Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

Chance Encounter 3: Kyle Watson

January 29th, 2021 started like the preceding twenty-six January 29ths. I awoke next to David, my partner of twenty-six years and husband of six. We shared coffee. We kissed each other good-bye before we headed off to work, me to my office and him to his.

It ended unlike any other. At about 11:30, David texted that the fingers on his right hand were numb. At about 2:15, he texted that the vision in his right eye was "goofy." I immediately called him and told him to get an ambulance, to get to the emergency room as fast as he could, and I would meet him there.

He wasn't fast enough. The small strokes affecting his fingers and vision portended something worse: an ulcerated clot in his carotid artery broke free and went to his brain, blocking all blood flow to that side of his brain. He died in the back of the ambulance.

As I waited, I didn't understand why it was taking the ambulance so long to get to the emergency room. It turns out, it didn't take them long at all. There was just no longer any reason to be urgent with David.

"Are you waiting for David Dalton?" a young physician asked me.

"I am."

"I'm afraid I have some very bad news," he said. "David suffered a massive stroke on his way to the hospital."

It's funny how fast your mind races. Expecting the best, my mind immediately raced to our running joke of "we're not putting ramps in this house" any time either of us refused to go to a physician when we should have.

"Can I see him?"

"I'm sorry, Sir. I'm afraid the stroke was . . . fatal . . . " He kept talking, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. All I could hear was the blood in my ears.

I was bewildered. The words were floating, like leaves on a breeze. They couldn't land in my brain. They stayed in motion, slightly out of reach.

David was only fifty-four years old. He had kept himself in good shape. He wasn't diabetic, had very low cholesterol, and didn't smoke. There was no history of stroke in his family.

What I had heard wasn't possible. I'd have believed we had won the lottery before I could believe that unbelievable word . . . "fatal."

I pleaded David's health history to the young physician who had his hand on my shoulder and was helping me to sit down. I didn't mean to be, but I must have been yelling. He gently shsh'd me as he settled next to me. I put my face in my hands and tried to conceive the inconceivable.

It was not my first dance with tragedy. When I was twenty-one, my sister died in a car accident. She was fifteen when she died.

When I was twenty-six, my father died from sepsis after a routine surgery. Like David, he was only fifty-four.

I called my best friends. Both of them met me in the E.R. No one said a word. There was nothing to say.

The following days and weeks went by in a fog. I remember little of them. I know our families descended on Kansas City, tended to me, and then departed. I know our friends were very solicitous of me. I know our cat was forlorn, lying on the rug in front of the back door waiting for a return that was not coming.

I turned fifty-four on December 10th, 2021. I was supposed to go to dinner at Cafe Europa with my friend, Andrea. Since David's death, we had many times made plans to go to dinner, but I had always backed out. Other than for work, I was incapable of leaving the house David and I had shared.

Cafe Europa was one of the restaurants at which David and I had been regulars. For a long time, we had lived next door to the head chef, Micheal. At his suggestion, we had tried it. Once we had, we returned over and over again.

Just before David died, Kyle had started as Cafe Europa's host. Ky, as he introduced himself, as if the two extra letters of Kyle were simply too much to carry, was about half our age. We took an immediate shine to him, harmlessly flirting with him in the way long-term couples do.

Ky had dirty blond hair that he attempted to part on the side and to which he otherwise paid little attention. He had a beard that was much darker and redder than the hair on his head. He had blue eyes that were sparkly, especially when a smile parted his red lips and revealed his bright white teeth. He had dark eyelashes and eyebrows that made it look like he was wearing makeup, even though he clearly wasn't. He dressed like he looked, casual and comfortable. He wore unbuttoned henleys that showed he had a mat of straight, reddish hair covering his chest. His khakis and hunting boots made him look like he belonged on a mountain, not in boutique cafe.

Not long after we met him, he told us about his days as a snow bunny in Jackson Hole. I responded that he was smart to enjoy life while he was still young and beautiful.

"You think I'm beautiful?" he asked.

"Yes, and it's pretty clear you do, too," I answered.

"Well," he said, smiling mischievously, "I've always had a thing for guys with beards."

We learned a lot about him during our visits to the cafe. He was twenty-six. He had dropped out of college to move to Jackson Hole. When he decided it was time to grow up, he moved back in with his parents and re-started school at Johnson County Community College.

He played the guitar. He had a staff with notes tattoo-ed on his left wrist. When asked if he had other tattoos, he coyly answered "I'll never tell."

He referred to himself as a future fat boy. Pinching the ten or so extra pounds around his mid-section, he said, "Look at me. I'm only 26. I eat smart. I work out. I've still got this. I always have. I always will. As I get older, it'll get bigger."

"Just think of it as love handles," I answered.

He responded with a smile. He started to add something, but then stopped.

When David and I dined at Europa, Ky always made us feel like we were his favorite guests. We certainly loved the attention.

Three hundred and fifteen days after David died, Andrea texted "happy birthday" and then, later, "tonight's the night . . . it's time." I knew she was right. I had been a hermit for far too long. I loved my cat, but he wasn't enough for me. My love language, after all, was physical touch. A cat could provide only so much of what I needed.

Still, I was pensive as we drove toward the cafe. I loathed the possibility I'd run into someone who didn't know. Because I had been so isolated, I had made that possibility much more likely.

I was stunned to be greeted by Ky. I assumed he had moved on by now. I didn't expect a twenty-six year old man to still be hosting at a cafe, over a year after he had started. Host seemed like a temporary job through which one cycled easily.

"Hey," he said, extending his hand joyfully. "It's been a long time. I thought you had moved away."

"I'm still here."

"Where's David?"

"He's not."

"Oh," he said, his face betraying disappointment. "That's too bad. I thought you two were great together."

I knew what he thought. I considered letting him continue to think what he thought, so I could avoid the truth. But, I decided it would be unfair to leave him mis-thinking that David had left me or that I had left him.

"It's not that, Ky," I said. "David died. Last January. From a massive stroke."

I didn't expect the tears that filled his eyes or the deep, warm hug that he wrapped around me. The combination caused trears to sting my eyes.

"Oh, my God," he said into my neck. "I'm so, so sorry. I had no idea."

When he ended the hug, he took both of my cheeks in his hands, stared straight into my eyes, and asked "Are you alright?" I was staggered by the intensity and intimacy of the moment. Tears again stung my eyes.

"I'm getting there," I said, my eyes overflowing and tears running down my face. "It's been almost a year. I'm trying to return to the land of the living."

His hand in the middle of my back led us to our table. Not long after we were seated, Michael was tableside.

"Hey," he said. "Ky told me what happened. I cannot express the breadth and depth of my sympathy. But, I'm glad you're here. We've missed you."

"It's his birthday," Andrea said.

"Really?"

"Yep," I answered. "Fifty four big ones."

"You're in your fifties?" Ky asked, genuine surprise on his face. "Wow. I'd have guessed ten years younger."

"You're flattering me."

"I mean it."

"Then thank you, I think."

"You're welcome, I know" he concluded, winking at me.

After that, Ky left us be. As she always did, Andrea made me laugh throughout dinner. Since David died, Andrea had been a stalwart and a trooper. She refused to leave me alone. When I refused to answer my mobile, she kept calling. When I refused to answer my door, she kept banging. Many nights, she rocked me to sleep, my troubled sleep brought on only by the exhaustion wrought on by my endless sobbing.

She would not relent. When I wanted nothing other than for her to shut up and go away, she stood on my stoop, banging and banging and banging some more. If I didn't love her so much, I'd have hated her. If I had lost her, I'd have lost myself.

I was falling. She was the only tether. Her relentlessness meant the tether never snapped, even if it frayed.

In my darkest moments, I was a complete asshole to her. A lesser human would have let me fall. She held on tight.

I shared my obeisance for her relentlessness over dinner. She smirked me away.

"You're my Will," she said, referencing Will and Grace. "I'd do anything for you. And, by anything, I mean anything, Danny Boy."

In times of strife, she always called me Danny Boy. It reminded me of Billy when she did.

"And you're my Grace, my lifelong non-romantic life partner. I'd do anything for you, too, Smelly Cat," I said, referring to the nickname from Friends. I had given her the moniker during our first night out together, right after she pushed out a repulsive fart in my car.

"Speaking of which," she said. "It's a bit early for you to be committing to a non-romantic life. I know you miss David, and I'm sure he misses you more. But, you're only fifty. It's too early to retire from the great things in life. And I think Grizzly Adams thinks you hung the moon."

"Grizzly Adams?"

"Yes. The host who's either pretending to be a lumberjack or the lumberjack who's pretending to be a host. He's smitten with you. And objectively adorable."

"He's half my age."

"He didn't know that."

"I did."

"I'm not saying you should make a life with him. I'm only suggesting you make a night with him."

Other than to roll my eyes, I did not respond. She filled the silence.

"I can see what you're thinking. David would approve. He'd cheer you on. It's time, Danny Boy. You gave time to the dead. It's time to give time to the living."

"I don't know," I admitted. "I'd feel so disloyal. Like I was cheating."

"I'm sorry, Danny, but that's just ridiculous. David is gone. He's been gone. And he's not coming back. Ever. Finding someone to step into his place would honor him, not dishonor him. I mean no offense, but he was the best person I ever knew. He wouldn't want you to suffer. It'd slay him. He'd want you to live life to the fullest. He'd be so happy that you wanted someone to replace him, or at least part of him. He'd encourage you to look forward, not backward. He loved you more than I've ever known someone to love another. He'd want your life to be fireworks and ice cream, not sadness and regret."

"I think Ky is straight."

"He's at least bi."

"I don't think so."

"You don't see the way he looks at you."

I watched him work the restaurant. I thought she was wrong. For gaydar, I watch who people watch. If a couple is in a restaurant and the male watches another male move around the room, his girlfriend or wife is likely in for a rude awakening at some point. When David had noticed the same thing, he had always offered that "someone should let her know he's about ready to fly right out of here."

Ky seemed to be watching everyone and no one. He did not give off any vibe, much less a gay one.

Smelly and I crashed through two bottles of Chianti and two duck confits. I had to admit, it was good to be out and about again. We had our uneaten duck boxed and ordered two lemon cakes to go. When Smelly dropped me off, we realized we had left it all on our table. She asked if I wanted her to drive me the six blocks back to run in. I hesitated and then said no. I was too close to the safety of my home.

I went in, slipped into my sleep wear (a t-shirt and cut off flannel pajama pants), and poured myself a glass of wine. Not long after I settled into the couch, I nodded off.

I was awakened by a knock at door to the font porch, which seemed like my front door, but was not (my front door was on the side of my house). When I realized what was going on, I was surprised to see Ky at my door, holding a bag.

"Hold on," I said. "I have to go turn off the alarm."

"What are you doing here?" I asked, once I had returned.

"You forgot your food."

"Well, it's awfully nice of you to bring it by, but totally unnecessary," I said, taking the bag. "How'd you find me?"

"Easy. It's 2021. Everyone's findable."

"Would you like a glass of wine?"

"I'm not much of a wine drinker, but I'll have a whiskey, if you've got it."

"I do," I said. I had been a widower for almost a year. I had a fully stocked liquor cabinet. "Rocks or neat?"

"Neat."

I grabbed one of my Tiffany tumblers and over-poured a whiskey. I handed it to Ky and sat opposite him in one of the leather chairs that flanked my fireplace. I could see the fire flicker in his hair and his beard.

We talked about everything and nothing. The minutes stretched into hours.

We talked about how David and I had met. We talked about my history with men and women.

We talked about the fluidity of Ky's time as a snow bunny. The instructors had lived in close proximity, and there was a lot of promiscuity. Ky had batted from both sides.

But, he admitted he'd never been in a relationship. He'd never felt either the need or the urge to do so.

"I prefer to be alone," he said. "I always have. Even as a kid, I thought other kids ruined my games. I preferred to play alone. . . . Besides, I've never wanted the bullshit that goes with a relationship," he said. "I get sex when I need or want it. I've never wanted the compromises that are required to be with someone else."

"You're young."

"I don't think that's why. I think it's generational. I just don't want to make sacrifices. I like my freedom and I'm super selfish about it. I get to do what I want when I want. I don't have to vet my choices through anyone or worry about how they affect anyone. I'm not sure why anyone gives that up."

"I did. And I loved it. A lot. And I miss it so much."

"You guys were my favorite couple, by far. You seemed like you were really happy, like you enjoyed being with each other and didn't need anyone else."

"We were really happy," I said. "Each day, we were happier than we were the day before."

Sadness swept over me. Ky obviously saw it in my face.

"I'm sorry," he said, leaning forward and taking my hands between his. "I didn't mean to make you sad. I'm new to this. I don't know what to say."

"It's okay," I said, enjoying the roughness of his hands against mine. "No one knows what to say. And, there's no way to avoid saying what you shouldn't. My memory is a minefield. There's no way to tell where to step. And one false step sets off a bomb. It's odd, really. I can be going along, not thinking about David at all. Then, I'll hear a song, or smell a smell, or see a sight, and I'll cry and cry and cry. I think that, at some point, my tear ducts will run dry, and I'll be all cried out. But, I'm not there yet."

"I've never lost anyone."

"You're lucky. It's hard to learn to be alone again. I spent half my life with him by my side. He always rooted for me. He always supported me. He was a mama bear when it came to me."

He didn't answer. He just let go of my hand, leaned back in the chair, and took a large swig of whiskey.

He checked his big, clunky watch and commented on how late it was.

"3 a.m.?" I asked, surprised by how long we'd been talking. "I haven't been up this late since New Year's Eve, 1999. I'm not much of a night owl."

I was lying. Since David died, I had spent many nights wandering the house until I was drunk enough to pass out.

And he had died. He hadn't "passed" or "moved on" or "left us," he had died. That's what people do. They die. The euphemisms for death had initially annoyed me and now made me blind with rage. Of what was everyone so afraid? Why all the pussyfooting around, pretending death was not death. The opposite of alive is dead. It's not passed away or passed on. That's just a delicate way of trying to make the truth less than it is, which is that David had died. Too unexpected and too young, he had died. And he was, now and forever more, dead.

"Me, either. I like to sleep too much," he said, polishing off his third whiskey. "I'm officially drunk," he added, holding the empty tumbler up to show he had drained it.

"Me, too," I agreed. I was. I had drank a lot of wine. "You're welcome to stay, if you don't want to Uber home."

"You think I can't drive?"

"You probably can, but I know you shouldn't."

"I'll stay, if you don't mind. I don't feel like heading back out into the cold, after being all warm and cozy by the fire."

"I don't mind at all."

We – I – had two spare bedrooms. I showed Ky to the better one – the one with its own bathroom – and then headed down the hall to the master.

I was safety conscious. I slept with the door closed, in case of fire. I had moved the cat's litter box into my bedroom, so we could snuggle behind closed doors. We were asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I was startled awake at 7, less than four hours later, by a gentle knocking on my door. "Dan?" Ky asked.

"Yeah," I answered, sliding my boxers on so I did not open the door in my nude.

"I gotta head out. Thanks for the conversation and the whiskey."

"Hold on, I'll show you out."

"No need. I can show myself out."

I listened to the creaking of the floor as he walked down the hall and down the stairs. I put my hands to the door and rested my forehead against it. I was alone in my house again. I had enjoyed the Ky interregnum.

Two weeks later, I made a mental excuse to eat my Friday lunch at the Europa bar. Ky greeted me with a big smile, as always.

"You trimmed your beard?" I asked.

"Yeah, it was getting a bit unruly."

"It looks good."

"I like it better when it's a little messy. Right now, it looks like I'm trying too hard."

I surveyed his casualness. "I don't think you ever look like you're trying too hard."

"You're sweet."

I sat at the bar and talked to Ky in passing as he hosted. While he was refilling my wine glass, he talked about loose plans to climb Machu Pichu. He was trying to decide whether to do it.

"You should," I said. "While you have the chance. If you wait, the chance may never come."

He paused and looked at me. He knew to what and to whom I was referring. We would do none of the things we had planned on doing. We would do none of things we put off doing.

He moved toward me and again took my hands in his. Neither of us spoke, but his eyes said he was sorry. Mine said "I know."

That night, my re-reading of "The Seven Story Mountain" was interrupted by Ky's knock on my porch door. It was 10:15. He was headed home from work and decided to swing by with a bottle of Cabernet and a bottle of whiskey. As we had during this threshold visit, we drank in the chairs by the fire and talked. Again, we talked about nothing and everything. As he had before, he stayed the night. And, as he had before, he left the next morning before I opened my bedroom door.

The weeks went on like that. Every Friday night, Ky knocked on my porch door after work, a bottle of wine in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. Most nights, he also brought a pastry we ate with our hands.

January 28th, he was a no show. I did not realize how forward I had looked to his visits until he skipped one. I was distraught. I wanted to know why he didn't show, but I also didn't.

January 29th was the one year anniversary of David's death. It was a Saturday. I decided to get day drunk, alone with our cat. I drank Zinfandel and drifted down memory lane through photo albums, including the three I had made of our wedding day, a before, a during, and an after volume. I cried a lot. I drank more.

I was sobering up for the second or third time – I couldn't keep track – when I heard a knock at the porch door. No matter how many times I tried, I couldn't get Ky to use the front door.

"Hey," he said. "I wanted to come last night, but I thought it more important that I come tonight."

I couldn't help myself. I grabbed him and held onto him for dear life. He made no attempt to let me go. When I started to cry, he kissed the top of my head and told me to "let it flow." I did. I cried and cried and cried as he kissed the top of my head over and over and over.

When I regained my composure, I went upstairs and washed my face. When I returned, Ky was in his usual chair, a large tumbler of whiskey in his left hand, and a large glass of red wine in his right.

When I was settled in my chair, he handed me my wine, held up his whiskey, and toasted "To David."

"To David," I answered, clinking my glass against his.

As we had on each prior visit, we talked and talked and talked. As the level of liquid in both bottles decreased, the tension in the room increased. As is often the case when a gay male is involved, the talk turned sexual as the alcohol loosened our inhibitions.

"I've never really liked kissing," he admitted. "It's always seemed a little gross to me, the swapping of spit and the exchange of germs that goes with it. I mean, I'd never let someone spit in my mouth, and kissing is the functional equivalent of it. I don't do it."

"I love kissing," I responded. "As we aged, David and I had less and less sex. But, we kissed more and more."

"Maybe it's the love. Maybe kissing goes with love. I've never loved anyone, so I've never really been into kissing anyone."

"How do you bypass kissing and get to sex?"

"Easy. I turn my head. I get kissed on the neck. I don't fuck face to face. I prefer to go from behind. If not, I either stand or sit back on my heels."

"Ky, can I ask you a personal question?"

"I'm sure. We've talked about a lot of personal things. I doubt anything is off limits at this point."

"Are you gay or straight?"

"That's a lazy question. The world isn't binary. You should know that. And, I don't really like labels. They're too simplistic."

"Then how do you describe yourself?"

"Unlabeled."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I'm all about the person. I don't care what they are, I care who they are. Out in Jackson Hole, we were pretty loose, like I said. There was a lot of group activity. Some of the guys learned they didn't like another guy being involved at all. One of the guys learned he liked other guys way more than he hadthought. A couple of the guys learned they liked a lot of different things. I was one of those. I also learned the who mattered way more than the what."

"How can 'the who' drive you if you've never been in a relationship? How can you know who they are, if you never get to know them?"

"I do know them. I only have sex with people I really know."

"And that includes both men and women?"

"It does. Old and young, too. Fat and thin. You name it. I get in a mood. I make sure it's not going to ruin anything. Then I go. It's just sex. I make sure of it. Otherwise, it'll become a thing, and I can't let it become a thing. Sex should never be a thing."

"You're right down the middle?"

"I'm not like that. One night, I may crave one thing. Another night, I may crave another thing. I may have to go to two different people to get what I crave. I may not. I may have to go to two different genders to get what I crave. I may not."

"It all seems so indeterminate."

"It is. Sometimes, I want to dominate. When I do, I go for someone younger or weaker or both. Sometimes, I want to be dominated. When I do, I go for someone older or stronger or both. And, not everyone is good at everything. I try to exploit people's strengths. A person may have a shitty body but be a great lay. If I want to enjoy someone's body, I'm going to avoid that person. But, if all I want is a great lay, that person may be just the ticket. Someone else may give great head but not be worth a shit as a lay. If all I want is a great blow job, that someone might get the call. If I want to get blown and laid, they won't. Yet someone else may be only interested in fucking me. On the rare occasion all I want is to get fucked, I may exercise that option."

"So, you have like a menu of sex partners?"

"No. It's more the reverse of that. I have a menu of people, and I now know what they're really good at, from a sex standpoint. Rather than roll the dice, I use that knowledge. The purpose of sex is pleasure. I strategically ensure that purpose is fulfilled. There's nothing more disappointing than bad sex. Seriously, think about that. The best thing should never be a bad thing."

"What are you good at, from a sex standpoint?"

"Well, not kissing. I don't kiss. Anyone. I'm not great at oral sex. I don't really like eating pussy or sucking dick. I'm very sensual. I like to touch and to be touched. Anywhere and everywhere. And, I'm a great lay. I have a great dick, and I know how to use it. I also have a nice ass, and I've learned how to use it, too. So, to distill my answer down, I'd say, I'm a great lay, whether I'm giving or getting."

"It doesn't look like you have a great ass."

"Looks can be deceiving, and, in the case of my ass, they are."

"So, what makes your dick great?"

"I could tell you, but I'd rather show you."

"Really?"

"Yes. I have no hang ups about my body. I love my body. I'm happy to show it to you."

When I didn't respond, he stood up, pulled his henley up and over his head, and unbuttoned and unzipped his REI pants, which fell to the floor. He was in front of me only in boxer briefs.

"You ready?" he asked.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I was too stunned to speak.

Without batting an eye, he grabbed the band of his briefs, pulled them out, and then pulled them down. When he stepped out of them, he was unashamedly nude in front of me.

I took him in. As suspected, his chest was coated with straight, red hair. As unsuspected, he was not generally hairy. He was like Eliad Cohen. His chest was hairy, and there was a narrow trail of red hair from his chest to his crotch. But his crotch was not the unkempt bush I suspected. Like his legs, his crotch was hairy, but not thick with hair.

He was also right about his dick. Even soft, it was large. And, it was easy to see he'd get larger.

It was also pretty. It did not curve left or right. It was all in proportion. And, the head was an inverted bell.

Although my mouth was arid, I was able to choke out, "I see what you mean . . . . That's a nice one . . . . Now, what makes your ass so great?"

"Look," he said, turning around and bending over. "Nice, round cheeks," he said, grabbing them in his hands. "A shallow crack. A nice, hairless opening. And," he said, sliding his finger across the opening and ever so slightly penetrating himself, "a juicy, tight tunnel."

I was filled with lust for the first time since David died. It was all I could do not to stand up, grab him, and let my lust overwhelm him.

Ky settled back in his chair. His pants and boxers were on the floor between us.

"Cat got your tongue?" He asked.

"A little. I guess I'm surprised by how cavalier you are."

"I like my body," he said. "Even this," he added, pinching the little bit of extra that encircled him. "I've never minded being nude. Even in high school gym class, when everyone else was super self-conscious. I'd wrap my towel around my neck and stride around in all my glory."

"I like your body, too," I choked out. "But, I can't help but feel like I'm in a movie."

"Then pretend you are," he answered, taking a big swig of whiskey while keeping his eyes locked on mine. "Turnabout's fair play. Tell me what you're good at."

"Uh, I don't know," I stammered, "probably nothing any more. It's been too long."

"I bet that's not true. I bet you're still good at whatever you were good at. What was it, Dan? What were you good at, back in the day?" He asked sultrily, raising his whiskey back to his lips and taking a mischievous sip.

I couldn't look down his body. I couldn't . . . wouldn't allow myself. I had to keep my eyes locked on his.

"Well," I drawled. "I used to love oral sex. Giving, not receiving. I don't know if I was good at it, but I sure pretended like I was."

"And . . . . .?"

"I also used to love to top. I really got lost in the control and the power."

"Care to prove it?"

"Which?"

"Both," he answered, spreading his legs to expose that he was getting aroused. His dick had lengthened and thickened and was curving downward between his muscled thighs.

"I don't know. I'm having kind of a perfect night. I don't want to ruin it?"

"You won't. I know you want to have sex with me. And, now that I know you, I want to have sex with you."

I suspected a pity fuck. After all, it was orchestrated, and it was the anniversary of David's death.

"I don't want a pity fuck," I announced.

"You're not going to get one. I don't pity you. You're not pitiable. I'm sorry about David, but my sorrow stops at sympathy."

"Well, I don't want a sympathy fuck then."

"You're not going to get that, either. I desire you. You desire me. We should act on that desire."

I was kidding myself with my reticence. There was no circumstance in which I was going to pass on the delight recumbent in front of me.

I moved from my chair and settled between his legs. I slid my hands up his torso and into his chest hair. I kissed the inside of his thighs while I gently pinched and stroked his nipples.

"It's funny that you curve downward."

"I thinks it's because I've always worn it down."

"And that your erection hangs down."

"It's too heavy to raise up."

"I can see that," I said, taking him in my hand and lapping whatever was leaking from him with the tip of my tongue. I gently took his head into my mouth, soaking it with spit. He squirmed as I dead.

"My head's very sensitive," he said.

I looked up at him while I worked it with my tongue. I tasted a combination of salty and sweet.

"I have to warn you," he said. "I take a while to unload."

I signalled "I've got nothing but time" with my eyebrows.

I worked my mouth up his shaft as far as I could. I couldn't take him all, but I took a lot. Operating from memory, I worked back and forth on him, gently massaging his scrotum as I did. His moans suggested my memory was not failing me.

I was vexed by conflicting emotions. On one side, I felt like a creepy old man, sucking off a kid half my age. On the other side, I felt like a charity case, like Ky had decided to best way to salve my wounds was to offer himself to me.

Ky startled me with a "Earth to Dan. Earth to Dan. Come in Dan." I removed my mouth from him.

"Where'd you go?" He asked. I told him.

He leaned forward and took my head in his hands. "Knock it off," he said. "I want this. I really do. You're not a creepy old man. You're a hot older man. And this isn't palliative. It should have happened already. It's just a coincidence it's happening tonight."

I didn't move. But I could feel a smile dancing at the corners of my mouth.

"Get back to it," Ky said, slapping his dick at my mouth. "Suck my dick. Show me what you've got."

I took him back in my mouth. I worked back and forth as Ky held my head. He was very verbal. I heard a lot of "yeah," "just like that," "oh fuck," and "suck that dick" as I gave him my best shot.

I felt Ky move. Before I knew it, he was standing in front of me, still buried in my mouth. His rough hands were still at the sides of my head. He stilled me and started to move his hips back and forth.

"Oh my god," he said. "I love watching my dick disappear in your face."

I looked up. He was looking straight down, watching himself move in and out of my mouth.

He quickened his pace. His glans was banging against the back of my throat.

"Fuck," he said. "You're really good at that."

I enjoyed the compliment. I moved my left hand to his shaft. He fucked my face and my hand simultaneously. I used my right hand to brace myself against him.

I broke free from his grip. I lowered myself to the floor. He followed me. He straddled me, his dick dangling in my mouth. I grabbed his hips and started moving him back and forth. He forced his way as far down my throat as he could.

"Holy shit," he said. "I'm in deep."

He was. I couldn't fathom how he had gotten that deep, much less how he could get any deeper.

I swallowed, allowing my throat to massage every buried inch. He started to fuck my face again. I was helpless under him.

When I couldn't take any more, I grabbed his hips and stilled him. I could barely breathe.

"Don't make me stop," he cried.

I had to. I flipped him over on his back and moved between his legs. I added my hand and sucked him with abandon. I wanted him to come, but I couldn't make him. Every time I thought I had him, he retreated.

We continued to change positions. He rolled back over me. I rolled him onto his side. He sat on his heels. He stood in front of me again.

He was right. It was taking him a long time to unload.

I'm fairly certain it was the longest blowjob I've ever given. It seemed endless. At various points, my ass, my jaw, and my thighs ached.

I was relieved when I finally heard, "I'm ready to come." I redoubled my efforts, going at him as hard and as fast as I could.

"Oh, fuck," I heard from above. "I'm going . . . I'm going."

I didn't pull off. I knew the etiquette. I took shot after shot, swallowed, and kept going. My mouth followed him to his knees. I was not going to release him until he forced me to.

"Mother Mary," he said, when he was finally finished and couldn't take any more. "If you fuck half as good as you suck, it's going to be a great night."

"It already has been," I thought to myself. "It already has been."

Without discussion, Ky moved onto his stomach and spread his legs.

"Give me a second," he said. "I need to catch my breath."

I couldn't wait. I moved between his legs and started to eat him out. I could tell from the squirming and writhing that he was enjoying my tongue as it probed and smeared him.

I'd have kept at him, but he interrupted me with a plaintive "Please fuck me." I stopped eating him out and wondered whether I owned a condom or even lube.

He read my mind. "Just use your spit and fuck me now, please."

I was vexed. I hadn't fucked anyone in years, so I wasn't worried about me. But, he had a menu of possibilities.

Lust trumped reason. I returned to his ass, ate it until it was good and slick, and then worked myself into him. He was right. He was juicy and tight.

I lowered myself onto him and kissed the back of his neck. "You feel great," I whispered.

I took my time. I felt him open up and take me all the way.

"Thank you for this, Ky," I whispered.

"Stop being sweet and fuck me," he answered. "Show me you like the control and the power."

I did as I was told. I raised up and started moving in and out of him. I got lost in the motion. I closed my eyes and imagined he was David.

He got verbal again. I got turned on as he encouraged me "Yeah . . . God that feels good . . . Oh, fuck yeah . . . Right there . . . Oh yeah . . . Oh yeah . . . Oh God . . ."

As I moved toward orgasm, he interrupted me. He wanted to roll over. He wanted to see my face when I came.

He hooked his hands under his knees and pulled them toward his chest. I moved back into him and looked down his body.

"I like that you look like a man," I said.

"I like that you are a man," he answered.

I fucked him as long and as slowly as I could. He got hard as I did and started stroking himself.

"Let's try to come at the same time," he said.

"I'm really close," I answered. "And you take too long."

"This one'll come faster."

"It has to. I'm almost there."

"I can be, too."

"How long?"

"Just a little more."

"Hurry."

"Oh God."

"I know."

"I can't hold off."

"I'm almost there."

"Hurry."

"Almost."

"Come on, Ky. I can't wait."

"I'm there."

He exploded, thick streams of creamy white cum hitting his chest and stomach. I came, too, twitching with each shot.

"Mother Mary," he said again, after I had collapsed onto him, only his hairy chest, thick load, and sweat between us.

"I don't know that she'd approve of you using her name at this point," I said into his shoulder as he wrapped his arms and legs around me.

"I suspect she stopped paying attention to us about the time you gobbled my load," he answered, chuckling under me.

"You think she hung around that long?" I asked.

"I would have. I suspect she's a bit of a voyeur, too. I bet she hung around as long as she could, watching that May/December blow job until she felt so guilty she had to look away."

"May/October," I corrected.

"It's at least May/November," he corrected back.

I tried to rise up, but he tightened his grip. "Not yet," he said. "Stay where you are."

The fire was warm, but I got cold as my sweat dried. I grabbed the throw off the couch and pulled it over us.

"This is nice," he said.

"It is," I agreed.

I dozed off. I woke myself with a snore. Ky was still under me, his fingertips moving lightly all over my back and my sides. The gentleness of his touch surprised me.

"I fell asleep," I said, rolling off of him.

"I know," he said, rolling onto his elbow and moving his hand to my chest and stomach. "I felt your body go limp."

He gently tickled my chest and stomach as I recovered. My eyelids got heavy. Sleep was re-approaching.

"Don't get too comfortable," he said, raising the throw to show me he was ready for more.

"Do you want me to blow you again?"

"Yeah, but no. I want to fuck you instead."

"I don't know, Ky" I answered. "I was never much of a bottom, and I'm not sure that'll fit."

"I always have."

"Still . . . . ."

"Shhhh," he said. "And roll over."

Helplessly, I did as I was told. I thought he would prepare me with his tongue, but then I remembered his aversion to oral.

He dropped spit into my ass and started preparing me with his thick fingers. I turned my head from him so he couldn't see me bite down on the throw. I cringed at his second finger. I couldn't imagine how his dick was going to fit.

He talked to me like it was my first time. "Take deep breaths and relax," he said. "You're going to love this."

I doubted what he was certain about. He dropped another mouthful of spit on me.

"You're opening up nicely," he said, a little too clinically for me.

I felt his head at my opening. "I have to feed it in," he said, pressing forward.

Slowly, he worked his way into me. I tried to force myself to breathe and relax, but he seemed endless. Every time I thought I was full, he bored in more deeply.

"See?" He finally asked, as he spread my legs with his and moved his hairy chest against my back. "I told you I would fit. . . . Now take a couple of deep breaths and really try to relax."

I did. I felt the remainder of my resistance yield as he expanded inside of me.

"Jesus Christ," I hissed as I felt him start. "Don't move yet," I pleaded.

"Sorry, Charlie," he answered, quoting an old "chicken of the sea" ad that I was surprised he knew. "I'm in charge here. . . . . Now, tell me you want me to fuck you."

"But, I'm not sure that I do," I panted.

"You do. I can feel it around my dick. You're hot and wet for me. So, tell me what you know you want."

"Alright," I relented. "I want you to fuck me."

"Use my name."

"I want you to fuck me, Ky."

"That's better," he said as he started to go. "Tell me when I find your prostate. I'll work it as hard and as long as I can. . . . And talk to me like I talked to you."

I felt awkward. I had never been verbal during sex.

"Tell me I feel good," he hissed in my ear. "Tell me you want me to fuck you harder."

I turned my head toward his face. I moved my mouth to his, but he turned and I got his cheek.

"Ky," I ventured. "You feel so good. Fuck me, please. Fuck me as good as you can."

He raised up on his arms. When he did, he penetrated ever more deeply. I inhaled sharply. I must have tensed.

"Chill, Dan. You're going to love this. Like I said, I'm really good with my dick."

He was right. It didn't take him long to find my prostate and move me forcefully from pain to pleasure. I let him know with a moan, not with words. I relaxed into the pleasure. I could hear him talking, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. My mind was buzzing.

His guttural and loud "oh fuck . . . oh fuck . . . oh fuck" startled me back into the present. I re-oriented just in time to feel him thicken and unload inside of me.

"Oh fuck, I'm coming . . . I'm coming."

He collapsed onto me, no longer able to hold himself up with his arms. His sweaty chest and stomach covered my back.

"That was awesome," he said, when he had recollected himself.

He was right. It had been. I hadn't bottomed in years, but bottoming for him was not like I remembered it. If it had been, I'd have spread my legs much more frequently.

He slipped out of me. I felt him start to stir.

"Don't move yet, please. I like the weight of you on me."

He used his legs to push mine together. He slipped his arms under my chest. He kissed the back of my sweaty head.

I had enjoyed the sex, but I hadn't needed it. I needed that moment. I knew it wasn't, but it felt like love.

We didn't speak as we gathered our clothing and made our way upstairs. At the door to the room he used, I asked if he would do me a favor. He said, "sure." I asked him to kiss me good-night. He grimaced.

"I really don't like kissing," he reminded.

"I know. But, I do. And you said 'sure.'"

"That was sneaky."

"I'm older and wiser."

He slid his right hand along my neck and lowered his mouth to mine. He started softly and then gently gave me his tongue. He was firm and juicy. Just as we were about to cross over, he needed the kiss.

"You're better than advertised," I said.

"I didn't say I was bad. I said only that I don't like it."

"Well . . . . People usually aren't very good at things they don't like."

"It was a nice kiss."

"It was better than that," I corrected. I didn't know it then, but it was also good-bye.

We went to our separate doors and said our good-nights. It didn't occur to me to ask him to share my bed. I wasn't ready for that.

I slept soundly. I don't know whether Ky tried to wake me when he left. If he did, it had been in vain. His door was open and his bed was empty when I made my way downstairs.

I found a note on the kitchen island. "THANK YOU," it read, in childish, block letters.

A few days later, I lunched at Europa. Ky did not greet me. When I realized he was not there, I asked whether he had the day off.

"Ky quit," was the answer. "He said he was going back to Jackson Hole. He wants to be a snow bunny again."

I was happy for him. He needed to live life while he was still young and beautiful.