Triple Dog Dared

Julz dared me to “post something” from an email I wrote her today. The first sentence started her dare – everything else was never uttered and never happened.

I had tears in my eyes, streaming down my cheekbones and my clean-shaven cheeks, falling into a pool of sparkling brilliance. I hadn’t laughed so hard in weeks, not since an old guy stood at my counter berating me and pointing at his erection that hadn’t subsided in three hours. This time I was laughing because my co-worker shared the unfortunate event of a night at the bar, tobasco-soaked peanuts, and her boyfriend’s changing moans to howling screams while giving him head and licking his balls. She knew the best brands for topical burns. I told her about the time I exchanged a roommate’s bottle of lube with the “extra hot” variety and we laughed again, holding our stomachs.

The tears melted into the fabric of my pants and I remembered the last time I cried. Yesterday. The woman in line for her high blood pressure collapsed and couldn’t be revived. One of the paramedics was her son. A fireman held him while he cried. We all cried. I thought about riding with them to the hospital, to help, to do something. My boss wanted to know when we could get back to counting pills. The main checker called him a douchebag on the loudspeaker.  Customers who’d seen and heard everything cheered.

The face of the paramedic has been with me since yesterday. His eyes. I don’t want to remember, but I don’t want to forget him either. I have no words for his loss.

**Your turn – take the last sentence and start your own short story/post, either on your blog or in these comments. You have been triple dog dared.**

Season of Truth, Part X

Editorial note and disclaimer: The editorial commentaries of the prior sections apply. This is shorter than I intended, but as readers will note, my writing intentions rarely translate into reality. I’d love your feedback – good, bad, or even ugly or indifferent.

Season of Truth, Part X

“Will we burn in heaven
like we do down here?”
- from Sarah McLachlan’s “Witness”

They made love in Taylor’s bedroom. A single candle on the dresser cast their merged shadow on the wall and the headboard. When he closed his eyes, Jameson couldn’t tell where the sensations of touch or being touched began. His senses burned. The image of heaven that he’d held in his mind paled to the truth of here, the truth of now, and the truth that was always there.

He explored, losing all concept of time between kissing, tasting and touching. Taylor mirrored his movements and actions. He felt his breath stop and every muscle tighten. They climaxed together. Jameson cried out and slammed his head back into the pillow, his hands pulling Taylor against him.

When their breathing had slowed to normal, Taylor pulled him from the bed and into the bathroom shower where they rinsed. They brushed their teeth in the near darkness, legs touching, both content with the silence. In the bedroom, Taylor pulled the sheets and down comforter up to Jameson’s chest. Before Taylor blew out the candle, Jameson could see his brilliant smile was tinged with exhaustion, and the flames of his eyes had settled to green embers.

Taylor slipped into bed and lay on his back, pulling Jameson into the crook of his neck and arm. He murmured into his ear, “Thank you.” His voice vibrated through their chests. Jameson pressed his face against Taylor’s neck, and Taylor held him tighter. “The party is tomorrow. Today, I mean. I’ll be up early, so I won’t see you until later.” Jameson breathed in the smell of shower gel and Taylor’s scent, filled with wonder at the warm, naked man against his skin. The sound of Taylor’s heartbeat and slowing breath lulled him into sleep.

He awoke in the same position. The windows glowed with sunrise. The covers were around their knees. Jameson stared down the length of Taylor’s uncovered body. He closed his eyes and opened them, willing himself to wake from the incredible dream. He felt his penis lengthen, pressing against Taylor’s side at the thoughts of their evening. Taylor exhaled deeply and turned on his side, still asleep.

As quietly as possible, he left the bed. He bunched his clothes from the bathroom under one arm and navigated through the hall and down the stairs to his floor. Dim lights were on in the den. He peered through the entrance at Al, reclining on the sofa and watching the fire. Jameson pressed the bundle of clothes against his crotch, willing his erection to subside as Al looked up and noticed him.

They stared at each other until Al’s lips curled into a smile. “Up late or early?”

Jameson knew he was blushing. “Both, I guess.” He saw the smile didn’t make it to Al’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

Al nodded. “I’m fine.” He took a swig of beer. “When I got home, you weren’t in your room.”

“I’m sorry for making you worry,” Jameson stammered.

Al gestured with the beer. “No problem. It’s cool. I was paranoid your dad had kidnapped you or something.” The smile made it to his eyes. “Looks like you had fun, though.” Jameson could feel the heat on his face.

Al laughed and gestured to his beer. “Want one?”

Jameson rubbed his eyes. “Uh,” he stammered. “No.” He was thirsty and wanted water. He wondered if this feeling was why people got married: to release the flood of hormones that seemed to increase, not decrease, with having sex.

Al yawned and stood up. He turned the lamp off and pulled the fire screen tight on the fireplace. Before Jameson could go down the hall, Al was standing in front him. He was smiling gently, but his eyes were serious. “I’m glad you’re okay, Jameson. I was worried.”

Jameson nodded. “Thank you, Al. I was totally safe.”

Al beamed. “Good boy.” His smile was devilish. “We’ve slept in the same bed. In this town, we’re technically dating.”

Jameson smiled back. “I’d hug you, but I can’t right now.”

Al arched an eyebrow. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

Jameson blushed again. Al laughed and pulled him into a hug, Jameson’s hand that held his clothes was pressed into Al’s thigh. Al stepped back and walked to his door. Jameson could feel Al’s eyes on him as passed by and he stepped to his own door.

Al called out, “Hey.”

Jameson looked over his shoulder, expecting ’sleep well’ or ’see you later.’

“Nice butt,” Al said, and closed his door.

Jameson had an urge to drop the clothes and knock on Al’s door, but he entered his room and sat naked on his bed and watched the sun wash the morning with breaking fog and swaths of blue sky.

***

Season of Truth, Part IX

Editorial note and disclaimer: The editorial commentaries of the prior sections apply. Comment away. *update: extraneous ‘the’ removed, per Julz’ great eye for detail*

Season of Truth, Part IX

“I’ve fallen through the arms of love, the arms of love
and I am folded in these angel wings, these angel wings,
you are what I’m dreaming”
-from Icehouse’s “Lay Your Hands on Me”

Taylor looked at the floor and then at Jameson, his eyes inscrutable, but his smile was warm and brilliantly white. He squeezed Jameson’s hand and led him from the room and up two flights of dark stairs, navigating by touch. Jameson could feel they’d come to an open area.

“Stay here,” Taylor said, letting go of Jameson’s hand.

Jameson couldn’t see anything, and his other senses stretched to define his surroundings. He could hear Taylor moving and a drawer opening and closing. There was a scratch and a searing flare, and there was Taylor cupping the whiteness of a candle. He beckoned at Jameson to follow him into a spacious bathroom. He set the candle at one edge of the large tub and turned on the faucets. The flame reflected off brushed nickel, white marble and mirrored walls, filling the room with a soft glow.

“Bubbles, or no bubbles?” Taylor asked.

Jameson shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

Taylor’s smile flashed white, and he poured shower gel into the running water. He set two large towels on the vanity next to the tub and looked at Jameson, who was suddenly not sure of where to put his hands or how to stand or where to look or what to do. Was he supposed to be painfully aroused already? Did Taylor suggest a bath because he reeked from a full day’s work? All his thoughts stopped as he looked at Taylor, who was looking at and through him, seeming to see the possibilities of who he was in each flicker of the candle. Taylor’s inscrutable expression softened as he approached Jameson.

“The rest of the night is what you want,” he said gently.

Jameson spoke the truth before he could think. “I don’t know what to do.”

Taylor cocked his head slightly. “You don’t?” He paused, but not long enough for a response from Jameson. “Would you rather we take a shower?” Jameson shook his head. “Would you like to get in first?” Jameson shook his head. “Terrified?” Jameson remained still then slowly nodded. Taylor’s eyes were smiling. He adjusted the temperature, tested the water, turned off the faucets and then stood in front of him, waiting.

“We’re just bathing?” Jameson asked, slowly.

Taylor said, “If that’s what you want.”

He grasped at something he’d heard, several years ago. “Is it true that every gay man loves candles?”

Taylor laughed and said, “Did you ever see a gay priest without a candle?”

“You’re not a priest,” Jameson said.

Taylor, still grinning, said, “And you’re not in any church.”

Jameson noted the flames in Taylor’s eyes. He took a deep breath and reached out to Taylor’s waist and pulled the t-shirt up his torso and over his head. He unbuttoned his own shirt and let it fall behind him. Taylor’s face was inscrutable, but his eyes were glowing. Jameson reached for the button fly of Taylor’s jeans and pulled them apart. He started to pull the jeans over Taylor’s hips and he gasped, because Taylor wasn’t wearing underwear. He knew he was blushing, but he kept going until he was kneeling by Taylor’s feet and pulling the jeans from each leg. Jameson stared, letting his eyes follow Taylor’s body, soaking in the reverence of calves, strong thighs, semi-erect penis, the trail of hair to his navel and abdomen and up his chest. He smiled into Taylor’s eyes.

He stood, and Taylor reached for Jameson’s waist, unbuckling his belt and pushing the slacks down, hands gently brushing down his thighs. Jameson looked down and blushed at his tented briefs, but kept himself still as Taylor reached for the waistband and pulled them out and over his erection. Jameson stepped out of the briefs and Taylor took his hand and pulled him to the tub. He entered the hot water, sinking up to his chin into the bubbles. He watched as Taylor stepped in and slowly lowered himself into the hot water, sliding his calves and feet against Jameson’s thighs as he reclined against the opposite end.

Jameson stretched one leg and pulled away when his foot grazed Taylor’s penis, but then gently rested his foot against Taylor’s penis and testicles at Taylor’s gently encouraging expression. They grasped each other’s foot, rubbing each other’s toes, the balls of their feet, their heels, and gently upwards beyond their ankles. Jameson lay his head back against the edge of the tub, closing his eyes, exploring this new world with his fingertips. He tried not to gasp each time he felt Taylor’s other foot brush against his erection.

They switched feet. Jameson opened his eyes; Taylor had his head back, eyes closed, smiling, and on the other wall the image of the room reflected into eternity. He reached for a wash cloth and the shower gel with one hand, while lightly pressing and rubbing Taylor’s ankle that brushed his testicles. He let go of Taylor’s foot, happy with the weight of his leg on his thigh. He poured a generous amount of gel into the wet wash cloth and rubbed it into a foaming lather. Taylor was watching him, mirrored flames dancing in his eyes.

Jameson gestured at Taylor, “Would you stand for me?” He forgot to breathe when Taylor rose from the water.

He began at Taylor’s thighs, inches above the water. Taylor’s erection brushed against his shoulder, but he focused on the tight muscles under his fingers. He poured more gel into his palm, rubbing it directly onto Taylor’s skin from his knees upwards to his hip, around to his muscled glutes and then down the backs of his legs. The motions caused Taylor to thrust forward against Jameson’s shoulder and neck. Jameson savored the sensations against his fingers, his hands moving upwards to Taylor’s abdomen, letting one and then the other forearm brush against Taylor’s erection. He smiled in delight at hearing Taylor’s sighs and exhalations.

Taylor, smiling, grabbed Jameson’s hands and pulled him upright. “Your turn,” he said, and crouched in front of Jameson, then whistled softly in appreciation. Jameson felt warmer than the bath water.

Taylor followed Jameson’s lead with the gel, washing his legs, hips, glutes and abdomen. Jameson gasped each time his throbbing penis was pushed against Taylor’s neck or shoulder. Taylor went further, rubbing soap over his torso, neck, and arms. He lathered himself, then pulled Jameson into the water with him, his hands rubbing the soap from their bodies. Their faces were close.

Jameson murmured, “may I,” and stopped, then said clearly, “may I kiss you?” He forgot to breathe again, watching Taylor’s brilliant smile and hearing his soft “oh yes.” He pressed against Taylor and kissed him.

Part of him had expected to be struck dead on the spot. His fears of sin and damnation faded against the truth of his lips against another man’s lips. He felt Taylor’s arms around him, felt, rather than heard, his soft moans as Jameson cupped Taylor’s butt, grinding their erections against each other. Jameson stopped moving, feeling the familiar sensations throughout his groin and willing them to stop. Taylor thrust against him. Between gritted teeth, Jameson said, “stop, or I’m gonna…”

He felt Taylor chuckle. “Me too. We’ll take our time with round two.” He thrust against Jameson, who met each thrust with his own. They breathed and moaned between kisses and thrusts. Taylor kissed Jameson hard as the surge overcame them. Jameson was pure lightning, each nerve of his body blasting a supernova through each ejaculation. For that moment, there was everything, and then it was fading, and he was in the tub with Taylor who was also trying to catch his breath. He knew he was crying by the taste of salt in his mouth. Taylor, his eyes creased with concern, held his face and kissed him softly.

“I’m fine,” Jameson said. “More than fine. I’m upset that it took me this long to get here.”

Taylor bit Jameson’s lower lip softly. “This tub, San Francisco, or a different ‘here’?”

The sound that came out of him was part laughter, part cry, because his throat was tight with emotion. He kissed Taylor back, letting his tongue slide against Taylor’s bottom lip. They kissed and held each other until the water started to cool.

Jameson remembered their electricity and felt his penis start to fill at the thought. “Did you say something about round two?”

***

Season of Truth, Part VIII

Editorial note and disclaimer: The editorial commentaries of the prior sections apply. As I mentioned to Cele, I have no idea where this is going. I’m letting the story write itself. No, I’ve never done a story like this before. I do apologize for the agonizing pace of writing. Many many thanks to SML for her sharp eye. Comments and feedback are muchly appreciated.
Update: Thank you, Chanson. Name typo duly noted and corrected!

Season of Truth, Part VIII

“Am I in heaven here or am I in hell?
At the crossroads I am standing.”
-from Sarah McLachlan’s “Hold On”

Jameson stayed through the afternoon to help meet a project deadline. He didn’t have Friday night plans since Al and Lydia were working and Richard was out on a date, and he looked forward to the extra money. It was the second time his manager had asked him to work with this team, but he pushed the notion of permanent employment from his mind. He’d stay as a temporary worker until he felt more comfortable given all the changes the last several months. So far, he was happy with the diverse marketing assignments and his interesting co-workers.

At six thirty, his manager brought in Chinese food for everyone. At eight thirty, when they were wrapping up for the night, she brought around gift cards from the project’s vendor and thanked them individually. Jameson thought he might reconsider his employment notions.

The bus home had sparse riders, unlike rush hour. He got off one stop earlier, deciding that the walk would do him good. Once he left the main street for the side streets, the traffic sounds quieted.

The mist and fog around the street lights reminded him of Temple Square at Christmas. He grimmaced, remembering a time he’d gone with his family and Judy, a woman from his single’s ward. A fog had covered downtown Salt Lake, and he remembered how the lighted trees around the Square seemed to light the darkness, to light his heart. He and Judy had gone off by themselves, and he noted two handsome men who followed their same path. Judy hadn’t noticed his lack of attention, but he had felt guilty nonetheless. He could still see the one man’s face in his mind’s eye, and how he had wanted so badly to be holding his hand instead of Judy’s with every fiber of his being.

He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with cool air. The fog seemed to thicken as he walked. He could hear other pedestrians on the other side of the street, and he could hear low voices coming from ahead of him. Two people were coming closer, and when they were within a dozen steps he saw they were two women walking closely together. They all stopped as they recognized each other; they were the lesbian couple that shared the table during Lydia’s show.

“Isn’t this fog beautiful?” the taller woman exclaimed, the shorter woman leaning close with her head on her shoulder.

“I love it,” said Jameson. He swallowed his shyness and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names at the bar last night.”

The shorter woman giggled. “No hostess points for Lydia!” She reached out her hand and shook Jameson’s. “I’m Jezebel.” She gestured at her partner. “This is Cynthia.”

Cynthia reached out a hand and shook his hand energetically. She grinned widely and said, “you can call me Cyn, for short,” and exaggerated a wink.

He chuckled and said, “I’m Jameson. A pleasure meeting you both.” They hooted in response, and he felt some of his nervousness go away.

Cynthia said, “Hey, where’s your boyfriend?”

Jameson frowned. “Boyfriend?” Then it struck him. “Oh, Al! No, he’s not a boyfriend. Just a good friend. And he’s straight.” He stopped, remembering where he woke up this morning. “At least I think he is.”

They both grinned. Jezebel put her head on Cynthia’s shoulder. “You’ll have to sit with us next week when we see Lydia.” Jameson nodded enthusiastically. “We think she’s gorgeous. Too bad she likes guys, but hey, whatever floats your boat.” Cynthia covered a small yawn with the end of her scarf. Jezebel laughed softly and said, “We better get going and get this one to bed.”

Jameson smiled and waved at them. “I’ll see you next week.” He watched as they passed him, blending into the rolling wisps of fog and darkness.

He could see first floor lights at the house when he turned onto his street. He wondered if missionaries or his father had decided to visit, up until he got to the courtyard which was clear. He wiped dew from one of the dragon claws on the arbor as he passed by and entered the house.
Lights were on in the kitchen, and he stuck his head in the doorway. Taylor was sitting at the table with a teapot and cup of tea. Taylor flashed a smile and waved at him.

Jameson smiled back. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, fine, thanks. Relaxing.” Taylor gestured at the teapot. “Would you like some?”

“Sure,” said Jameson and sat across from Taylor and watched him pour. He held the cup in his hands, warming them, and blew softly on the surface of the tea. He could see Taylor looking at him through the wisps of steam above his cup. Jameson gingerly took a sip and stared back at Taylor, noting the t-shirt and jeans and bare feet sticking out from under the table. They sat, sipping, letting the night’s stillness sit around and between them.

Taylor yawned, stretching his arms over his head. Jameson watched the muscles of his arms and chest, and he felt a hunger that he didn’t know how to name.

He stared down at the cup of tea and grasped at something to talk about. “Do you need any help for the party tomorrow, Taylor?” he asked.

Taylor smiled softly and shook his head. “No, it’s all set. All I need now is some rest.” He stretched one leg, parallel to the floor, and then the other. “I hear you had the Mormon Mafia at you again. Everything okay?”

“Yes, fine. My father came by yesterday.”

Taylor froze and then his eyes narrowed. “Your father was here?”

“Yes, we had a little talk. Convenient trip for him. He warned about Sodom and Gomorrah. Same ole same ole. He and I are mutually disappointing.” He paused. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Taylor nodded, slowly, then offered more tea to Jameson. “No thanks, I’m good.”

Taylor chuckled, but his expression was still tight. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it.”

Jameson noticed Taylor’s expression. “I don’t mind it, the taste isn’t bad at all.” He had an inkling. “What do you know about my father? Do you know my father?”

Taylor looked down at his cup of tea, then back up at him. “Maybe it would be easier to show you.” He stood up and extended a hand and pulled Jameson up from his chair. Jameson followed him up the stairs to the second floor and into the den.

In a space between the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, Taylor pointed at two of the many framed pictures on the wall. Jameson came closer. He felt Taylor stand near his side and slightly behind him, and then felt an arm around his shoulder. He could smell Taylor’s faint cologne and breathed in softly.

Taylor murmured into his ear, “The man on the right is my brother, Tanner. The man on the left is your uncle Gerald. This one is from the year before Gerald died.” He pointed at a picture of the two men holding hands on a beach. “I met your father only once, after Tanner died.”

Jameson stared at the pictures, barely recognizing this smiling man from the serious uncle that he had known as a child. “Gerald knew your father would come after the money when he died, so they made financial arrangements. We believed your father had backing from the Mormon church, but he lost all the completely frivolous lawsuits. My brother retained ownership. Your father came here twice and demanded some kind of ‘tithing settlement’ in Gerald’s name. Tanner called the police the first time, and I had him escorted off the property the second time.”
Jameson leaned into Taylor. He sighed, now realizing what he’d said to his father had been devastatingly accurate. Jameson stared at the pictures of the two handsome men. He asked quietly, “How? When did Tanner die?”

He felt Taylor sigh and pull him closer. “He died in a car accident several years ago.” He was quiet a long time. “I miss him.” Jameson felt him breathe deeply and sigh again. Taylor’s warm breath near his ear made his skin tingle.

“Tanner. Gay. Gerald. You. Me. Is this some kind of gay genealogy?” He felt Taylor chuckle, felt his arm around him pull tighter into an exquisite hug.

“Young buck, we’re a small community, but a big tribe of brothers,” Taylor nuzzled his ear and let him go, stepping into the room. Jameson followed him with his eyes, staring into Taylor’s green depths.

“I was thinking about a long, hot soak in the double tub. Upstairs. There’s room for two.” Taylor held out a hand towards Jameson. “It’s up to you.” Jameson stared at his hand, wondering how much time he had thought about going to church, college, the temple, and on a mission. This one moment was something more tangible, something more truthful than anything he’d experienced before.

This time, he had no doubts. He crossed the room and took Taylor’s hand.

***

Season of Truth, Part VII

Editorial note and disclaimer: The editorial commentaries of the prior sections apply. I’m going now at 9K out of my goal of 25K (before March 31). I’ll be posting more than once a week – I have to, dammit! Comments and feedback are much appreciated.

Season of Truth, Part VII

“And your prayers they break the sky in two”
-from David Bowie’s “Loving the Alien”

Jameson was on a train, waving good-bye through the window to someone on the platform. Before he could make out their features, they faded into the gray sounds of an insistent beep of an alarm. Through sleepy eyes, he noted the ceiling was different; he wasn’t in his room. A blanket covered him to his waist. His mouth felt as dry as the Sahara. There was a soft groan next to him and he felt the bed move, then the alarm sounds stopped. A hand ruffled his hair. “Morning, Jameson,” Al said.

Jameson turned his head on the pillow. Al was laying on his side next to him, his head on his own pillow. He was halfway grinning and studying Jameson, who couldn’t understand if he was awake or not. Al’s grin grew bigger, watching Jameson’s puzzled face. His eyes gleamed with mischief, but his words were soothing and measured, “I didn’t think it was right that you be alone last night. Sometimes people need to be held, and you were a prime candidate.”

Jameson rubbed at his eyes, trying to remember going to bed. “How…? What…?”

“You fell asleep next to me on the couch. I woke you up and walked you here,” Al said, and rolled out of bed. Jameson noted Al’s tight muscles and his form-fitting grey briefs and became fully awake.

Al grabbed a towel, threw it over his shoulder and looked back at Jameson staring at him in bed. “Dude, no big deal. You needed a friend and I was there.”

Jameson nodded, suddenly terrified of getting out of bed in front of Al because he could feel he was fully aroused. He found his voice. “We… slept together?”

“Yep. All night.” He grinned. “You steal covers and you snore, but not loud.” Al’s eyes gleamed and he smiled. “I was too tired to convert you last night, so you get to keep your gay card.” Jameson blushed furiously and smiled back at him.

Al entered the hallway and then popped his head back through the doorway with a wicked smile. He said, “You and me, cuddling,” and then left.

“Al!” Jameson exclaimed, listening to Al’s deep chuckle fade down the hall.

When he heard the click of the bathroom door closing, he threw off the covers. He gathered his clothes on the floor, covering his erection, and he bolted for his room.

***

He ran into Richard at work and they made plans to meet up for lunch. They sat at a table outside with their lunches, playing the “who’s hot” ritual with the passersby. Jameson enjoyed the game, as long as Richard could give their conversations the same focus and attention. Richard told him he’d met another guy last night at a bar when Greg had gone to get drinks.

Jameson shook his head and asked, “Who asked for whose number?”

“I did,” Richard said.

“You can’t keep it in your pants, can you?” said Jameson, and he laughed.

Richard leered, “Well, I keep trying to get into yours! Hey, what did you do last night?”

Jameson told him about going with Al to see Lydia at the piano bar. Richard chortled at the account of Jameson’s first “straight” shot of alcohol, but listened admirably when he described running into his father. Jameson continued, “We took turns with the verbal potshots, Lydia came home, and I left him standing at the door.” Richard nodded. “Al and I had a beer and I had a good cry on his shoulder, then we went to bed.” Jameson started putting garbage into a paper sack, clearing the space in front of him.

Richard looked at Jameson. “Together?” His eyes were almost black.

Jameson felt the heat on his face. He muttered, “Well, I guess so. I was really out of it.”

Richard leaned towards Jameson, not smiling, his lips tight. “What the hell? You’ve got to be kidding? You sleep with your straight roommate and you won’t sleep with me?”

“We didn’t do anything! We slept together, not slept together!” he exclaimed.

“I don’t fucking believe this. Do I look stupid? I’ve seen Al. The guy is gorgeous. You were in the same bed and you didn’t do anything?” Richard smashed his sandwich bag into a ball and stood up.

Jameson stared at Richard. “Help me understand. You’re seeing Greg. You met a guy last night. How can you be pissed that I slept in Al’s bed?”

Richard scowled and dropped his garbage into a nearby trash bin. “What, all you did was cuddle? Give me a fucking break.”

Jameson smashed the sack into a ball and made the three-pointer shot into the trash bin. Richard blinked in surprise. “I’m from Utah and I’m well-versed in ‘unreasonable,’ Richard. If you’re judging me by your standards, then I’m sorry to disappoint you.” He watched Richard’s eyes contract and dialate and the expressions of his face swell and crest.

Richard sighed and stared at the ground, “Why won’t you sleep with me?”

Jameson waited until Richard would look at him and said gently, “All I want is your friendship.”

Richard nodded slowly and sat next to Jameson. He sighed again and said, “I’ve never had friends without the fringe benefits before.” Jameson clapped him softly on the shoulder. Richard looked reflexive and contemplative. “Can we kiss and make up now?”

Jameson laughed and ruffled his hair, at the same time remembering how Al had ruffled his hair that morning. “You’re non-stop drama, aren’t you?” he asked.

Richard exaggerated a sniffle. “Darling, when I die they’ll award me a backlog of posthumous Academy Awards.”

Jameson laughed again, then said, “Lay off the jealousy thing, Richard. I’m serious. You can’t be a slut and be jealous. It’s not reasonable. It doesn’t make sense.”

Richard leaned into Jameson and gave him a hug. “Jaymo, it’s called ‘hypocrisy.’” He paused and whispered into his ear. “So did you two sleep naked? I want the goods about Al! Is he hung?” Jameson held Richard, blushing and howling with laughter.

***

Season of Truth, Part VI

Editorial note and disclaimer: The “Season of Truth” story is in parts (I), (II), (III), (IV), and (V). The editorial commentaries of the prior sections still apply. Huge thanks to SML for calling in the grammar police (boy, was I busted) and for her shoulder. Comments and feedback are much appreciated. The end is nigh.

Season of Truth, Part VI

“Look me in the eye.
Speak it to my face.
My hate is cold
As I fall from grace.”
-from Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Fall From Grace”

Jameson breathed in slowly. He turned to Al and said, “See you inside in a minute.” Al looked from Jameson to his father and then back. “I’ll be fine. Really.” Al held his eyes a moment and nodded, then stepped into the foyer and slowly shut the front door.

Jameson resisted the urge to fold his arms and he breathed in again. He turned to face his father and asked, “No baseball bat this time?” He was satisfied that his father’s face tightened.

“Son, I’d like to talk to you.”

“That’s obvious. What do you want? Why are you in San Francisco?”

His father glanced around at the courtyard and back. “Your cousin is getting married in the Oakland temple this weekend. I thought I’d try to see you, since your mother and your aunt Emmalynn demanded that I make sure you were okay. “

Jameson nodded. “Oh, the ‘families are forever’ principle. You lucked out with the convenience factor. Let me guess, the old ward needed a ‘bring him back to the fold’ project? I should be grateful to you that I’m such a priority.”

His father’s clenched his jaw and slowly shook his head. “You disappointment me, son.”

Jameson snapped, “Believe me, it’s mutual. Gay son and monster father.”

His father took a step forward and Jameson gestured curtly for him to stop. They locked eyes and his father stopped and then took a step backwards. The faint sound of traffic filled the silence between them. He watched his father gather his thoughts.

“Emmalynn told me she’d given you some money. Some account she’d set aside for you. I had hoped you would be on your own and not living here. Jameson, I know the sin and abominations and debauchery that are in this house. Even before my brother died, this house lost the Spirit from all these ‘parties‘ that used to go on,” he sneered. “They still do! I want you to remember how you were raised, I want you to remember the values that we tried to teach you. Do you remember to ‘come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness’?” he intoned.

Jameson thought a moment and then asked, “What account?”

His father said quickly, “The money is gone. I had her give it to me to pay for your old room’s remodel.”

Jameson shrugged, not knowing about any funds and not surprised at his father’s actions. He asked, “And what about Uncle Gerald? What does he have to do with anything here?”

His father continued, “Gerald met a man then left Emmalynn and moved to California. They built a successful real-estate business.” He gestured at the brownstone. “This and his other properties should have come to me and his family, but he transferred everything to his companion before he died. He made sure Emmalynn was taken care of, but for me and his other siblings, he left nothing.”

“Uncle Gerald was gay?” Jameson’s mind was spinning. “Whenever you or Emmalynn talked about him, you said he died of cancer.”

His father nodded. “We never discussed his homosexuality. It was a distasteful subject and an embarrassment to our family name. The only reason we’re talking about it today is because you share the same affliction.” He paused. “Gerald died from cancer. His companion legally owned the assets because Gerald sold his portion of the estate before he died.” They stared at each across the space that was heavy with silence. Jameson could see his father’s face and he knew his own expression mirrored the dark rage.

He faced his father squarely. “What’s my favorite color?”

His father looked stunned and frustrated at the question. Jameson continued, before his father could speak, “Which is my favorite football team? What was the hardest subject for me in high school? What was my favorite scripture? How old was I when I received my Eagle Scout?” He waited for his father to give an answer, any answer, but his face remained impassive and cold.

Jameson snarled, “You don’t have a fucking clue, do you?”

His father flinched at the expletive. “You don’t have to use that kind of…” he began, but Jameson gestured curtly and he stopped mid-sentence.

Jameson breathed in deeply, then let it out slowly into the night air. There was a sadness in his heart that made his chest ache. “You were right. You were absolutely right. I’m not your son. I’m a service project. I’m a ‘distasteful subject‘ with the same ‘affliction‘ as your gay brother.” He noted his father’s hands, clenched into fists, and his face was tight with fury. Jameson was surprised at the calm that he felt. “What’s more, you’re not my father. You’re my sperm donor. You’re the man with kids who are props for a ‘perfect family‘ that doesn’t exist, that never existed. You’re evidently the family gold-digger. But me?” He paused, staring intently at his father. “You don’t know me, you never knew me, and by God I’m glad.”

His father started to move towards Jameson, but a cab stopped in front of the archway and a woman in a silver strapless gown got out and started down the walkway. It took Jameson a moment to register that it was Lydia. She waved at him and smiled, the staccato click of her heels punctuating each step. Jameson’s father watched in surprise as she greeted Jameson with a hug and a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Thanks for coming tonight! Was I good, or was I good?” she gushed. She stepped towards the door and Jameson opened it for her. She looked back from the foyer at Jameson and then his father. “Oh, sorry! Did I interrupt something?”

Jameson stood inside the doorway. He held his father’s eyes and said over his shoulder to Lydia, “No, you didn’t interrupt. We didn’t have anything left to say.” He closed and locked the door. He resisted a strong urge to open the door. No, that wasn’t the Spirit. That would be Stupidity, he told himself.

He wiped the edges of his eyes until he could see Lydia looking at him, concerned, but he smiled reassuringly at her. He didn’t trust his voice enough to speak. She bent and took off her heels.

“If you need anything, I’ll be in my room. I need to get out of these clothes and get a shower,” she said, and Jameson nodded. Al was sitting on the bottom of the stairs holding two beer bottles. She kissed Al lightly on top of his head as she passed by him up the stairs. Al stood and gave a bottle to Jameson, who sniffed the opening before clinking his glass against Al’s. They both drank.

Al placed a hand on Jameson’s shoulder. “You’re okay?” Jameson nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Al asked. Jameson shook his head.

Al wrapped an arm around Jameson’s shoulder and guided him up the stairs to the den. Al started a fire and sprawled next to Jameson, each sipping their beers and staring into the flames.

“Thank you, Al,” Jameson said softly. “I said what I said because I knew I was safe.” His voice broke and he felt the tears at the corners of his eyes run down his cheeks. Al set his right arm around Jameson, pulled him close to his side as Jameson cried for himself, his father, and for the kindness of strangers. Lydia’s song floated down the hall from the bathroom, echoing softly in the den.

***

Season of Truth, Part V

Editorial note and disclaimer: The “Season of Truth” story is in parts (I), (II), (III), and (IV). The editorial commentaries of the prior sections still apply. A big “Thank you” to those who’ve followed the series and encouraged me to continue. There will be at least two more chapters. Buckle up, it’s going to be a bumpy ride. Read on, and hopefully, enjoy.

Season of Truth, Part V

“And just when I think
That things are in their place
The heavens are secure
The whole thing explodes in my face”
-from Oingo Boingo’s “Just Another Day”

The week kicked into high gear, but Jameson felt like time was slowing down, each hour slower than the prior one. At the gym, he could have sworn the half-hour run was a mini-marathon. The pace at work was hectic, but instead of feeling energized, he came home feeling like he’d swam through molasses. The activities around the brownstone increased: supply trucks and moving vans parking in front, workers sealing off the garden area, and the framework of a circus-sized tent being assembled over most of the garden. He avoided the garden, preferring the anticipation and the unknown of the coming party.

He saw the missionaries, Nichols and Peters, tracting his neighborhood on Wednesday night and Thursday as he left for work. He stayed on the opposite side of the street, fighting the urge to run instead of staring ahead and walking deliberately forward, neither waving at or acknowledging their identical suits. Jameson was relieved that they didn’t call out or follow him.

Thursday night, he went with Al during happy hour to Lydia’s piano bar to see her perform. They took an empty table with high bar stools near the middle of the bar. Lydia stood on the stage near her piano accompanist, a woman with dark glasses and dreadlocks. Jameson thought Lydia looked beautiful: black hair slicked back, silver strapless and form-fitting dress, and dark silver lipstick. She greeted them with a smile and a sultry shimmy of her hips, but kept singing the smoky jazz song, her voice carrying through the bar.

A waitress leaned into Jameson, asking him quietly what he’d like to drink. He pointed at Al to order first, and he watched with amusement as she leaned into Al, her breast pressing into his shoulder, but didn’t hear Al’s reply.

She leaned back into Jameson and he said “something with vodka.” She breathed into his ear. “Anything?”

Jameson grinned wider. “Orange juice. Cranberry. Surprise me.” She giggled and moved away from their table. Jameson looked at Al, who was staring at him.

“You’re a little flirt,” he said.

Jameson starting laughing, shocked, and shook his head. “You’re the one that had her boob in your shoulder!”

Al’s grin almost reached his eyes. “Maybe. But she likes you.” The smile reached his eyes this time. “Why do you gay guys get all the girls hot and bothered?” Jameson leaned against the table and turned towards the stage, chuckling and shaking his head softly.

The waitress brought their drinks, leaning over Jameson’s shoulder to place his drink in front of him. He grinned as she did the same to Al. Jameson’s drink had a touch of cranberry and a cherry on top. Jameson could smell the alcohol as he stirred the drink with a straw. Al asked if she’d start a tab and left the table with his credit card. “You can get drinks another time,” he told Jameson, who was sipping his drink slowly.

During one of her breaks, Lydia came offstage and greeted them, hugging first the lesbian couple next to them and then Al and Jameson. Al ordered a round of drinks for everyone and they made room for Lydia and the two lesbians at the table. It was the first time Jameson had ever done a shot of straight alcohol, saying it out loud before he could stop himself. They shouted at him and clapped him on the back, cheering him with his first shot, which he thankfully didn’t choke on. Jameson felt warm everywhere. Lydia gave them each a kiss on their cheek and returned to the stage.

She was good. Lydia was very good. Jameson felt like he was burning with the searing notes. His throat and stomach were warm, and he absently stirred the ice in his drink. The bar was filling with more and more people standing around the tables, enjoying the music. Their waitress made it a point to lean and press herself between Al and Jameson when she checked on their drinks. Jameson realized Al was watching her and watching out for her. As Jameson let the piano and Lydia’s sweet notes sweep him up again, it struck him how small his life was in Utah and how large his life had grown. Goodness existed that wasn’t mandated by prayer, guilt, or repentance. People were inherently good and they could live their lives without once wearing sacred underwear, baptizing dead people, or performing secret rites in temples. He could feel the corners of his eyes were wet and he let it all in, let the notes settle over him like a shroud.

The waitress pressed between Al and Jameson, her right arm over Jameson’s shoulder. “Can I get you anything else?” she breathed into his ear.

“No thanks, I think I’m done,” Jameson said. She squeezed his shoulder and then she was gone.

Al was staring at him. “Dude,” he said. “What’d you do to her? She is all over you.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Jameson protested.

Al was scowling. “No offense, but what the hell?” He slammed back the rest of his drink. Jameson had counted five or six for Al, but he’d only had two. Al continued. “I’m good-looking, I have a nice body, I have a good job, I have a big…” Jameson held up a hand, laughing.

“Al. I might be new to everything, but I know you don’t tell a gay guy that you’re hung.” Al blushed and snickered and Jameson laughed with him then said, “Ask her for her number. She’ll say yes or no. Oh, and talk to her face, not her boobs.” Al pulled Jameson into a hug, clapping him on the back while he laughed, then he stood up and moved into the crowd. A few minutes later, he was back holding a piece of paper and looking satisfied. Jameson grinned.

After Lydia finished her last set, to roaring applause, she waved good-bye to them and they left the bar. They snagged a cab and rode home, Jameson pressing Al for more details about the waitress. When he hesitated, Jameson changed subjects to dinner options and then asked if Al was going to Taylor’s party and what he’d be wearing. Al grinned broadly and winked. “You’ll see. What are you wearing?” Jameson grinned back, saying “You’ll see.” The cab stopped in front of the arbor at their brownstone and they got out.

A light sheen of dew on the arbor’s dragon claws glistened in the pale light. They walked the pathway to the door. Al was on the forked-tongue doormat, putting his key into the lock, when Jameson noticed the sounds of footsteps on the street. A man had walked under the arbor, towards the brownstone. For the first time since he left the cab, Jameson noticed the cold. The man walked down the walkway slowly, then stopped a short distance from them.

Jameson could see him clearly as Al opened the door and light spilled into the courtyard. Jameson stared at his father.

“Hello, son.”

***

Season of Truth, Part IV

Editorial note: Same rules apply. I’m not going to make more promises. Soon, is all I can say for when it’ll be done!

Part I, here.

Part II, here.

Part III, here.

Season of Truth, Part IV

“My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to God”
-from Nine Inch Nail’s “Closer”

Jameson set the mask over his face, aligning the holes with his eyes, letting it balance on his nose. Taylor stared for several moments, approvingly, then removed the mask, both hands gently brushing Jameson’s temples. He stepped close and unlaced the ribbons down Jameson’s chest. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Jameson blinked, but held his arms out as Taylor pulled the material off his arms and from around his shoulders. Taylor steadied him with a hand at his shoulder and hip as he swayed.

Jameson focused on Taylor. “Am I drunk?”

Taylor smiled. “No. You’re buzzed. There wasn’t enough in the flask to make you drunk.” He gestured at the material on Jameson’s waist. “Do you need help with those? We can hang up your costume until the party.”

Jameson pulled the material down his hips and used Taylor’s shoulder to balance as he stepped out one leg at a time. Taylor picked up both pieces and placed them and the mask on a hanger in a corner of the room. Jameson pulled on his briefs and grabbed for the rest of his clothes, repeatedly dropping his shoes. He started laughing at himself after the third time. Taylor bent and picked them up and set them on the clothes in Jameson’s arms. He draped an arm across his shoulder and walked with him down to the second floor. Jameson was relieved that Lydia and Al’s doors were closed. They stopped at the door to his room.

They both said each other’s names at the same time and started chuckling.

“You first,” Taylor said.

Jameson stuttered and stopped. “I thought. Upstairs. When you said to go to bed. I thought you meant…”

Taylor stared at him a long moment, his eyes smiling. “Yes. But not tonight. When you’re ready, and when you’ve got a clear head.” He paused. “What I was going to say was ‘thank you’ for this evening. I’ll see you this weekend at the party. ”

Jameson blushed and looked at the ground, overwhelmed with feeling. He met Taylor’s eyes. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Taylor pulled him into a hug then leaned back and kissed his cheek softly. “Sweet dreams.” Jameson watched the light play off his shoulders and back as he walked down the hall and fade into the darkness, sure he could see a flash of his white smile near the stairs. Jameson opened the door and stepped into his room. He dropped his pile of clothes and went down the hall and brushed his teeth. Kicking off his briefs, he slid into bed.

***

They were in the restaurant in a booth, kissing, their tongues waging a delicious battle for dominance. Jameson could feel Richard’s hand at his waist, unzipping his jeans, and then grabbing his erection. Richard’s tongue was near his ear and Jameson felt his penis surge at the touch. He moaned into Richard’s neck as he pulsed and came.

Jameson awoke on his back, panicked. The images faded as he realized where he was. Warm ejaculate covered his abdomen.

“Oh shit,” he muttered. He hadn’t done that in months.

***

He saw Richard at work the next morning. He thought about telling him about his dream last night, but decided against giving Richard any more ammunition. Neither of them brought up their dinner the other evening. They made plans to get a costume for Richard.

“What did you decide to do, Jaymo?”

“I have a costume,” Jameson said.

Richard paused and Jameson could see him debating hysterical drama versus let’s-talk-about-Richard, so he said quickly, “But it needs your stamp of approval.” Richard looked appeased.

They shopped off the side streets of Castro. Richard loved the leather shop but pouted about the prices. “That’s a lot of money for dead cow.” Jameson smiled and followed Richard to another store.

Richard was in the changing room at a consignment shop when his cell phone rang. Jameson heard a brief conversation, and then stepped to the nearest clothes rack, absorbed in the costume selections. He looked up to the spectacle of Richard, the Red Riding Hood. He wore a red cloak with hood, a bright red thong, and a large smile.

“What do you think, Jaymo.” Somehow, it wasn’t a question.

Jameson looked him up and down, “Well, you’re not Jewish,” and turned back to the costume rack.

Richard cackled as he went back to the booth. “Bitch!” From the booth, he said, “I need to get going, Jaymo.”

Jameson said, “Okay.” He paused. “Another date?”

“Yes.” Richard was silent a moment. “But it’s not serious.”

“With Greg?” He could hear Richard getting dressed.

“Yes. You’ll meet him this weekend.”

“I hope he’s a nice guy.”

The silence was longer this time. Richard stepped out. He paid for the costume, hugged Jameson, and then kissed him on the cheek. “He’s not as nice as you are, Jaymo.”

***

Season of Truth, Part III

Editorial note: My apologies, but it’s huge (so is the story). I want to wrap things up today and tomorrow. The editorial commentaries of the prior sections still apply. ((updated: I had somehow screwed up the missionaries names – they are now corrected – MANY thanks to Cele for her very sharp eyes.))

Season of Truth, Part III

“in the ashes of your time
when the dragon screams for more
the reptiles make their comeback in your eyes
and heroes fall for heroin
and heaven falls for fake
and Doris’ daisies burn to hell
on the grand parade of lies

in the middle of the night
when the last of god has died
and the only friend you’ve got
is the heartbeat of the clock
that music plays for all time,
the tv light is freezing
the war-paint on your face…

and I’m tolling my bell just to let you know
I’m here by your side in these days full of wonder”
-from Alphaville’s “Days of Wonder”

The bright pink scarf and beanie shook Jameson out of his thoughts as he neared the restaurant. He could see Richard standing on the corner from half a block away. They met with a hug. Jameson turned his head at the last possible moment so that Richard didn’t kiss him directly on the lips. He pulled back from the embrace and looked at Richard’s scarf and beanie. He said, “Let me guess. San Francisco wasn’t gay enough?”

Richard mocked a scowl. “Don’t get all repressed-Mormon on me.” He stroked the yarn at his shoulder. “I call this ensemble ‘Cashmere Queer.’”

Jameson grinned and grabbed Richard’s arm, pulling him towards the restaurant. Richard feigned a protest. “I have a boner to pick with you. A bone, I mean.” He wagged a finger at Jameson’s face. “I’m not just your co-worker, I’m your friend.”

Jameson cringed. “I didn’t mean that you weren’t my friend!”

Richard flung one end of the scarf over his shoulder and walked in front of Jameson. Over his shoulder he said, “Blow me and we’ll call it even.” Jameson laughed and followed him into the restaurant. The hostess seated them promptly and they looked over the menu casually, already knowing what they wanted.

“Want to share a bottle of wine?” Richard asked.

Jameson shook his head. “Water, please, with lemon.”

“Still on that wagon?

Jameson shrugged and Richard smirked.

During dinner, they brainstormed costume ideas for each other. Richard’s suggestions grew more outrageous and they started listing the local shops they would need to investigate. Jameson caught himself remembering past Halloweens and goofy costumes at church parties with his family and friends; he pushed those memories away and focused on Richard’s eyes as he talked. They dilated and contracted like a cat’s.

Richard’s phone rang and he quickly apologized and answered. He said “Okay, see you there,” and hung up. His eyes were almost black as he looked at Jameson. “Sorry, I have to cut this short, Jaymo.” He fished out money from his wallet and put it next to the bill, then put on the beanie and scarf. “We can get a costume together this week, okay?” Jameson nodded at him.

“See you at work tomorrow,” Richard said, waving as he walked away.

Jameson finished the glass of water as Richard ran back, leaned over the table and kissed him on the cheek.

“What was that for?” Jameson asked.

“Guilt,” Richard said. “I double booked. We were going to get costumes but I also made a date with Greg.” He paused. His pupils were contracted. “Jaymo, he puts out. You don’t.” He threw one end of the scarf over his shoulder and one final comment as he left again. “Not yet, anyway.”

Jameson was bewildered and hurt. He looked at the bill. Richard had left more than enough for both of them. He shrugged into his jacket and headed towards home.

***

Missionaries were coming down the walkway as he neared the entrance to the courtyard. He kept his face blank, but nodded as they waved at him. He remained on the sidewalk in front of the arbor, waiting to let them pass. Jameson noted their different height and their same-styled overcoats and clothes.

“Hi! I’m Elder Peters and this is Elder Nichols. We’re from” the tall one started saying.

Jameson cut him off. “I know where you’re from.”

The one called Nichols said quickly, “Are you a member? Do you live here?”

“No. Yes.”

Nichols said, “Oh, are you Jameson?”

Jameson didn’t hesitate. “No. He’s a roommate and he’s never home.” He walked between them and stood under the arbor.

The one named Peters said, “Would you mind leaving a message for him? His father would really like to get in touch with him.” Nichols nodded his head in agreement.

Jameson kept his face blank. “Really? I thought Jameson was an orphan.” He felt a vague pleasure at the look of confusion on their faces.

Nichols said, “You’re Jameson, aren’t you?”

Jameson said. “Brilliant, Holmes.” He turned towards the house. “Actually, he-who-was-my-father can fuck off and die.”

Nichols called out, “Your father is praying for you!” Jameson flipped the bird behind his back as he walked away.

He breathed out once he was on the other side of the door in the foyer. He could feel the blood pounding in his chest, in his clenched fists, through his temples and his clenched jaw. Jameson didn’t notice Taylor right away in the doorway to the kitchen, the light behind him casting his features in shadow.

“Looks like the Mormon Mafia found you. Any trouble out there?” Taylor asked.

Jameson breathed out slowly. “No. I’m fine.” His eyes were adjusting to the low lights. Taylor was shirtless and carrying a tray of food, a glass and two flasks. He could feel Taylor assessing him, but couldn’t make out his expression.

Taylor said, “Want to talk while I finish a few projects?”

Jameson blinked in surprise. “Talk? Sure. Where?”

Taylor balanced the tray in front of him and started up the stairs. “Upstairs in my workroom.” Jameson noted the lean muscles in his back. They climbed to the third floor. Taylor flicked on a light with his elbow.

Costumes were draped from the ceiling around the large room. Leather and feather masks hung in themed clusters on display racks. Three sewing machines sat on tables near the center. Bolts of cloth and materials were stacked in shelves and boxes throughout the room. A large fireplace, its fire blazing, stood at the other end of the room. Taylor set the tray on the nearest flat surface, palmed a few grapes and took a sip from a flask.

“You’re a tailor?” Jameson asked.

Taylor grinned over his shoulder at Jameson, his teeth flashing. “Sometimes.”

He pulled materials off a chair near the fire and gestured for Jameson to take a seat as he munched a grape and some cheese. Jameson stepped across the room to the fire, staring into the flames as he warmed his hands. He realized he could hear the faint notes of Taylor whistling as he shifted costumes around or sat at one of the sewing machines, altering hems and seams. He reached for a box of accessory materials: feathers, beads, and faux gemstones. Every once in a while he scratched at his side, fingers following the white lines of a scar.

He glanced up from his work and said to Jameson, “Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured towards the chair again and reached for a flask.

Jameson shrugged out of his jacket, shedding the layer of heat he hadn’t been aware of as he’d watched both the fire and this man he barely knew. Muscles flexed as Taylor attached leather to a mask of reptilian skin and ribbon streamers to a hawk mask. Jameson wiped his watering eyes with the back of his hand. It felt like he was crying.

He gestured towards Taylor’s flask. “What are you drinking?”

Taylor’s raised his eyebrows. He drank a sip, capped the flask and offered the other flask to Jameson.

The heat from the fireplace was suffocating. He moved across the room and took the flask. Taylor’s smile was incredibly white. He drank a sip and returned the flask to Taylor. It was a strong taste, almost unpleasant. He could feel the heat moving down his throat into his stomach. His tongue burned. Jameson moved a small distance and sat down on the floor, his legs stretched in front of him.

“Do you have a special costume for yourself?” Jameson gestured at a blue mask and yards of streamers.

Taylor shrugged. “A mask. Sometimes, that’s about it.” He looked relaxed in his chair, one hand balancing the flask on the edge of his fingers, the other scratching along his side, his chest. He tossed a flask to Jameson. “Do you have a costume?” Jameson shook his head.

His pants felt heavy and warm and made his legs feel sweaty and itchy. He took a sip, made a face, took another sip and bent his arm to toss it back, but Taylor waved away the flask. Jameson sipped cautiously, the warmth spreading to his stomach. His pants itched and he scratched his thigh. He found himself talking about dinner with Richard, about being a virgin and afraid to do anything, about the encounter with the missionaries. He told Taylor that he was sure his aunt had given his family his address for the missionaries and had signed him up for an Ensign subscription. Taylor listened and nodded, attaching a string of tiny pearls along an angel wing. Jameson’s throat burned from the liquid in the flask and his eyes watered.

Taylor came near him. They brushed shoulders as Taylor knelt to put more wood in the fire. Taylor moved away and Jameson watched this man absorbed in a search for material through several boxes. He was cursing under his breath. Jameson drank the last drops from the flask. The taste was smooth like water, clear and fresh. Swearing grew louder as Taylor moved from box after box across the room. Grinning, he pulled the box he wanted close to him and pulled out black material.

He turned and signaled to Jameson. “Stand up and undress.”

Jameson stared and didn’t move.

Taylor’s eyes were piercing him. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before and you have nothing to be ashamed of. Stand up. Undress.” He turned to a box of masks.

Jameson pulled off his shoes and socks. He stood and pulled his shirt over his head. Taylor turned to him. Jameson dropped his pants to the floor and he could feel his face burning, his stomach glowing from the liquor.

Taylor said. “No garments? I’m impressed.” His smile was wicked. “Truth or dare, Jameson? Drop ‘em.”

Jameson felt his stomach plunge as he slipped the briefs over his hips and down his thighs, letting them drop to his feet. Before he could worry if he would get aroused or not, Taylor was there next to him. Jameson stared at everything and nothing.

“Great form,” the man acknowledged. With tape and chalk, he measured materials to Jameson’s torso and legs. The material was soft, ethereal. “Silk is cool when it’s hot, warm when it’s cool.” Taylor adjusted measurements to his thighs and waist, leaving smears of chalk. The man worked with the material, cutting here, threading there. At times he used the sewing machine to join pieces together, leaving Jameson a few moments to sprawl on rug in front of the fire.

Jameson looked down at himself, fascinated at the sensations of heat on his skin and the fiery liquid in his bloodstream. His skin glowed red from the fire. He couldn’t have imagined this, being naked in front of another man, several months ago. He remembered a temple ceremony and wearing sacred clothing and the memory chilled him. The fire and liquor warmed his blood and ignited his mind with questions.

Taylor brought back the materials and helped him into the costume. Jameson could feel himself swelling with arousal at the man’s touch. Hands at his back and hip steadied him as he pulled up the black leggings, the semi-sheer material hugging his calves, thighs, groin and buttocks. Taylor fastened material through his arms and around his back and pulled black ribbon through eyelets halfway up his chest. He handed Jameson a black mask.

“Why are you helping me? Why do you do this for me?” Jameson asked.

Taylor stepped back, nodding to himself. “Because I can.”

***

Season of Truth, Part II

The same editorial rules apply. My personal goal is one post each day for this story. Since it’s 11:45pm my time, I’m technically cleared for this post. I’ll post part III earlier, tomorrow.

Season of Truth, Part II

“Nothing will corrupt us
Nothing will compete
Thank god heaven left us
Standing on our feet”
-from David Bowie’s “Beauty and the Beast”

The phone startled him back into the present. He had forgotten to call Richard. He grabbed the phone and said, “Sorry, Richard! I was going to call you back.”

“Son? Can we please talk?” It was his mother, again, pleading.

Part of Jameson mused at the expression “cold rage.” Another part realized he was holding his breath, that he could feel the seam of the receiver along the palm of his hand. He remembered how she turned her back on him. Their silence stretched.

“I’m sorry, son.” His skin crawled. She had that weepy voice which reminded him of testimony meetings.

He felt the silence stretch into crystalline shards that broke with his voice. “I’m not your son, remember? Don’t call me.”

“Son, your father is-“ He slammed the phone down. Reflexively, he touched his cheekbone and his lip. They were completely healed.

The phone rang again. He stared at the receiver a long moment and picked it up slowly. “I said ‘don’t call me.’ Do you understand?”

“Whoa, Jaymo! Can I get into your pants first? Then I’ll stop calling.” Richard’s voice licked his ear.

Jameson unclenched his jaw and breathed. “I’m sorry, Richard! I just hung up on my… Wait. Get into my what?”

Richard laughed. “Oh, so you do listen.” He enunciated, slowly and clearly. “I want to get into your pants.”

Jameson laughed and said, “I’m a virgin,” before he could stop himself, but he plowed through, “and you know I don’t date co-workers. Come on, let’s go to dinner.”

Richard huffed. “Date? Who said anything about dating?” His voice deepened to a purr. “A virgin, are you serious? Oh, I love first-time fuck buddies!”

Jameson could feel his face burning and he muttered, “Do you want to go to dinner or not?”

Richard huffed again. “See you in half hour at that Brazilian place? After dinner, we’ll look for costumes. Ciao.” They hung up.

Jameson changed from his work clothes and locked his room on the way out. Al’s door was still closed. Lydia’s voice floated along the hall, exquisite sequences of notes from a song he knew but had never heard in a smoky-jazz format. While he washed his face and brushed his teeth in the bathroom, Lydia’s voice echoing softly off the tile walls. His mother’s voice faded from his mind. He hummed along with Lydia’s voice on the walk to the restaurant, the lyrics to Bjork’s “Big Time Sensuality” making more sense to him as he walked. He felt like he could breathe again for the first time in months.

***

The brownstone shared a massive backyard garden with the nearby homes. He remembered a comment Lydia made at breakfast, that Taylor owned all the homes on the block. He wondered about an annual party that he’d not attended before. It was hard to imagine the reclusive Taylor hosting a party with hundreds of people. If the walkway decorations were any indication, Taylor would go all-out in the garden.

Jameson had been in San Francisco for two months and it still felt new and overwhelming to him: new home, new job, new friends. He’d sold his car because the public transit was accessible and he put the money towards his diminishing debt. His housemates were nice.

He met Lydia, a petite woman with short black hair and a sparkling diamond nose-ring, in the den the morning he worked on his resume. She sang at a piano bar. She graciously didn’t ask him any questions or pry, but she did offer him anti-bacterial ointment for his cheek and lip.

Another morning, on his way to the bathroom for a shower, he met Al as he was coming down the hall in a towel. Al was a handsome Asian man who modeled and did part-time security jobs for local bars. They chatted briefly. Jameson was fascinated with the droplets of water adorning Al’s chiseled shoulders and chest. Al, too, graciously avoided any awkward questions about Jameson’s appearance.

Lorenzo, a swarthy and rugged-looking construction guy, was the property manager who made a weekly appearance for appointments with Taylor. One morning in the kitchen, Lorenzo joined him for a cup of tea and related the history of San Francisco, not once prying into Jameson’s life.

His first morning in the den he felt a shadow in the doorway while he worked on his resume. The man was medium height, brown haired, with piercing green eyes. His handsome face was ageless and calm. Jameson stared back with his one good eye.

“Welcome, Jameson, I’m Taylor,” he said. He stepped into the room and offered his hand in greeting.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Jameson said as he stood and grasped his hand firmly. Taylor’s grip was strong and sure.

“Working on your resume?” Taylor asked.

“Yes. I think I’m almost done.”

“Good. Your aunt said you have some marketing experience. There are several entry-level positions I know that are open or will soon be open, give or take a few weeks,” he paused and looked at Jameson expectantly. “A few ground rules. One: once you have a job, if you choose to stay here, you will pay rent. Two: no stealing. Three: no drugs. Four: keep your room and common areas clean. Five: this isn’t charity. This is an opportunity. Do you agree to these rules?” Jameson looked down to the floor then back into his eyes and nodded.

“Quite the shiner,” Taylor said quietly. Jameson blushed. “You will heal. You’re safe here.” The words had a ring of truth that chimed through Jameson’s body. He felt his eyes water, in spite of his attempt to hold himself together. Taylor moved to a chair opposite him and sat down. “Tell me what happened.” Jameson stared at this stranger of a man and let the flood of words and emotion come pouring out of him.

***