't want that." Dennis was still a kind guy, Russell thought. "We could just bring them to supper at Martha's over on 7th Avenue tomorrow, not tell them anything beforehand, then tell them both at lunch about our history in college and all that. Maybe it will give them ideas." "It's worth a try," replied Dennis. Denny and Russell arrived first and secured their reserved table. Five minutes later, Daniel and Ron walked up to the table, sat down, and all hell broke loose. "Dad! What the fuck!" Denny yelled. An echoing sentence from Ron fueled the uproar. Russell possessed the lungs of an ironworker, but it was some time before calm prevailed. "Daniel, you didn't tell me you were fucking my son." "Ditto." "Ew," cried Ron and Denny. "How do you two know each other in the first place." Before Russell could stop Daniel, the latter calmly stated that both were lovers from college and had continued their relationship last night, thinking to continue seeing the loves of their life. "We didn't know the other was, um, 'with' one of you. There was no reason to know or suspect that." "Russell and Ron may be the best fuckers in the North East, although I can't say I've tried all the alternatives, Daniel chimed in, thinking to add a little fuel to the bonfire." "Have you two boys met before?" Russell wanted to know. Denny's Marine training enabled him to kill if need be. However, he restrained himself on this occasion and looked at his dad after one hard blush. "Yeah, dad, we were lovers in high school too until I went away to the Marines and Ron went to law school." Russell giggled, "You gotta admit it's a drama made for a movie or something. A stud Marine and a union exec are doing each other, and two slicked-down attorneys are tearing up the sheets!" No one else smiled. Russell tried again. "Sounds like we could all use a stiff drink. We all just got told something we didn't think we wanted to know, and we survived it. None of us are sure about what to think or do next, but after the drink and lunch, assuming the manager doesn't throw us out of here, we might talk about something we all have in common. We all love sex. We've shared partners in and out of the family. We're bright enough to get into trouble. Let's be bright enough to figure a way to deal with this." Daniel began. "The current sex partners are Russell/Daniel, Russell/Denny, Daniel/Ron, and Ron/Denny. Did I miss a pairing?" "I don't believe this is even happening," said Ron and Denny at the same time. "Then pretend it isn't and listen up. Feel free to comment like you just did," Russell used one of his commanding union exec voices. "None of those individuals are currently unhappy with their sex or their two partners?" Daniel asked into the thin blue air. Hearing no response, he said one option was to continue present arrangements. "I'm an attorney, as is Ron here, and we trained to analyze contracts. Imagining options is our job; choosing the options is open to all of us." "The second option is for everyone to break off what they're doing right now." No response came from the table or anyone around it. "A third option is for all four of us to live together. That's called a quad. We live together, continuing our current pairings, and decide when to limit ourselves to our primary pair." "We make a schedule for quad sex, make schedules for secondary pairings, and agree on rules for the house and 'out of quad' sex." "By the way, this option is also an instance of that long societal taboo called incest. Incest is when relatives have sex together." "The taboo, practiced on purpose and by accident for centuries, is frowned on for excellent reasons, the least of which is that a church said it is a no-no." "The best reasons not to allow incest are reproductive. Kids from parents related to each other have a higher chance of deformity and decreased or altered brain function, certainly a good reason to recommend against reproduction in related parents." "Four guys living together will not reproduce, ordinarily, without resort to the opposite sex at some point." There were a few more moments of silence around the table. "You left out an option." This time it was Ron's voice speaking. "Yes, I did," replied Daniel. "The other option is for you two kids to move the hell away from here and for Russell and me to stay here in New York, or vice-versa. That's called a geographical cure. Move away and 'fix it.' There was a reason I left it out. I have loved Russell with all my being since the day I met him the first day at college." "Also, I love my biological son Denny dearly, the only son I'll ever have. He's my flesh and blood." "Besides, I fucking love you, Ron. You are my heart. Sex with you takes me to a place far away, thrilling, energy-filled, wet, orgiastic. I almost come when I think of you and my son together, the two of you loving each other, bringing the other to the top. I want to see that one day for myself and join in, as unusual as it may sound." "Which of my men must I leave? Which of my men will leave me? My other half? My son? My lover? I hope none of you. Please consider staying together here in the City." The Widowers Club was unusually quiet after the presentation of Russell and Daniel. A tentative hand went up from about a quarter around the circle to the left. "I'm Tony. I don't know if I'm supposed to ask this in this group, and I don't mean to offend, but are you allowed to tell us the rest of the story?" "Tony, we all moved into a large condo on a high floor building. We had a primary bedroom with a double king bed, an enormous glassed-in shower, two toilets, four sinks, a huge gourmet kitchen, a sprawling lounge with four televisions and four remotes with Bluetooth earphones, four exercise bikes, offices, and lots of storage." "The first time we had quad sex, all of us were a little nervous. We began with Russell and me," said Denny, "doing our thing gently at the same time as Daniel and Ron. I can't tell you how moving that display became." "Russell and Daniel had tears in their eyes afterward as their sons fucked like only younger men tend to do. Ron and Denny took a turn with each other, the Ron and Daniel paired off once again while Russell and Denny gave each other a sixty-nine that showered sparks on the bed, followed by a loving fuck while Daniel and Ron stared wide-eyed, inspired. When Russell once again re-claimed my ass, Denny and Ron joined in, and we all cried like babies, mourning the lost time, excited, even a little shaky from the exercise . . . all except our proud Marine, Denny. Marines cry in private and never shake in public. They fuck like bunnies though and we got to see it. What a show! The amount of cum leaking from Russell and Ron from Denny's efforts that day was a sight to see. From the looks of it, Denny wasn't exactly finished, so Ron grabbed him and soon the room was filled with growls and moans and heavy breathing from a Marine stallion close to taking a buddy right up into the sky." Mark thanked Russell and Daniel and granted the group a bathroom break for fifteen minutes in case anyone needed to take care of anything and several guys paired up in the stalls to relieve tension prior to slumping back into the conference room. "Now the issue has arisen: my 'ex' called out of the blue from New Mexico, needy, has a mild form of multiple sclerosis and is asking for any help I can spare? There is no room in my heart or my bed for her. My sole option is to help with finances, but I'm opposed to taking money that would go to house maintenance and eventually to my son, my lover, and Russell after I die someday for a woman that just up and left us so many years ago." Mark stood and thanked Daniel and Russell for their story and asked them to stay standing for group comments or questions. Robert asked the first question after the group stayed still for a moment. "Are you telling us that you have already pretty much made a decision about your 'ex' and are venting, or needing group approval, so to speak, or are you interested in comments and possible considerations to think about?" "The last you mentioned is where I am. Russell?" Daniel graciously included his man in the discussion. The issues involved Russell, too, after all. "Yes, I know Daniel pretty well after these years. He can analyze and choose options rapidly. This one is too close to his feelings to be easy for him, though. The woman is his son's mother and will be for the rest of her life and his. I want Daniel to be pleased with whatever goes down." Daniel took up the conversation. "The whole mess can't be undone or repeated. It is a fresh wound of sorts that involves human decency. My 'ex' didn't ask for her disease. At the same time, I didn't tell her that my sexual preference was gay before she married me. She divorced me after finding out from a friend who spilled the beans inadvertently." "I had, however, remained faithful to her during our marriage because I had made her a promise to 'love, cherish, and honor her through sickness and health so long as we both shall live.' I try very hard to be a promise-keeper. She broke the contract. At the same time, I feel I could honor her because of our family tie without giving up my love for my men." Rod asked Daniel whether Daniel had discussed this at length with his men. "Haven't had the time so far. The issue came up last week." "Maybe that is a starting point. Your men are important to you, and their approval means something. Get a sense of how they feel about the scope of what might work for them. You could ask if the house needs a housekeeper or if there's enough in the budget for a companion." "Should there be a monthly sum to her as a gift only to help her with medical expenses, specifying no responsibility, no liability, and no further automatic or on demand increases in the payments.?" Daniel sighed, grasping Russell's hand tightly. "Thank you for listening, and thank you for your input, guys." From another hand raised in the circle of chairs came the last question. "Do your sons feel like they have lost their dads in a way? Russell answered for both men. "I don't see why they would. We don't spank our boys much, and we fuck our sons' cute asses twice a week and watch them fuck each other and both of us. The only thing they've lost is a bucket of cum. They each have found their dads' approval of their sex and two additional lovers besides each other and have free interactive gay porn to watch each week. What loss?"