Heres to You Mr Robinson (2 page)

I had the spoon half way to my mouth when my brain suddenly flashed an alert on what I’d just said. There was a thunderous silence around the table. I screwed up my face in disbelief I’d just outed myself, before opening my eyes to look at my parents. Was that shock I saw on their faces? Disgust? I didn’t have a chance to think about it because my sister, oblivious to my faux pas, sailed on. “You better keep your hands off my boyfriend then, too.”

Stalling for time, I said, “You’ve got a boyfriend?”

“Of course,” she said smugly. “I bet you don’t.”

As I had no reply to that I continued eating, waiting for the kitchen to cave in around me.

There was a long silence before mum said, “Well?”

“Well what?” I mumbled without looking up.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No,” I admitted.

Terri began a singsong chant, “My brother’s a loser. He doesn’t have a boyfriend. I’ve got a boyfriend and he doesn’t.”

“You’re excused, Terri,” dad said sharply.

“I haven’t finished my toast,” she pouted.

“Take your toast with you, and run outside,” mum said.

“You just want to have a grown up conversation. I’m going but I can’t guarantee I won’t listen at the door.”

“You do that, honey,” mum replied, knowing full well if she gave permission it took away all desire to do so.

After she’d left, dad turned to me. “So, Troy is not your boyfriend.”

My mother interjected. “No, sweetheart. That nice Vince Slater from the farmer’s market is Troy’s boyfriend. They’ve been together for months now.”

“Oh?”

“You never listen when I tell you anything—”

“Gossip,” he humphed.

Mum ignored him. “Is that nice Mr. Robinson across the street more your type then?”

“Mu-um!”

She put her hands up in defence. “Just asking.”

I put my spoon down. “Okay. Get it over with.”

“What, dear?” My mum was all smiles.

“The tears. The accusations. The threats. The warnings about dying sad and alone.”

“Whatever gave you those ideas?” mum asked.

“We’re just a little upset,” dad added, “that you’ve taken so long to tell us. I emphasise the words ‘a little’.”

I was gobsmacked. “You knew all along?”

“I may not be the brightest at maths,” mum said, “but even I can put two and two together.”

Dad ticked the points off on his fingers. “No girlfriends through high school. Always mooning over the latest boy band. Do you know how excruciating it is for a grown man to have to listen to all that saccharin music? No, I guess youthful hormones don’t necessarily instil an appreciation of good music…”

“Dear.” Mum attempted to steer him back to the point.

“Troy. Nice kid but as obvious as glitter on a giggle. You and him holed up in your bedroom locked in private conversations for hours on end. The only girls you ever mentioned, and then it was only rare and in passing, were those fag hags that hung around the two of you at school. The posters you hung on your bedroom wall were always male jocks without shirts yet you never showed the slightest interest in sports. The way you took no interest in television programs unless the star was what you kids call a ‘hot male number’ and then you’d squirm on the lounge as if adjusting yourself constantly.”

“Da-ad!”

“Need more?”

“Was I really that obvious?”

Mum was more placatory. “We wondered. We knew you’d tell us when you’d worked it out for yourself. We were always here if you needed us.”

I suddenly got a little teary eyed.

“So, you’re okay with this?”

“Of course. With IVF we can still look forward to grandchildren,” mum smirked. “And they’ll legalise gay marriage any day now and I can look forward to planning a big wedding and—”

“Whoa,” I cried. “Way too early. I’m still finding my feet.”

Dad stuttered for a moment, coughed, then launched into his embarrassing question. “By mature, you don’t mean like my age? There’s this one chap at work, unmarried, a bit anally retentive if you ask me, but—”

“Ewww. I do not want my parents trying to set up blind dates for me in an attempt to show how accepting they are. Let me make my own mistakes please.” I’m afraid I raised my voice. I wondered whether it would have made it easier if they had been less accepting.

A bit stunned by everything that had transpired at breakfast I returned to the bedroom. It was just about the time Mr. Robinson would appear in his fashionable suit, gather the children and strap them in the back seat of his Jeep and head off down the street toward the local school. Every morning I sat at the window to ogle and sigh at the short glimpse I got of the unattainable man of my wet dreams.

Just as I set myself up for a comfortable perv, there was a knock at the door. I sprinted back to the bed just as mum opened the door.

“I’m just heading off to the mall. Would you like to come with me?”

“Not today, mum, I have a lot of studying to catch up on.”

“You used to like going shopping with me.”

Before I could answer, there was the sound of a car being backed out of a garage opposite. Mum moved to the window, pulling aside the curtain. I was mortified, for the binoculars were still on the sill aimed directly at the Robinson house. She saw them, and then looked out at the view.

“Oh, I see. Well, I can see it’s nothing your father or I can help you study so I’d best leave you to it.”

I mumbled, “Thanks mum” as she quietly closed the door.

I scooted over to the window quickly. Mr. Robinson was going about his usual routine when I heard his name called and he looked around.

Shit, no! It was my mother crossing the road to speak to him. What was she up to? No matter how hard I strained I was unable to hear their conversation. At one stage, Mr. Robinson looked up at my window, smiling. I was hiding behind the curtain and hoped he couldn’t see me. I was beetroot with embarrassment.

The following day was my first Saturday at home. I was a nervous wreck waiting for eleven o’clock to roll around. I told mum I didn’t want to be disturbed under any circumstances for at least an hour as I would be working on a particularly difficult assignment that needed my utmost concentration.

The traffic did seem to get heavier as the hour approached. It was a hot day so everything looked set for quite a show. The garage door opened and Mr. Robinson drove his car out onto the street. Yes, he was dressed in old overalls. As he began to suds the vehicle, the water and soap wet his outfit so that it clung to his body. It did not appear he was wearing underwear.

My cock was hard and I’d taken the precaution of having lube nearby so I could stroke without my knob getting hand burn. Men in cars not normally seen in the neighbourhood honked their horns as they passed and Mr. Robinson waved happily. He was either very friendly and gregarious or totally oblivious to the sexual connotations of what was occurring. One adventurous individual went as far as pulling up alongside my adored one and spoke to him after lowering his window. Mr. Robinson seemed quite amiable enough in conversation even looking toward my house from time to time and pointing once while nodding his head.

Then the car pulled into our driveway. It was Vince and Troy. They’d interrupted my road to orgasm. Although my cock was still leaking pre-come I quickly put it away and threw on baggy clothes that would disguise my excitement, and ran downstairs. Mum had already answered the door and was happily chatting to my best friend and his lover.

I invited them up to my room but mum suggested, “It’s too hot and stuffy inside today why don’t you boys go out and sit on the front porch. I’ll bring you something nice and cold to drink.”

What could be better? A front row seat.

“Your mum is so cool,” Troy said as we lounged on the chairs and the love seat while ogling our neighbour. He waved as we came out of the house and we all waved back although me more eagerly than the others.

“You think my mum knows I fancy him?” I asked.

Vince snorted.

“That man is god,” Troy said and Vince biffed him on the shoulder.

Troy pretended to pout. “I can look, can’t I?”

“But don’t touch.”

Troy snuggled into his boyfriend, pecking him adoringly on the cheek. Mum brought out the cans of soft drink at that moment: Troy and Vince sprang apart guiltily.

“We’re all adults here,” she said. “Just don’t scare the neighbours.”

We all helped ourselves to the cold drinks while as mum waved to Mr. Robinson who called out a greeting.

“I can see what all the fuss is about now,” she said dreamily. “If I were thirty years younger I think I’d make a play for him myself. Hmm, I wonder if he likes older women.”

“Mu-um!”

“Just saying. You know desire doesn’t automatically dry up when you turn fifty, young man.” She flounced back inside the house putting on quite a show for the man over the road.

Troy said it again. “Your mum is so cool.”

Vince had been watching me. “You really like him, don’t you?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Troy asked.

“No, I don’t mean in that superficial kid in a lolly shop way.”

“Yeah, as much as I can without knowing the man,” I admitted.

Vince stood up, grabbed a cold can, taking it across the street. Mr. Robinson wiped his forehead before popping the can and putting it to his lips. Some of the liquid spilled out the corners of his mouth and ran down his chin. My tongue inched out as if attempting to lick up the residue. They talked for a few moments, glancing our way from time to time, then shook hands, and Vince strolled back to join us.

“Why do I get the idea you’re up to something?” I asked.

Vince’s smug looks merely confirmed my suspicions.

“Just make sure you’re showered and in your best finery at eight o’clock when we call for you,” Troy said.

“And it wouldn’t hurt to douche,” Vince added mischievously. “Just in case.”

“Eww,” I said.

Just in case, I did shower, shit and shave and was ready half an hour early, getting very antsy while I waited impatiently. About five minutes later I got a call on my mobile from Troy. He was running late.

“Not to worry,” he said chirpily. “We’ve asked a friend of ours to pick you up. We’ll meet you at
The Back Door
a little after eight-thirty.”

He hung up before I could tell him I’d changed my mind and intended staying home.

The town’s gay bar was called
The Back Door
not because of some silly attempt at innuendo but because in its early years in a homophobic town it remained unnamed and unsignposted, its only identification in the town’s downmarket area being a hand-painted sign with an arrow and
Enter by the Back Door.
The name stuck and no attempt to give the venue a classier name ever took. The locals always referred to it as
The Back Door.

It wasn’t a bad spot. It had loud, thumping music upstairs for the younger crowd or the younger-at-heart vulture dressed up as chicken, while the downstairs bar was more conducive to chatting and enjoying a drink. It was for cruising. I know Troy and Vince were well intentioned but I didn’t feel like it. I began to rehearse my excuses for not going: a terrible headache, a prolapsed sphincter, an attack of crabs. None of them seemed even remotely plausible.

I was still deciding between excuses when the doorbell rang. I sucked in my breath hoping the first thing that popped out of my mouth wouldn’t be too stupid for words. I knew the guy at the door was a blind date Troy and Vince had obviously set up and I didn’t want to be rude. Chances are he wouldn’t be a dog but he’d be unrelentingly average and I just didn’t feel like average that night.

I was already apologising profusely as the door swung open, the words catching in my throat.

“Hi,” he said. “You ready? Vince rang to say I should pick you up, he’s running late.”

I’m afraid I just gaped at him, unable to speak.

He seemed concerned. “Are you okay? You look a bit feverish.”

“Who is it, sweetheart?” Mum called from the kitchen before walking in on my total paralysis. “Oh, Mr. Robinson. Jayson, you didn’t tell me you were going on a date with Mr. Robinson.”

That brought me around quick smart. “Mu-um, I’m not going on a date. I’m going out with Troy and Vince. Mr. Robinson is just giving me a lift.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

I knew she wasn’t buying it for a minute.

Then, just like a mother, she added, “Don’t get too drunk. And don’t be home too late.”

Way to put down your son in front of a man he’s trying to impress. I shoved him out the door, closing it behind me before she could belittle me any further.

“Cool lady, your mum,” he said.

“If anyone else tells me how cool my mum is, I think I’ll scream,” I said churlishly, wondering whether he fancied her. That would be just my luck.

Mr. Robinson walked ahead of me, giving me the opportunity to admire his perfect round butt encased to perfection in his tight jeans. He was good enough to eat. He wore a T-shirt, two sizes too small to contain his massive arms and chest, the fabric straining not to burst at the seams. I felt weak in the sphincter just looking at him. My mind was only just beginning to join the dots. Mr. Robinson is gay? Nah, there were lots of straight men who went to
The Back Door
for a drink, although I couldn’t think of any just at that precise moment.