I live in a very gay neighborhood.  Almost every apartment in my building is occupied by gays, most of them coupled.  I was coupled once myself, until my partner just up and left me one day, and ran off with a younger man.  I was fifty-eight at the time, and feeling very vulnerable.

A few months ago, a young gay couple moved in across the hall from me.  One of them seemed to be in his early thirties, and his partner was barely out of the twink stage.  I rarely ran into the older guy.  He didn’t seem to be around much.  I found out that he had some sort of sales position, which required lots of travel.

On the other hand, I constantly ran into the younger boy.  He was very friendly.  We always seemed to be taking out the garbage to the dumpster at the same time.  Once, when I knew his partner was away, I invited him in for coffee and cake.  He was happy to accept my invitation.  I got the distinct feeling that he was very lonely when his boyfriend was on the road, and he welcomed my invitation.

I was glad I invited him in.  I learned that his partner’s name was Peter, and he sold medical equipment along the entire eastern seaboard.  My young man’s name was Paul.  I laughed at the idea of their names being Peter and Paul.   I don’t know why, but it struck me funny.  Peter was away more than he was home, and he didn’t want Paul to work.  Instead Paul was taking courses on line, pursuing a college education.

When Peter was away, Paul and I had coffee together often, but don’t get me wrong.  I am now sixty years old, and Paul is twenty one.  Although I am very attracted to him, I have no designs on him.  I’m sure I am not attractive to him at all.  We have just become very good friends.

Almost from the beginning of our friendship, I began to notice something which greatly disturbed me.  Whenever Peter was home, and I would meet Paul in the hallway, in the elevator, or at the dumpster, I noticed bruises on his arms and face.  He almost always wore tank tops, or no shirt at all, so the bruising was obvious, and not something I could have avoided noticing.

I got bold one day, and asked him how he got so banged up.  He started to laugh, and told me that he was a klutz, always knocking into furniture when he cleaned the house.  I didn’t believe him, and I began to suspect that it was Peter, who was beating up on him.

The next time Peter was away, I invited Paul to dinner.  He always seemed very pleased to accept my invitations, even though there was nothing going on between us.  I asked him point blank if Peter was physically abusing him.  He denied it emphatically, and claimed that he and Peter loved each other too much to ever hurt one another.  He stuck to his claim that he was just a klutzy person.  I apologized for asking, and we spent a pleasant evening together.  I did my best to ignore the bruises on his body, and to mind my own business.

One fateful night, I ran into Peter and Paul at a neighborhood gay bar.  Peter was all over Paul, hugging and kissing him.  It was obvious to me that he had a little too much to drink.  I said a quick hello to them, and then distanced myself. 

“I wanna go home now,” I heard Peter slur.

“Go ahead, Honey.  I’ll be right along,” Paul smiled at Peter.  “I just want to have a quick drink with our neighbor over there.  I owe him.”  He smiled at me.

“Fuck you,” Peter spat at him.  “I’ve been on the road for two weeks, and you’d rather schmooze with an old man than make love to me.  Well, I don’t give a fuck if you come home or not.” 

He stormed out of the bar, and just to show how obstinate he was, Paul bought me a drink.  When we finished the drink, Paul left.  I continued to socialize with some friends for at least two more hours.

When I got home, I found an ambulance in front of my building.  They were taking Paul out, and Peter was weeping.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Paul was gay bashed by two brutes,” he sobbed.  “He crawled home and I called 911.”  The medics allowed Peter to go to the hospital in the ambulance, and they sped away.

Paul was treated, and released the next day.  Two days after he got home, I met Peter at the dumpster, and I asked after Paul’s well-being. 

“He’s doing fine.  He should be up to his old self in a day or two.”

As Peter threw a bag of garbage into the dumpster, I saw it.  The knuckles of his right hand were raw, and bruised.  At that moment I knew that Paul had not been bashed.  He had been beaten up by his boyfriend.  I was incensed.

That night I went to the bar for a few drinks with friends, hoping to forget what I had learned.  I was shocked to see Peter at the bar.  He was talking to some guy, and slurring his words.  I was determined to get revenge for what he did to Paul.

I left the bar, and ran home.  I went to my car, which was in the parking lot at the back of the building.  I took a crow bar out of the trunk, and drove the car back to the bar, even though I was walking distance from the place.  I went into the bar, and found Peter even drunker than before, so I offered him a ride home.  He gladly accepted.  The minute I got him into the passenger seat, he passed out.

I drove to a deserted area along The East River, and I helped him get out of the car.  “We’re home,” I lied.  He stood up, and somehow he got out of the car, but he slumped against it.  I had the crowbar in my hand, and I started whacking him on the head.  I have no idea if I killed him or not, but I pushed his unmoving body into the river.  I wiped the crow bar clean with some paper toweling I always kept in the car, tossed the bloody paper in the river, replaced the crowbar in the trunk, and went home.

Early the next morning, I heard a pounding at my front door.  I ran to answer it, and there stood Paul, still battered and sobbing.

“What’s wrong?” I cried, knowing full well what was wrong.

“Peter didn’t come home last night, and he’s not answering his phone.  I’m really worried.  He’s never stayed out all night like this before.”

“The police don’t consider anyone to be a missing person for at least twenty-four hours after they disappear,” I said, “but you should call the police anyhow, and declare him missing.   Call from here, and I’ll make us breakfast.”

After he called the police, I felt I should comfort Paul, so I enveloped him in my arms, and held him tight.  All I had on were boxer shorts, and he was in jockey shorts.  I clearly felt his package, and pushed him away. 

“Lie down on the sofa while I prepare breakfast,” I commanded him gently.  He actually dozed off, and I realized that he probably had not slept all night.  I had to nudge him to wake up for breakfast.

While we were sipping coffee, I discretely asked if he had any idea why Peter did not come home.  Paul started to cry.  “Please don’t tell anyone,” he said.  “I didn’t want the police to know, because I was afraid of repercussions, but I guess now, I’ll have to tell them.”

I was sure he was going to tell me about the abuse he had suffered, so I encouraged him to confide in me, and swore that it would be our secret.  He hesitated for a while, but eventually he started talking.

“I know who the two guys were who beat me up.  They’re brothers, who harassed me all through high school.  I thought I was through with them, when I graduated, but coming home from the bar the other day they confronted me, and started calling me faggot, but this time it was different.  This time they beat me up.  I foolishly told Peter who they were, and he went right to their apartment, and beat the shit out of both of them.  Did you know that Peter was a boxing champion in college?  His hands were so bloody, I had to bathe them in ointments.  I hate to think of what the two brothers look like.  Anyway I suspect that they were seeking revenge against him, and might have done him harm.”

I wanted to die.  I had executed Peter, and he was innocent all the time.  All I could do was put my arms around Paul, and hold him tight.

A week later Peter’s body washed up on the river bank.  The Baroni brothers were promptly arrested, but they were both in the hospital at the time of Peter’s murder.  They were quickly released, and eventually the case grew cold.

After Peter’s body was discovered, and the coroner did his autopsy, I helped Paul give him a proper burial.  After the funeral Paul and I sat in my living room sipping tea.  He told me that he really couldn’t afford the apartment, and would have to move, but first he would need to get a job, any kind of job.

“Nonsense,” I said.  “Move into my guest room, and continue your studies.”

Paul jumped up, and embraced me.  I could feel him pressing his manhood against mine, and I was pleasantly surprised.  At that moment, I realized that Paul was actively seeking another sugar daddy, and I fit the bill, at least until someone much younger came along.

The harder he pressed against me, the harder I got.  He had to notice.  He leaned down to kiss me, and the unthinkable happened.  We made love all afternoon.  Our relationship lasted for several weeks, until Paul found the younger sugar daddy he was looking for.

I know I should feel all kinds of regrets, and run immediately to confession, but I don’t feel a thing, and I got to spend a few sex-filled weeks with a gorgeous young twinkie.  How many sixty-year-olds can say that?

Posted: 01/15/16