Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

Well, that was forward, I thought. Then, I remembered how he had been back then, when he had been so forward as a teen.

"Timothy," I said. "I want to tell you something. I wish I had taken you to Reno with me. I wish I had been selfish and not worried about what that move would do to you and your future. It's still the greatest regret of my life."

"It shouldn't be," he said. "I was 18. I was on the verge of my bitchy, petulant phase. I'd have driven you crazy, making mountains out of molehills every day, so much drama. I know. I lived through it. It was awful, and I was the one doing it. We'd have ended up hating each other. It's good that we avoided that. Now, we're here, and neither hates the other, we just have good memories to look back on."

I was feeling romantic. "And," I said, raising my glass to his, "good memories to make."

"Maybe," he said, clinking his glass to mine.

"Maybe?" I asked.

"More to come," he said, taking a very large drink.

"If there's more to come," I said, "then let it come. I felt like today was a lightning bolt. I stumbled upon you. Then, you touched me, and that same fire lit when you did. Then, you whispered in my ear, and my entire body tingled. And, now, here we are, in our old space, a chance to finish what we started."

"Michael," he said. "Like I said, I didn't behave in London. I'm damaged goods…. I'm positive… HIV positive."

I felt like I had been punched in the gut. His diagnosis, his mom, his dad, how much could one person bear? My eyes filled with tears, out of empathy, not sympathy.

When he started to talk, I held up my hand. "I don't ever want to hear you say that again," I said. "You are not damaged goods. When your mom got cancer, she was not damaged goods. No one with an illness is damages good. Especially not you."

I started to bawl as I made my way over to him, kissing his face through my tears. "My dear, sweet boy," I said. "You're perfect." Kiss, kiss, kiss. "You're not damaged…. "

He, too, was crying. "When I found out," he said. "All I could remember is that you told me to be careful. And then I wasn't. And then this…."

I kissed him like I had never kissed him. I kissed him like Elliott kissed Lucas in SKAM France.

We stripped as we kissed. We time travelled as we stripped. Naked, he was 18, and I was 28, and the intervening decade was gone, like a vapor.

I laid him down on the bed and re-acquainted myself with his body, discovering new chest hair, a new nipple ring, and a shaved pubic area.

"Hold on," he said, when I went to take him in my mouth. He rolled to his side, got a condom, and rolled it on.

"I don't think that's necessary," I said.

"Better safe than sorry," he answered.

"We can use it tonight," I answered. "But, we're going to go to a clinic together, and we'll get the real skinny on the dos and don'ts, not the bullshit the government peddles."

I took him into my mouth. He was bigger than I remembered. I hated that I could not taste him. He had always tasted delicious, like Spring smells.

I also hated that I could feel him come, but not taste his cum. For me, there was no reason to suck a dick, if you were not going to swallow the gift. It was like baking a cake, but then refusing to eat it.

After we had disposed of the condom and cleaned him up, I again re-acquainted myself with his body. Only this time, I bypassed his dick, spent a ridiculous amount of time on his balls, then pushed his knees up and ate his ass like I was as desperate as I was.

I didn't remember putting the condom on, but in my haze of pleasure I found myself protected and inside of him, sweat dripping off of me as I drove into him over and over.

"Oh, Marco," he called out.

"Oh, Michael," I answered.

I awoke in the middle of the night, naked, Timothy's head on my shoulder, his left hand holding on my dick and balls. I didn't remember cumming or pulling out or cleaning myself. I must have blacked out when I came.

When I next awoke, it was well into morning. I checked my watch. It was 9:30. I momentarily panicked and then, noticing Timothy starting to stir, didn't give a shit.

I snuck into the kitchen, called my secretary, and told her I wouldn't be in that day or likely the next. It was the most daring thing I had done professionally in a long time.

I slid back into bed. "Do you have to go to work?" he asked.

"No," I said.

"Really?"

"No. I left you once. I don't want to leave you again."

Timothy side eyed me. "That was total garbage," he said, laughing.

"I know," I said. "It sounded better in my head than in my mouth."

"Speaking of 'in my mouth'," he said, slipping between my legs and taking me into his.

He may have misbehaved in London, but he also learned a lot. He sucked my dick like it had never been sucked before. I don't know how long he was down there, but it seemed like forever. It was like I was in an elevator. Up to sixth floor, then back down. Up to the seventh floor, then back down. Up to the eighth floor, then back down. Up to the ninth, so close to the top floor, then back down. Then out altogether, his tongue and mouth on my balls and then on my ass and then back to my balls. Then, back in, me begging him to hit ten because I couldn't take it anymore.

"Oh my God, Michael," I begged and pleaded. "You have to let me finish. I can't take it anymore."

I looked down, and he was looking right into my eyes, like he used to when I talked to him. He smiled around my erection and took me all the way in, working my with his throat until my body bucked and I blasted the biggest load I could right into his gullet.

"Oh my God," I said, when he was finished and back up next to me, his head on my shoulder, his hand again on my (now very sensitive) dick and balls. "That was incredible."

"Thank you," he said, turning his head and kissing me, his juicy red lips as delicious as they always were.

"Are you sure you're okay, you know, with my status?" he asked.

Honestly, I hadn't known that I would be. I had always wondered how, if that day came, I would react. I knew how I should, but I hadn't honestly known how I would.

With Timothy, I didn't even think about it. My reaction had been instinctive. He had an illness, nothing more and nothing else.

I wanted him to know how okay I was. "I'm so okay," I said. "That I want you to fuck me."

"Really?"

"Really."

He had never fucked me, but he had assured me he had fucked others.

He worked me open and then wrapped himself. I had bottomed a lot in my life, but I was not really a fan of it. It was something I could do, but not something I wanted to do. I just never got out of it what others seemed to get out of it.

At least, until it was Timothy topping me. "Holy shit," I said, once he had fully penetrated me and started working his hips a little.

"It's good, right?" he asked.

"It is," I answered. "It really is."

"It's about to get better," he bragged.

And it did. I don't know how, but he in no time had me sweating and tingling and begging "Fuck me, Michael, fuck me…."

It was like nuclear fusion was occurring in the area behind my balls. My whole body started to twitch as I felt that ball of energy move up, through my shaft, and out of my meatus.

"Oh Marco," Timothy intoned, as he watched my orgasm and then met it with one of his own.

When he started to pull out, I pleaded, "No. Please, just stay there."

"I can't," he said. "We can't let it leak inside of you."

I whimpered when he pulled out. I felt empty.

The rest of that day and the next day went on like that, a merry go round of sex, sleep, and sustenance. We were in love. We had been since that fateful summer. It had gone dormant, but dormancy is not absence.

I returned to work on Wednesday. We moved into the Brownstone on Saturday. We talked about staying in the basement apartment, as it held such good memories. But, in the end, we decided we needed and wanted more space.

Timothy insisted that we have a spiritualist cleanse the Brownstone before we moved in. I thought it was a crock, but it wasn't my Brownstone. So, she crystalled and saged and did whatever else spiritualists do to cleanse.

"I'm not an excorcist," she said, when Timothy asked her about ghosts. "Plus, some ghosts are good. They protect us when we're asleep."

I don't know that I believed in ghosts. But, I kind of liked the idea of being protected when I slept.

Timothy also insisted that we christen the Browstone as soon we could. So, I sucked Timohty's wrapped dick while he sat on a box marked "kitchen" (we still hadn't gotten to that clinic). When he was finished, he sucked mine while I sat on the same box and, goddammit, he put me back on that elevator, teasing me until I blasted through the roof like Willy Wonka and Charlie.

Later, after we had unpacked (there wasn't much) and eaten, we went to make love for the first time in our new bedroom. "I like to ride," Timothy had said, wrapping me and then sliding down, his knees on the mattress, his hands on my shoulders.

Boy, did he. He bounced and bounced, flipped around and bounced some more, then topped it off by raising his hips and riding me like James Manziel would ride Ethan Manor. I was amazed by his physicality and stamina. I again woke up not realizing that I had cum or pulled out or cleaned myself.

I told Timothy about my memory lapse, and he started to laugh. "Jesus, Michael," he said. "You were yelling Michael and I was yelling Marco and then you bucked into me and I could feel your dick swelling and emptying and you said 'Holy shit" and went dead still. I came, too, just from you fucking me."

"I wasn't fucking you," I said. "I was making love to you."

"You can believe what you want," he said. "But I know what fucking is when I'm in it, and that was fucking. Pure, base, carnal, fucking."

He was right. For the second time, he had let me fuck him senseless, only I was the one senseless.

* * * * *

We have been in the Brownstone for ten years. I no longer lawyer. It was too consuming, and it left too little time for Timothy, Knute (the retriever I named, after Knute Rockne), Vincent (the retriever he named, after Vincent Van Gogh), and — a few years later — Ella (our daughter) and Louie (our son).

Timothy's bequest meant that neither of us needed to work (oh, to be in the lucky sperm club), but he continued to paint, and I managed the gallery, his showings, and his career. He is known in national art circles, but not yet a household name. He will be, though. I'm sure of it, especially when I look in the eyes of the painting I opened 20 years ago, which is in our bedroom and still has his note to me taped to it and now also has my note back taped to it.

Until then, he successfully manages his illness, we successfully manage our family, and I marvel at the idea that I stumbled into a happy, full life that day I was wandering around Lincoln Park and wondered whether Cafe Ba Ba Reeba was still open.