Afterlife (28 page)

Mark excused himself to go for a jog. He only had one more day to get through here, and then back to the house on Skyway Lane to brood about how his life had come to nothing. He trotted around the rim of the golf course, waving up at Rob and Roz on the balcony as he passed. What they couldn't see were the hundred other terraces, seniors sitting on every one, singles and in pairs, squinting into the morning sun.

Did they all understand they were just biding time? Everyone seemed to be old, wherever he ran. Coming off the ninth hole was a trio of stooped and shrunken men, but stepping spry. One wore a plaid tarn and sported a George Burns cigar, and Mark caught his bloodshot eye as he jogged past. He could see the pang in the old man's face, his yearning to be young and swift. Mark wanted to laugh out loud and shout that he was dying too, but he kept on running.

The sweat felt good. His lungs were strong. He ran between two palm trees and onto the condo dock, his Reeboks drumming nicely on the wood. He watched two white-hulled yachts pass lazily in the canal. Everyone on both boats was white-haired and morbidly tan, but having the time of their lives as they laughed and chattered ship to ship. Mark stopped short at the end of the dock. Hands on his hips, he paced in a circle, warming down.

There were Chris-Crafts tethered all along the dock, retirees in loud Bermudas swabbing their decks and polishing brass. Nobody seemed to be dying. In fact, they appeared to be fairly bursting with energy. Mark had always found Lauderdale ghoulish, the anteroom of a funeral parlor, but now he felt a strange jealousy as he loped back up the dock. All these people had banded together here as a tribe, holding their own and finding one another, defying the shadow of death. Next to them his own body—still so fit and vivid, nothing wrong to look at him—felt alien and solitary, trapped in a shuttered house.

He pulled up the front of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. As he rubbed his neck, he happened to glance into the boat docked beside him.
ULYSSES
was painted in black on the blue hull, the woodwork dark and polished like glass. Just then the door to the cabin flew open, and a young god clambered out on deck. About twenty-four, in cutoff jeans and nothing else, blond and bronze and ridiculously good-looking. He carried a fishing pole in one hand, tackle box in the other. There was a frozen moment, eye to eye, in which they established the gay part. The god smiled and stared at Mark's belly where the sweatshirt was lifted up.

“Hot day,” said the young man, putting the ball into play. Mark dropped the shirt, covering up. His eyes darted to either side, as if he'd forgotten his lines. He'd been at this brink a thousand times, remarking on the heat of the day in a dozen ports, from San Diego to the Pines. The god smiled effortlessly, not requiring a two-way hookup ship to shore. “I got some beer in there,” he said, shrugging in the direction of the cabin. “If you want to kick back.”

Still Mark stood awkward and silent. How many times had he visited Rob and walked this dock in a horny swoon of desire, too late to drive to the bars in Miami? He'd always been up for another encounter like this, the chance to plunder beauty. That was the point: you could never have enough. But now he could feel himself recoiling, and it shook him, because if he'd lost the pleasure of this, then what was left?

“It's my granddad's boat,” said the young man, stroking the tip of the pole against his cheek. “Except he's in the hospital right now. Maybe you'd like to go out.” He nodded out to the waterway, and in the toss of his head was every beckoning call to pleasure, every desert island.

Mark shook his head. “Sorry, I gotta get back to my dad,” he said. He couldn't believe he was turning it down and still couldn't say why.

But the next moment helped. The god gave a lazy shrug, and something shifted in his eyes, so that Mark could almost see him thinking,
Who cares?
As if the day was still young, and he could do a lot better than a middle-aged man. And with all his indifferent perfection intact, he stretched to throw off the lines. There was no need to say good-bye or wave or pretend they would ever see each other again. No different, Mark thought bleakly as he loped away down the palm alley, than if they'd had the sex.

He let himself into the condo, thinking he'd tell them to get dressed up and he'd take them into Miami for lunch. He pulled off his sweatshirt and strode across to the balcony, something in him feeling proud to be bare-chested and sweaty, as if he wanted to prove to his dad that he was still a man in his prime. He stepped out, but the slatted chairs were empty. He turned to call their names into the apartment and just then heard them through the bedroom window, beyond the balcony wall.

Laughing. He wasn't sure how he knew they were making love as well—the laughter just as it was before, when he fled to go running—but he knew. And it made him blush red again. He'd never heard his father make love to his mother, or at least it was deep in the forgotten past. He didn't feel embarrassed exactly, or even ashamed, but like a fool. Suddenly Roz's laugh pitched to a trill, and there was gasping. Mark stepped in and closed the sliding door.

He went into the TV room, where the sleepover sofa was pulled out and neatly made. He flung himself down and stared at the ceiling, wiping his face again with the damp shirt. The raw funk of his own sweat filled his nostrils, but for once didn't make him feel sexy. So much about being a man was tied up with a kind of compulsive vanity, and here he was trapped in a place without mirrors.

He reached out for the phone and drew it close, resting it on his breastbone as he punched in his long-distance code. He thought he was going to dial his own number and retrieve the messages from his machine, but he made a mistake and dialed Steven's number instead. At least he preferred to think of it as a mistake.

Sonny answered the phone in L.A. “Steven Shaw's,” he said breezily, chipper as a houseboy.

“Sonny, it's Mark.”

“Hey, dude. You sound far away.”

“I'm in Florida. Is Steven there?”

“No, he's over at Ray's. Hey, I used to commute to Florida. This bitch of a winter in Boston, I was freezin' my nuts off. Then I met this pilot, worked for Eastern, real big dick. And he'd bring me down every week on the Friday run. First-class, the whole bit—”

“Just tell him I called, okay? I'll be home tomorrow night.”

“Yeah, sure. So like that went on for about three months, but then it was gettin' too hot in Miami. I don't dig humidity.”

“Listen, I gotta go—”

“So you're comin' here for Thanksgiving.”

“Uh, I don't know. No plans.”

“Yeah, you got a place card and everything. Please, he's already set the fuckin' table.” They laughed together, and Mark permitted himself the sudden small rush of pleasure, knowing he had a place to go for Thursday. “It's like musical beds since you were here. Like we have to eat breakfast in shifts.”

Mark was stuck for a second, trying to process
since you were here
. He didn't like Sonny knowing he hadn't made an appearance at Steven's house since the night of the rawhide tryst. It almost seemed that Sonny took a certain satisfaction in the breach. Mark should have hung up right then, but he was a step behind. “Tell Steven if he needs anything, like wine or—”

“First we got us a fugitive,” said Sonny, a bit too loud. He sounded drunk, but it was only 9
A.M.
out there. “The fag Jesse James, holed up right here. Wearin' my underpants and everything.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” retorted Mark, his voice even and cold, though in fact he was feeling pretty agitated. He heard the bedroom door open, and out of the corner of one eye saw his father saunter across to the kitchen, wearing an oversize green silk robe like a prizefighter's.

“But that's not the best. Listen—Stevie's got a
boyfriend
.”

“A what?”

“This kid. He's been here all weekend. Kinda cute—nice butt.”

“Andy,” said Mark quietly.

“Oh, you know him.” Sonny sounded immediately deflated. Rob Inman appeared in the doorway to the TV room, sucking on a nocal Popsicle.

“Just tell him I called, okay?” Mark barked abruptly, and depressed the button, ending the call.

He turned to his father with relief, anything to change the subject, and Rob said, “C'mon, get dressed. She wants to take you to see some garden. S'posed to be famous.”

As Mark nodded, the green silk robe, unbelted, billowed open a crack. His father's penis was half again as big as Mark had ever seen it before. Not surprising, since it was just easing down after being at full throttle. Yet Rob didn't appear to be deliberately showing off, merely unconcerned and playing it real loose. The fingerbitten accountant was dead and buried. Rob Inman had become a sensualist, a South Florida Casanova, with nothing on the schedule but loveplay with Roz Schwartz. If it took him all day to come, all the better.

As Rob padded back to his bedroom, Mark didn't begrudge him a minute of it. It wasn't as simple as jealousy or envy, not like his own dick had suddenly become the stub of a pencil. No, it was sadder than that. He felt as if he'd never grow up and be a man like his father—a fatuous thought that had never once crossed his mind as a kid—and knew besides he would die alone. It didn't even matter that he was finally able to admit he loved Steven Shaw, because he'd lost him now. Driven him away.

There was nothing to do but put up the wall. He pulled off his running clothes and headed for the shower. Right then he was as old as the oldest man in Lauderdale—no options left, no second chance, nowhere to go but out to sea. At least he'd come out of the closet. He ought to be glad he could even admit to being in love. But all that mattered now was the wall. He looked the same, he looked fine. You would have had to have known him better than anyone he'd ever allowed. Too old and too young at the same time, sadder than he could even feel, but damned if anyone would see.

Especially Steven Shaw.

“Yeah, ride me, man,” snarled Sonny Cevathas. “Do it!”

He straddled the soft belly, pinning Sean's wrists with his hands as he sank down on the stiff member, taking him all the way in. The fucking itself felt surprisingly good, considering how lifeless and unappealing was the dazed man lying under him. At least he had a big dick. The astonished look hadn't left Sean's face since Sonny climbed on top of him, so that Sonny couldn't be sure how close he was to coming.

But he kept up the pace of his pumping up and down, clenching his ass muscles and swaying his hips as he rode, expertly driving the guy crazy. Sonny was in total control—a little bored, a little impatient, but never breaking the flow of smut that spilled from his mouth.

“You gonna give me a load, Sean? Right up into my belly? Yeah, we got a lot of fucking to do. I'm gonna be your stud puppy, huh? Fuck me, man. Fuck my boy pussy.”

The older man's mouth was pursed in an O, emitting short bursts of breath that grew more and more urgent. His eyes were wide with shocked delight. He'd held it in as long as he could, and now he grunted wildly, all the answer he could give to the torrent of Sonny's abandon. “Yeah!” Sonny shouted in triumph, bucking on the pole, shouting it over and over to punctuate every burst inside him.

Then Sonny let go of his wrists and sat up straight, showing off his warrior torso. The dick was still inside him, and Sean was still dazed. Sonny grinned, something between a purr and a growl. “Yeah,” he repeated again, but softer, like a dirty little secret. His own dick swayed in front of him, about three-quarters hard, untouched. Sean didn't seem to notice that Sonny hadn't got off. Slowly the Greek lifted himself away, moaning nicely, as if to keep giving praise for a job well done. “You fill me up real good, Sean,” he said with a small cry of regret as the head came out.

“You're beautiful,” Sean Pfeiffer retorted, finding his voice at last. Which was true but a little beside the point: it was the animal heat that had really knocked him out. There were beauties on every corner, after all, but not with a mouth and moves like this.

And as if to prove it wasn't over even after it was over, Sonny shifted around, showing the butt that had riveted Sean's gaze for months at The Body Works. The Greek reached for the heavy meat and carefully slid off the condom. The reservoir end was thick with cum, white and foamy. Sonny cocked his head and glanced at Sean, still lying there in a dumb swoon. He held the rubber between his thumb and forefinger and swayed it like a pendulum, displaying the weight of the seed.

Then he lolled his head back and lifted the rubber to his mouth. Baring his teeth like a jackal, he started to chew on the bulbous tip, keeping one jaded eye on Sean, who looked appalled and thrilled at once. After a few moments the condom broke, and he sucked out the cum as if it were an overripe fruit. He made a smacking noise, then drew the back of his hand across his mouth, tossing the husk of the rubber away. “Now you came in me twice,” he said, staring at Sean with a passion that appeared to have no limits.

“Very fucking hot,” admitted Sean, always glad to see a new trick. “But are you sure you should do that?”

“You mean is it safe?” Sonny gave a languorous shrug, as if the question was beneath him. “The stomach juices kill all that. Besides, you're a total top man, aren't you?”

Sean nodded on the pillow, folding his white arms under his head. He seemed relieved at Sonny's unconcern, as well as highly pleased to be touted for his manhood. A total top and a total asshole. Though he bragged incessantly about business, Sonny still didn't understand remotely how cable franchise worked. The money he understood, however, and the post-mod house at the top of Trousdale, commanding a two-seventy view of the glittering prizes.

Sonny rose up off the Porthault sheets and swaggered across and into the bathroom, knowing Sean Pfeiffer's dazzled gaze was following him. Sonny caught himself in the river of mirrors that wrapped around three walls, and he stopped to pose, alert to every muscle, loving his deep reflection as he receded into infinity. He moved to the open shower, in a window alcove that hovered on top of Sean Pfeiffer's mountain, the city far below shivering with light. Much higher up than Steven, or even Mark Inman just off Mulholland, whose property Sonny had checked out punctually the morning after their one-night stand, to see if the thing was worth pursuing. Not a chance. Sonny required an entire mountain.