Henry's End (2 page)

Henry Clark liked men in
uniform. He never spent too much time analyzing why, he just did. A good looking cop or firefighter was an open invitation to have to rearrange his twitching junk. Kick that up a notch to military, and it was an instant hard-on. If said military was brass, his cock literally wept. Strong, in charge, cocky men were always Henry’s weakness.

On more than one occasion, Henry actually sped up when he drove past a cop and it became a personal challenge to see how often he could “talk” his way out of a ticket. Well, he wasn’t quite talking, but he was using his mouth. His close rate, as he liked to refer to it, was in excess of forty-five percent.

Repping heart drugs to cardiologists for one of the big Pharma companies was his first job out of college. It didn’t take long to start enjoying the freedom of being on the road and being in different places, meeting new people, every day.

Tall, lean and ginger-haired with a strong, square jaw and eyes that appeared violet in the right light, the receptionists in the doctors’ offices loved Henry’s visits. His slow, sweet smile and laid back demeanor made him an instant favorite with office staffs and, in turn, a top performer for his company.

With his first commission checks deposited in his newly established savings account, Henry made his way to Nordstrom and was quickly schooled by an openly gay, and marginally hot, salesman on the fine art of dressing for success. He finished off his look with a few days of auburn stubble against his fair complexion, making the blue in his eyes pop, and that was the pièce de résistance that had both men and women alike turning their heads when Henry Clark entered a room. A jeans and tee-shirt guy at heart, he was not used to the attention, either from men or women, and it initially took him out of his comfort zone.

It wasn’t long before he discovered that a wink and a shoulder squeeze to the receptionist or office manager got him the closed door meeting he sought with even the most elusive of cardiac surgeons. Henry was quick to learn that hot doctors kind of did it for him, with their cocky confidence and overt God complexes. Surgical scrubs and white lab coats were quasi uniform-like, and he soon realized that arrogant cardiac surgeons were almost impossible to resist. And they weren’t used to being resisted. Their professions demanded they be the ultimate control freak, which provided the perfect top to Henry’s preferred bottom. Like military officers, cardiac surgeons invariably made Henry Clark’s cock literally moist with desire.

An outgoing child, he was only nine when his first sexual encounter occurred. His mother’s cousin, Iris, had come to live with them and babysat for Henry and his little sister, Emmy, while his mother, a single mom working two and often three jobs, was at work.

Cousin Iris was a sensual bottle-blonde with a perfect round ass and nipples that always stood at attention. Her weaknesses included tight, low-cut dresses, come-fuck-me heels in bright colors, bikers and cocaine. Bikers with cocaine were the ultimate catch.

Jimmy Blauvelt fit the bill. Big, burly, and tatted, he could disarm anyone with his blue-eyed gaze and surprisingly dimpled smile. Unlike the others, he stuck around for a few months and Iris was sure he was ‘the one’. What Henry’s older cousin wasn’t aware of was the nightly ritual that began when Jimmy volunteered to help Henry with his homework and put him to bed, while Iris tended to Emmy.

Book smarts was not Jimmy’s forte, but he was a fucking brain surgeon when it came to street smarts and survival. The only thing Jimmy was schooling young Henry in was the fine art of the blow job, both giving and getting, and eventually penetration.

“I think we have something in common,” he’d made Henry feel like he was taking him into his confidence. “I like boys and I think you do, too.”

Years later Henry admitted, for the first time, to his college friends Schooner, Mia and Rosie, what had occurred. While his friends were devastated hearing of the molestation, Henry tried to make them understand that it was OK. That he’d actually liked it.

He loved when men more powerful than he took control of his body. Men using him for their pleasure was actually a turn-on for Henry Clark. He knew that not everyone would understand that, but that was just how he was wired.

When Jimmy finally left Iris, a depressed Henry spent months daydreaming that the biker would show up late one night, come through his bedroom window and take him – both physically and far away. He wanted Jimmy to tell him that he would be his forever and together they’d explore the country, meeting up with other bikers and he’d be Jimmy’s or whoever Jimmy wanted him to be with. The thought of doing whatever Jimmy wanted to make him happy was all young Henry could dream about.

Now, thirteen years later, and fresh out of college, Henry loved being pursued by powerful men. Or at least he did in the moment. Sex behind locked doors with men that could never be his was the ultimate aphrodisiac. It was hot, forbidden and furious. Feeling a surgeon come up behind him and stand too close, while nonchalantly asking Henry to come into his office, was the consummate thrill. It was always the same for Henry. He’d feel his breath shallow and his balls tighten at the thought of what was going to come next.

Each doctor was different. Henry’s favorite was in his late forties with a very reserved personality; multiple pictures of his perfect blonde wife and athletic children graced his bookshelves. Their encounters were always the same. He’d silently push Henry over his immaculate desk. He was there for the doctor’s pleasure and even as his bottom, Henry felt powerful.

It was a Tuesday morning
when Henry was called into the regional Vice President’s office for an unscheduled, closed-door chat. The request made him curious, but not concerned.

Still a top producer after four years, Henry was loved by senior management and his female coworkers, but generally snubbed by his male counterparts. He was never quite sure if it was because he kicked their asses in sales, or if it was because he was gay, but ventured it was most likely a combination of the two.

Sitting down across the desk from Rick Powell, Henry couldn’t help but notice Rick’s affected air of success, right down to the Cole-Haan loafers.
He looks like a mannequin,
Henry mused. To the untrained eye, he looked really put together, but to the queer eye, his dress was akin to Garanimals, where you match up the numbers to create a complete coordinated outfit. Henry wanted to coach him on breaking up his head-to-toe uni-designer look with pieces that gave him personality, but that was assuming he actually had one. It was at that moment he realized he wanted to zuzh him up a bit and had to stifle a laugh at the thought of Rick actually allowing him to zuzh him. The guy was the definition of straight – pure vanilla straight.

“Another great month,” Rick was nodding at Henry.

“Not complaining.” Henry met his gaze.

“You’ve done an amazing job of building Orange County and maintaining it as a top five territory nationally,” Rick paused. “This isn’t common knowledge yet, but Monica’s told me that she’s not coming back after the baby’s born.”

“Really?” Henry was genuinely surprised. Monica had her territory rocking and was making a boatload of money.

“I was surprised, too.” Sitting back in his chair, Rick stretched, his hands going to the back of his head. “So, the decision I’m left with is do I replace her or not?”

“Would you carve up the San Diego territory if you don’t bring on someone new?” Henry was now sitting forward in his chair, a panther ready to spring.

“Well, if you don’t want the whole territory…” Rick’s voice trailed off as a sly smile appeared.

“No,” Henry was shaking his head, his strawberry blonde hair cascading down his forehead, “I want every last inch.” His smile was now as sly as Rick’s.

“I thought you might,” Rick was openly smirking. “It’s always been a great producing territory, but I have the feeling ‘We ain’t seen nothin’ yet’.”

“I’ll try working my magic.” Henry’s brain was already spinning off; Navy, Marines, Coast Guard, Camp Pendleton’s Naval Hospital, Naval Air Command, Point Loma. His semi was hardening with each military facility his mind clicked off. San Diego, for a gay man who loved men in uniform, was paradise by the sea.

“Although this is a very lucrative territory, I think you could increase revenues by at least sixty percent. We know the amount of time you’re going to have to invest to yield that growth, so the last thing we want to see is your time being eaten up commuting and sitting in traffic. So work with our relocation staff in HR to find a furnished apartment. I’ve gotten a budget of $750/month approved, and this way it will make splitting your time more productive.”

Henry nodded, “Sounds great, Rick. Thank you for this opportunity.” He hoped he didn’t seem less than enthusiastic, but the blood from his brain had long sojourned south and he was no longer sporting merely a semi.

Henry was thankful for his suit jacket.

As he headed down to HR, he knew exactly where he was going to tell them to look for a place for him. Hillcrest. San Diego’s gay mecca was the neighborhood of his dreams, just as San Diego, with its proliferation of military bases and hot military men, was the city of his dreams.

Thank you, Monica. Enjoy being a mommy. Maybe now I’ll meet the man of my dreams.

Sailors and Airmen and Marines… Oh my!

San Diego’s gay nightlife in
the mid-90’s was legendary and thriving. It was also hot, nasty and absolutely perfect. Henry had to walk mere blocks from his apartment to be writhing shirtless under a disco ball, feeling anonymous bulges pressed against his ass crack on a packed dance floor regularly raided by the Fire Marshalls for being over-capacity. Tall and handsome with his strawberry-blonde hair, Henry was not lacking for dance partners or dates.

Bears and cubs and aunties, Chapstick and diesel dykes were all living openly and harmoniously in Hillcrest. AIDS had ripped the community apart and glued it back together with a renewed mission and purpose. Dancing and drinking were the escape from the still harsh reality, as friends and lovers fell by the wayside. A single purplish-black skin lesion became a signed death warrant, and even the most prolific of debaters couldn’t talk their way out of its verdict. And so they fell, from waiters to lawyers, 20-somethings to 60-somethings. This plague did not discriminate, as it washed through the streets, with its tsunami-like voracity, smoking out victims living under bridges, in stucco’ed mid-centuries, renovated Craftsman cottages, and the stateliest of Victorian homes.

As a culture was torn apart by this common foe, a solidarity formed right alongside it. Strangers helping their new, unfortunate brethren, lawyers and laymen waging battles against everyone from local politicians to big Pharma, in an attempt to stem the toxic tide. Amid the relentless torrent, a voice was found, loud and proud, in what once was skirted in hushed hallways. And in death’s wake, a true community arose, fueled by loss and the resolve not only to survive, but to live grandly.

Henry met him in a dark club. Leaning seductively against the bar, his long, tanned frame relaxed as he blew wisps of white smoke into the air with the finesse of a Forties matinee idol. Supposing he was close to fifty, Henry was amused at how openly the old queen was checking him out.