I reached out and lay my hand on his chest and toyed with the blond fur — partly just to make sure he was really there. The syncopation of his heart beneath the skin, muscle, and bone reassured me. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have a man in my bed when I woke. He stirred beneath the sapphire blue Egyptian cotton sheets. His eyes opened and blinked into focus. He looked at me, smiled, then rolled over to pull me close to him. “I’ve wanted to do that for years,” he whispered into my ear.
Josh and I met our freshman year in college (nearly twenty years ago now) when we were assigned as roommates. He’s tall, Nordic blonde, indigo blue eyes, and enough muscle to pull a freight train. I’m average height, bearish weight, with dark brown hair, and brown eyes. I tan easily. He burns. I swim well. He kicks around and splashes a lot. He’s straight. I’m gay. We’re both liberal, joined the Green Party when the Democrats became conservative. I was the best man at his wedding. He introduced me to my husband of fifteen years. They were law partners. I’m in the visual arts. When Philip was killed in a car crash two years ago, Josh was there to help me find the pieces to pick up.
As we sat on the deck a couple of weeks ago drinking mead and talking about nothing and everything he looked me in the eye. “Jack, I need to tell you something,” he said flatly. “Lara and I are done. Hell, it’s been over for years. You know that.” I nodded. I had been waiting for this news. They’d been sleeping in separate bedrooms, never went anywhere together, and he was spending too much time at my house to be in a happy marriage. “She found someone else and doesn’t want to be unfaithful — I guess technically.”
Lara and Philip had been friends. She tolerated me. She was in love with Philip and resented me because I could give him what she couldn’t. I’ve never understood why a woman would think she could convert a gay man. Josh talked a little more and confided that he was, really, glad it was over with. He didn’t have to pretend any more. She could have the house and it’s contents except for his personal stuff. Mercifully, they didn’t have children to worry about — his words not mine.
Then he dropped the big bomb. Okay, I knew this one was coming too. He’s my best friend. He’s the guy who I had talked to about Philip’s foibles. I knew as much about Josh’s marriage as he did. Josh can’t live alone. He had his parents until college, me until he and Lara started living together, and Lara until now. Forty’s a little old to go home, so he came to me. I was flattered in a way, angry in another, and honesty tired of living in the beaux arts house alone with Scarecrow – the Abyssinian cat Philip bought me for our anniversary the last year he was alive and named after his favorite ale.
Last night I got home from work, and Josh had supper waiting – coffee rubbed sirloin with a bourbon reduction gravy, wild rice infused with gin, gingered carrots, a nice bottle of Shiraz, Ella Fitzgerald scatting. “What are you up to,” I asked. I got no response except for a smile. I shook my head wryly. “Give me ten minutes,” I said. I walked upstairs, changed clothes, took out my contacts, and went down for the meal that awaited me.
When I walked into the dining room, I saw he had a vase of blue irises on the table and no candles. “I know how you feel about candles in the day light,” he said. I made a mental note to call his mother later. We’ve been working on him about this for years. He’d put lit candles on a breakfast table and think he was right. He’s my best friend and hopelessly straight in so many respects. The victory seemed pyrrhic though. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. He had the right stem ware, all the utensils, my good damask napkins, and he was going to get the soup. “He’s lost his mind, killed Scarecrow, moving out, or all of the above,” I thought.
“Josh, is something wrong,” I asked as he sat the plate before me.
“Why should something be wrong?”
“Because you’re trying too hard.”
“It’s just dinner,” he countered.
“For me, it’s just dinner. This is an event for you. You come to dinners like this. You are clueless about throwing them. And I’m the only one here. What have you done?”
He cocked his head in that annoying way he has. I’ve seen him use it in the courtroom a couple of times. You just want to smack him. “I stopped at the library today and picked up a book of Rimbaud’s poetry.”
“You don’t read poetry.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay, you do. You don’t read Rimbaud,” I said tasting the cold cherry soup. It was wonderful. I don’t know who made it for him. He can’t cook instant oatmeal without some disaster befalling it. I set my mind on the food. He cleared the plates and brought out the next course. Damn, the rice was better than mine. If brought out cherries jubilee for dessert, I was calling the cops.
“I do read Rimbaud,” he said defiantly.
After dinner while he busied himself in the kitchen putting things in the dishwasher, I took a drink of the espresso he’d brought. It had a hint of cinnamon. I furrowed my brow. I picked up the Rimbaud. I had this one in my library upstairs. Why check it out of the public one? He probably didn’t venture up there, I considered. Maybe it’s too much my house I thought. He needs to feel like he lives here and isn’t some border.
“I thought you’d like this,” he said as he came through the door. He carried two glasses and a bottle of green liquid. “Johnny got this for me,” he confessed as he put the tray on the table as Harry sang on about not knowing him when in the background. “It’s the real stuff. Illegal as Cuban cigars.”
“Absinthe?”
“Come, the Wines go to the beaches, And the waves by the millions! See the wild Bitter Rolling from the top of the mountains! Let us, wise pilgrims, reach The Absinthe with the green pillars….”
“That’s from ‘Comedy of Thirst.’” I said.
“You know your poetry,” he said.
“Remember, I fell into the arts. I majored in the humanities in college.”
“I’ve always been glad your married well. I was worried about you.”
“Unlike your ex, I’m not a gold digger. Philip left me a little bit.” He knew to the penny how much Philip had willed me. He was the executor after all. I watched as he sat the Absinthe spoons across the glasses, set the sugar cubes atop them and fix glowing glasses of La Fee Vert. He toasted. I drank. Soon my world began to be taken over by the green faery. He leaned forward and kissed me gingerly. I returned his kiss but with the passion his had lacked. I’d wondered what it would be like to be with Josh since we’d met. He was straight, so it seemed I’d never find out.
Somehow we were naked lying on the bed Philip and I had shared. Josh’s tongue played across my chest. “I really don’t take advantage of drunken friends,” he whispered. He kissed his way further down. He followed my happy trail and toyed with me before actually taking me in his mouth. He released me. “If I lack skill, this is my first time with a man.” Well, for a first timer, his technique was excellent. I arched my back and he mouth was at my ear. “Who was the husband,” he whispered and began nipping at my neck. “I’m a power bottom,” I managed. His tongue on my shoulder. Then the back of my knee. The faery circled the room and took me firmly in his hold. Time was ethereal. Place was ephemeral. Josh’s mouth and tongue were eternal. I heard the unmistakable sound of a condom package opening. I watched the surreal scene as he rolled it on and picked up a bottle of lube.
There was a pillow under the small of my back. He entered me. I moaned. The Sun streamed through the windows. I was sober now. “When…”
“After Lara, but you had Philip,” he answered. I started to speak, but he stifled me with a kiss. You had control last night Champ. Today, you’re mine. I pushed him off. He was on his back with a bewildered look on his face. I’m the tri-state blow job champion – maybe a little rusty, but I will hear you moan with a pleasure you never imagined. Last night might be a disjointed haze, but today I’d know his pleasure. He still had his foreskin. Better for me to work with. Lara wanted that taken care of, but he’d never submitted. He tensed under my weight and I felt the flood come into my mouth. I barely kept from making a complete mess. He leaned down and kissed me.
A new adventure began. We both had much to teach and much to learn. This time, we didn’t need absinthe, but I developed a new appreciation for Rimbaud.
