Best Gay Romance 2013 (25 page)

“Jerking away will send me away for a while, but I always come back for what I want,” he said.

“I'll remember that,” I said, gasping as his teeth clamped down on my nipple.

“Please do,” he murmured.

He traced the contours of my body like an intimate cartographer while I shifted and quaked beneath his lips.

When I could stand it no longer, I told him to get condoms and lube out of the desk drawer. He pulled the pale-green condom down over my cock, lubed us both up and straddled me. I watched his face crinkle and relax as he worked my cock inside him; sweat beaded on his forehead. He let out a long, breathy sigh as he finally settled onto me, sliding down to the root and reaching forward to kiss me again. He took charge from the top, moving until he found a rhythm that suited him and then looking down into my eyes and coaxing me forward with him. His six-pack abs rippled beneath the taut skin; his breath was heavy, rising sometimes into moans that shook his body and tightened all of his internal muscles. I was sweating beneath him, coaxed into a delirium of sensation, and just when I thought I might pass out from the strain, I felt hot blasts of cum splashing onto my chest, neck and face. I tilted my head, letting the cum fall onto my lips and tongue. The taste of him sent me over the edge. I leaned forward, pulling him against me and pumping everything I had into his body. I groaned and felt tears mingling with the sweat on my cheeks.

Later, when I opened my eyes, he was still lying on top of me, his face inches from my own. I lifted myself on one elbow, shifting our bodies and looking down at him. His eyes opened, slowly gaining focus. There was a moment of stillness and then he kissed me so passionately I collapsed back on the bed, his body still glued to mine. My cock slid out of him. He reached down to drop the condom on the floor beside the bed without breaking the kiss.

We kissed for a long time, through the heat and exhaustion, his body melding itself to mine. I reached to pull a blanket over the two of us as his lips fluttered against my neck. I didn't ask him at the time, but later Fletcher told me he kept saying, “This is the one, this is the one” over and over until he drifted off to sleep.

We were awakened by Bayani banging on the bedroom door.

“Occupied,” Fletcher said.

I laughed and then covered my mouth with my fingers.

“What the fuck? Ashe, let me in.”

We scrambled into our clothes; Fletcher disposed of the condom and I opened the door.

“Oh, Jesus, Ashe, it smells like a sex club in here.” Bayani stormed into the room wearing lace-up Daisy Dukes, knee-high Doc Martens and glitter. He pushed past me without seeming to notice Fletcher. He dropped to his knees and started pulling wads of clothing from under his bed.

“This is Fletcher.”

“Hey, Fletch.” He didn't turn around. “What are you still doing here? We've got, like ten minutes to get to the theater.”

I glanced at Fletcher.

“Dude, today's Monday,” I said.

“Seriously?” Bayani looked genuinely startled.

“You're in a play?” Fletcher asked.

Bayani laughed. “Are you kidding me? He's—”

I hit him in the face with a pillow.

“What? Is it some kind of embarrassing guerrilla theater? Anticorporate flash mobs or something? Hassling the shoppers in the Disney Store?”

I'm sure Fletcher was being sincere, but this sent Bayani to the floor, laughing and rolling back and forth, then beating his heels on the floor, tears seeping from the corners of his eyes. He was only a moderately talented actor, so I was pretty sure the tears were real.

“What?” Fletcher said again.

“Disney!” Bayani hooted and collapsed again, laughing and on the verge of hysteria.

“What?” Fletcher turned to me.

I didn't say anything, but Bayani rolled onto his back, panting. “He's fucking Prince Charming,” he said. “You know? In
Cinderella?
At the New Amsterdam,” Bayani said, hooting with laughter. “It's a Disney show. Flash mobs! Fuckin' guerrilla theater.”

Fletcher's eyes widened perceptibly but he didn't say anything.

Bayani was staggering to his knees, saying something about
Tarzan
being the only Disney show he'd ever heard of with gorillas.

“Come on, man. It's not that funny,” I said.

This resulted in another round of panting and giggling.

“Can you give us a minute, B?”

Bayani pulled on a purple rain slicker and stalked into the other room.

“Disney isn't a defense contractor,” Fletcher said, his tone gentle but mocking.

I couldn't read his face, but it didn't really matter; I was so embarrassed I wanted to die.

“You protest people buying those shoes when you work across the street in a show that charges five hundred dollars for front-row tickets?”

“It's not the same thing,” I said.

“Isn't it?” I still couldn't read his face. There was something there that wasn't there before, something that looked dark, maybe angry. “Disney is not a defense contractor, but they own ABC and they use the media to shape American public policy; they fight American unions tooth and nail; they rely on underpaid foreign labor for their production base…. I could go on.”

“Please don't.”

We stared at each other for a moment in silence.

“I thought this meant something to you,” he said, pointing to the protest posters on the wall.

I heard my father's voice in his words. Old wounds reopened and tears welled in my eyes.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” I said.

“What?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Maybe I'm not what you think I am.”

“Don't say that. It doesn't—”

“I think you should go,” I said.

“Ashe, no—”

“Just go, Fletcher.”

 

“You're a fucking idiot,” Bayani said, when Fletcher was gone.

“Can you just shut the fuck up? Quit your giggling and laughing and stay the fuck out of my life just this once?” I screamed, grabbing my jacket and storming out the door. I took the service elevator and went out through the back alley, heading uptown toward the park.

I was so full of angry energy that I broke into a run, sprinting as far as Columbus Circle, letting sweat and heat loosen my
joints and clear my head. I crossed into the park and plotted a rambling course toward the Bethesda Fountain.

Embarrassment was thick inside me, viscous and hot and acidic.

An actor? A lousy fuckin' actor? Jesus, Ashe, I thought your political beliefs meant something to you.
My father's disapproval echoed in Fletcher's words; they both thought I was a complete sellout. And wasn't I?

I stormed through the darkening park, sometimes walking, sometimes running, always trying to keep a few paces ahead of the choking shame. I was running when I passed the reservoir and staggering by the time I reached Central Park North. I collapsed on a bench, breathless and exhausted, a wreck of wounded pride. I hated myself so much I considered throwing myself in front of the Number Three bus. I imagined the scrape of asphalt on my face and the crunching progress of the tires across my back and legs. It took me an hour to calm down, but as my anger and embarrassment ebbed, a rising tide of despair washed over me.

What the fuck had I done? Had I just sent a gorgeous, funny, smart, rich man packing because of my wounded pride?

I called Bayani on my cell.

“I don't know what to do,” I said.

“Have you considered throwing yourself in the river?”

“I was thinking of a launching myself under the tires of a crosstown bus.”

“Right. And then I'll be stuck pushing your crippled ass around in a wheelchair—
But ya are, Blanche! Ya are in that chair!
” He broke into peals of laughter.

“Not funny,” I said.

“You know I'm funny, bitch,” he said.

“I'm sorry about before,” I said.

He sighed loudly, and then said: “You white boys are so dramatic. Just call him.”

I smiled.

Until I realized I had absolutely no way of contacting Fletcher.

My grandmother used to say, “Pride goeth before a fall.”

I always hated the crazy old bat.

 

I went back to work the next day, stumbling through the week in a half-dazed stupor that would have gotten me fired if it weren't for the persistent and skillful intervention of the company's Equity steward, Bambi. But even she was getting tired of my lackluster performances by the end of the week. She pulled me aside before the Sunday evening show and whispered in my ear: “You quit fucking up or I'm letting you tank. You got your week; now get your shit together.”

I caked on makeup to cover the bags under my eyes and tried not to cry during the love songs. The Sunday evening performance was a significant improvement. Bambi stopped me in the hall after curtain, grabbed my arms and said, “Better. Now go home, sleep until Tuesday afternoon, and come back in here reborn. You got it, Ashe?” I nodded and slinked away.

Bayani was waiting for me in the hallway in his street clothes.

“There's a package back there for you.” He jerked his head in the direction of my dressing room.

“My walking papers?” I asked.

“I'm thinking, no,” he said.

There was a rectangular package wrapped in royal purple with an extravagant blue ribbon. There was a card tucked under the bow. I pulled out the envelope with trembling fingers and read the note.

I pulled the top off the box, revealing a pair of the blue running shoes Fletcher had not bought at the shoe store on the day we met.

 

I arrived at the store at ten minutes to midnight. The place was packed with tourists scooping up last-minute deals to take home to Scranton or Cleveland or Baltimore.

I had the box tucked under one arm and I was looking for Fletcher. Courtnei approached me and said, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I'd like to return these,” I said.

“Oh, it's
you
. Where's your protest sign?”

“I retired the sign.”

“Change of heart?”

“You could say that.”

“Did you steal these?”

“No.”

“Do you have the receipt?”

“I've got it,” a voice said from behind me.

I turned around. Fletcher was wearing jeans and a tight white T-shirt. In the very center of his chest, nestled in the gentle slope between his pecs, was a cartoon frog wearing a jeweled crown.

I handed the box to Courtnei without looking at her. Fletcher handed her the receipt, took me in his arms and kissed me.

We came up for air when Courtnei nudged Fletcher with a clipboard. He scrawled his signature on the return slip and handed her his American Express Black card.

“Should I expect drama every time I uncover an inconsistency in your character?” he asked.

“Probably,” I said. “Does that scare you?”

“I guess not. How many can there possibly be?”

“There are a lot of them, I'm afraid.”

“So it could take years to work through them all.”

“Decades, maybe.”

“It sounds exhausting.”

“Oh, I'll definitely exhaust you.”

“I don't doubt that for a minute.” He said. “And the drama?”

“I
am
an actor,” I said. “A master thespian, you might say.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that. Not
this
week anyway,” he said, laughing.

I dug my knuckles into his rib cage.

“You came to the show?”

“Seven times.”

“You missed one?”

“It was a matinee.”

“Still…”

“I have a life,” he said.

“Got any pointers for me?” I asked.

“Yeah, try reining it in a little when you do that thing you do with your left hand. You know, the thing with the flick and the bow and the kiss.” He demonstrated, exaggerating my flourish, making it look outrageously effeminate. “I mean, you're kissing Cinderella, not Lady Gaga.”

“I worked hard on that move,” I said, but I was laughing.

“Right.”

“You didn't like it?”

“Kinda gay.”

“Ya think?” I slid my hand across his chest, tweaking his right nipple through the tight cotton.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Way gay.”