Date: Mon, 20 Mar 2000 00:46:19 -0700
From: Jack Fellowes <jwhstloo@ix.netcom.com>
Subject: "Roomers" (m/m, relationships)

The usual stuff: it's fantasy, it's for people who are mature enough, free
enough, interested or curious enough to read about a bunch of guys who
really enjoy each other's company. It starts slowly, but picks up pretty
quickly, and there's a story in there on either side of the part you're
really looking for... Enjoy.


Roomers
By Jack Fellowes
Copyright 2000 by the Author

Chapter One--Checking In

When I was 30 and living in Chicago, I got a letter from a lawyer in my
hometown in southern Indiana informing me that my Aunt Margaret
(great-aunt, really) had died and that she had left me her old Victorian
house and a small trust fund. I was really surprised, because I had never
really known her very well. I had only seen her a few times that I
remembered, and talked to her only once. She was my father's father's
sister. Since my father had disappeared from my life when I was about four
years old, his family had never really played much of a role in my growing
up.

My mother never talked much about my father, and gave me only the scantiest
information about him and his family when I asked. She did assure me that I
wasn't the cause of his leaving. She didn't take up with anyone else,
although she was quite young and pretty when he left. She didn't really
have much of a chance at a new life of her own though, because seven years
later she was killed in a railroad crossing accident.

I went to live with her mother, my Grandmother Sims, who continued the
silent treatment about the Vanderhoeg side of my family. The Christmas
after my mother died was pretty low-key at our house, but it perked up a
bit when I opened a large box and discovered an intricately carved, working
scale model of a Dutch windmill. Grandma gasped, and I looked at the card,
which said, "I hope Christmas begins a better time for you. Aunt Margaret
and the boys."

That was actually the first time I ever knew I had an Aunt Margaret. and
when I asked Grandma why she had seemed so surprised at the model, she said
that she had once known someone who made carvings like that, and it looked
familiar. She wouldn't tell me any more about that, but she did at least
explain who Aunt Margaret was. I wondered if maybe "the boys" were my
cousins, but Grandma told me they were just some young men who rented rooms
from my great-aunt, and that they were a strange lot, not good for the
likes of me.

A few months later, after I had looked up Margaret Vanderhoeg's address in
the phone book, I started finding excuses to ride my bike by the big house
with the wraparound porch that sat in the middle of a large lot, way back
from the tree-lined street. One day, I saw an older woman working in her
flowerbeds in the side yard, and I stopped my bike in front of the house
and watched her for a while. She noticed me, and asked if there was
something I wanted. I said no, I was just trying to find where the
Vanderhoegs lived. She asked why, and I told her that was my name too.

When she figured out that I was her grand-nephew, Peter, she invited me up
on the porch, offered me a glass of lemonade, and we sat and talked for a
while, mostly about my grandfather. She told me how sad he had been that he
wasn't able to be part of my life because of the "problem" with my
parents. She wouldn't say much about my father, even when I asked about
him, but she did let slip that my parents were never divorced. All during
the time we were on the porch, I noticed that someone kept peeking out
through the heavy lace curtains at one of the front windows. I was going to
say something about it, but let it pass.

Although she was very nice, that was the only time I ever got to stop and
talk with her. My grandmother wasn't very happy that I had done it that one
time, and told me not to go there again. But I did wave at Aunt Margaret
whenever I happened to see her out in her yard when I rode by on my bike,
which wasn't very often.

Anyway, the lawyer's letter told me that Aunt Margaret's will stipulated
that it was her wish that I continue to maintain her home as a "safe and
comfortable rooming house for nice young men," as it had been for the last
25 years or so.  The main condition was that, in order to claim the house
and the trust fund, I had to live in the house.

I hadn't been having much luck getting ahead in the big city as a freelance
designer, and I really missed my hometown, which I had left after Grandma
Sims died three years ago. I decided this was an omen, a sign that I should
move back home, find a job, and take care of the rooming house. I still
owned Grandma's house, which I figured I could now put on the market to add
a little to the trust fund Aunt Margaret had set up if I had decided to
accept the house. That would keep me going until I found a good job or
could set myself up in business.

I put the Chicago part of my life behind me and arrived back in my hometown
a couple of weeks later. The next afternoon I met Aunt Margaret's lawyer,
Mr.  Lawrence, a very quiet-spoken, kindly looking older man who told me
all about the arrangements. I wouldn't have to worry about collecting rent
from the roomers, since they paid it directly to a real estate agency that
handled the rental accounts for a small fee (only 5%, I found out later,
which I thought was well worth the cost of avoiding being the "landlord" of
record). Then he took me to the house for an introductory tour.

The inside of the house was magnificent. It wasn't modern, but it was very
well maintained. It had a total of 14 rooms, seven up and seven down, with
an attic and a basement, and there was also a small apartment above the
garage (formerly the carriage house). The first floor had a living room,
parlor, dining room, kitchen, library, and two bedrooms, as well as a bath
and a half. The second floor, reached by a grand staircase from a wide
hallway between the living room and parlor, had seven bedrooms and two
baths, but one of the bedrooms had been converted into a tv/sitting room
for the boarders.

I found out I had five tenants, four of them with rooms in the house:
Donnie, a 22-year-old deaf man who had lived there for four years; Reggie,
a 25-year-old black man--a "little person," Mr. Lawrence said--who had
lived there for six years; Dave, a 26-year-old construction worker who had
been a roomer there for seven years; and Sandy, a waiter and would-be
dancer who had been there for three years. The fifth tenant was a man
called Mr. Sidney, who was about 55 or so, who had lived in the apartment
over the garage for about 25 years, according to the lawyer.

I moved some of my stuff in on a really hot summer day a few days later,
leaving the rest of it stored in the basement at Grandma's house. Then I
just hung around, enjoying the cooler air on the tree-shaded porch.

I met Donnie first when he came home about 4 p.m. from his job at the local
printer. At first he looked at me questioningly, but when he found out I
was Margaret's grand-nephew, he gave me a great big smile and shook my hand
like a pump handle. He didn't lip-read very well, and I didn't understand
signing at all, so we had to communicate with quick notes on a pad he
carried with him all the time. He was about 5'9" and probably weighed about
150. He wasn't what you'd call really handsome, but he was medium blond and
very pleasant to look at and--unless my x-ray vision was failing me--he had
a nice tight body under the baggy clothes he was wearing. A couple of times
when I had to get his attention when he looked away, I tapped him on the
upper arm--it was like knocking on hard wood! I found out he had been
living at Aunt Margaret's since he graduated from the printing trades
school when he was 18. It was his first job and first time out on his
own.He had spent most of his childhood in a school for the deaf, although
he had a family and several older brothers. I learned later that his whole
family called him "Donnie the Dummy"--why do people judge others by what
they have or haven't got, how they look, and how different they are? I
could tell by glancing at his green eyes while he read my notes and his
eagerness to jot down an answer, that he was far from being dumb. I
wondered how long it would take me to learn signing.

I met Dave next. Unlike Donnie, Dave didn't conceal his physique. He was
about 6'2", maybe 185-190, and built like Steve Reeves of '50s "Hercules"
fame. In fact, except for the fact he didn't have a beard, he could have
been a stand-in.  Dark brown hair and brown eyes, and wearing a T-shirt and
Levi's that didn't hide much of his solid, well-developed frame, or any of
the parts attached to it. He didn't appear at first to be the brightest guy
in the world, but he was very straightforward, although pretty
soft-spoken. And he made the construction guy in the Village People look
like an emaciated sylph. A really hot, hot man!  Dave told me had lived at
Aunt Margaret's since he left his folks' farm at the age of 19. I learned
why he left later, and not from Dave--he didn't like to talk about it. He
was the kind of guy who took what was thrown at him and just made the best
he could of it. He was always looking forward instead of back.

I was already beginning to think of both those guys as potentially being
something more than my "boarders." In the back of my mind, "room and board"
was already taking on a whole new meaning. I was still fantasizing about
the two of them during a lull in the conversation when Reggie came bounding
up on the porch. He wasn't as short as some little people I'd met. In fact,
he looked like he had the torso of a six-footer on the chubby legs of a
six-year-old. I guess he was a couple of inches under 5' tall, and really
solid. He worked as a welder, and he was still dripping sweat, with his
work shirt hanging out and unbuttoned. He was about the blackest black man
I'd ever seen, and his skin was gleaming with moisture. The sheen of
perspiration set off what had to be the pecs and abs of death! While I was
being introduced, my imagination--I couldn't control it--was licking the
salty drops of sweat off his deeply ridged belly.  After I got my
libidinous thoughts in check, I realized that Reggie was smart and funny,
had a killer smile, and was wise enough to gauge my lustful reaction to
him, although he didn't say anything then. Chatting for a while with these
three was doing anything to calm my eager, and recently neglected
libido. But I managed to stay focused enough to actually remember what they
were saying, mostly about their jobs and about Aunt Margaret.

I didn't meet Sandy until he got off from work at the hotel grill after the
supper rush. The others had gone in, cleaned up, gotten into some summer
getups--cutoff shorts and t-shirts, mostly--and were sitting on the porch
with me, eating sandwiches and drinking lemonade, and talking about
anything that came to mind--but mostly telling me about how great Aunt
Margaret had been to them. Reggie understood sign language pretty well,
since he'd had a deaf aunt, so he kept Donnie involved in the conversation
without his needing to constantly jot down notes. I was in the middle of
the porch glider, Dave was sitting on the floor facing me, leaning back
against the porch railing, and Donnie and Reggie sat on either side of
me. We were chatting away, and out of the dusk appeared...  Romeo! Long
before moon-faced Leonardo di Caprio came along, there was Leonard Whiting,
Romeo to Olivia Hussey's Juliet. This apparition on the porch steps was the
same type--slender, about 5'11", soft-edged and smooth, innocent-looking,
but with eyes that stored deep emotions--a definite potential for passion!
I started putting things in their proper order: I'd be playful with Donnie,
let Dave have his way with me, give Reggie a tongue bath, but I wanted to
finish up by making wild, sweet love to Sandy!

I think it was Reggie who nudged me back to reality as he introduced Sandy
to me. The new arrival's speech and manner matched his looks. He spoke
quietly and precisely, and his movements and gestures were graceful. I
found out later that Sandy was just 19, and that he had been an emancipated
minor of not quite 16 when he moved into Aunt Margaret's rooming house. I
didn't know the exact nature of his split with his family, but I had a
pretty good idea when he sat down on the porch floor next to Dave: first,
he very casually leaned into Dave's shoulder, and then he shifted so his
head was resting in Dave's lap. I found out a long time later that his
parents had disowned him and kicked him out of the house--and at the same
time, they very loyally made weekly visits to their other son, who was
serving a long prison term for raping and assaulting a 13-year-old girl!
Nice priorities, those people... real model family stuff!

As we continued talking, Dave's hand gently caressed Sandy's mop of
red-blond locks. Although it looked like brotherly affection, I thought I
detected an undercurrent of eroticism. (Of course, the gradual enlargement
of the ample bulge in Dave's shorts might have given me a clue.) The funny
thing, I thought then, was that no one else seemed bothered by the
display. Later, I learned that all four of them shared this easy physical
intimacy, much like loving brothers( which none of them had had in real
life). And that wasn't all they shared... but more about that later.

As the evening wore on, and Donnie, Reggie, and Dave became unable to
suppress their yawns, Sandy spoke up: "You guys had better get to bed
before you fall asleep right here. You'll have plenty of time to talk with
Peter tomorrow." As they sleepily agreed and began going inside, he said to
me, "I can stay up for a while longer if you want to talk more. I don't
have to go to work until 11 a.m. tomorrow."

He smiled when I said, "I'd like that," and got up to sit beside me on the
glider.

When the others had all made their way inside and up the stairs, he said,
"We all hope you'll like living here. Your Aunt Margaret made a special
home for us and others like us. We'd hate to lose that." His expression was
very serious.  "You probably know what we all have in common, don't you?"

"I think so," I said, "and I'm beginning to wonder if Aunt Margaret knew me
better than I thought."

"Oh, she talked about you all the time," he said. "She told us she was sure
we'd all like to meet you, because you were 'such a nice young man.' That
was her way of describing us, too. I hope she wasn't wrong."

I grinned. "She wasn't," I said, and his original smile returned. We went
in and sat in the kitchen while Sandy fixed a light snack for himself--I
realized quickly that I wasn't expected to be the chief cook and
bottlewasher, either.  Living here was going to be very interesting and, I
hoped, a lot of fun, in more ways than one.

Sandy and I sat talking for another hour or so, when I suddenly realized
that I hadn't met or even seen the other tenant, Mr. Sidney. When I asked
about him, Sandy seemed... well, not evasive, more like thoughtful and
measured in choosing his words. "He stays to himself in his apartment a
lot. He's a very private person and doesn't like crowds at all. He's an
artist, and he devotes all of his time to his work." He paused, as if
deciding how much more to tell me. "But we all know him, and he's very nice
to us. He's been pretty upset, though, since Margaret died--he's lived here
longer than any of us, probably since before some of us were born."

We talked for just a little while longer, and the subject turned to other
things. Although I was more than 10 years older than Sandy, he seemed wise
beyond his years. I found out later that, surprisingly, he provided the
mature wisdom for the group. Reggie doled out common sense with great humor
and honesty, Dave was the quiet but strong protector, and Donnie was the
playful puppy, who always seemed excited and fascinated by things around
him. A nicely balanced group, it seemed. I began to wonder what I might
bring to the mix.

Having broken the ice about our shared sexual orientation, I seriously
considered making a play for Sandy right then, and having company for my
first night in a strange bed. But my own common sense--and
self-restraint--held sway, and I said goodnight to Sandy when I could no
longer stifle my yawns. I did stand in the center hallway to watch Sandy
glide up the stairs, noticing--from the rear--that he did indeed have a
dancer's body, especially the compact, high, rounded buttocks and muscular
thighs and calves, which stretched the worn fabric of his faded jeans. He
looked so slender and vertical from the front, but the back view had
tortuous curves galore. Watching him move so fluidly up the curved
staircase, I almost overrode my earlier decision not to take him to my
bed...


Chapter Two--Getting on Board

I awoke to the unfamiliar sounds of murmured conversations punctuated by
the clatter of pots and pans and the clinking of china and
glassware. Orienting my foggy brain after a moment or so of scanning my
surroundings, I realized that someone, or rather several someones, were
having breakfast. I pulled on a pair of fleece shorts and a baggy T-shirt,
combed through my short blond hair with my fingers, and made my way to the
kitchen after a brief piss stop in the bathroom.

A panorama of smiles and too-cheery good-mornings greeted me (I am *not* a
morning person!) as they directed me to a place at the huge round oak
table, fetched me a cup of steaming coffee, and asked me whether I wanted
eggs or waffles. I picked waffles. Reggie was the chef of the moment, and
poured batter on the smoking waffle iron. "You want syrup or some of
Margaret's raspberry conserve?" he asked.

I really didn't think I had a choice, so I picked the conserve. Besides, I
wanted to compare Aunt Margaret's canning skills with those of Grandma
Sims, who would have fed me home-canned delights until I swelled up and
burst, if I hadn't been so naturally rambunctious and flittery. (Is that a
real word, or did I crossbreed 'flutter' with 'jittery'?) Anyway, as soon
as I tasted the steaming, fluffy waffles dripping with raspberry, I knew I
had made the right choice.

While I ate, the others, except for Sandy, fixed their lunches. Donnie's
seemed most appropriate to his boyish demeanor--peanut butter and pickle
slices on wheat bread, carrot sticks, and a baggie full of Hydrox
cookies. Dave's was left-over roast beef and mashed potatoes, and Reggie
just prepared two Thermos bottles--one of orange juice with some protein
powder, and the other of honey-sweetened iced mint tea.

Donnie was the first out the door, as he had to be at work by 7:30. As he
walked behind my chair, he squeezed my shoulder and then gave a slight wave
when I turned around. He hugged Dave and Reggie and Sandy and started
toward the door, but stopped, then turned back and walked over with a big
grin and gave me a quick, tight hug, too. Dave and Reggie seemed delighted
by my surprised smile, and Sandy gave me a knowing look and my arm a quick
squeeze.

Dave and Reggie were on their way soon afterward, and the hugging ritual
was twice repeated. I was experiencing some pretty mixed physical and
emotional reactions. Happy to have been accepted into their tight-knit
group so quickly, I was also feeling a little light-headed from the body
contact with those three very different, but very sensuous young men.

Sandy started clearing the table as soon as I finished, and I got up to
help.  "No, it's my job," he said. "I do the breakfast dishes because I
don't go to work until later. We all have our regular household chores, and
we split up the rest according to who likes to do what and has the most
energy. Dave's the lawn and garden specialist. Reggie's the handyman, but
also likes to do the ironing.  He just loves hot metal--and wait'll you
hear his music. Donnie does most of the grocery shopping--he's great with
lists--and usually does most of the laundry, especially the towels and bed
linens." He kept talking as he filled the sink with sudsy water. "I'm the
upstairs and downstairs maid, too," he laughed, "hell on wheels with a
feather duster."

I laughed, too, and watched him carefully wash each plate and cup. I
blessed Aunt Margaret for knowing somehow that I would fit in with this
little family of strays. I wondered again how she could have known.

When Sandy finished and sat down at the table beside me, he said, "I've got
a couple of hours before I have to get ready for work. Would you like to
sit out in the backyard with me and get some sun?"

Well, why not, I thought. I could at least do a little window shopping
until I could work up the nerve to investigate the prospects for bedding
this strawberry blond beauty. I went into my bedroom to pull on a pair of
swimming trunks, while Sandy dashed upstairs to change.

I was already out in the back yard on one of the wooden chaises when Sandy
jumped off the back porch onto the lush lawn. And window shop I did when he
stretched out on his belly on the chaise next to me. A blue Speedo barely
contained his bubble-butt, and his lean upper torso was as finely muscled
and deeply defined as a Nureyev or Baryshnikov. His thighs were tanned
cords of toned sinew that made my white breadstick legs look like
toothpicks.

Sandy actually seemed to doze, automatically shifting onto his back after a
proper period of exposing his back to the sun. The view of his front was
equally delectable--I do so love Speedos! Too soon, though, I realized I
hadn't moved from my original position and was beginning to feel seared to
a medium-well finish. Regretfully, I went inside to run a tub of cool water
for a baking soda soak, followed by a baby oil rubdown,
self-administered. Damn! I should have asked Sandy to give me a hand or
two. Or maybe just have him slather the oil on me with his body, snaking
his tight muscles over and around my passive form...  well, I could dream,
couldn't I?

After I completed my therapy and got dressed in brief shorts and loose
t-shirt to go outside again, I met Sandy in the hallway going back to the
kitchen. He was dressed for waiting tables and on his way out the door.

"Oh, you look like a lobster," he said. "You should have reminded me to
help you rub some suntan lotion on. The next time I'll just do it. See you
tonight." And he went out the door.

I smacked myself in the head. Why didn't I think of that sooner?


Chapter Three--The Face in the Window

With my sunburn starting to sting rather nicely, I decided to stay inside
for the afternoon. I was a good opportunity for me to get my computer
system. After all, although I was comfortably well-off for the short term,
I would need to get out soon and find some freelance design work to keep
the cash flowing.

Since there was already one vacant bedroom upstairs, I decided to make the
other downstairs bedroom my "office." I hadn't really done more than glance
at it, but it was quickly apparent that the room had been Aunt Margaret's
retreat. There was a long table with a very old model electrified Singer
sewing machine on it.  Under the table were a couple of bushel baskets with
bolts and end pieces of a dozen different fabrics. On the other side of the
room there was an antique fainting couch pointed toward a small lamp table
that held an ancient black-and-white TV. On either side of the door were
lawyer-type bookcases with glass-front doors, eight shelves high.The window
wall had a small fireplace with an ornate iron gas heater, and on the
mantle was-- my carved windmill! No, it couldn't be. I hadn't moved it over
from Grandma Sims' house yet!

I moved over to tale a closer look, and I could see that it was different
from mine in very subtle ways. The windows in the octagonal structure had
rounded arches at the top and were flat on the bottom; in mine, they were
all oval. And the wood on this one looked like hickory, while mine was an
imported tropical hardwood (or so my art instructor told me when I showed
it to my class) with grain so fine you could scarcely see it. They *were*
different, but it was clear that they were the works of the same artist.

I moved the old sewing machine to the floor next to the table, and turned
around to go get my computer and peripherals and get started setting up my
system. As I did, I glanced out the window at the garage. There was a face
in the window of the upstairs apartment. I got closer to the window to get
a better look, and maybe wave to the man I assumed was Mr. Sidney, maybe
even invite him down to get acquainted. Before I could get over to the
window, however, he drew back quickly and pulled his curtains
together. That was extremely weird! Oh, well, I thought, I'm gonna be
living here, he's gonna be living there, eventually our paths will cross.

It took me a couple of hours of solid straining and wiring and tinkering
before I got my system up and running, and as soon as I did it crashed. No,
I realized, I had just blown a circuit breaker by plugging my CPU, monitor,
modem, printer, scanner, and my Zip drive into a single outlet, probably
intended only for a lamp with a 60-watt bulb. I got a flashlight off the
kitchen counter and headed toward what I assumed was the basement door. It
was, and even though the heating system had long since been converted to
natural gas, I could instantly tell as I opened the door and looked down
the stairway that there had been a coal furnace down there sometime. It was
the smell of damp cinders and ashes, and I knew from living with Grandma
Sims that it would probably never go away.

The basement was surprisingly clean and had large windows on all
sides. With the natural light flowing in, I found the electric box
easily. But it wasn't circuit breakers, it was fuses, and although I know
intellectually that it is possible to change a fuse without electrocuting
myself, I am absolutely paranoid about putting my hands anywhere near a
fuse, blown or not. I broke out in a cold sweat and looked for someplace to
sit. There was an old trunk along the wall, next to a several tiers of
shelves filled with objects of various shapes, all covered with dusty
plastic tarps.

Before I could sit down on the trunk, my eye caught a tag hanging from the
latch. I leaned over to inspect it more closely. It was very discolored,
but the words were very legible: "Peter E. Vanderhoeg." My name! Was this
something Aunt Margaret had saved for me? Then I remembered that she had
told me during our one real visit that I had the same name as my
grandfather. For a moment, my curiosity faded, but then it flared up
again. I didn't know anything about my grandfather's life, and I wanted to
get to know him, even if he was already dead.

I carefully opened the corroded latch and lifted the trunk lid. A very
different smell assaulted me. It was like--what?--the way the Ohio river
smelled when I walked along the bank down near the bridge over to
Kentucky. The first thing I saw inside the trunk told me that it was
exactly that. On top of a decrepit-looking rain slicker was a framed river
pilot's license, with the name "Peter E. Vanderhoeg" calligraphed in a
florid script. I set the frame on one of the shelves next to the trunk, to
take it upstairs with me later, when I accidentally brushed the plastic
tarp that covered the shelf's contents. As it slithered to the floor, I was
astonished to see a row of wood carvings, some as intricate as my windmill,
and others elegantly simple. I pulled the tarps off the other
shelves--there were more than two dozen of these precisely, beautifully
carved pieces sitting here neglected, unseen by people who would be
thrilled to view such artistry for even a moment. There was a bridge, a
carousel, more windmills, and castles and fairy cottages. There was even a
small statue of a man, although it seemed less refined than the others. I
looked at it more closely, and engraved on the base were four
words--"Capt. Pete, My Daddy."

My father had carved this--no, all of these! Each one had the initiaIs
"P.S.V."  carved delicately and barely noticeably into its base. I did sit
down then, on the cool floor. I had never known my father was an artist. My
mother didn't tell me, Grandma Sims didn't tell me. Not even when I
received the windmill that Christmas! She knew it was from him, and didn't
tell me! I don't know whether I was angry or sad, heart-broken or ecstatic
at my discoveries. I just sat there for a long time. I don't know when I
started or stopped crying, but when I finally pulled myself together to go
back upstairs, I wiped moist tears off my cheeks.

I was sitting at the big kitchen table, nursing a long-cold cup of coffee,
when Donnie appeared in the kitchen, smiling that open-faced smile of
his. I hadn't realized it was so late. I tried to greet him cheerfully, but
he could tell I wasn't in the same kind of mood as I had been in the
morning. He signed something, and I knew it had to be "What's wrong?" and
then he frantically dug into his pocket for his little notepad and pencil.

I took it from him and tried to think what to write. All I could come up
with was "I was just thinking about my family, and I was sad that I didn't
really ever get to know them very well."

He took the pad back and quickly scrawled, "Did you meet Mr. Sidney?" I
shook my head no, and immediately wondered why he had asked that. Oh well,
I suppose he thought Mr. Sidney had been here long enough to have known my
father and grandfather... Hey, that was probably true! I knew I'd have to
get to know Mr.  Sidney very soon, so I could ask him questions about my
father and grandparents.

When I shook my head, Donnie looked almost relieved. He stepped behind my
chair and put his hands on my shoulders. I jumped a little when my sunburn
reasserted its control over my pain reflexes. He pulled away, but I caught
one of his hands and turned my head to smile at him. I pulled the stretched
neck of my t-shirt aside to show him my reddened skin. He winced when he
looked at my shoulder and apologized for hurting me (I think) with broad
gestures. He ran from the room and came back in a few seconds with a tube
of aloe cream. He asked me with his eyes, pointing from me to the tube, if
I wanted him to put some on my burn. My mood changed instantly. I wasn't
about to let this chance slip by!

I had pulled my chair away from the table and had my shirt off, enjoying
the delicate, sensuous, but not always painless touch of Donnie's hands on
my tender flesh when Dave walked in the back door. I'm sure I looked as if
I had been caught at something, although there was no question what was
going on.

Dave looked concerned for a while, then grinned when he looked down, and
said, "Forget to turn off the oven when the timer popped up?" I blushed (if
it was possible to tell) when I realized that I was sitting there with a
very obvious erection pushing the front of my shorts out. Dave chucked, and
so did Donnie when Dave pointed to my little friend--well, not *that*
little!

Dave took the tube from Donnie, squeezed some of the cream into his palm,
and rubbed his hands together. Then he got down on his knees in front of me
and started to smooth the lotion on my legs, which were equally as red and
as tender as my shoulder. It felt wonderful to be fussed over like that,
but occasionally I would catch Dave and Donnie exchanging mischievous
smiles and nodding at my unrelenting hard-on. Somehow, it didn't seem to
embarrass me anymore. As a matter of fact, I closed my eyes and let my
erotic fantasies take over.

I had already climaxed in my daydream several times when I felt Dave take
my hands and pull me into a standing position. As I opened my eyes, his
hands were at the drawstring on my shorts, untying my bow. When he had
loosened it, I felt Donnie's hands carefully sliding my shorts over my butt
and down my legs. I realized Dave had taken his t-shirt off, and Donnie was
bare-chested too. Dave dropped down to his knees in front of me again and
Donnie, sliding the chair out of the way, crouched behind me. When I felt
each of them make moist contact, I closed my eyes again. Reality was so
much better than fantasy!

A gut-wrenching climax and a gentle rinsing of my body with white vinegar
later, I was ready to reciprocate with both of my tender torturers, but
Dave said I should get dressed. It was time to make supper for the gang,
and Dave was in charge. Was he ever!

I was just pulling my shorts back on when Reggie came bounding (He never
just *walked* anyplace.) into the kitchen. He looked at me, then at Dave
and Donnie, and said, "Damn! I'm gonna have to stop working overtime!"
while he was signing the comment for Donnie. The other guys laughed, while
I just stood there looking like the cat that ate the canary, or got eaten
by the canary, or--well, the word is sheepishly. But I noticed Reggie's
eyes didn't stop exploring the part of me that was exposed, which was about
85 percent of me, and some of the best parts, too, because I hadn't managed
to get my shorts all the way on before he got there. He looked me straight
in the eyes and gave me that impish, knowing look that I'd seen yesterday,
and he nodded slowly, telling me (people used a lot of body language around
this house) that he was going to be next.

All of us quickly showered and changed to shorts and t-shirts all around,
to get ready for dinner.


Chapter Four--What's for Dessert?

Apparently Dave and Donnie read Reggie's mind, too, because after our
supper of pasta with creamy chicken sauce and a fresh green pea and
mushroom salad, and after the dishes were washed and put away, the two of
them decided they needed to go to the supermarket to stock up for the
weekend. I reached for my wallet, but was quickly rebuffed.

"You can start paying when we figure out how much feeding you is gonna
cost," Dave grinned. I almost made a smart-ass retort about how I could eat
for free, but I decided not to--probably because Reggie was still giving me
that look.

As soon as we heard Dave's car start up and back out of the driveway,
Reggie asked me, "How's your sunburn feeling now?"

"It's cooled down a lot," I said as I poked my finger here and there to
test the tenderness.

"Good, 'cause I don't want to hurt you when I jump your bones," he said
leeringly, pulling off his t-shirt and baring that incredibly ripped chest
and belly. "Come on, why don't we go into the parlor and get better
acquainted?"

He took my hand and led me down the hall to the parlor and over to a big
overstuffed sofa piled high with throw pillows. I watched as he gathered up
the pillows and tossed them over onto a big easy chair, but he was looking
at me too.

"You like the way I keep in shape, don't you?" He flexed, intensifying the
definition, setting off his pecs and eight-pack. I just nodded dumbly,
feasting on his muscled masculinity. He wasn't very tall, but he sure did
fill up the room with his presence. "I like it when people tell me that I
look good, and show me how much they appreciated me," he said--no,
commanded.

I pushed him back onto the sofa and knelt in front of him, my hands tracing
the individual muscles in his check. I leaned in and took one of his nubby
little nipples in my mouth, nipping and sucking at it furiously, as I tried
to unfasten his shorts.

"Oh, baby," he sighed, "I knew you'd be good, but slow down. We've got
plenty of time."

"But Sandy will be home soon and the others will be back," I protested,
more from eager lust than real concern that we'd be interrupted.

"No, they won't," he said. "It's Friday. Sandy works until after eleven
o'clock, and the others won't be back much before then. It's just you and
me."

I looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. It was just
eight-thirty. I guessed I could pace myself a little. But I sure as hell
couldn't wait to get the little stud out of his pants. What came out of his
pants when I pulled them down wasn't little at all. I had figured a little
person would have a little cock--wrong! It was hard as a billy club, about
the same color, and almost as long. (OK, so I'm exaggerating a little--it
was over seven inches though, uncut, and leaking precum like a bucket with
a hole in it) I pushed his pulsing cock back against his abs, and started
swiping my tongue across one side of his belly, over the underside of his
gorgeous dick, and then across the other side.  I traced his ab muscles
with my tongue. I outlined his cock with sucky kisses. I nipped and pulled
at his tightly wound pubic hairs. I swabbed his surprisingly smooth ball
sack and sucked each of his large balls into my mouth, bouncing it on my
tongue for a moment, then switching to the other.

He moaned and squirmed, his muscles undulating, moving under his shiny,
ebony flesh like dolphins swimming just beneath the ocean's surface. "Oh,
Peter, honey," he said hoarsely, "you are doing me so good!"

"I'm just getting started," I said, lifting his big dick to an upright
position and sliding the skin completely off the head. I tongued the
precum-slicked head for a preliminary taste, which I savored for a moment
and then slowly and deliberately engulfed his hot, throbbing penis. I
didn't stop until his pubes were brushing my lips.

"Oh, sweet baby, here it comes! Take it, honey, take it!" he screamed, his
voice climbing at least an octave. He grabbed my head and began fucking up
into my mouth with fibrillating thrusts. I swallowed his spurting load,
then siphoned out what might have been left in his cum tube. He just
flopped back, panting.

I licked my lips and grinned up at him. "I thought you said we had plenty
of time, but you already finished."

He opened his eyes and flashed that evil leer. He leaned toward me and took
my head in his hands, pulling me in for an urgent, spitty kiss. Then he
pulled back and stared into my eyes. "That was just the first one, bitch,"
he laughed. "We ain't done yet."


Chapter Five--Can't Top That

I was on my back on the sofa, with one leg over the back and the other
hanging off the front. Reggie was on his knees, jackhammering that big hard
dick into my guts, while making a suck-toy out of each of my tits. The
faster he drilled me, the more I whimpered and threw my head back and forth
on the arm of the sofa.  When he went rigid and came inside me for the
third time, flattening my prostate with his thick plunger, I stretched my
head way back and yowled out, "Good, so good! Do it, Reggie, do it! Oh,
yeah, fuck me!"

After a second or two, I opened my eyes and saw a movement at the parlor
door. I tapped Reggie on the back and twisted around as he raised up. There
was Sandy, leaning against the door frame, grinning.

"Gotcha!" he said. "I got off early this evening, because business was
really slow and the boss was pissed at the world. But I don't guess you'll
be staying up late to talk tonight, will you? If you've had the real Reggie
routine--and it sounded like you had--you'll probably need to go to bed
early to recuperate."

"I--I--" I stammered.

Reggie wasn't a bit flustered. He pulled out, wiped his big floppy dick
with his t-shirt, gathered up his shorts and headed upstairs to shower
after giving me a quick kiss.

"G'night, Reg," Sandy said as Reggie passed him, slapping Sandy on the butt
before tromping up the stairs. Sandy turned back to me, smiled again, and
said, "You look even better when you're pumped."

I didn't know whether he had intended the double meaning, but his staccato
chuckle told me the joke was on me. Still, I felt I had to explain.

"I didn't plan..." I started.

"No, you didn't," Sandy said. "But we did!" [Pause for effect.] Effect
noted, he waited for my blushes to subside, then said, "Go get showered and
get to bed. I know you need the rest. You can sleep in tomorrow. It's
Saturday." He spun around to head upstairs, then stuck his head back in the
doorway. "Oh, and don't set your alarm. I'll come and wake you for
breakfast."

***

My dreams flashed through different scenes and situations like an MTV
video, fast-paced, high energy, on the emotional edge, hot and
stirring. The sexual sensations felt so real, felt so... wet! I opened my
eyes and looked down at Sandy, smiling up at me (smiling, that is, as well
as a person can when he's got a hard dick stuffed in his face.)

"I thought you said you'd wake me for breakfast," I mumbled.

He pulled off for moment. "I did. You *are* breakfast." And then he plunged
back down on me.

I reached down to pull at one of his legs. "Well, I'm hungry too," I said.

He got the hint (so subtle!) and slid around until his shorts-covered bulge
was a couple of inches from my face. I quickly unsnapped and unzipped his
shorts, and with his help got them pulled down his legs and off his
feet. There, in front of my eyes, was the most beautiful sex organ I had
ever seen: long, but slender, with alabaster skin patterned with fine blue
veins, a rosy red berry peeking out of its collar of pinkish foreskin. It
was standing out over a pair of egg-sized testicles in a hairless sack that
made the matching set complete.  There was an arc of blondish pubic hair
just halfway around the base of his swaying lance, stopping where his
hairless scrotum began. The angle at which his cock stood was perfect, made
for my throat, which soon swallowed it and squeezed it again and again with
gulping motions.

I pulled him on top of me and made him fuck my face. My hands roamed and
squeezed and caressed every part of him I could reach, as I took every inch
of him--and he, every inch of me. I knew I was reaching the jumping-off
point, but all I could see, or think about, was that whitesnake burrowing
deeper toward my belly with each downward thrust. Time was suspended while
we teased the raw edges of each other's passion. I could hear my pulse and
feel his. I could smell his soapy boyish scent grow muskier as he dripped
sweat on my body beneath him.  I could see nothing by the Carrera marble of
his smooth, almost hairless flesh as it smashed into my chin again and
again, his blue-white balls bounding on my brow.

Two elongated, muffled groans, and we fell away from each other--gasping,
sated, limp, but very happy. I pulled him around and up to face me. He wore
the same silly, happy smirk that I felt on my own face. I kissed him
tenderly--not a kiss of passion, but of gratitude and assurance. Then I
tickled him (I knew he'd be ticklish!) and said, "Still hungry?" He
responded by munching on my nose, my chin, my ears, gradually slowing until
he was nursing on my left nipple, like a sleepy baby.

***

When we woke up again, it was still only nine o'clock. There wasn't any
sound of talk or cooking in the kitchen, so we just lay there and basked in
each other's warmth. As we talked, I told him about everything that
happened the day before, especiallythe realization that I had received a
gift from my father, several years after he left us, when I thought he had
forgotten all about me, that I had learned more about my father from those
carved pieces than I had ever been told.

"Oh, no, Peter, I'm sure he never forgot you. It was just that..." he cut
himself off.

"That what?" I asked, leaning up on my elbow and looking straight into his
eyes.  "What do you know?"

"Well..." He tried to gather his thoughts, to form just the right
explanation.  "Your Aunt Margaret told us a lot in the weeks before she
died. She said that your mother's family wouldn't let your father see you
after he moved out. It broke his heart, but he didn't want to cause trouble
and upset you or your mother. He did watch you from a distance while you
were growing up, and she said he considered contacting you after your
grandmother died."

I heard his words, but they didn't register. My Grandma Sims wouldn't *let*
my own father see me? Why? My mother had told me after the separation that
my father still loved me, but that he had to go away for a long time. She
said that they still loved each other, but that their marriage wasn't meant
to be. And what could have kept him from letting me know he cared about me?

The light went on inside my mind. "He was gay, too, wasn't he?" I said
quietly.  "He thought I would hate him if I found out."

Sandy looked at me, gauging my state of mind. He barely nodded yes.

I slumped back into the pillow, and with more than a dash of irony said,
"My life has certainly gotten very interesting the last couple of days."
What I intended to be a sigh of exasperation turned into a whimper,
followed by an uncontrollable series of sobs and a flow of tears.

Sandy just put his head on my chest and wrapped his arms around me. He knew
I had a lot to think about.


Chapter Six--Inside, Outside, All Through the House

Over the next few days, I dragged more of my family's history out of the
four guys, and I have to admit that it changed my feelings about Grandma
Sims. I'd never heard her side of the story, but if what Aunt Margaret had
told her boys was true--and why would she bother to lie when she was
dying?--Grandma was an implacable shrew when it came to my father or his
family. Sandy told me that, on that boyhood visit I had made so long ago,
someone told Grandma and she telephoned Margaret and told her in no
uncertain terms that she would call the sheriff if she or any member of her
family had any more to do with me. It all fit together with my memories,
and the whole picture wasn't very pretty. She denied me knowledge of my
father, my grandparents, Aunt Margaret, any number of things that would
have filled the empty places in my heart after my mother died.

It's not as if I were the melancholy Dutchman--I wasn't Danish!--during my
adolescence, but deep feelings bubbled up within me whenever I saw other,
more "normal," families showing affection and paying attention to one
another. For most of my young life, I had had nearly 100 percent of Grandma
Sims' attention, but I didn't really feel that we were that close--I'd
never just run up and for no reason hug her, for example. I had really
missed the sensation of nonsexual touching as a way to show love, sympathy,
protection. I realized that when I moved to Chicago after Grandma died.

At first, I thought sexual encounters would fill my need for human
contact. But after the few intensely active months of my breakout from the
straight life, I realized that something important was still absent. I
wanted someone to come home to, to sit and talk with, to cook and clean
for, and really just sleep with--just the two of us--for a long, long
time... like forever!

That was when I began my search for my other half. I thought I had found
him at least three times: the first turned out to be a romantic whore, to
whom the words of love were truer than the actions; the second simply
wanted to split the expenses of living in Old Town Chicago, without
bothering to accept any of the responsibilities of everyday life; and the
third--that was Bucky. He was my first lover and roommate for almost a year
(11 months, one week, and three days!), and my soulmate (I thought), until
one day he just didn't come home. He didn't even come around later to get
his belongings, and I never heard from him again. Friends told me he still
lived in the city and had become very withdrawn.  I tried to get in touch,
but he wouldn't return my calls, answer my letters, or even answer his door
after I found out where he was staying.

I guess that was why I was ready to leave Chicago when I got the lawyer's
letter. A fresh, new start in an old place and, I thought, a chance to be
more in control of my own life. If I had stopped to ponder just how much of
my life since returning home had been orchestrated by others, I might not
have felt as if I were starting on a new path I had chosen for myself.

But one thing was true--I was searching for my roots. I had found out that
my father was gay and a woodcarver/sculptor of uncommon ability (I must
have inherited his artistic bent), that my grandfather had been a riverboat
captain and great storyteller, and that my aunt was a "fag hag"--in the
sweetest, nicest sense of the term. She surrounded herself with gay young
men, because she understood and cared what happened to them, and wanted
them to have a chance to fulfill their dreams. I pictured Sandy, finding
his way here at the age of 15-almost-16, having experienced little but
rejection in his young life; then I saw him as he was today, a confident,
intelligent, sensible, and caring young man who gave more than he took from
life. If Aunt Margaret had anything to do with that and the aura of family
that surrounded all four of the others... well, then she should be blessed
as the patron saint of "that kind"--*our* kind.  Fleetingly, I wondered why
Mr. Sidney didn't fit the same mold as the others.  Maybe it was because he
was older.

I decided then and there to learn everything I could. I started spending
most of the time after Sanday left for work and before the others got home
digging in drawers, boxes in the basement and the attic, and just searching
everywhere for another hint of answers to my still-unanswered
questions. Occasionally as I was scanning old letters, bills, canceled
checks, and the like, I thought I caught a glimpse of a face in the window
of the apartment over the garage.

It was about the fourth day of following this routine that I started
looking at books on the shelves in my computer room. I had thought that I
would just open them and see if any important papers or clippings were
pressed between the pages, but I realized there was one whole shelf of
black-covered books without titles on the spine. I pulled out the one at
the left and began reading the handwritten text. It was a diary, Aunt
Margaret's diary!

It appeared to start about the time my father was born, and recounted his
early years with fastidious detail. I started skimming, looking for other
significant references to my father. I leafed through three more volumes
before stopping on one entry, dated a few years before I was born, that
popped out at me:

"Petey told his father last night that he realized he had sexual feelings
for men, and not for women. He expected a tirade--or worse--but he was more
shocked when Pete embraced him and said simply. 'I know, son. I know, and I
love you very much.' I am so proud of my two boys. Petey for his courage,
and Pete for his compassion. I love them both so very much."

I began to cry. How different my own youth would have been if I had grown
up in a family like that! I wouldn't have had to put on a front every day
in school, date girls whose strict upbringing I knew wouldn't allow them
even to think about sex before marriage (fulfilling a sexual role with a
woman was one place where my talents as a social illusionist would
definitely have failed me, as my anatomical components would also have
done), and sneak around town to have brief, nervous, but exciting
encounters with the only other gay kid I knew.

Andy Pepper--I hadn't thought of him for years! I was ashamed of myself for
not being his friend in public, but he had been tagged the class fag while
he was still in grade school. Only the girls would hang around with him;
the boys all shunned him, and made jokes at his expense behind his
back... and occasionally even to his face. I came to admire Andy at a
distance for his ability to remain calm and even dignified while enduring
the cruelest verbal gibes. I happened to encounter him one day when I was
roaming the nature trails (REAL nature trails!  I was looking for animals
to sketch.) in the state park at the edge of town, and we started to
talk. We ended up talking for hours. I finally told him that I admired the
way he stood up to the taunts, and I wished I could speak up for him,
because...

He finished my thought: "You're gay, too, aren't you?" I nodded, looking
down.  He went on: "Listen, Petey, you don't want to let any of those jerks
find out. I didn't have any choice--I look and act gay. But you can protect
your secret, you don't look like their idea of a fag. I don't blame you if
you don't want to be seen with me in public, but I would like to see you in
private--that is, if *you* want to."

I wanted to. Those stolen hours with Andy were the only times in my teen
years that I was free to be who and what I was, to say anything I wanted,
and to do...  well, to do and be done, if you will. I think I was a little
in love with Andy, and when I came out to friends at college years later, I
felt a terrific pang of guilt that I had never told him so, or had the
courage to show our classmates how special he was to me. I lost touch with
Andy after we went different directions to college. I hadn't thought of him
much since that day I made what I thought would be a disastrous, alienating
announcement to my friends. The total equanimity (actually, yawning
boredom) with which my confession of my sexual orientation was received
blew me away. My best friend and fellow art student, Hardy Kellner, stepped
up, gave me a hug, and said, "Pete, you're my friend, always will be, and I
love you. Just don't try to get between me and my ladies, and for god's
sake don't get *political*!"

Good ol' Hardy--known by all of our crowd as "Party-hearty-Hardy"--was a
raging, hormone-driven heterosexual bent on making as many female conquests
as he could, but he was also one of the few solid anchors I had while
drifting through life.  I decided to give him a call soon. The last time I
saw him was at his wedding.  He had met a nice Catholic girl from
St. Louis, converted, and decided that he would settle down there. From the
few letters and phone calls I had gotten since, I guess he had transformed
himself into the epitome of monogamous, dependable husband and loving
father. The last I heard, Hardy and his wife had four kids and were
actively working on number five, as he put it in a quick call he made one
day on a short layover at O'Hare between flights.

A random thought hit me as I emerged from these memories: Petey, Andy,
Hardy, Bucky--boyish nicknames were everywhere in my life. And
now... Sandy?


Chapter Seven--Meeting the Invisible Man

As much as I tried to wheedle information from the four guys, there were
two things they wouldn't talk about: whether they knew where my father was,
and anything about Mr. Sidney. They basically gave me the same kind of
runaround on both those topics--"When he's ready, he'll come to you."

I should mention that I was not a model of patience. I searched even more
determinedly for clues in Aunt Margaret's diaries and papers. I found
checks written to my father beginning after grandfather died and ending
just after my father and mother were married. Then, after a gap of several
years, I found checks written to "Mr. Sidney Hague." I wondered why she
wrote so many checks to him, when she was the landlord and he was the
tenant. Oh, well, knowing what I now did about Aunt Margaret, I decided
there would have been a logical answer.  Maybe he was not good at handling
his own finances, and she helped him by doling out his own money as he
needed it. But a nagging feeling in the back of my mind told me I didn't
quite feel satisfied with that scenario.

Frustrated in my search for more information about my father, I decided to
tackle the other puzzle in my life: why hadn't I had a chance to meet and
talk to Mr. Sidney. The others apparently talked to him fairly regularly,
and Dave even took to the mall and the supermarket occasionally. But I had
never even seen him take one step out of the apartment!

It was time to take matters in my own hand. (Quit thinking those dirty
thoughts!) I decided I was going over, knock on the door, and introduce
myself.  It wasn't as if he had told me himself that he didn't want to have
anything to do with me, and stopping by for an introduction and visit was
the neighborly thing to do, not to mention that I was his landlord, damn
it, and I deserved to know the people who were living on my property.

I felt a little jolt then, when I realized that what had been "Aunt
Margaret's house" up until that moment was now "my property." I didn't feel
like an impassionate witness to life in this house anymore--I was part of
it, involved in it, I felt ownership. In two minutes, I was out the front
door, past the front of the garage to the stairs on the far side, leading
up to the apartment.  Now I realize I probably sounded like a storm trooper
clomping up the wooden stairway and rapping firmly on the screen door.

Someone pulled the curtain aside far enough to see who it was, then opened
the door a crack and asked, "Can I help you?"

I was in no mood for pussyfooting. "Yes, you can. Mr. Sidney? I am Pete
Vanderhoeg, your new landlord, and I thought it was high time we got
acquainted."

A brief silence, then, "Yes, you're probably right. Won't you come in?" he
said, opening the door wider. I still couldn't see him clearly, because it
was bright outside and he was standing in an unlighted room.

I pulled the screen door open and stepped in. He turned away from me to
close the door again, and then slowly moved to face me. My eyes weren't
accustomed to the dimness yet, but I could see that he was about my height
and weight, blond but with an almost white beard and moustache. He was
wearing jeans and an old, baggy, stained sweatshirt that looked like it had
spent the early part of its life on the tackling dummy at Da Bears'
training camp.

He guided me into what must have been the living room, although there was
no furniture to speak of, just a couple of low tables and piles of thick,
fluffy pillows. The walls were bare, except for a large, ornated mirror
with a gilded frame on the wall opposite the main pile of pillows. He
pointed toward the pillows, and invited me to sit while he got me something
to drink.

"Do you like your tea unsweetened?" he asked me. I nodded yes, and he
smiled slightly as if he had expected that answer. My eyes searched his
face for something... I don't know what I was looking for.

While he was preparing the tea, I piled a couple of the big floor pillows
on top of one another, trying to make some semblance of a chair to sit
in. Before I could get settled comfortably, he came back into the room
carrying two cups of fragrant, steaming tea. He put one down on the long,
low, narrow coffee table between us,and handed the other to me. I stood
fully up to take it from him.

When I did, I saw my own reflection in the mirror. I looked at him, then
back at my image, then back at him again. Then I noticed an intricately
carved Dutch windmill on the table in the corner of the room. Do you know
what an epiphany is? Well, I had one at that moment. I was looking at
myself at 30, and myself at 50--I was looking at... my father! I started to
tremble violently, spilling some of the tea. He quickly moved around the
table, took the cup and saucer from my shaking hands, and helped me sit
down on the floor in front of the pillows I had stacked up.

He knelt beside me. "We have to talk..." he began. I was struck dumb, I
couldn't speak, I wasn't even capable of that moment of forming a coherent
thought. The years of not knowing if he was alive, or if he had ever really
cared about me...  the years when I needed a father's love and
protection... all those lost years!  I couldn't begin to describe the
emotions that were drowning me.

By the time I had recovered some semblance of awareness of my surroundings,
I realized I was hearing him say, "You probably hate me..." He fell silent.

I sat there, not knowing which emotion I should give in to. Should I be
angry and unforgiving? Should I be mourning all that we had missed sharing?
Should I just erase him from my life and go on as if he didn't exist?

It took me several minutes to pull myself together and shape my question to
him: "Just tell me one thing--why did you stay away?"

He took a deep breath, and said, "I wanted desperately to be a part of your
life, but your grandmother said that if I came anywhere near you, she would
tell everyone that I was a worthless, dangerous pervert who had deceived
her daughter and was trying to molest his own son. I would never have done
that," he said, his voice cracking as he trailed off. He went on to say
that she pressured him to move away and stay away from me and my mother. He
had left, changed his name, and come back within a few months just so he
could be near me, even if he had to live like a hermit and wasn't allowed
to talk to me, or even let me know he was alive. I started to shiver again,
this time in mounting anger at the old woman who had kept me from knowing
my own father, even after my mother had died.  Mentally I drove another
nail into her coffin.

I started to cry, which set him off, too, and we fell together into a
hug--at first, stiff and awkward, then melting into the kind of embrace I
had always wanted: the sure, strong, warm hug of a loving father comforting
his child. I asked him about my mother, and whether she felt the same way
as my grandmother.  He said that my mother had always known he was gay--she
was his best friend in school--and after her mother found out and forced
him to leave her, they would meet secretly every week or so. He said she
couldn't bring me along, because I was so young and didn't understand what
was going on. I might have unwittingly said something about him to my
grandmother, which would have gotten them both in trouble.

We cried together for a while, and then we talked. And talked. And
talked. Time passed. Afternoon became dusk, dusk became dark, and dark
became dawn. We hadn't moved from our places there on the floor for nearly
15 hours. We hadn't eaten.  We just talked, marveling at the ways in which
we were alike. I asked why Aunt Margaret hadn't just left the house to him,
and he said, "She figured I'd never get the courage to try to see you if
she did."

Then I asked how she knew I would... well, "fit in." He told me that a few
years ago, a young man named Andy Pepper had found himself without a home,
and another friend of his told him to go see Aunt Margaret. While living
here for a while, my father went on, Andy figured out that she was related
to me, and he started talking about our private times together.

I blushed, but my father said, "No, they didn't talk about that part of it.
Where Margaret was concerned, it wasn't about what you did, but how you
treated people, and how they felt about you. Andy spoke of you with great
fondness, you know."

"No, I didn't know," I said, saying under my breath, "I wish I had."

He said Sandy and Dave and the others had told him they thought I was
really nice, too, and that he should be proud. Realizing they had known all
along, I decided I was going to kill them for not telling me anything! As
soon as I got home... oh my god, I thought, I bet the guys are wondering
where I am. Talk about conflicted! I was murdering them in my mind one
moment, then fearing that I had made them worry the next.

I looked at my watch--it was 5:30. And idea came to me. I leaned close to
whisper in my father's ear. He grinned, and said, "I'll be there as soon as
I get cleaned up."


Chapter Eight--Cooking Up a Plan

I dashed across the lawn to the house, and managed to make it into my
bedroom before anyone else had started to stir. I took a quick basin-bath,
washing only the most offensive parts of my body, and changed into a fresh
t-shirt and shorts. When Donnie and Reggie came downstairs, I was already
in the kitchen, whipping together a special breakfast of scrambled eggs,
hash browns, bacon, sliced melon, toast, juice, coffee and tea, with
several jars of Aunt Margaret's canned fruit spreads from the cellar lined
up on the counter beside the stack of plates, the glasses and cups, and the
tableware.

"Hey, we wondered what happened to you," Reggie said and signed for
Donnie's benefit. "We didn't know whether to be worried or happy for you."
Donnie nodded in agreement.

Dave walked into the room, sniffing at the cooking aromas, as I announced:
"Well, I met someone." I loved the looks on their faces. "And I've invited
him to join us for breakfast. He should be here soon."

I just kept cooking, ignoring their obvious attempts to pump me for more
information. When Sandy came in, Dave told him what was happening. I just
caught a glimpse of his shocked--and disappointed?--expression when he
heard. But he put a smile on to say, "Congratulations, Pete, you deserve
it."

"Wait," I said, "I'm not married yet. I just met the guy, and I want to get
to know him better. That's all. And I wanted you all to get to know him
they way I hope to."

Sandy looked puzzled, and started to say something, when he glanced up and
saw someone at the kitchen door. He opened it quickly and let the surprise
visitor in. He started to introduce him to me: "Pete, this is Mr. Sidney
Hague. Mr.  Sidney, this is--"

I cut him off. "No," I said. Sandy looked shocked. I continued,"This is the
man I spent the night with"--I loved the expressions on all their
faces--"my father, Peter Sidney Vonderhoeg." I turned to my
father. "Welcome home, Dad."

Everyone's jaw dropped, and my father hugged me, saying, "I've waited your
whole life to be with you like this--together, in our own home, like father
and son."

He started crying again, so I did too. Sandy joined the hug, crying
too. Reggie and Dave and Donnie made it a very moist group hug. It was the
first time in my life that I had felt really loved, the way I had always
dreamed.

We finally did sit down and enjoy a big breakfast together, laughing and
just jabbering together until Reggie realized he had to get to work. Dave
and Donnie had a little more time to spare before they headed out, so they
and my father took their coffee (or unsweetened tea) into the living room
to talk for a little more.

I stayed behind in the kitchen with Sandy, who was starting to clean up. He
was running hot water into the sink and pouring a healthy portion of
detergent in, when I stepped up behind him, very close. I put my hands on
his shoulders.  "Sandy?" I asked. He turned to look at me. "Do you... and
Dave... I mean, are you... ?"

His eyes opened wide, and he started to breathe more quickly. "You mean,
are we boyfriends?" I nodded. "Oh no, we're just buddies, friends--well,
you know, like the others..."

I pulled him a little closer, so I could whisper my next utterance: "I
would like very much to be more than buddies with you, Sandy. I think I've
already fallen in love with you."

Time stood still for an eternity as I looked into his eyes, trying to gauge
what I saw there. His beautiful eyes, wide open for that eternity, suddenly
blinked, and tears were pouring down his cheeks. He choked out, "Oh Pete, I
fell in love with you that first night." He grabbed my face and pulled it
to his, covering my cheeks and forehead and chin and nose with wet
kisses. I put my arms around his slim, hard body and squeezed him tightly
to me. "Pete, I've dreamed of this every night since then... not just being
with you, you know, in bed, but being yours."

My passionate kiss muffled his voice. Then I pulled him to me even more
tightly, his head on my shoulder, and mine on his. I looked up to see three
faces in the kitchen doorway, all of them smiling and crying as the three
of them hugged one another.

That was quickly followed by another one of those really wet, whole-group
hugs.  Damn, I never get tired of that feeling of belonging!

I suppose I could bring the story completely up to date, but it's enough to
say that my father was my father, not my 'buddy.' However, he wasn't Dave's
buddy, and Dave eventually moved into the apartment with Dad. Sandy moved
his stuff into my--our--bedroom, and the guys found a couple more 'strays'
who needed a safe and welcoming place to live. They turned out to be *such
nice young men*.

"Thank you, Aunt Margaret," I say to myself every day. "Thank you for
giving me my life, my father, my new family... and my Sandy!"

The End
Copyright 2000 by Jack Fellowes

(I hope you enjoyed this story. Let me know at: jwhstloo@ix.netcom.com)