Someday, Somewhere -- by Gerry Young

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gerry_young@tickiestories.us

Author's Note: The First Chapter is a soliloquy by the main character, Mr. Gabriel Arthur Yantcey, better known as Gabe.

In the truest sense of the word, not only does he think aloud, but he also talks to himself, and he talks to you, the reader; then, as he verbally stumbles along – at times forgetting what he's talking about.

An elderly gentleman, he lays down the subtle plot of the story – to his much younger visitor – using the language that is comfortable to himself. There is only just a bit of off-color and risqué mumbo jumbo, gobbledygook, vulgar, and obscene language to be sure, scattered throughout all the chapters. But it's not over-done.

To anyone who has lovingly spent valuable time with an older friend or relative, helping by just listening to the memories of that one, or a gentle touch, or a warm caress, the author knows that you'll love the story.

Or, at least, he hopes you will. And then, perchance, you'll be able to forgive his bourgeois vernacular.

There I sat – or I should say, was stretched out – on a white wicker chaise lounge. The sun felt warm and soothing to my old decrepit bones. I was waiting for a young visitor – one of very few that I am privileged to receive these days. Visitor – that is! I'm sure it will be the highlight of my stay in what may well be the last place in which I have occasion to live. I have no family left. The adults amongst whom I grew up have all passed on to their just rewards; my cousins – each and every one of them – though a few years younger than I – want nothing to do with the black sheep of the family – me. My grief. Their loss. I still love them – even with their bigoted attitudes.

Not far up the hill and behind me is the main building, reminiscent of the oft-photographed multi-storied GRAND HOTEL on Mackinac Island. It is between Lake Huron and Lake Michigan and between the northern and southern peninsulas of that great state. Designed by George D. Mason (of Mason and Rice, Architects), and built in 1886 by Charles W. Caskey, the hotel boasted the longest front porch in the world at eighty-eight feet.

Then in 1914, the year the United States entered the Great War in Europe, the Grand Hotel became the model for the clairvoyance of one William Alexander Newton Lawrence. With the United States being at war with Germany, Austria-Hungary, the Ottoman Empire, and Bulgaria, Lawrence clearly foresaw the need for facilities of recuperation and treatment for many of the brave, returning soldiers who gave the most, if not all, for their – our – beloved country.

With a front porch at only fifty feet in length, HAPPY DAYS CONVALESCENT HOSPITAL, as it came to be known, became a miniature reproduction of the famous Grand Hotel – with examination, therapeutic, and emergency surgical adaptations, of course. The hospital is located in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Except for the red-flocked wallpaper in the Dining Room for the ambulatory patients, all rooms were painted that old, pukey hospital-green. All exterior furniture – chairs (both stationary and wheeled), lounges, and tables – were of the then-popular white wicker. As a matter of fact, the entire exterior of the hospital was white-washed annually, traditionally so. So pure. So pristine. So clean it was. The smell of alcohol, ammonia, and ether, however, permeated every square inch of the interior – it easily made one ill upon entering the hospital.

But here I am, reclining on another, newer, white-wicker lounge, not on the porch, but out on the lush-green grounds, awaiting my visitor.

As I said before, it's stretched out, just like the HAPPY DAYS RETIREMENT HOME behind me, renamed after the war effort no longer required the facilities – now, it's much easier for the inmates to navigate the halls, all on a single level.

Oh! Did I forget to mention that I'm eighty-eight years young? I do that a lot lately – forget things, and my words and sentences seem to ramble on and on. But I'm fortunate to be here, I suppose, if not entirely happy, unlike the name of this, my probable last home. Many here call me a bitter old fart. Perhaps I am; what's an inmate like me supposed to be happy for, anyway? That's what a few of us call ourselves – inmates – since we're not allowed to leave the premises unattended!

All-timers, some say; others say Alzheimers, – whatever the hell that is! – and still others correct the mentally befuddled of us. All these newfangled names they have for any and everything today. [Tisk. Tisk. Tisk!] Gives an … an … a … hoity-toity … intellectual-sounding reason for whatever they want to do. God knows! They don't let us do what we want to do. Never have. Never will.

"Good morning!" we hear. "How are we this sunny morning? Have we had our morning constitution yet? Come on, now, Georgie. Come on, now, Bessie, it's time that we wake up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed! And after we've had our breakfast of Wheaties – breakfast of champions, you know – we'll do our daily water-aerobic exercises!" Whoop-ti-doo! I make circles in the air with my right middle finger.

Every morning it's the same damned thing. Her voice, his voice, whosever voice is so damnably sweet, it makes me want to puke. I just wanna sleep-in and not have to put up with their crap anymore.

Pulling the sheet and blanket over my head, I roll over onto my stomach – hoping to hide my morning-stiffy – and cover my ears with my hands, and then I let a great fart, hoping she, he, it – or, if said rapidly … shit – will go away, as do the head-coverings almost immediately, due to the foul cabbage-generated stench from last night's dinner.

I lift my arm and sneak a peek behind me. Damn! No such luck. I feel a slap on my ass. Well, at least that's something. Perhaps I should offer myself as a sex-slave … at least in the mornings. That one daily erection is just as hard, just as thick, just as long as it was decades ago when I was in my prime. Why can't my fantasies or personal man-handling bring up more such delightful sensations and results? Perhaps piss is more … oh, fuck! What's the word??? … Shit. I don't know. More something-more than blood. 'Engorging'? Is that it? Yeah, I’m sure of it.

From where I'm sitting in the chaise lounge, down the gentle slope of the hill, is a lake – maybe a hundred fifty, two hundred feet away – that's 30.48 to 45.72 meters, in other words. Far enough from the main building so the invalids and immobiles around here won't tend to perambulate down there and fall in. Not a huge lake by any means, but, if memory serves me correctly, it does cover just a bit under an acre.

You see, I used to play here as a kid – no, not a billy goat, silly. A kid. A child. A juvenile. I used to play here when I was a little boy. I laugh sometimes, seeing in my head, an old codger in an old fashioned run-away wheel chair – sorta like FDR used more than a half-century ago – my word! Am I really that old??? – headed toward the lake with an attendant running and screaming after him or her. Heeheehee. Cruel, my imaginings, I know, but it gives me a good chuckle – something desperately needed around here.

Perhaps some day it'll happen to me – I hear that drowning is one of the easiest ways of dying.

Although, I used to say that if I ever discovered that I had a terminal condition – hmmmmm … does that include old age? I'll have to think about that one – I'd head for the North Pole, drive as far as I could, sign over the Pink Slip to whomever would find the car, and then set out walking farther north, knowing that I'd eventually tire to the point of collapse and exhaustion…

Point of collapse and exhaustion… hmmmmm. That reminds me of a verse of a poem I wrote … oh, when was it? … uhhh … oh, yeah … sixty-some years ago. Yep. I wrote it when I was twenty-four and in the heyday of my sexual prime. It went like this:

Awww, fuck it all! I wrote it, and I can't even remember it. Dammitalltohell! What the fuck good am I, anyway? Must be getting time to start thinking about hitchin' a ride north.

When I was a Boy Scout, my first and only Merit Badge was in Astronomy, and I could find my way north on any clear night, but the how-to escapes me now. Shit. I'm worse than I thought. I don't even know which way is north, anymore. Did they move it? Did the Earth tip like they said it would, sometime over the past century and I never knew anything about it? Huh? Did it?

Ahh well. C'est la vie. But anyway … as I was saying … I'd go toward the North Pole, and all that stuff, and get so tired that I'd just lay down and go to sleep and never wake up again – as it is, I fall asleep so easily when it's cold. I love to sleep in a cold bed. Oh, yeah, and cold feet in the middle of my back (or some other places!) gives me an enormous hard-on every time. At least it used to – haven't had the opportunity to find out for the last twenty-five years or so. <ho, hum> Oh, yeah – back to the North Pole … And then, after I fall asleep and don't ever wake up anymore, the Polar Bears or Snow Foxes will have a field-day when the Spring thaw comes. Yummy for them. What the hell? I won't feel anything, and it'll prolong their survival for a few more days. Reminds me of the verbal order – eat me.

Oh. Pink Slip – guess my use of that term shows that I lived in California for a while. Yep. Sure as fuck did! Had a gay ol' time, too. Yep. Gay ol' Hollywood and Sausalito and San Francisco and Palm Springs – my heart's not the only thing I left there – believe you me!!!!! Thank you very much, Tony Bennett!

But that was many years before AIDS and HIV. I stopped being intimate with anyone in 1981 when the CDC in Atlanta publicly proclaimed the term, AIDS, and that same year my license was taken away from me – drunk driving. I shoulda known better. Woulda, shoulda, coulda … don'tcha just love those words? They sorta provide eternal excuses for anything that we didn't do, or did do that we weren't supposed to do. Hehehe. Oh, yes; those were the good ol’ days!

Never did have a license for the other, though, but I sure practiced a lot for the day – or night – that I might need it when I got too old to give it away. Practice makes perfect, they say, and boy! did I practice!?! But I guess that day's come and passed me by – forgotten – just like my cousins did. I know I enjoyed it and had fun and all, but I can't recall that any of it was special … except for my real friends.

Oh, well. I seriously doubt that will ever happen – my going to the North Pole, I mean. I don't own a car any more, and with my wrinkles, there's no way anyone would iron them out to be as smooth as a maturely well-balanced legal young buck's hairless scrotum or as kissable as a college kid's arsehole – sounds so much better using the British term, doesn't it? – But, there's no way anyone would want me now. Won't even think about anything else I used to do with my … assets! – might give me a coronary. <Sigh!>

But for right now, I love to sit out here and remember those days of yore – those sweet, carefree days when the world in which I lived was simpler, gentler, kinder – when my knowledge of the world was so … yes … narrow and uncluttered, I suppose – the world of an innocent and happy child, not knowing the terrors and horrors that lay ahead.

Terrors and horrors – if only I had known. Please remember though – ignorance is bliss. I won't burden you with them.

Boy! I was never aware I'm so full of shit – so full of clichés. Do forgive, I beg thee. But then … I don't really care if you do or don't – life's too short. I've finally learned that from the young people on TV – "Be yourself," and "Do your own thing!" they proclaim. I would if I could, but I've never been able to bend that far. Shoulda been a contortionist. Mmm. Woulda never left the house. Coulda made myself happy my entire life. Heeheehee. <Sigh>

I look around, wondering what's keeping him – my visitor. He's late. I can only hope and – if I were of a mind or conviction or persuasion – pray that he's all right. I've given up on the Church and its teachings, but not on God. No. People just don't understand. They allow themselves, like mindless sheep, to be led by the few and by the tax-exempt corporations who take their money and get rich.

Take the Pauline Epistles out of the New Testament, and we'll finally have a Good Book to live by. Of course, his followers and devotees will say that they disagree with my perverted viewpoint. That's their privilege and God-given choice. I have mine. It's truly God-given, though I seriously doubt that they'll agree with me on that point – for me, at least. I can just hear them proclaim from the mountain-tops: "The Devil made him do it; Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub made him do it!" Harrumph. They’re the other gods that the Christians worship in reverse … through fear; they are adamant in their fear of the Devil, of Satan, of Lucifer and of Beelzebub. Doesn't Love conquer all? Whatever happened to "Love the Lord thy God, and . thy . neighbor . as . thyself"?

While reading about Paul and Timothy, also take the time to read about Jesus and his disciple-brother, John. (Does this just border on incest? Hmmm? Hmmm? Hmmm? Same mother, different father – if you're still one of those who cling to the concept of Immaculate Conception. But so were the conceptions of Gautama Buddha and Akhenaten.) And the story in the Old Testament of Prince Jonathan and the shepherd-boy, David. And let us not forget another couple, Naomi and Ruth, and the vow they made to each other that is often used today in both straight and gay wedding ceremonies. Quite beautiful homosexual love stories, all. And preachers and priests and rabbis and imams say that homosexuality wasn't accepted in the Bible. Bullshit! At least four of the greatest love stories in the Bible are homosexual in nature. They were all human, for God's sake! Give them some leeway! Don't be so blind as those who will not see. But just remember … I did not say, who can not see.

Yes, I guess I am a bitter old fart. People don't practice what they preach, but God knows … I've tried.

Now, let's see … where was I? Ah, yes. On my soapbox again. First … let me get off. People have told me I should get off for years. God knows – I try hard enough and occasionally do. Oh, yes … we are talking about me getting off my soapbox, aren't we? I'm not trying to convert anyone. Just thinking on paper (or computer screen, as it were).

Many young people today are so fickle and care little or nothing for their seniors. For example: they might befriend an older person for a brief period, then say that they're taking a tropical island or European or some other exotic three-month Summer vacation with a new love, and then promise to write – but never do – in essence ... totally abandoning the elder friend indefinitely, without a word of explanation, even after the vacation, honeymoon, or whatever, is over. Not all young people, mind you, but many. There's so much for them to do, so much to distract them, or to turn their eyes and hearts and minds to things that are more important to them – little do they care that someday, sooner than they might even imagine, they, too, may certainly end up being inmates in a similar institution. That possibility and those days are too far away from the ever-present now, that's what they are, and today's young people don't care about then! Oh, well. Que sera, sera, as Doris Day, the American chanteuse, used to sing so beautifully. So predictably meaningful.

So sadly unfamiliar to the youth of today. But so are many of the greats I grew up with and grew to love in my own youth; I'm astonished at how quickly they've left us with so few remaining behind – the likes of Bas Sheva, Edith Piaf, Enya, Kitaro, Vollenweider, Yanni, and the ones I've been blessed to meet in person: Korla Pandit, Yma Sumac, and Zita Szeleczky … and others of their ilk. But they, too, seem to have become passé as instrumental and vocal noises have blasted to the fore.

Ah, but I do stray. Forgive an old fool for his mental meanderings; my medications oft-times make it impossible for me to maintain a steady thought to a logical conclusion. My short-term memory is rapidly failing, but my long-term memory is sharp as a tack.

At least something still works and I can still get a good grip on it when the occasion arises – if you get my meaning – even at my advanced age. Twelve more years and I'll have lived a century – never give up hope. There may be snow on the mountain, but there's still some fire down below. <sigh> Oh, hell! Where did that trite expression come from? I don't think it was one of mine. Was it? But to return to what I was saying … I love to sit out here on the lawn with my memories…

"Mister Yantcey?" I hear what sounds like a young man's voice calling from behind me.

Without rising, I stretch my aged neck and raise my balding head to catch a glimpse of the one who has just called my proper name. It can't be an attendant or fellow inmate – as I call the other residents; they all call me … Gabe – probably thinking that I'll readily respond in a friendlier manner than I usually do. I hate growing old, and I hate the liberties they take. But I love the sponge baths some of the orderlies insist on giving. Maybe it's my up-and-coming interest they like to manipulate from time to time – behind closed and locked doors, of course – though seldom do they take long enough to do a complete, thorough job – for me. Don't they know that at my age, things take longer now? Occasionally – very occasionally – when one of them leaves my room, I have a sweet taste lingering in my mouth. I wonder what my young visitor would taste like? Naughty me.

"Yes?" I reply as my name is called from behind again, and then we see each other for the very first time.

He looks just like my great-grandfather did, the visitor thought. God! How I miss him! I loved that old man.

"Sorry I'm late, Sir. I was caught in a little fender-bender uptown. Seems like it took forever for all the paperwork to be straightened out. Police report. Insurance report. Towing…"

"Yes, Sir. Now, don't you go worrying yourself about my little mishap. I'm perfectly all right."

Still without rising, I extend my hand in greeting. He seems like a nice young man, and I notice his light brown trousers fit him quite snugly. I grin what I suppose is a wrinkled smile. "Gabe Yantcey. Gabriel Arthur Yantcey, to be exact," I introduce myself.

After he shakes my hand in silence, and – as I presume – writes my name on his steno pad, I see the age-old telltale surprised expression at seeing or recognizing my initials – G.A.Y. I wait for some further reaction – that which nearly everyone does, whether it be spoken or not. Over the years I've grown accustomed to the reaction. He looks up at me, then down again to his notes, and scribbles something else.

Could it be a guilty assumption or an accurate perception? I wonder. "Something wrong?" I ask of my young visitor whose name I don't yet know.

"Oh, no, Sir," he nervously lies to himself, probably wishing not to embarrass me – as if I could be embarrassed by anything anyone could say to me at this time in my life. I've heard it all before, sometimes as a mere question, often as an intended joke, but occasionally as a snide remark or a religious rebuke.

He is still standing, not having taken a seat without an invitation. Thank God, he has positioned himself so that the sun behind him is not blinding me.

"Please," I offer with a gesture to the white wicker chair to my left. "It'll be easier for us to talk. Turn the chair so that you can face me, if you would be so kind."

"Thank you, Mister Yantcey," he says, doing as I'd suggested. Then seated, he'd splayed his legs affording me an old man's fantasy of gazing at his quite adequate package, dressing left, so to speak, and it, unavoidably prominent along the upper thigh of his snug tan trousers.

"I'm at a loss here," I announce. "You know my name; I don't know yours. K.L.S.C. Writtenhouse only told me that they were sending over a young man for a biographical interview to use in my forthcoming novel, The Happy Wanderer. Do you have any idea who that young man might be?" I teased, knowing full well he had to be the one.

"Gabe, please. Mister Yantcey is so formal, and you do want to know everything about me; right?" I certainly wanted to know – and become familiar with – every-thing about him. Very familiar.

He timidly nods and barely shrugs his shoulders in silent answer to my question.

Oh, God, I think to myself as I quickly place my right hand on my thigh, hoping to feel the little bottle in my pocket. Whew! I've got'em with me – my Nitro-glycerin tablets. Thank God. My fingertips feel a rare occurrence, these days – Omar <the tent-maker, you know> is suddenly growing, lengthening down my thigh, and I feel a little leak. Happy days are here again, I sing in my head, and I don't mean the name of this minimum security prison I belong to.

"Let's get off to a familiar start, shall we?" I continue. Quickly I gaze at his crotch again. This time I'm sure he'd caught my glance, and I'm also sure that I'd embarrassed him. He covered himself with his steno pad, meager as it was – the pad, I mean – not that which it was intended to conceal. My mouth began to water – perhaps he'd think it was old-age drool. If only he knew! But time would tell. Hopefully. Ohhh. If only… I began to think.

Before he could continue any further, I gave him a condescending look, which brought about the response I wanted. "Forgive me, Sir, but once again … Ga–Gabe … I apologize for my tardiness."

"That's all right, young man; there's nothing to apologize for. I had nothing else to do. All I have now is time …" However much time you can spare, my gorgeous, I think to myself as other words tumble and babble from my hungry lips. "… but I enjoy sitting out here in the sun, watching the swans and ducks on the lake." How I wish we could strip each other naked and join them in the water, dunking each other, rubbing our long, slender … necks or something else … against each other. "They bring back so many fond memories. Oh! Did you know it was my family who donated the original swans and ducks to Happy Days Retirement Home?" I asked with a jerky grand gesture toward the lake with my wrinkled and spotted old hand. "Those are all descendants of our original flock. I feel sorta like a great-granddaddy, myself." There's no way he could feel the same about me.

My fingertips tried desperately not to be obvious as they ever-so-carefully tried to adjust Omar's tumescence in the wrinkles of my trousers and boxer-shorts.

He wrote something else on his steno pad. I peeked over a little but couldn't make out a single letter from the way he held his pen. I surmised that he was writing in shorthand. But then I smiled as he once again corrected himself with a frustrated redness upon his handsome face, which now blended so well with his coppery hair.

This may well prove to be quite an interesting day, I thought to myself, crossing my legs to conceal my own growing excitement. "Would you care for a cool glass of my favorite old-fashioned drink – Sassafras Tea – m'lad?"

"Uhhh … sure," his unsure answer came. "Don't think I've ever had any of that, Sir."

I turned to the small, round, white wicker table to my left to pour his drink. Then, on a sudden second thought, with an abrupt return to him, I asked, "Am I ever to learn your name, young man?"

"Oh, I am so sorry, Mister … uhhh … Gabe," he began his self-introduction by standing once again, somewhat leaning toward me, but my stern glare halted his continuation until he took a deep breath, stood tall, puffed out his chest, and dramatically returned my glare.

"Yes, Sir. You see, I was raised by my grandparents and was taught to respect my elders and my seniors. And – I apologize for saying so – but there is no way for me not to recognize you as one of my elders … Sir."

I looked at him for a moment before saying anything. There, before me, stood a young man, probably in his mid-to-late-twenties, nicely attired, immaculately groomed, sensually stunning … and polite, well-mannered, and refined. And with the most beautiful greenish-brown eyes I'd ever seen.

"You are a delight to behold," I said, struggling a little to move my old legs off the lounge so that I could stand before him. Seeing my difficulty, he dropped the pad and pen onto the seat of his chair and offered his assistance, grabbing both my hands to help me up. "You are a rarity, my boy – there are so few of you today."

"If I had any children of my own," I fondly admitted, " – a son or a grand-son – I would wish him to be exactly like you."

We were still holding hands – he probably felt that he was steadying me. But I … I was holding on for other reasons. His hands were warm and soft as a girl's; his very touch thrilled me, and had it not been for my years, I knew at that moment that whether or not I knew his name, I would have sprung an erection which, years earlier, would have made me proud.

"Would it embarrass you," I inquired, if I were to hug you as many fathers and sons or grand-sons do today? In my day, you know, hugs between men – even relatives – were unheard of and not allowed, but, truth be known, I craved them."

"No … uhhh …" his hands jerked away from mine suddenly. Then, after a ponderous moment, his beautiful hazel eyes darted toward the nearest entrance to the inmates' residence up the hill, then behind me, and then he turned to look behind himself. Finally he looked down toward the lake.

It must have struck him as being funny. A gigantic guffaw suddenly lurched from his belly, his lungs, his throat. He nearly fell to the ground, he was laughing so hard, but I reached out to grab him and we both collapsed – knocking his chair over – and tumbled down the hill, rolling over one another at least four times. When we finally came to a stop, he was lying on his back, and my front was lying on his front, my chin crooked in his neck just above his left shoulder. His sweet natural aroma sent shivers through me.

The three Fates of Human Destiny had spun their magic Thread of Life around us, and it was too much for me – I couldn't resist. I kissed the tender, warm, delicious flesh of the young man's neck. And then I froze – wondering, Have I gone too far?

"I'm finnne," I whispered back with a delighted smile, emphasizing, and drawing out the word, not wanting to move. It had been ages, years, decades since I'd been so intimate with one so young.

His youth began to stir; I could feel his response in my groin, and as much as I wanted to respond in kind, it did absolutely nothing. Shit! Maybe if I wait just a liiiitle bit longer? I drew out my thought. But it was not to be.

"Dost thou thinkest that we should aright ourselves, Sire?" he asked, a shit-eating grin spreading cross his face.

Where that mode of speech came from, I'll never know, but I liked the sudden repartée.

Forcing our groins together even more so, I raised my upper body above his, supported only by my hands on the grassy earth either side of his shoulders.

Assuming the dominant medieval role in which my unnamed visitor had cast us, I inquired, "Who asketh, Squire?"

Trying to keep a straight face, but failing miserably, he managed to reply, "Thine own humble scribe, Sire."

I then felt a certain powerful thrust from something within his loins, and I know it wasn't his balls. Neither was it a ground squirrel nor a chipmunk seeking escape, upon which he had suddenly tumbled.

I felt another powerful thrust, and then a second, and a third. Then, after a moment of nothing but looking into Tom's eyes, I felt my own thrust – not by any means as powerful as Tom's, but a thrust into his groin nevertheless. He leered at me, showing his surprise, and I leered at him in return – silently wishing – silently hoping.

As I tried to get up, Tom grabbed my shoulders and pulled me down again onto his chest. His hands then moved to the back of my head, and slowly our faces approached each other. Our lips opened, and we kissed. And our tongues did battle.

He is so much like Gran'papa, Tom thought. That small, barely noticeable scar over his right eye – just like Gran'papa's. His thinning white hair and gray mustache. It tickles just like Gran'papa's did, that last time I saw…

A sadness crossed his face. His eyes began to fill with tears. Holding back, trying to control them, he turned his head away so I couldn't see, and he sniffled.

I rolled off his chest and lay on my right side, facing him. "Are you all right, son?" I asked. Have you been hurt in some way?"

"Oh, no, Sir," he replied, with a quick glance back at me. "Was just remembering something." He turned away again.

More than three possible generations separated us by age. I'd never imagined what it could be like – what it would be like – such wonderful stimulations – mentally and physically – at my age! I wondered what he must be thinking. And now he was on the very verge of crying.

He then began to stand up. The moment of closeness and familiarity had passed. I rolled over onto my back.

"Gabe! Gabe!" "Mister Yantcey! Mister Yantcey!" I heard, being yelled at us by Dwight Higgins, the Manager of Happy Days, and Sergei Popov, the resident Physician's Assistant, commonly referred to among the inmates as Dracula. They came rushing down the gentle slope, presumably to my aid.

I still lay on my back. It was comfortable, there on the cool, green grass. A couple of curious swans, nearby, took flight out of the way as my left hand stretched out and landed in some fowl poop. "Fuckin' birds," I muttered.

Tom's deportment changed immediately; he chuckled merrily, seeing my predicament as I tried to wipe my hand on the recently mown grass. I gave him a dirty look.

"Did you hurt yourself, Mister Yantcey?" Dracula glinted at Tom with anticipatory wringing of his hands.

Every time I saw the puny, lily-white, bent-over P.A., I could just imagine hearing his Transylvanian accent proclaiming, "I vont … to suck … yer blud." Wish it were something else he vonted to suck, but then, with his fangs, I'd probably not have my manhood any longer – or shorter, either; I just wouldn't have any!

I chuckled and then shivered at the very thought. He'd probably garner my Tube-Steak Tartare with onions, capers, raw eggs, anchovy fillets, sesame seed and finely ground n….-toes (old Southern pejorative slang for Brazil Nuts … ouch!), and with absolutely no garlic! never any garlic! But maybe a little powdered pubic hair thrown in for seasoning. Or a bit of his own head cheese or aromatic smegma to spice it up a bit. To each his own, I always say. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head in a split second of nausea.

"No, no, no. I'm fine," I then answered them both. "I just lost my balance and had a little tumble. That's all – nothing broken. No need to worry."

"This is a friend of mine – Tom Harding. Tom … I'd like you to meet Dwight Higgins, Manager of our … country club … here," I said with a wink and a smirk. They shook hands.

"And this is 'Drac…'" I stopped before completing the disparaging nom de guerre we all used behind his back. "This is Physician's Assistant," I began again, "Sergei Popov."

"Sergei Popov? The … Sergei Popov from Yekater-inburg, Russia? One of the world's wealthiest … ?" Tom excitedly and inquisitively looked from me to Dwight Higgins and back to Popov.

"Quite right, my dear Gabe," Popov began without removing his cruising eyes as they greedily devoured each and every curve – large or small – of Tom's clothed but youthful blood-pulsing body. Then, with great drama, he lifted his head toward heaven, placed the back of his right hand against his forehead and proclaimed with disgust, "He … vas from … how do you say? … ze ozer side of ze tracks … in Mozer Rrrussia." He trilled the 'R' as only a native could do, and then he added, "But I …" his right hand flew to his heart as his head and even his aching body assumed, as much as physically possible, a haughty air of feigned nobility and overbearing pride. "… I … vas born in … Trrrrransilvania."

Again with the trilling! Such a dramatic little peacock. Such a silly little cuckoo bird, I thought.

Tom glanced at me and I at him. I could tell he was trying his damndest to conceal a snicker – and I don't mean the candy bar.

Dwight Higgins looked askance at Sergei (Sir Gay?) with disdain. Then, after a moment, he redirected his attention.

"Well," Tom looked at his wristwatch, "we haven't yet finished with the interview, and if you're sure I wouldn't be putting anyone out, Mister Higgins, I'd love to."

Higgins smiled. "Then let's be off to the Dining Room." Turning toward me, he asked, "You think you can make it – walking – or would you like one of us to fetch a wheelchair for you?"

"No, no. I'm fine," I replied. Then, reaching for my visitor's arm, I asked, "Tom, would you mind lending a little assistance to a shaky old fart?"

He smiled – a smile, the warmth of which, I hadn't seen from anyone for years and years – a smile that spoke of a soulic connection between us. "It would be my pleasure, Gran… … … Gabe."

I was surprised when he removed his arm from my hand, but then, as he slid his arm under mine, I felt his hand move fully across my lower back to my other side. I knew I was safe in the arm of this young man, and I lowered my hand to his opposite side, and rested it just above the cheek of his ass. I heard his inhalation as he moaned a quick but very soft little sound.

He smells just like Gran'papa did, Tom thought, fighting to hold back the deep emotions, which were rushing to the surface. Then, clearing his throat and giving one more sniffle, he simply said to no one in particular, "Ah! My pad and pen."

"I vill get it for you, Sir," Popov hurried to volunteer, "und I vill return it to you in ze Dining Rrroom."

Strange, I thought. Popov speaks more with a German accent than a Russian or Romanian one. Hmmmmm. Veddy, veddy interesting! And noticing that Popov was walking behind us, I had the very distinct intuition that he was lecherously licking his lips at the vision in front of him – the vision I could easily imagine from the movement I felt from Tom's undulating glutei maximi.

On purpose, I lightly patted Tom on his left ass cheek. That, in itself, aroused a questioning expression from my visitor. I grinned and gave a quick little nod to the rear. Tom glanced back and then, with his own grin, smiled at me before quickly looking straight ahead. Suddenly, I felt exaggerated movements from his hips. Oh, he can be a real tease, I merrily thought.

It was then that I heard a not-too-well concealed orgiastic moan from behind us. That pervert, I thought to myself. He sounds desperately in lust. Eat your heart out, Popov, I silently directed back to him.

Chapter 3
1 2 4 5

Once inside, Higgins directed Tom and me to a table next to a window overlooking the lake. And, as promised, Dracula placed the pad and pen near the place setting where Tom had chosen to sit.

"Und if zere iss anyzing else I can do for you, young Sir, zhust name it, und it iss yours – anyzing at all! Your vish iss my command." He bowed graciously.

"Thank you, Sergei, but I can't think of a thing," Tom offered.

At that, Dracula spun around and flitted off – towards the Men's Room, I think, happy as a lark, and I think I heard him whistling, Take my hand; I'm a stranger in paradise, from the 1953 Broadway production of Kismet by Robert Wright and George Forrest. You see? My long-term memory is still accurate!

Looking around the room and seeing the crystal chandeliers, the old-fashioned red-flocked wallpaper with matching fabric on the armed-chairs, the dusty-rose-colored damask table linens, the blue and white Blue Willow patterned dinnerware, and the Oneida stainless silverware, Tom commented, "Very nice, Gabe; very nice, indeed. Makes me think of some classy restaurants I've seen in the movies."

"It's the nicest room in the whole damned place," I remarked. "You wouldn't be so impressed with the other rooms, I'm sure."

With the aged and infirm housed at Happy Days, it wasn't expected that the residents should stand in line to get their meals; an adequate number of servers, waiters, waitresses – whatever you want to call them – were made available to serve well-balanced diets to each and every one in the Dining Room.

Soon, a pleasingly plump, fiftyish, black lady came to the table where we'd sat. She had more personality than all the other server-employees put together, and it was always much nicer than being helped by some of the sullen teenage volunteers.

She was carrying a tray laden with lunch-plates and drinks for us both – a bed of rice with braised chicken breast smothered in a heavenly scented white sauce, baby lima beans, and three Brussels sprouts; a freshly baked buttermilk biscuit, and a glass of ….

"Is this what I think it is, Stella?" I asked of the grinning, bosomy lady as she placed it in front of me and then began serving Tom. I swear, if she'd leaned over any farther, her enormous jugs would have tumbled out of her low cut server's uniform.

It was then that I remembered that we'd left the tumblers and plastic covered pitcher of Sassafras tea on the little table by the chaise lounge. I was sure one of the groundskeepers would tidy up the area.

"It sho-nuff is, Mistuh 'G'," Stella answered, using her pet-name for me. "I knows Sass'fras is yo favorite drink, and I always aims to please." Having finished placing the plate and drink in front of Tom, she leaned over to me, resting her ample bosom on my right shoulder, and asked softly, "Who's this nice young man you got witcha?"

Leaning away and to my left, I teased, "Stella, if you're not careful, I just may have to squeeze those things and get some titty-milk out of 'em."

Tom looked shocked that I'd made such a statement, but as Stella hurriedly stepped back and stood up straight, quickly palming the underside of her black beauties, she said, "Aw, Mistuh 'G'," she gently slapped my shoulder, "you be such a flirt! Now, who is this nice young fella, ifen I might akst?"

We both laughed as Tom continued to sit there, perplexed, glancing back and forth between the two of us.

"Stella, this is Tom Harding. He's here today to interview me for – "

"Fer yer new book, I betcha," she said with excitement in her voice. I nodded. "Youse gwanna be famous, Mistuh 'G'. I be hearin' 'bout that book o' yor'n. I's so happy for ya. I really is."

"Just what have you been hearing, Stella?" I asked, quite concerned.

"Oh, jes everthang. Now, we all be knowin' why youse ain't got no chilluns an' no gran'chilluns," she said, seemingly without a care in the world.

"You do?" I asked once more, feeling a sudden sense of betrayal and a tight pain in my chest.

"Yaz-uh, Mistuh 'G'," she shot back. "Most'us already been readin' or hearin 'bout yo … 'HAPPY" … she arched her left eyebrow, licked her right pinky between her lips, and wiped her right eyebrow with it, "… friends an' all yo travelin' ad-ven-churs."

"You have?"

"Sho-nuff, and we's all so happy youse gettin' publisized."

"I think you mean published, Stella, but – "

"Whateveh," she said, looking around.

"…but, how has everybody already read it before the first printed edition of it?"

"Yes," Tom finally joined the conversation. "I'm curious about that, too. We haven't even finished the first lay-out yet."

"Well, Mistuh 'G' … Mistuh Tom … by tha way, suh," she looked down at Tom, suddenly challenging the subject with her fists on her bulging hips, "does you have a cabin?" Her tone was serious, unlike her usual cheerfulness.

"Why … uhhh … no, Stella." He was taken aback by her change. "I don't have a cabin. I have a condo. Why do you ask?"

"Whew!" she expelled and then flipped her wrist. "I'm sho glad 'bout that, 'cause youse cain't be my long-lost uncle, an' ya ain't got no black blud in ya … least I don't think ya do – do ya, honey?"

Tom looked dumbfounded.

Stella looked back at me – I had caught her "Uncle Tom's Cabin" innuendo, but I don't think that Tom had – and she winked at me.

Dismissing her previous line of thought, she said, "But lik I was sayin', Mistuh 'G' … Mistuh Tom … I don't know nuttin' 'bout puters, but somebody's been copyin' yo chapters and passin'em out."

I was flabbergasted, to say the least. Here, I thought I'd been so damned careful and had saved my work under password, and someone had been able to get in and copy it. It's true, I spend hours each day at my computer. Someone must have known I was writing something.

"Mistuh 'G'," Stella consoled, everthang today's diffr'nt than it was when you was a li'l tyke. Nobody t'day cares hows we'uns lives our lives. It's a kinder, gentler world we haves t'day, don'tcha be knowin' that? We all loves ya, Mistuh 'G'. We sho-nuff does."

Her sentiment was heartfelt, I could tell, and even though I was pissed at someone taking liberties with my – supposedly – secure computer, a tear or two began to form in my eye as she pulled my head into her soft, maternal bosom. I hadn't felt that kind of affection for many, many years – almost a century – and it felt wonderful and it was … but that's racist, I guess, and she hadn't shown a speck of that. Perhaps times had changed when I wasn't looking, and Stella didn't deserve that kind of disparaging remark from the likes of me. She was a dear sweetheart of a soul, and I'd always liked her.

"STELLLLLAHHHHH!" someone yelled from across the Dining Room; she'd spent too much time with Tom and me, and the long, drawn-out name reminded me of the yell in Tennessee Williams' Streetcar Named Desire – I told you my long-term memory was sharp as a tack. In a flash, Stella was gone; she had other work to do. Then I looked down into my plate – thinking, pondering … worrying.

Tom put his hand on top of mine, next to my knife and spoon. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, Gabe." Obviously he was becoming more at ease with calling me by my first name.

I looked at him and smiled.

"You know," he continued, "there are authors who've posted their stories on gay websites, and as soon as they're published, the stories are instantly withdrawn from those sites.

"I know one story in particular – 'Earth Reborn', by a wonderful author whose name is Shannon Rae to the publishing world and Dark Shadow to the Internet – who did just that, and there was no problem with others having read it before it became published.

That just may be true, but I was still pissed.

We chitchatted about this-and-that during lunch, and he certainly had a way of dissipating my momentary fears of being denied the right to publish an already-read manuscript. And the feelings I was developing for Tom were becoming more pronounced. He was moving deeper and deeper into my heart.

I didn't want to lose his friendship, but was there some way – any way – that he would allow this old fart to think of him as –

"This Sassafras tea is delicious, Gabe," he said, taking another sip after finishing his lunch. "I love it. It reminds me of something, but I can't quite put my finger on it."

"You like Root Beer?" I asked with a smile.

"That's it! That's what it tastes like," he exclaimed with delight, shaking his right index finger toward me. I grinned.

"I'm stuffed," I said with an ulterior motive. "Would you like to go for a little walk with me? I want to show you something."

"Sure!" You wanna walk your lunch off? Or ya want a wheelchair, Gran'papa? Oops! I'm sorry."

Oh, well. So much for being at ease with 'Gabe'. But I could tell that he was trying.

Suddenly, he looked totally dejected … disheartened … down cast … whatever. Maybe embarrassed. Tears began to form in the corners of his eyes. I didn't know what he was feeling.

I was about to get up from my chair, when suddenly, what he had just said finally registered in this ol' brain of mine. Instead of getting up, I looked at him and asked, "What did you just call me?"

"I'm sorry… I called you, 'Gran'papa'. I am so, so sorry … but I loved him so much." He buried his head in his hands and his body began to shake with the convulsions of crying in silence.

I did the only thing I could think of. I did what came naturally to me – what I wanted to do. I immediately got up from my chair, moved a couple of unsteady steps toward him, and while he was still seated and I was now standing, I put my arms around his shoulders and pulled him into my breast. With one hand, I tugged his head tight against my heart. We both were sniffling back the nasal mucus, and I felt the beginning of tears forming in my own eyes.

It seemed an eternity of seconds passed and we both had regained control of our outbursts of emotions. I sensed an uncommon quietness had spread through the Dining Room, and I also felt that hundreds of eyes were now watching every movement we made. He looked up into my face and, with his napkin, wiped the tears from his eyes.

"Let's get outta here and go for that little walk, shall we?" he asked.

"The fresh air will clear our heads," I replied. As he stood, we slipped our arms around the back of each other's waist – he was supporting me, and I was supporting him. Silent, gently smiling faces followed us as we made our way through the tables and toward the door to the lake.

"Y'all all right, Mistuh 'G' … Mistuh Tom?" Stella asked, seeming to appear out of nowhere.

Neither of us dared utter a single word – the floodgates might suddenly open again. We just nodded our heads.

"Inythang I can git fer y'all?" she inquired again.

I'd just pushed the glass door open, and looking down the hill toward the lounge and table, I noticed that the pitcher of tea and the glasses had been cleared away.

"If you could, Stella, maybe you could have someone bring some more iced tea and a couple of glasses down to the little table where we were sitting before."

"I'll bring'em m'self, Mistuh 'G'."

At that, she held out her arms and drew us both to her bosom, consoling us as only a devoted mother would hold her beloved sons – the age differences here meaning nothing to her.

"Thank you, Stella," Tom and I said as one when we eventually pulled away from her warmth and love.

"I love you, Stella," I said, after kissing her on the cheek.

"Oh, pshaw, Mistuh 'G'!" she exclaimed, using both hands to fan her face. "You be givin' this ol' darkie hot flashes, doin' stuff like that."

Tom and I laughed.

"Now, you two jes git! An' be happy ya found each other – it don't happ'n none too off'en, ya know. An' I be bringin' y'all's ice tea, lickety-split." Not waiting for any reply, she then turned and was off, heading toward the kitchen, still fanning herself.

"She's a hoot!" Tom proclaimed.

"That she is, son. That she is."

Tom jerked his attention to me; I'd noticed it in my peripheral vision, but then, just as quickly, I also noticed that he looked upward.

Gran'papa, have you come back to me? Please, please let it be so, he silently pleaded as he looked heavenward. I miss you so much. So much.

"You talking to him?" I asked as we arrived back at the white wicker chair and lounge. I took the chair this time – it's easier for these old bones to sit or stand from it, than from the lounge, leaving that to Tom. He then stretched out on the lounge.

"Who?"

"Your Gran'papa."

He nodded, looking at his feet, and then with a forlorn appearance, gazed aimlessly across the lake and from one end of it to the other, evidently avoiding looking at me for whatever reason.

"You want to talk about him, Sonny?"

At the sound of the word, 'Sonny', Tom completely broke down, pulling his knees to his chest and bawling his heart out.

"Oh, Tom … what is it, my boy?" I reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder. Immediately, both of his hands were pressing mine into the soft spot between his shoulder and neck.

After gaining some measure of control, he said, "You look like him. You talk like him, you even smell like him, and when you called me, Sonny, I heard his voice again. That's what he used to call me – 'Sonny' – even though I was only his great-grandson."

"GREAT-grandson?" I asked, more than a little perplexed. "But you refer to him as 'Gran'papa', don't you?"

"Yeah," he managed a chuckle. "I know it sounds weird, but that's what I grew up calling him – 'Gran'papa'. As I said earlier, I was raised by my grandparents – Mom wasn't around very much – and my aunts always referred to him as 'Gran'papa' 'cause that's what he was to them; so, being the first-born of the grand-children, that's what I called him, too …

Oh, all my uncles used to call him Colonel Lawrence, 'cause that was his rank in the American Civil War under President Abraham Lincoln."

"My! My! And what did you call your grandfather? Didn't it get a little confusing?"

"Oh," he chuckled again, remembering. "No. Not really. Granddaddy is what I always called him."

"Ahhh, I see now – "

"Thar y'all be! Sorry I be takin' so long with yo tea, Mistuh 'G' … Mistuh Tom," Stella said, approaching from behind and then setting the pitcher and fresh plastic tumblers on the small white wicker table at my right this time. Then she poured us each a glass – the tinkling of the ice making it sound so refreshing. "This be made frum some o' y'own pickins last wintuh, Mistuh 'G'," she said, handing the glasses to us with paper napkins.

"Thank you," I said.

"Thanks, Stella," Tom echoed as she turned and headed back up the hill.

"Y'all's welcome. Now you men enjoy yo visit, ya heah?" she hollered and waved without looking back at us as she continued on her way up the gentle slope.

Stella was a remarkable lady; her joie de vivre and joviality had instantly changed our emotional states.

Tom and I sipped from our glasses. "Ummmmm," he said, setting his on the table, "that sure is good."

"Yep," I agreed.

"By the way … Gabe … what did Stella mean when she said that the tea was … 'made frum some o' y'own pickins last wintuh'?" he asked, trying his best to imitate her adorable dialect.

I couldn't refrain from chuckling. Then I handed him my glass to join his on the table. "Come on. Get up from the lounge and help an old man up, and then let's go for that little walk I mentioned a while ago."

"Sure," Tom replied with a quizzical expression, quickly taking another sip from his glass.

Slowly, we walked to the far right edge of the lake where a stand of native Sassafras trees grew. The fragrance could be smelled before we arrived there. Four Mallards – two males with bright green heads, and two brown females – glided over the tops of the trees and made a beautiful descent to the smooth surface of the lake.

I picked a couple of the aromatic leaves and handed one to Tom. Then, I began to munch on the other.

He fingered the texture of the leaf. "It's smooth – almost oily," he mentioned, and then, he, too, took a tiny nibble from it, and soon, the entire leaf had disappeared beyond his sensual lips. "Ummmmm; I like," he remarked. "Now, about 'y'own pickins', he pursued, opening the ever-present steno pad and

grabbing the pen from his breast pocket after which he began writing furiously.

"I don't know if you know it or not," I said, "but sometime – I think it was back in the Sixties – the A.M.A., I think it was, said that something in Sassafras wasn't good for you, and they took out the real stuff. That's why I collect my own … 'stash' … I believe that's what the young folks today call their … illegal … stuff?"

Tom chuckled and nodded his head, understanding what I meant.

"Maybe you've seen some old Westerns – the old cowboy movies, ya know – where a … uhhh … not-so-butch cowpoke swaggers up to the bar and says in a nasal, high-pitched, Southe'n drawl, 'I'll have a bottle o' Sassafras…'."

Tom roared in laughter at my horrible impression of the character. I couldn't help but join him. But after we calmed down, I continued. "It's like the original Coke Cola."

Tom gave me a questioning look.

"Back when I was a little kid, one of the ingredients of Coke Cola was the Coca leaves from a genus that grows in Peru. The Indians there in the Andes Mountains chew Coca leaves all day long – it helps them breathe easier, work harder, and run greater distances in the higher elevations, but today, we know that the leaves are a source of Cocaine, and so, Big Brother has removed that, too. Things were so much better when I was a kid – they just don't taste the same today. And it didn't hurt anybody back then. Oh, for the good old days!

"But anyway, back to my stash, so to speak," I continued. "Each year – late fall, early winter – after the leaves have turned yellow and fallen, and as the sap has receded back down into the roots, I come out here with a little shovel and dig around the trees so that I can get to the surface roots – never enough to hurt the trees permanently, mind you – and I collect several gallons of the tender shoots – a little from this tree, a little from that one – all through the stand – then take them back to the kitchen.

"Stella helps me to wash them and then skin back the reddish-brown bark – "

"Skin back? Skin back, did you say? Just what shape do those young, tender, suckulent, sap-filled roots come in?" Tom asked, a surprised look on his face, and with a teasing inflection and pitch in his words.

"Skin back? I said that? You sure I said that?"

He nodded with a shit-eating grin on his face.

I looked away. "Fuck!" I said, then quickly jerked my face back toward him. "Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He flipped his wrist at me. "I shoulda said that Stella helps me to strip off – "

"Now you're saying that Stella helps you to strip outta your dirty clothes?" He was grinning like a damned Cheshire Cat!

"Shut up, young'un, and let me finish, would ya?" We were both laughing so hard, it felt like my sides were gonna split. But it wasn't long before I sternly looked at him, causing him to … at least … act serious. "She helps me peel…"

Oh, my God. As soon as I spoke the word, I knew it was wrong. Tom struggled to refrain from giggling, and instead, snorted like a pig, sending snot everywhere! That did it. Both of us giggled like schoolgirls, laughed like hyenas, chuckled like … well … chuckled like some tropical birds.

"If you don't stop that," I bellowed, "I'm gonna turn you over my knees and paddle your little bottom … Sonny." He froze.

"You promise?" he asked, his hilarity having suddenly vanished.

"Yes!" I tried to continue the fun we were having. I swatted him on the ass.

Tom quickly turned to me and, with just a hint of a smile, said, "That's another thing Gran'papa used to do when I was just a little tyke – when I'd done something wrong, and before he became bedridden."

His mood had totally changed.

Then, looking out over the calm, cloud-reflecting lake, but with a faraway gaze, he mumbled, "I never realized just how much I miss him until … until I met you this morning … Gabe."

I held out my arms to him. "Come here, Sonny," I said with a warmer tone. In an instant, we were in an embrace, our arms wrapped tightly around each other. I could feel his body jerk with silent convulsions. We stood that way for several moments, chest-to-chest, crotch-to-crotch, but with nothing sexual inferred. He – the son or grandson I'd never had; me – the Gran'papa who'd returned to him for however long or short a time the gods or fates would allow. I felt sure that we needed each other in ways that … in ways that I'd only ever dreamed of, before.

"I'm sorry," he said, eventually backing away.

"Nothing to be sorry for, buddy," I tried to reassure him. "Listen …" I changed the subject, "my legs are a little tired. Would ya mind if we went to that big oak tree over yonder," I thumbed just ahead of us, "and sit on the ground and rested for a little while?"

"No, not at all. I'd like that," he answered with a little smile.

The woods were quite thick, hiding this part of the lake from anyone in the building we'd left. Soon, with Tom's assistance, I was seated on the musky, leaf-strewn ground in the shade of the ancient tree that surely would take two adult people with outstretched arms to encircle its girth. I leaned against the trunk and inhaled deeply, once again enjoying the aroma of the rotting humus, long forgotten since I was a child, oh, so many years ago. All sorts of memories flashed through my head – memories too many to enumerate.

Tom sat next to me – close to me, I should say … very close to me. It felt good to share bodily contact … even as we both were clothed.

Unconsciously, my right hand moved to rest on the inside of his upper left thigh, somewhere between his knee and his groin. I wasn't trying to cop a feel. It just felt good to touch another person – a man – without having to be on guard all the time.

His left hand joined my right. Our fingers interlocked with each other. Our faces turned toward each other. We smiled as father and son would smile, comfort-able with each other.

"Thank you," I said, watching the white geese as they idled by so peacefully in the sky-blue and white-cloud-reflecting water.

"For what, Gabe?" he asked as I saw in my peripheral vision that he'd jerked his head toward me.

"For not pulling away when I touched your leg."

"Oh. It feels good – just like Gran'papa's touch did."

A vision – was it morbid or loving? – flew through my mind. I decided it was loving, and I gave his thigh a quick squeeze. Familial touchings can be so gratifying. So fulfilling. So … so loving. Yes. That's what it was. I was growing to love this young man. I looked at him; he looked at me. And then he did something that totally blew me away – he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. And then he lay his head on my shoulder.

Oh, God, I looked up and prayed. Thank you for bringing us together, even if just for a little while. I've needed this human contact for so long. I was almost in tears – tears of joy for the moment; tears of sadness for what was inevitable in time. Nothing in this life is permanent, I recalled my own grandparents telling me when I was but a youngster, and Nothing lasts forever. That truth had sustained me through all the changes in my nearly nine decades of joy and sadness. My heart yearned for more time with Tom.

"Why don't you tell me about him?" I asked.

"Who"

"Your Gran'papa."

"I'm the one who's supposed to be doing the interview," he said, pulling away and looking at me with a devilish grin.

"Are you in a rush?" I asked rather sheepishly. "Do you have a deadline to meet?"

"No, I can take as long as I want," he answered, again laying his head back on my shoulder and snuggling a little closer – if that were possible – his arm between my waist and the tree trunk this time. I smiled, satisfied.

"So? What was he like? What do you remember the most? The most vivid?"

"Well," he hesitated, thinking for a moment before pulling away again, this time wrapping his arms around his bended knees and laying his head upon them. "The last few years – you'll remember I was thirteen when he passed away – the last few years, he was bedridden, but from when I was about five years old, onwards, I loved to go over to visit him – he lived with his youngest daughter, my great-aunt Endora, my grandmother's sister.

"Like clockwork, Gran'mama and I would drive into town every Wednesday to spend time with them. While Gran'mama and Aunt Endora visited in the kitchen, I stayed with Gran'papa. He'd prop himself up against the headboard and I'd sit in his dark brown wicker-backed wheelchair, rolling it back and forth, toward and away from his bed.

"Oh, the stories he'd tell me – about his apprenticing as a young man, just out of school, with Thomas Edison – that's who I'm named after, you know … Thomas Edison…."

"Really?" I asked with sincere interest.

"Yeah. Really. And he told me that after he became a licensed Electrical Engineer, he formed his own company in Wilmington, North Carolina – that's where my grandmother was born.

"And it was his company that changed the gas lighting to electrical lighting in lots of the mansions on the East Coast, including the Biltmore Estate in Ashville, NC."

He then reached up and touched the scar above my right eye. It happened when I was so young, I didn't even remember what caused the scar.

"He had a scar just like yours," Tom continued. His hand remained there for a moment, and then the touch of his fingertip slowly expanded to the feel of the palm of his entire hand on the side of my face. It felt so soft, so tender, so loving, I pressed my face into his hand. After a moment, he patted my cheek and continued with his story.

"He'd been working in a huge mansion up in the mountains, and having turned off the gas and run wires through the existing tubing, there was little or no light in the interior of the house.

"Gran'papa said that he'd turned on the power to test some of the lights, and in one dark room, as he was screwing something in place, he touched a wire with – you're not gonna believe this – an uninsulated steel screwdriver. Immediately, there was a flash of spark, and a piece of the melted metal splattered out and imbedded itself just over his right eye, his hand was burned, and the screwdriver ended up on the other side of the room. Thank God, it didn't go into his eye!"

We both laughed at the visual images Tom had just painted, but we knew it wasn't really funny.

"But he was okay after that?" I asked, truly concerned.

"Oh, yeah. He wasn't even out of work a full day before he returned, finished the job, and went on to bigger and better things. Eventually, his company – I can't remember the name of it exactly, but I think it was something like 'The Lawrence Electric Light Company', or something like that – and later moved it's offices to Atlanta."

"Sounds like an extraordinary fella," I commented.

"Oh, he was; that's for sure and…" Tom's mood suddenly changed again as he sat up straight, turned to me grinning, and said, "I used to get the biggest thrill out of watching him do something I've never seen anyone else ever be able to do." He was grinning like a little kid.

"What was that?"

"He could wiggle his ears – just like a dog or a horse. I used to think it was so funny. He knew he would always get a giggle outta me with that." True to form, Tom was giggling like crazy.

"In all my years, I've never seen anybody do that," I said.

"Well, he sure could."

I was enjoying his memories. Interlocking my own fingers behind my head against the giant oak tree, I asked, "So what else do you remember about him?"

"Oh, so many things – everything – and not enough. The older I get – the less I remember." There was just a bit of sadness, but then, he quickly added, "As I got older and he was completely bedridden, if he needed to go to the bathroom, or just needed a change of position, he'd have me lift him out of bed and put him in his wheelchair, and I'd help him with his … business, ya know; or if he just wanted a chaw, then he'd ask me to get his brass spittoon and put it on the floor beside his chair. He loved chewing tobacco and snuff – I learned that that was part of the wonderful odor I associated with him."

"A chaw of tobacco and snuff?" I asked, a little taken aback.

"Yep. Not only that, but there were his pipes – ohhhhh, how I loved his pipe tobaccos." He paused and closed his eyes as he took in a deep breath, enjoying the memories of all the fragrances, "and his cigars and hand-rolled cigarettes."

Now, totally shocked, I asked, "How old was he when he died … uhhh … passed away? I'm sorry."

He sloughed it off. "No problem. He lived to the ripe old age of a-hundred-and-two, and died when I was thirteen." He shook his head and sniffled once again.

"Well," he began slowly, "I don't know if I should be telling you this … but what the Hell! When I was twelve, I began bathing him so that Aunt Endora wouldn't have to do it when Gran'mama and I were there."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. At first I was sorta embarrassed – you know – when I got to his … his … private parts. I think he sensed it, and then, when he said that we were both men, and that he liked my touch better than his daughter's, I sorta didn't think about it any more. Not that way, I mean.

"One day – I remember – it was the last bath I gave him – I had him rolled on his side facing me, and I was leaning across him, washing his back and down along his … his crack. I don't know what happened, but I started getting … an erection … and he said, "You got something growing down there." I thought I would die.

"It's all right, Sonny," Gran'papa said. "We all get'em. I used to get'em all the time, specially when I was your age. But not any more … not for about twenty years, now. Don't be ashamed of it … be proud of it. Your ol' Gran'papa's proud that a part of him's been passed on to you."

"I dried him off, powdered him like a baby, and got some clean pajamas on him. When I finished, he looked toward the door and, seeing no one about, he whispered, 'Come here, Sonny; I got somethin' to tell ya.'

"I put one arm across his chest and the other on the pillow behind his head so I could lean down and hear him better. He said, 'I know you ain't got a daddy who can tell ya things, but listen to me right now. That thing you got down there that gets hard – it's gonna give ya a lotta fun during your life. Maybe ya don't know what I'm talking about, but you will … in a real short time. But listen to me real good, now, ya hear?" He paused; I nodded my head; and then he continued. "After ya get married, you're gonna use that thing to help your wife make babies. Women are funny about how you use that thing, but men and teenaged boys … you can have lots and lots more fun that way with them, and in lots of other ways, too. I wish I were younger and you a little older … I'd teach ya a lot.'

"And then he said, 'You're a special boy, Sonny. Don't ever forget that'."

Tom was nearly in tears at these beautiful memories, but that changed almost immediately.

The rumble of distant thunder caught our attention, and we noticed that the clouds overhead had darkened. Ripples scattered across the surface of the lake. A gentle, cooler wind had come up.

"Guess we better be heading back before we're caught in a downpour," Tom suggested, rising quickly and offering to help me up.

Once standing, I attempted to brush any leaves or dirt off the seat of my pants, and would have lost my balance if Tom hadn't caught me in his arms. But we soon separated, both of us feeling an electric spark between us.

"Now, stand still, and let me do that, Gabe."

Who was I to prohibit what I surmised he was about to do?

He stepped behind me, knelt down, and very gently, very soothingly began to stroke down my buttocks, my thighs, the backs of my knees, and my calves – wiping off other leaves and dirt and a few tiny snails and an ant or two. Not once, not twice, not three times, but again and again. Each time, a little more to the right or to the left – it was stimulating, I have to admit, having a young man feeling me up, for that's what it felt like he was doing. And then, before he was finished, he ran his fingers up and down the full crack of my trousered ass. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Enticing. Exciting. Engorging – yes! I wanted to spin around, yank him up, do battle with our tongues, and grind our bodies together – clothed or not – until we both spewed forth the white wine of passion. To Hell with those old farts on the hill. Let them see the stained results of comradeship and more! I ached to scream aloud – but didn't. The reasons: too many to begin to mention. We all know them, I again thought to myself.

As I came out of my reverie, I realized that Tom had risen and was standing at my side.

"You feel like walking?" he asked, "or you wanna ride piggy-back – me being your horsie?" He grinned an evil grin.

We walked, trying to dodge the drops of rain, and just as we got to the white wicker furniture with the glasses and pitcher of … real … Sassafras tea, the rain began to pour.

Tom surprised me. He handed me his steno pad, then picked me up bodily – one arm behind my back, the other beneath my knees, and ran up the hill to the three steps leading up to the covered fifty-foot-long porch with more white wicker chairs, tables, and lounges. Then he gently set me down onto my feet and assisted me up the steps. I didn't even have time to relish the moments in his arms, it had been such a surprise.

Once under cover, he asked, "How about us going to your room, getting you a shower, and then dressed? And after that, we can relax a bit, and then I'd like to take you out to dinner."

"Tom … you don't have to do all that."

"Shush! I know I don't have to do all that. I want to do all that. I like you. I enjoy being with you. And I want to be with you. And besides that, we haven't finished the interview yet." He smiled and winked at me.

He winked at me. He winked at me! Nobody's winked at me in … God! … I can't remember how many years. "But your family. Your young friends," I mentioned – out of habit and upbringing, I suppose – feigning concern for him. Hell! I was jealous of them all. At the moment, I didn't ever want him to leave. But I … politely … continued my pretentious rebukes. "You shouldn't be spending all day and all evening with an old fart like me."

"First, Gabe," he looked at me sternly, "you're not an 'old fart', and secondly, I have no family. All the adults I loved and grew up with have died, and there's not a single one of my cousins who gives a damn about me – just because I'm gay."

"Oh, Tom," I sympathized. His family situation sounded identical to a younger version of my own.

"And thirdly … as for my young friends … all they care about is jumping in bed with the biggest cock, or the slimiest pussy they can find, and getting their rocks off. Then, they're out cruisin' around, again, looking for another fucking conquest. Don't get me wrong. I've been there. I've done that. And I enjoyed it. Believe me – I've had more than my share of tits and ass and pussy and cock, but I've learned how shallow it all is. Does that come as a shock to you?"

I was shocked – shocked at his confession, if that's what it was, particularly at his young age. But I lied. "No. Young people today are much more open than they were when I was your age. In a way … I envy you, though. Your generation is so much freer than mine was. I guess image was more important than truthfulness."

We entered the main building and headed toward my room. Once there, I suggested that Tom get out of his drenched clothes and lay them over the radiator to dry them out a bit.

"No, but thanks for the suggestion," he said. "I'll be okay. As soon as you're showered – you can shower by yourself, can't you?" he asked, changing his line of thought. "Or do you need some help in there?"

No, I thought; I don't need any help in the shower, but I sure would like for you to join me, I continued sending him my thoughts, but then reasoned, but who, other than a nurse, would want to help an old, wrinkled man like me, in a bath?

"No. I can manage by myself," I answered his question.

Ashamed of my flab and wrinkles and old-age spots, I went to the closet and looked for something to wear.

"Where are we going for dinner, Tom?" I asked. "MacDonald's or KFC would be fine with me." All I really wanted was to be close to him for as long as he would allow.

"I was thinking about The Epicurean Restaurant, across from Presbyterian Hospital. Ever eaten there? It's one of my favorite spots – I love their Crab Cakes and Lobster Bisque."

"The Epicurean?" I shot back. "Oh, how that brings back memories. I haven't thought about that place in centuries! Or at least, for many years, I said, aloud.

"Good ones, I hope."

"Oh, yes. Gran'mama and I used to eat there every Sunday after Gran'daddy died. It was quite the highfalutin' place. We'll go Dutch – it's too expensive for you to foot the entire bill. I haven't been…"

Tom rather sadly informed me: "It's not any more. The prices are very affordable now, and from what you've just said, the ambience, I guess, has declined quite a bit. But I do love the food there."

"Everything ages in time, Tom. Nothing's quite as beautiful and vibrant and full of life as it was when it was young and in its prime."

I wasn't trying to be parental or philosophical when I told him that, but the more I said, the more I realized I was talking about myself, and regretting my lack of physical appeal.

As Tom sat on a plastic footstool – to keep from getting the upholstered chair wet – and flipped through some National Geographic Magazines – my favorites – I shaved and showered and put on an open-neck shirt and casual pants and my trademark white socks – colored socks had always seemed to make my feet sweat and stink. I knew it wasn't stylish, but at my age, Who the fuck cares? I thought.

The rain had stopped; a fresh, lingering fresh smell permeated the air outside, and we left in Tom's SUV with its slightly damaged left front fender.

Nice! I thought about the vehicle as a whole.

Chapter 4
1 2 3 5

Soon we were pulling up to a condominium complex. "You've done well for yourself, Tom," I congratulated him.

"It all belongs to the bank," he chuckled. I understood what he meant. "Nothing extravagant. It's small, in comparison to others in the complex, but I'm comfort-able, and the neighbors are nice."

"That's what's important."

"Why don't you stay here in the car while I run upstairs and get out of these wet things?" I nodded. "You want me to leave the air-conditioning on?"

"No. That's all right. I'll just roll the windows down. The rain cooled things off a bit."

"Okay, and how about some music while I'm gone? I have some Broadway musicals here in the console," he tapped the lid of it.

"Anything from West Side Story?" I asked, my eyebrows raised.

"Sure thing. That's my favorite. It's already in the CD player." He ejected it, then pushed it back in so it would start on the first track. Grinning, he asked, "What's your favorite song from the show?"

I grinned back at him, then looked out the front window, hoping, wishing, dreaming for what I knew was an impossibility. There's A Place For Us, I answered. Even to me, the sound of my voice was one flavored with melancholy.

"Mine, too," he echoed, and then, once again, he totally surprised me when he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Then, hurriedly, he said, "Be right back," as he opened the driver's door, exited, and closed it. Through the open window, he teased, "Don't go anywhere, and …" he became very serious, "… don't do anything I wouldn't."

"Fat chance."

"Ya never know," came a rebuke. "Hard things come up around here sometimes."

It took a moment for what he said to sink in, and I chuckled, but by then, he'd disappeared into the building, and I became lost in the music that stirred my memories and fantasies.

Not more than three songs had finished when out he rushed to the car. He was dressed just like me – with one small exception. His shirt was powder blue; mine was white. And yes, he, too, had donned white socks. Oh, yes – the pen was in his breast pocket and another steno pad in his hand.

Soon, we arrived at The Epicurean. On entering, I looked around and recognized no one, nor anything about the room. It had been several years since I last dined here. Must have had a change in Management and Staff, I thought to myself.

A classically beautiful young lady – as beautiful as Tom is handsome – in her mid-to-late twenties, approached us and said, "Good evening, Tom."

Instantly, Helen of Troy came to mind, my thoughts not uninfluenced by her jet-black hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail hairstyle that reached down below the middle of her back, and her Mediterranean tan skin-tone, and her sexy, white gauzy off-one-shoulder toga-style garment nearly exposing her firm perky left breast, and last, but surely by no means, least, the belt with replicas of ancient golden coins.

"Good evening, Helena," my young man returned the greeting.

I was right – she is Greek, I prided myself, upon hearing her name.

"And who might this be? Your … father?" she asked with a little hesitation in her voice.

At least she knows how to flatter an old codger like me, I thought.

"No," Tom replied. "Not my father. First, he is a very dear friend, and secondly, a client. I'm interviewing him before his newest novel is published." He put his left arm around my waist when he began the introductions. "Helena, I'd like for you to meet Mister Gabriel Yantcey. Gabe … Helena Papadopoulos, the Hostess and Maître d' here at The Epicurean."

She extended her hand in greeting. I took it in mine, raised it, and then kissed the backs of her fingers.

"Ahhh, a true gentleman," she said, "rarely seen these days." Then she changed her attention back to Tom and chided, "You never do that."

"And, pray tell, what would I get in return if I were to do that?" he flirted, winking at her.

Sharp as a tack, she countered with … "Probably a taste of our … Virgin … olive-oil-and-garlic house dressing … not that you'd know what to do with anything else…"

I took a double take at Tom; he was smiling at her, and then I quickly realized that she must be teasing.

"…Well, I did offer one time, and you rejected me in no uncertain terms," she continued her witty retorts.

"Well … Princess … we were both just seven years old, if you'll remember," he retaliated, obviously calling her by a long-past pet name.

"All you wanted to do was diddle me. I wanted – "

Tom glanced at me and then quickly back to Helena.

"All you wanted to do was bite it off so I'd be like you, and, you do remember, don't you, that you were 8 by me and several other boys before you were 7 ?"

I pondered the number for a moment before realizing that 8 jokingly equaled 'ate' or 'eaten', then cleared my throat, it being a little uncomfortable with where the conversation was going.

"Sorry," they both said, looking at me, ending their repartée.

Tom asked, "You think you might have a quiet table or booth away from everyone else so we can carry on with the interview?"

It was still early and the evening rush crowd had not yet begun to come in. Helena spread her arms open and said, "Look around, gentlemen. You can sit anywhere you wish. Or perhaps…" she directed our attention to the far rear of the room, "… the enclosed Atrium dining area."

"Oh, my God!" I exclaimed. "It's beautiful! That surely wasn't here the last time I came in."

"When was that, Mister Yantcey?" she inquired.

"Gees," I said aloud, but to myself, How many years has it been? I thought for a moment and then said, "It must have been about twenty-some-odd years ago. Good Lord. Has it really been that long?" I asked aloud, again to myself, but expected no answer.

"It has been a long time since you were here," Helena remarked with not a little surprise. "I'm sure you see quite a few changes."

I looked around, shrugged my shoulders, and shook my head. Truth be known, I didn't really remember any of the interior.

Tom and I looked at each other, smiled, and gave a brief nod. "May we?" I asked of Helena, grinning.

"Mais oui, Messieurs. Certainement," she replied in beautiful French, with a cute little curtsy. "This way, if you please."

Tom and I followed her through the sliding glass doors into the Atrium and onto the dais on which were located a beautifully set wrought iron table and four cushioned patio chairs. The top of the table was inlaid with hundreds of semi-precious stones embedded in a protective acrylic base: agate, garnet, native rubies, opals, carnelian, jasper, lapis lazuli, azurite-and-malachite, and so many other stones, I couldn't remember the names of them all, even a few slices of Oregon's picturesque Thunder Eggs.

The room was a gorgeous setting – three tall banana palms in the far left corner; an enormous Australian Tree Fern in the far right; potted Orchids in exquisite bloom scattered about; huge blooming Amaryllis, the likes of which I had only seen in the Caribbean; and on and on, including a Vanilla vine, a somewhat rare vine-orchid about thirty feet long, draping on wrought iron supports around the inside walls of the glass-enclosed atrium. Its scent was mouthwatering even though its blossoms were relatively insignificant. The variety of other flora seemed endless.

She sat us with our backs to the palms and tree fern, rather than across from each other. This way, should we desire, we could observe the other patrons as they dined.

"This is wonderful, Helena," I said. "Years ago, The Epicurean was a French restaurant, but today, I'm wondering … what are your specialties?"

"For several years, we've advertised that we're a Steak-and-Sea-Food restaurant, but we're slowly bringing back an international flavor – French, Greek, and Middle-Eastern." She placed enormously large menus in front of Tom and me.

I knew it could take hours to peruse the entire menu and make a decision. Instead, I thanked her, returned the menu, and asked, "Could I just order a lobster tail with melted butter?"

"Of course, Mister Yantcey," she answered with graciousness. "And what would you like with that?"

Thinking for a moment, I then asked, "How about a Caesar Salad with anchovy fillets, and a side dish of boiled baby potatoes with parsley and shallots – no garlic – oh! And might you have four or five Escargot … with shallots? I'd love them, if you do."

"Ummmmm. Nice combination … with delectable contrasts," she added. "You must be a gourmet?"

I grinned sheepishly, closed my eyes, scrunched up my shoulders, and barely nodded my head several times.

"Ummm. I'll have to remember that," Helena remarked. "And to drink?"

"Excuse me, Helena. And excuse me, Gabe, but they have a delicious Asparagus Hollandaise that I just know you'll love," Tom rushed to say.

"Oh, dear me, no!" I scrunched up my face and fiercely shook my head. "I haven't eaten asparagus innnnn ... in more than ... sixty years, and I'm not about to start eating it again ... now!"

Tom was totally perplexed; he looked back and forth between Helena and me with his unspoken questions.

Helena, however, seemed to understand exactly to what I was referring. Knowingly, she nodded her head when I glanced at her. She then looked at Tom and said, "Ask him later. He'll tell you why." Then, she looked back at me and winked and once again asked what I'd like to drink.

"Just a small glass of Spanish or Portuguese Port – white, not red – if you have it?"

"Yes, we have both."

"I think the Portuguese would be nice," I said.

"Indeed, it would," she agreed. Then, turning her attention to Tom, she said, "And I suppose you'll be having you usual Crab Cakes and Lobster Bisque?"

"Yep. And – "

"I know. I know," she said, holding up her hand to stop him from saying anything else. She looked toward me, rolled her eyes in mock disgust, and said, "A double order of greasy French fries!"

"You know me all too well, Darlin'," he said as she turned back to him. He then puckered his lips, kissed the air, and then blew it to her, with a grin and a chuckle.

"Young men today…" she said, again looking at me, "…can be so gauche; don't you agree, Mister Yantcey? By the way … are you free after eleven o'clock this evening? I just love older men." She winked at me, then turned, and sneered at Tom and stuck out her tongue at him as she picked up his menu and turned to leave.

It was obvious she wasn't being serious. Thank God!

"Oh, one more thing," Tom stopped her in mid-step.

"Yes?" she asked, looking over her bare shoulder.

"Bring two orders of your … special … Coquilles St. Jacques [scallops in a white-sauce of pure cream, shallots, and sauterne]. I want Gabe to experience the very best culinary delight this cheap … old … restaurant has to offer," he bantered with her.

"My! My!" she retaliated. "It sounds to me as if a little bit of Mister Yantcey is rubbing off on you, Tom, but you've just got to lose that bad mouth of yours. The two of you should spend more time together – get to know each other better."

If you only knew how much I want that to happen, Helena. If you only knew, Tom thought.

Looking at me, Helena added, "I'm sure you could teach this … this … ignoramus a thing or two about the greater appreciation of Epicurean delights to the palate."

A little surprised at her words, Gabe and Tom gazed deeply into each other's eyes as she spoke, each thinking that she was speaking to their souls and passionate desires. Little did she realize that spending the rest of their lives together had not escaped their individual thoughts, even though – in regard to the age difference – it was a futile wish … except for one of them.

"Oh, yes … and another thing," Tom shook his head, clearing his interrupting thoughts, and added, "What beers do you have in stock tonight?"

Putting her fists on her hips, she leaned toward him, I swear; it looked as if her left perky little breast was going to pop out of her shoulderless toga – and, inches from his face, Helena said, "You … smarty-pants … know damn good and well we always have the same beers."

"But I just love the way you sing out the list. Pleeease … for old times' sake," he begged, his hands as in prayer, placed beneath his chin.

"All right. Just for you, Luv." She straightened up, her hands (one with the menus) joined together behind her back; she rolled her head so that the lovely, shiny black pony-tail swung around and erotically nestled between her shapely-but-not-obscene breasts, and she appeared to be ready to give an oration from Mount Olympus. As swiftly as the goddess Athena's arrows could fly, so did Helena's words. "Schlitz, Blatz, Pabst, Hams, Bush, Bud, Millers, Coors, and … and I'll bring you your usual Heineken."

"Bravo!" Tom exclaimed loudly. "And … thank you."

"My, my! Quite well delivered. You must be a stage actress, also," I said, clapping my hands for her. She smiled and curtsied to me.

As she turned to leave, he slapped her on the ass, and as she once again began to close the glass sliding doors, we heard her mutter, "Humph! Little boys will always be little boys."

I laughed to myself.

Alone once again, I said, "It seems like you and Helena know each other quite well."

"Yes," Tom laughed. "We grew up together from the time we were just itty-bitty kids – actually, we were next-door neighbors, and when we were little, our moms used to put us in the same playpen – until little Helena decided she wanted to play, You show me yours; I'll show you mine," he laughed while trying to say, "I really love her."

"Ohhhh?" I asked.

"Yeah … but more like brother and sister."

"Then … she knows that…."

"Yeah."

"… that you like…"

"Boys … and now men." He chuckled. "And I think she's got us pegged. I've never seen her so relaxed with straight customers."

"I got that impression, especially when she said we should spend more time together." We looked at each other, smiling. "I'd like that, Tom; I truly would," I added.

He took my wrinkled, gnarled, spotted hand in his. "I'd like that, too, Gran'pa… errr, Gabe." After an embarrassed moment, he apologized for the faux pas.

"Don't apologize, my boy. I understand. I really do."

At my age, that's all I could be – a substitute Great-Grandfather – for him, I thought to myself, looking into his eyes. I need him … and he needs me … in whatever way he wants me.

Releasing my hand and flipping open the new steno pad, he said, "Before it gets too late, how about we get on with the interview?"

"Okay."

"But before we do that…" he suddenly changed the direction of his questions, "…what was all that, between you and Helena, about asparagus? What don't I know?"

"Well," I hesitated for a moment, not knowing how to … delicately … approach the subject, "you know from my novel that I'm gay."

"Yes," he answered, "or at least I assumed so."

"Oh, God," I said, pointing to him as I gave a demanding glare, "this is strictly off the record," I emphasized.

He nodded and saluted me. "Yes, Sir!"

I had to smile at the way he answered. "Well … I'm basically oral when it comes to sex, and I discovered, early on, that, both, asparagus and Scotch make the … uhhh … semen … cum … ejaculate … whatever you want to call it … bitter. And whether you're straight or gay, the receiver will appreciate it if you don't eat asparagus or drink Scotch for several hours before … you know."

Tom was smiling, probably at my uncomfortableness; I know I could feel my face was flushed.

"Okay," he said, grinning, "but you're gonna have to remind me about the asparagus from time to time – 'cause I sure do love it."

I smiled back, wondering … wishing …

"Now!" he changed the subject. "It seems like you've been interviewing me ever since this morning, Gabe, and I'm supposed…."

"You needed to get some things out, Tom. Even though you're very close to Helena, I've got the feeling that you don't have anyone you truly feel that you can be totally open with, and I want you to know that I'm here for you. I'll do for you whatever this old body will allow, and I relish the time we've had together today."

Guiltily, I wondered if I'd said too much.

Just then, the glass sliding doors opened and an attractive young man entered the Atrium – a very attractive young man, I should say – so much for continuing the interview!

Short, sun-bleached, somewhat spiky hair; a snug, white, button-front shirt, open to the top of his just-barely-visible rippled abs, displaying a completely hairless, muscular, kissable, lickable swimmer's chest; a white-webbed belt with a rectangular brass military-style slide-pin buckle, and on the buckle itself was an Astrological symbol, which I assumed was his Birth Sign; black, pleated, polished-cotton trousers, which concealed no bulge whatsoever – What a shame, I thought; shiny black shoes – I couldn't see his socks, but assumed they were also black – and two rather large silver earrings – almost hoops, but with balls on the ends of the open circles.

Is he trying to tell us something? I speculated. And I wondered – dirty old man that I am – if he were wearing matching nipple-rings or even – God forbid – a similar Prince Albert. Unconsciously, my tongue slid several times over my parched, dry, feverish lower lip. Then, sure that I was either drooling or slobbering and turning different shades of pink, I remembered I was with Tom, and guiltily returned my attention to him. Dammit all! He had seen my reaction and was grinning at me. I hid behind closed eyelids and took a deep, calming breath as my right hand covered my rapidly beating heart. Be still, my heart, I thought, and immediately followed it with, Thank God, the table doesn't have a clear glass top!

The waiter placed our drinks just above the knives and spoons, and as he set the ceramic crab-shell ramequins of Coquilles St. Jacques on the brass Serving Plates in front of us; Tom made the intros. "Gabe, I'd like for you to meet a … very … good friend of mine, Chuck Borden. Chuck … Gabe Yantcey, a dear friend – we only met today, I might add – and a client who's new novel is being published by us.

Chuck and I shook hands. "Only met today, huh?" he asked of me with an inquisitive glance before turning to Tom, saying, "I always knew you liked older men, but…"

"Shut up, assmite! Go peddle your horse-cock somewhere else. All we want tonight … from you … is the elegant service I know you're capable of delivering."

Even Chuck had to laugh at that one. And after he snapped to attention and sharply saluted Tom and me, he clicked his leather heels together, did a smart about-face and goose-stepped off the dais and out of the Atrium. I couldn't help sniggering at his antics. "Assmite? Horse-cock?" I asked for clarification.

"Well," Tom began, "the first is sort of a bitchy term of endearment between friends…"

"Ahhh, okaaay, and … horse-cock? I gotta tell ya – I sorta … checked him out…"

"Sorta? I saw how you were drooling, Gabe. Don't give me that, sorta, crap," he teased.

"Okay," I began. Taking a deep breath because I wasn't … really … comfortable talking about these things, I said, "Okay, I … I did check him out, but with those pleated, baggy black pants he's wearing, I didn't see any bulge, basket, package, possibles, or anything else to indicate a … horse-cock … on him. You know something about him that's not obvious?"

"I should say I do," Tom chuckled. "We went to Boy Scout Camp together for two or three weeks every year for several years and I watched him grow up and out and … oh, never mind; if I keep talking about him, I'll embarrass myself walking outta here with stained trousers. And … we were college roommates one year. I've seen every inch of him, and particularly all thirteen inches of his … horse-cock!" He simply smiled and gave me that I-know-something-you-don't-know look.

"Thirteen? My Lord! Where does he hide it?"

"He doesn't have to," Tom remarked with a blasé, smart-alecky attitude. "He's a grower, not a shower."

"A what?"

"A grow-er; not a show-er. Soft, he's a piddling li'l ol' thing," he held up and wiggled his pinkie finger, "but when he's hard …" Instead of using any words in way of explanation, he held his index fingers about a foot apart, and then added, "… and about as big around as this glass," he then said as he seductively slid his hand up and down his fluted water glass.

"And a couple of times," Tom continued, "I've seen him get hard – you know, big guys like him, seldom get ram-rod hard – I've seen him grease up his own arse, pull his knees back, twist that monster of his under his balls, shove it in, then put on a special-made, leather harness and get dressed, leaving it there – literally fucking himself for hours – while walking around, or even while working here."

I couldn't believe it. After closing my fly-trap, I said, "You gotta be shitin' me!"

"Nope. It takes a bit of coaxing and maneuvering, but he's found a way to get … most … of it in."

"Well … I never."

"Not many of us have, I assure you. But I can almost guarantee you that right now, Chuck's in the Men's Room, doing just that. And I bet he swiped a little extra-virgin olive oil from the kitchen before going in there … and I do mean, in both contexts."

"No!"

"Yep. Just watch how he walks, the next time he comes in here."

"So … if somebody tells him to go fuck himself..." I began…

"… he'll just go and do it," Tom finished.

All I could do was shake my head in astonishment. The images in my head were more than I'd ever conceived in all my eighty-eight years.

While talking, I'd taken a few little bites of the Coquilles that smelled heavenly and tasted out-of-this-world. And it was a visually sensual delight with the melted Camembert cheese on top, but dripping over the edges of the ramequins. I remembered the days when I could drip just as easily with my own hot, creamy juices – yes, like most men do on occasion, I had tasted my own, particularly when I'd taken matters into my own hands. Or someone else's. But those days and nights had become fewer and fewer through the past couple of decades, until almost non-existent, today.

We devoured the Coquilles – every succulent morsel of them, and every drop and dribble of that tantalizing, ever-so-creamy white sauce.

It should be illegal to serve this in public, I thought. Much better, it would be, served on a bed with four penile posts, where each and every occupant – from two to … however many – were lying on a black plastic sheet. Dribbling and munching. Dribbling and licking. Dribbling and … being dribbled upon. Here and there and everywhere. So divine. So heavenly. So exotic. So erotic. So … so … pleasurable. God, I wish I were a half century younger! Fuck! Where have the years flown?

Soon, Chuck brought our dinners, and placed them on the near-by serving cart. All kidding aside, he was an excellent waiter.

As he finished clearing away the Serving Plates and empty ramequins, he served the Dinner Plates, first, from my right, then, from Tom's right. He knew his stuff. He was good.

Then, standing between us, he placed his left hand on my right shoulder, and his right, on Tom's left shoulder. "Will there be anything else … Gentle-men?"

I started to say something, but Tom asked, "Do you have any Gâteau St. Honoré tonight?" Then before Chuck could answer, Tom turned to me and asked, "You do like custard, don't you?"

"Yesssss," I answered with a tentative hesitation in my voice.

"You'll love it," he said to me; then, looking at Chuck, he said, "save two servings for our dessert, if you would, Chuckie baby."

"More sweet, white, creamy stuff, huh?" he broke character.

We all three sniggered at the visual image implied.

"Now, now!" Tom chided him.

"Spoil sport," Chuck retorted, turning to leave, but I interrupted his going.

"Chuck … that belt buckle has been drawing my attention since I first saw you." I slipped my fingers behind the buckle, behind the belt, behind the waist band of his trousers and pulled him a little closer to me. I noticed his hips moved forward a little; it was like he had just squeezed the cheeks of his ass together.

Tom did nothing but sit there, silent, but watching my brazen advance.

"Does this symbol mean that you were born in July or August? A Cancerian?"

Again with the flexing, gently thrusting hips. "No, Gabe;" he blushed a little and looked at Tom, probably seeking a little help here, but none was forthcoming but for a hand-gesture giving him the floor, so to speak. Looking back at me, he flexed his ass again, closed his eyes, took in a passionate wisp of breath, then relaxed, opened his eyes, and spoke.

"I'm just telling the world that I'm partial to soixante-neufs … sixty-nines, you know, and I'm always the top, not the bottom. I can plunge deeper that way, even though very few can take the whole…."

"T.M.I.," Tom quickly said in a deep tone; Too … Much … Information," he directed toward Chuck.

"Sorry. Just answering a question," he said, turning to leave.

I felt a slight but sudden chill as the glass door was closed once more.

"You interested in joining him tonight?" Tom eventually asked, looking down at the relatively blank steno pad.

"Good heavens, no!" I answered, worried that I'd gone too far with my … playfulness. "I love being with you, Tom, but you and Helena and Chuck have made me feel younger and more alive than I've been in years."

"I'm glad, Gabe, 'cause I really like being with you, too. I wish …" His words drifted off into nothingness; his eyes glassed over into the lost world of memories.

I reached over and placed my old hand on top of his young one. "What do you wish, Sonny?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer, since I'd unthinkingly used the name he so much loved being called … by someone else.

He bit his upper lip, taking control of his emotions, and said, "Our dinners are getting cold."

The mood had changed – thanks to stupid ol' me, I was sure. We ate, mainly in silence – a bite of food here, a question or answer there – and occasionally, Tom would scribble something on his pad. I had royally screwed up, I knew; I just wanted to get back to my room at Happy Days and go to sleep; I hadn't even had my usual afternoon nap.

Maybe Tom could read my thoughts. Maybe he could sense my emotions or my feelings. Maybe…"

Tom put his silverware on his plate and dropped his napkin on top, covering up half a Crab Cake, half his Lobster Bisque, and a bunch of his French Fries.

"Finished?" I asked. "Wasn't it as good as you usually get?"

"Oh, yes. It was delicious as it always is," he said. "Just wanna leave some room for that scrumptious dessert. And we've still got the meat of the interview to do." He then moved his dinner service to the far side of the table and put the steno pad in front of himself. He now sounded a little like he had earlier. And I breathed more easily.

"So what do you want to know, Tom? Ask, and it shall be given; seek and you shall find; knock and it shall be opened unto you. Just ask, and I'll tell. My life's an open book to you, Tom, and I trust that you – my dear friend – will be wise enough in what to publish and what not to publish."

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, quickly scribbling notes. "You sound like a preacher, a politician, an ambassador of protocol, and … and … I don't know what else. Whew!"

Then came our first chuckle in several minutes. I dug the last tiny remnants of lobster from the coral-colored tail. And I felt we were returning to that delicious relationship that had taken all day to develop.

"Well …" he pondered for the moment, "you're living at Happy Days Retirement Home."

I nodded.

"And you seem to be totally comfortable there. Are you really happy living there? There were times today when I felt you never wanted to leave it. Am I right?"

"Oh, yes, Tom; I love it there … well … except for maybe … Sergei Popov. But let's not talk about him."

We both laughed at the sick little memories he had indelibly implanted in our minds.

"But there is a connection between me and Happy Days that very few people know about."

"Oh? You want to tell me about it?"

"Okay. Well, let's see. As far as I'm concerned, it all began back in bonny old Scotland where my Great-Great-Great-Grandfather, Ferdinand MacKenzie, was born in 1807. Rumor has it that he was hired out as a Cabin Boy at the age of nine – and you know what Captains do with their young cabin-mates?!?"

We both had a good laugh at that.

"Sounds like a wise man," Tom mentioned, glancing away from his note taking.

"Aye, that he was," I said, and suddenly realized I'd slipped into a wee bit of the Scottish brogue. Tom laughed softly without looking up.

"But it's only rumor, you know – things like that were all hush-hush back then – but … anyway, with his … talents, shall we say … as the years passed, he made some impressive contacts with many different men – and a few women – in faraway places with strange sounding names. And he began to invest his pittance wisely. And he was not taken to drink, other than an occasional nip of the Sherry.

"Then, sometime between 1825 and 1830 – the information is sketchy – he returned to the British Isles and set up headquarters for his prosperous – though small – business in London. Not only that, but he went back to Scotland, married his childhood sweetheart, Catherine – I don't know what her last name was – and took her back to England.

"That's where my Great-Great-Grandfather, Louis MacKenzie, was born in Scotland in 1834 into what was then a well-to-do family of seafarers and traders. But tragedy hit when he was only three months old – his father, Ferdinand, was at his small Rubber Plantation on the island of Ceylon during a typhoon, and, on top of that, was trampled to death during an elephant stampede."

"My God!" Tom exclaimed. "That's terrible."

"Yeah, and several years ago when I saw the movie, Elephant Walk, I could well imagine my own Great-Great-Grandfather living and dying the same way."

"I'm sure," Tom said. "That would've been spooky."

"Yeah, it was, but listen to this…."

Just then, Chuck returned with a waiter's tray, and after clearing away the dinner things, he placed in front of us, two of the most gorgeous pieces of dessert I'd ever seen.

"Your Gâteau St. Honoré, Sirs," he announced rather formally. "More Port, Mister Yantcey?

"No, thanks, but I would like a cup of herbal tea, if you have it?"

"Might I recommend an Egyptian Cranberry-Hibiscus tea? It's quite delicious and soothing after a heavy dinner."

"Sounds interesting, and I've never had any," I said. "Yes, I think I'll have that."

"Very good, Sir," he said to me with a nod of the head, then turning to Tom, he asked, "Another Heineken, Sir?"

"Why so fuckin' formal all of a sudden, Chuck?" Tom inquired.

Chuck looked back into the main restaurant for a moment, then turned back and – just above a whisper – said, "I've been reprimanded by … Her Eminence, the Princess Helena." He actually swished his hips a couple of times before his eyes flew back into the main room to see if she were watching. "She said that I'd … over-extended myself."

… over-extended? I asked myself. Ohhh, the image those words divined in my temporarily sex-crazed brain! I chuckled as I came very near saying, under-extended, imagining what Tom had referred to as Chuck's monster extending back under his balls. Oh, my, oh, my, oh, my! I just kept quiet and grinned.

Returning my attention to the dessert, I asked, "What is this? It looks wonderful."

"From the bottom up, it's a pastry base, then a custard with meringue and real whipped cream, both, folded in, and then, on top, caramelized pastry swans filled with more of the custard," Chuck explained. "For private parties of twelve or more, we serve the entire dessert with a large swan in the center, surrounded by a dozen little swans like these, facing into the lake of custard, and then the whole Gâteau is covered with a fragile caramelized 'Cage' – as pleasing to the eye as to the palate."

"Well," I remarked, taking a deep breath, "I sure hope it's as delicious as it looks."

"I don't think you'll be disappointed, Gabe," Chuck said.

"I don't think you will, either," Tom agreed with a beautiful smile and a chuckle.

"Oh, Tom," Chuck said, "you never did say whether you'd like another Heineken."

"No, I think I've had enough, and besides … I'm driving. But the Hibiscus tea does sound good."

"Coming right up, Sirs," Chuck reverted to his more formal façade as he carried the tray of dirty dishes away.

I took a small bite of the custard.

"Ohhhhhhh," I moaned after it slid into the depths of my throat. "The smoothness of the texture, the sweetness of the flavor … I think I'm going to have an orgasm right here and right now … this is better than sex."

"In that case…" Tom quickly said, "… Garçon!" he called, looking into the main room, even though the sliding door was shut and no one out there could hear.

"What was that for?" I asked.

"Was trying to get Chuck's attention so we could order the desserts to take home. Don't want you having an orgasm here."

His face was radiant with his smile. His eyes were sparkling with his –

…to take home? I silently repeated Tom's words. Am I just imagining? Wishing? Yearning? No, he couldn't want … could he? I wondered.

Chuck returned with the teas – wonderfully exotic – and left us alone again. I took another small bite of the Gâteau, savoring the delicacy; I wanted it to last as long as possible.

"Now, where were we?" Tom asked, turning back again and flipping through his notes. "Ahh, yes. Here we are … You had just mentioned the movie, Elephant Walk, and your Great-Grandfather, Walter, being trampled to death in an elephant stampede, and you were going to say something else."

"Oh, yes. I was going to say that Bryan MacKenzie was only three months old at the time, and as the only male heir, he was to inherit the family fortune derived from tobacco, cotton, race horses, tea, rubber, and … well, let's just say from some other sundry sources of income – like poppy seed from China and ivory from Africa – quite the entrepreneur back then.

"Little Bryan MacKenzie was raised in England and America by nannies and tutors until his eighteenth birthday, rather in the style of the fictitious, though demanding, Little Lord Fauntleroy. His mother – Catherine – was said to have had a dubious brother who was involved with the Bank of London, and another who invested other people's money, both, making themselves quite wealthy along the way.

"Loving their little sister, Catherine, as they did, they made sure that her deceased husband's ventures were well managed, and that she and little Bryan would remain financially stable."

"That sure was fortunate for your Great-Grandfather-to-be. Sounds like they were honest men, dubious or not," Tom said, quickly taking a bite of his own custard.

"Well, I don't know about that, but – thankfully – I have to suppose it's true," I replied. "Growing up, his mother coddled him and spoiled him, giving him anything and everything he ever wanted.

"Then, on the very day he became of age – his twenty-first birthday – he married his June bride, but only out of social necessity. Five-and-a-half months later, on January First, 1874, my Grandfather, Bryan MacKenzie, was born.

"In 1896, both my Great-grandparents died of Smallpox. Luckily, Granddaddy was away at school, and on their deathbed advice – and the advice of the uncles – Granddaddy stayed away from the disease.

"Attending the best schools in Virginia, Granddaddy had majored in business and finance and soon was hired by the oldest bank in the state.

"Within a year of his employment, Granddaddy had finagled complete control of the family's financial assets – including his Great-uncles' asses, it was rumored…."

"What" Tom yelled.

I had to laugh at Tom's surprise. Once I'd stopped, I tried to explain. "His Great-uncles – the banker and the financial investor. It was rumored that he black-mailed them with sex."

"Sex?" he yelled again.

"Yes. He was a Dandy all right, more than anything else; he played both sides of the fence, but preferred to have sex with those who – no way in hell – could get pregnant."

"Oh my God," Tom chuckled as he exclaimed, "That's quite a colorful background you've got."

"But that's not all. You wanna hear more?"

"Yes. Yes!" He continued writing furiously.

"For years, he enjoyed his men and he enjoyed an occasional romp with the lasses, but … "

"But … ?"

"He loved his family." I smiled as I said the words.

"In 1897, he married Elizabeth Langford, the most eligible debutante of Philadelphia, and set up house at the estate of his deceased parents in Richmond. Of course, he was never without a bed partner when he traveled the world – always alone, insofar as Elizabeth knew – keeping a hands-on approach with the family's businesses."

"Yeah, right. I bet," Tom commented without looking up.

We both laughed, knowing the truth of his statement.

"But it seemed that every time he came home from one of his business trips, a new baby was in the bassinet, and by the time he left for another venture, there was another baby in the oven.

"Let me back up a minute and say that in 1898, my father, John Knox Yantcey, was born – the first of thirteen living children. I don't know how many miscarriages my grandmother had. I'm sure, though, that after the first five or six of them, she was quite happy to see him leave again. With all the kids – so she's told me – the house was in a constant uproar, though always immaculately maintained by the household and grounds staff."

About the same time, Tom and I both realized that the evening crowd had thinned out quite a bit; in fact, the main room looked vacant. Chuck and Helena had separately come in occasionally with refills and warm-ups of the tea. Of course, we had finished with the delightful, delicious, delectable dessert.

I looked at my wristwatch and saw that it was ten o'clock. "Oh, my God," I said. "They're locking the doors at the Home. God! I hate that word."

"What word?" Tom asked.

"Home," I said. "Makes me realize that it's just a place for old folks to go to die."

"Don't say that, Gabe. It's a wonderful place, and you love it."

"Yeah, but for different reasons," I said. "I'd love to tell you, but when they lock the doors at ten, no one goes out, and no one comes in." I sat back in my chair, raised both my hands, and scratched my head.

"Is it that strict?" he asked.

"Yeah. Guess I'll have to get a motel room for the night." I felt my left hip pocket. "Glad I brought my wallet with me."

"Can you call and let 'em know you'll be late?"

"Nah. They just don't let anyone in or out, for that matter – after ten."

"Listen, Gabe … why don't you come home with me? You've already seen the condo complex – it's in a nice area – , and even though I've only got one bedroom, you're welcome to spend the night – I'll sleep on the sofa bed and you can use the bedroom."

"No, no. I don't want to put you out, and I can afford a motel room."

"I won't hear of it," Tom was adamant. "You're coming home with me, and that's final!"

I looked at him for a moment. Once again the Fates of Life had thrown us together. I wanted more than anything to spend some very personal and very private time with him. Perhaps, at my age, it would be the last time in my life I would have the opportunity to… Oh, what the fuck am I thinking? He wouldn't want to do anything – not even just a snuggle – with an old body like this, I thought to myself.

But then I succumbed to his kind offer. "All right, young man. With reluctance, and only with reluctance, will I accept your proposition … oops … did I just say proposition?" Sorry; I meant offer … errr …." I was truly embarrassed at my choice of words, and could feel my face flushing.

And with each passing second, his Cheshire-Cat grin was getting broader and broader. I wanted to crawl under the table. But even that idea made me turn redder – and a tiny bit harder.

"Let's go and let these folks close up shop for the evening," he suggested as he stood and held my chair for me.

Seeing Helena at the cash register, we went in that direction, both of us removing our wallets from our left hip pockets.

"No," he said, "this is on me." I started to disagree, but he continued. "I have a business credit card, and this will be considered a business expense. Besides … since you've already received your advance, this will be taken out of your first royalty check."

We both laughed.

"Enjoy your dinners, gentlemen?" Helena asked.

We assured her everything was excellent, par excellence.

When Tom was busy with the credit card slip, and I thought he wasn't watching, I slipped Helena a fifty-dollar bill, "for you and the staff."

"Oh, no, Mister Yantcey, I can't…"

I held up my hand, stopping her from denying my pleasure. "This has been the most delightful, wonderful dinner I've had in … in … I don't know how many years … decades, more like it. My thanks to you and the chef and the staff."

"You're most kind, "she said, gently taking my face in her hands and kissing me on the cheek.

At least I got one kiss out of the evening, I mused.

"You ready?" Tom asked.

I nodded. "Home, James."

Even Helena joined in the chuckle.

"Oh!" I said, turning back for a moment. "Tell Chuck Adieu for me."

"I shall, Mister Yantcey. I shall." We nodded again to each other.

I took a moment to look around and engrave the ambience on my old brain. There had been so many years since my last visit to The Epicurean, I was suddenly sure this was to be my last time here. The feeling was bittersweet.

"Home, James," I again said to Tom, slipping my arm around his waist.

"But I'm not James, Sire," he played along, slipping his arm around my waist.

"Did I give him the night off?"

We smiled at each other, and he leaned closer and also kissed this old man's wrinkled cheek.

Wow! Two in one night, I thought.

In the SUV he asked, "Is there anything you need tonight? I've got new toothbrushes and combs."

"No, I don't need anything, Tom. I'll be able to manage for one night. I still think I should get a motel room and – "

"Nonsense. We can make do just fine. We both can relax while we finish the interview. I'll fix us breakfast in the morning, then take you back – "

"…back … Home! All right, Tom," I said, taking a deep breath of finality and letting it all out.

Since Tom was driving, and couldn't take notes at the same time, he didn't want to approach anything that he might be able to use in the book. He asked, "What one thing – if there is anything – do you miss most by living at Happy Days?"

"Oh, that's an easy one," I answered. "A dog."

"A dog?"

"Yes, a dog … or dogs! One time, my mom told me that she couldn't imagine me living without having a dog around."

"So, you've had a dog most of your life?"

"Yeah. The first one, I don't even remember, but without her, I probably wouldn't be here today."

"How come? What do you mean?"

"I was an infant, just learning to crawl. Mom had me lying on a blanket on the ground while she and her sisters were playing tennis on the clay court her dad – my other Grandfather – had built.

"Suddenly, Connie – the Collie we had at the time – started barking up a storm to beat the band. Nobody paid any attention to her, but I was crawling over to the little cement fishpond we had. And I fell in. Since nobody was paying attention to Connie's barking, she jumped in and pulled me out by grabbing hold of the back of my diaper with … her teeth."

We both laughed a little at the mental image I'd created, but then Tom said, "That's such a cute picture, but it's also tragic."

"Well, I suppose," I remarked. "But then there was Spunkie, a black Doberman Pinscher – she's the first dog I really remember. And she was the vicious Doberman that everybody hears about. Granddaddy was the only one in the family who could … safely … get near her.

"I learned that they used her to breed pedigreed puppies, and I remember when I was about five years old, Spunkie had a litter, and of course there was a runt in the bunch – there always is. She was very tiny – the larger puppies wouldn't even let her nurse. I overheard the folks say that they'd have to drown her, and I guess I started crying my head off.

"They told me that if I wanted her, I'd have to learn how to feed her, keep her water bowl clean and filled up, and I'd have to learn how to bathe her. I did. I learned how to do everything they told me, and Sally – that was the name I gave her – became my dog.

"Wasn't she mean like her mother?" Tom asked.

"Oh, no," I said. "I've since learned that meanness comes from the way a puppy is raised, but anyway, as soon as Spunkie's puppies became weaned, we took them away from her – they never had a chance to learn her bad habits – they were all pussy-cats, even after we sold them and they grew up with their new owners.

"But Sally and I were pals – she was always with me; we were always together. We played in the woods, and when I was a jungle hunter, she was a wild lion."

Tom smiled.

"I remember one day – I was about six or seven – we were playing jungle hunter, and I shot her with my rubber-suction-tipped bow-and-arrow – it hit her on the rump and she let out a yelp.

"My Grandmother – the other one, ya know – I swear, she had eyes in the back of her head – she always saw everything I did – she called me over to sit with her on the garden bench, and said, 'Ya know, honey – she always called me honey – ya know, honey – God is the highest thing we can imagine…' "

"Yes, ma'am, I know that." I interrupted her.

" 'And WE are the highest thing that doggies and kitty-cats and horsies can think of.'

"I wasn't sure what she was talking about, but, being the good little boy that I was, I agreed with her.

" 'Now then,' she continued, 'if we want God to be good to us, then we have to be good to the doggies and other animals.'

"I've never forgotten that lesson."

Suddenly I choked-up a little, remembering the love between Gran'mama and me, and between Sally and me.

"She was a wise woman – that grandmother of yours," Tom said.

Forcing back my emotion, I said, "Yes, she was, and I think I loved her more than anyone else in my life. But anyway, we had a red Doberman named Carla, and a cute little hound-dog named Timmy – he was so much fun, so full of vim-and-vinegar." I laughed, thinking about the good times with Timmy.

And then we got an adorable seven-week-old blond Cocker Spaniel who we named Jan. But very soon after that, we found out that he had worms, and even with the Vet taking care of him, he died a couple of weeks later.

"Awwwww," Tom moaned in a little-boy's-lost-pet moan. I figured he'd lost a pet of his own when he was younger.

"But the original owners gave us Jan's litter-mate, a little female, but she looked just like her now-dead brother before he got sick. So I named her Jan-2'. She was so sweet; I just loved her. Buttttttt … by that time, I was a teenager and didn't want to have to take care of her." I thought about how I hadn't taken care of her food and water bowls, how I'd just slopped her food or water in the dirty ol' bowls in her outdoor pen in all kinds of weather. I really mistreated her, and now, I regret it so much."

"At the same time, we had a Collie named Scott, and … being the shit-ass that I was, I treated him the same way as I did Jan-2. God! I was such a bastard. I am now so damned sorry I didn't love them more."

Tears were in my eyes, and my voice was croaking.

"Awww, Gabe … you were just a kid – a teenaged kid – who didn't like being told what to do. All of us have gone through a rebellious stage, I think, and that was yours. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"Ya know," I repeated myself, "years ago, my Mom told me that she didn't think I could live if I didn't have a dog to love and care for. And now, that's the one thing I hate about Happy Days – no pets."

"They take a lot of care and maintenance, ya know, Gabe, and at your age…."

"I know. I know," I said. And then I sorta changed the subject. "Ya know what I found on the Internet a couple months ago?"

"I have no idea," Tom shot back. "What did you find on the Internet a couple months ago?"

"I was reading the biography of Will Rogers, the Humorist – he was long before your time, let me tell ya – and I read one of his famous sayings."

"And that would be…?"

"He said, and I quote, 'If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went'. And ya know something … I've been saying that same thing since I became an adult – many, many years before I got a computer. Ya know something else?" I asked, and then without giving him time to answer, I said, "I think I'd like to have that engraved on my tombstone or grave marker."

"Don't say things like that, Gabe. You've still got plenty of years ahead of you, and…."

"But that wouldn't serve any purpose 'cause I have it in my Living Trust that I want my ashes scattered." I looked at him with an evil glint in my eyes and said, "And you wouldn't believe where I want them scattered."

"Where?" he asked, as he turned into the parking area of his condo complex.

"I want half of them scattered across the tops of the Peruvian Andes, and the other half in the depths of the Nile River in Egypt."

"What?" he yelled as he came to a screeching stop in the parking lot.

"My two favorite places in the world," I said. "I've felt more at-home in those two places than anywhere else I've ever been."

"I don't believe it," he said.

"It's true," I countered, as he pulled into his own private parking space.

Turning off the ignition, he turned to me and asked, "And just who is going to pay for someone to take your ashes to those places, pray tell?"

"That'll be made known after I'm dead and gone," I said with as straight a face as I could muster. Then a thought hit me and I added, "Maybe I'll …" I began, and then asked, "… How would you like a free trip to both Peru and Egypt?"

"I'd love'em, but not under those conditions, but…."

"Then we can talk about that another time. I've got to take a leak … desperately!!!"

We got out of the SUV; he clicked the button and secured the locks. "Ohhhhh, I just thought of something, Gabe."

"What? I gotta go! Bad!!!"

"I live up on the second floor, and we don't have elevators."

I looked around for a big bush; he saw what I was doing. He looked around, and quietly said, "Over here."

Looking around, I walked as fast as I could – which ain't fast at all – toward him, unzipping my pants, and probed around inside for my shriveled ol' piece o' floppy meat.

"Need any help?" he asked, grinning.

"Not out here in public," I teased, "though I do kinda remember doing just that, back during the good ol' hippie days of San Francisco."

"You what?"

"Yeah, and pissin' out in public wasn't the only thing this ol' fart did, either. Oh, shit! I lived! … as Ms. Gooch told Auntie Mame to do in the movie."

"You must have been something else!" he exclaimed.

"Now, you're not gonna put any of this in the interview, are you?

"Ohhh, I don't know," he teased.

"You better not, you scallywag."

"So, what else did you do?"

"Ohhh, you wouldn't be interested," I said, letting go of my stream.

"Try me."

"Well, if you insist."

"I do, Sir." He sounded very mischievous.

"I remember – very fondly – an after-hours coffee-bar down in the Mission District, where I used to go after 2 a.m. when the liquor- and beer-bars closed. The place was packed like a can of sardines, and I'd spend – sometimes – up to two or more hours, – sometimes, even until the sun came up while this son was down on his knees – sampling all the different varieties of the cream that was never used in the coffees. I always went home with a full tummy! Oh, those were the days – before AIDS, thank God! No one ever thought of STD's, and the worst I ever got from the baths was … crabs. That's when I learned to shave my pubes. And I never had any complaints, mind you."

"You were a wild one, weren't you? Wish I'd been around, then. You wouldn't've been safe."

"Thanks, Tom. I appreciate your saying that. But those days are in the past. I haven't touched anyone else since '81 – the year the C.D.C. in Atlanta made known the acronym, AIDS.

"Not since '81?" he asked, surprised. "That’s thirty-eight years, man!"

"Yeah, but my old gnarled friends here," I held up my hands with fingers spread, "have taken care of my needs. Whew! That felt good." Having finished pissing in the bush, I stuffed my little water hose back in and zipped up.

"Come on; hop on my back and I'll piggy-back ya up to the second floor. I'm plenty strong enough."

Chapter 5
1 2 3 4

I hadn't done that in I don't know how long, and was a little embarrassed at needing the assistance. However, under the conditions, I did as he suggested. It felt strange, yet comfortable. Weird, yet erotic in a way. I lay my head on his shoulder as he made his way up the steps. I didn't want to remove my legs from around his strong, muscular hips, my arms from around the molded chest I felt beneath his shirt, and I didn't want to remove my head from his warm soft neck. And to walk up the steps with me on his back … I thought … he's so strong.

He didn't just drop me when we arrived at the top of the stairs. He continued down the little open porch to his unit, turned, slid his magnetic key card, and then opened the door.

"Welcome home," he said, slowly letting my feet touch the carpeted floor, benumbed as they were. Seeing my difficulty in standing, he put his arms around my waist, and slowly walked backwards, guiding me to the tan faux-kidskin-covered sofa.

God, how I wanted him to continue holding me. My body tingled, yet felt so … so … empty …. so abandoned … so … useless. Yes. That's the word – useless. Who would want it? I questioned inwardly.

"Have a seat. Anything I can get for you? I usually have a mug of hot cocoa every night before going to bed – seems to help me sleep better."

"Make yourself comfortable," he said on his way to the kitchen, separated from the living room only by a breakfast bar.

The dining room was off in an el from the living room, and the bedroom and bath were off to the right. A small library with computer-desk was in an alcove at the end of the big room I was in. Adequate for a single person, and very neat and orderly, I thought. It felt comfortable with its hardwood floor and scattered Mexican rugs, both on the floor and used as wall hangings. A TV set and sound system were in an entertainment center with shelves for … are those geodes … nodules … slabs of slate with embedded fossils … and pieces of petrified wood, I wondered as my eyes darted from one object to another.

Painfully, I stood and moved to them and began an examination of those marvels of nature. "Are you a rock-hound?" I hollered to him in the kitchen.

"A little," he called back carrying two mugs to the cocktail table in front of the sofa. "I dabble a little in geology when I get some time to make a trip to some digs. I have quite a collection in the storage unit of my space downstairs. If you're interested, I'll have to have you over for a weekend, so you can go through them at your leisure."

"Sure," he replied as I let out a little moan and pressed my hand into my solar plexus. "You O.K., Gabe?"

I shushed him with a wave of my hand, going right into the joke. "An avalanche is a mountain getting its rocks off!"

"Do you have any Pepto-Bismol? I didn't bring any of my meds with me. All that rich food, tonight, doesn't seem to be agreeing with me."

"Sure. Hold on just a minute." In a flash, he was headed toward the bathroom, and soon returned to the kitchen with a large bottle filled with the pink liquid. I joined him there, and he handed me a tablespoon and told me to take as much as I felt I needed. It was only two tablespoon-fulls for now – I assumed I could get more, later, if I needed it.

"No! Now you stop that, Tom. I thoroughly enjoyed going there, and I chose my own food – you didn't force me into anything."

"Now, stop that, I said. I'm free, white, and twenty-one, as my grandmother used to say. My choices were mine alone. I'll be fine. I promise."

"All right. So … do you want to go right to bed, watch some TV, or would you like to continue the interview? Ya know … I don't have any pressing matters that have to be done right away, so we can continue tomorrow – I can spend as much time with you tomorrow as you want, and besides … I want to spend as much time with you as I can."

But then he quickly added, "Why don't we get comfortable and strip down to our underwear – I always strip down to my briefs – or less," he said, with a shit-eating grin, "when I'm here by myself, and maybe … just maybe … getting out of those pants and that belt will relieve some of the pressure on your stomach."

"Now, don't you be worried about that. It's not going to bother me in the least. We can both be ourselves … unencumbered, if you know what I mean."

"I do, indeed, and I used to enjoy that state of undress before I was living in the … home," I said with a disgusted growl. He laughed.

"Well …" Tom added with a sly grin, "we'll just have to see if we can make some changes in that arrangement."

My look at him was sorta strange, I know, but was he thinking about …? No! He couldn't be, I wondered.

He guided me to the bedroom and we stripped out of all our clothing except for the underwear – I, rather reluctantly, and he, as if he hadn't a care in the world. It seemed strange after so many years of constantly living by the rules of Happy Days' Decency and Comportment requirements, but liberating and daring at the same time. Carefully, Tom folded our clothes and hung them in the walk-in closet and closed the closet door.

Back in the living room and comfortably seated on the sofa – me, in my plain ol' white boxers (thank God there were no telltale stains on them!), and Tom in a pair of the sexiest olive, black, and brown camouflage-print tight, silky briefs I'd ever seen – nice basket, too … though soft … idly lying a little to the right, I noticed. I wiggled my toes in the plush coppery-rust-colored carpet.

Ummmmm, I'd love to stroke that to full attention, I thought to myself with a smile, looking at his briefs.

"What are you smiling about?" he asked, after taking a sip of his, by-now, cold cocoa.

As if you didn't know, I sent the thought to him. "Oh, nothing," I lied. "Just thinking about my other doggies."

"Yes; just four more. Scott, a collie we had for about a year during the same time we had Jan-2. Didn't treat him very good, either. Kept him tethered to a run – didn't have much room to exercise a large dog. We only had him for that short time – too big to care for … properly.

"Then, when I got out on my own, I had Caesar, a Brittany Spaniel for sixteen-and-a-half years – he, like Sally, was the runt of the litter, and I knew if he stayed with that neighborhood family, he'd end up dead.

"He was a solid white American Eskimo Spitz, and I named him after the Egyptian god and jackal, Anubis. That's what I called him when I got mad at him – Anubis – but all other times I called him Nubi. Just drop the first and last letters from Anubis, and you've got Nubi."

"I didn't care. I love Egypt and the old religion, and Anubis is my favorite of the gods. That's one of the reasons I loved Nubi so much."

"And the last dog I had was Angel – another American Eskimo. I found her in an animal shelter, and if I hadn't taken her that day, they would have euthanized her the next day … or so they said. I had her for almost fifteen years."

I was near tearing, thinking of the little ones I'd loved for so many years, and took the mug in both hands – cold as it was – and raised it to my lips.

Tom had been taking copious notes in his little book, and then he lay it aside and said, "I'll make some fresh, hot cocoa. That's got to taste horrible." He got up and went back into his kitchen.

I just shook my head and continued looking into the mug, knowing that if I said anything, Tom would hear the sadness in my voice. I loved all my doggies, and I missed them terribly. I hope I can see them and be with them – after I'm no longer here – and apologize to them about the ways I mistreated them when they were with me. All they ever did was love me, and I didn't return that love as much as I could have.

A long silence ensued, but I was lost in the memories of my doggies; I didn't mind the solitude.

Finally, Tom spoke, setting the jar of cocoa-powder and a hot kettle of water on a place mat on the low table. "Earlier, you said that there was a connection between you and Happy Days that very few people know about. Did I miss something? Or have you not gotten to that point, yet?"

"Oh, sorry. I guess I got tied up, talking about the family," I answered. "Now, let's see – what have I said?"

Tom flipped through his notes and we discussed several different things, then I said, "Ahhh, yes. I remember, now. You remember my mentioning Mister William Alexander Newton Lawrence, who, in 1914, came up with the idea of building a convalescent hospital for the returning soldiers from the Great War (otherwise known as the 1st World War, after the 2nd World War?"

"Well, Gran'daddy and Gran'mama MacKenzie heard about his idea – coincidentally, they went to the same church – Commonwealth Presbyterian – and, thinking that it was a wonderful idea, and possibly foreseeing their own future needs, they contacted him and his lawyer and a builder by the name of Charlie Green, who was contracted to build and develop the project. Then, they deeded-over the hundred-and-thirty-three acres that the retirement home sits on today – with certain stipulations, of course. They could well afford it – they owned properties and businesses all over the globe."

"Do you know what those stipulations were? I think I can guess, but I want to hear it from you," Tom said, a mischievous glint coming from his eyes.

"Yes, I know what they were," I chuckled back at his expression. "Any member of the blood-line family, and who carried the name 'MacKenzie', and who needed the care or a place to live during their senior years, would be cared for and would be provided room-and-board … free of charge … until no longer needed, or until their demise."

"And over the years, several Weeping Willows, Magnolias, and Eastern Dogwoods (both, white-flowered and pink) were planted along the banks of the lake making it absolutely beautiful. Azaleas, Camellias, Rhododendron, Mountain Laurel and Crepe Myrtles were scattered around the grounds adding vibrant colors to the ambience of the place. Naturalized Tulips, Hyacinths, Jonquils, Irises and … I'm sorry; I can't remember the names of all the bulbs that were planted. But they were beautiful, I can tell you that."

"You loved it, there, when you were a kid, didn't you? You still love it there. I can tell. You're beaming!"

"Yes, I love to sit out there and gaze into the azure-blue of the lake where, years ago, the family used to come every Sunday afternoon during the summer for picnics. And of course, I always got stuck with churning the homemade peach ice cream, but man, was it ever delicious!!!

After thinking for a moment, I asked, "Tom … do you know who the French chanteuse, Edith Piaf, was?"

"I'm impressed," I said, "impressed that one so young would know someone who was popular when I was much younger." He just laughed.

"Well," I said, "since the first time I ever heard one of her songs in about 1961, I've adopted it as my life's motto."

"Everything I've experienced – good or bad, hurtful or pleasurable, dull or exciting – has been either a lesson or a warning. "But her words for 'I regret nothing' aren't really true for me. I DO regret something."

I smiled and said, "I really regret never having been able to visit the ruins of Petra in Jordan, and the Dalai Lama's Palace – the Potala, in Lhasa, Tibet."

I yawned, and as it is always the case, for me, it was contagious. Tom also yawned. "Let's go to bed," he suggested.

"Don't you want to sleep with me … err … I mean … in the same bed with me?" he corrected himself. "It's king-sized and there's lots of room. And no hanky-panky is expected."

"Now listen – I didn't say I didn't want any hanky-panky. I said none was expected." We grinned at each other.

Tom picked up the kettle and the two almost-empty mugs and carried them to the kitchen. Then he returned and, slipping his arm around my waist, guided me to the bedroom.

I didn't know if I were doing the right thing or not, but the mere fantasy of what could happen was one that I hadn't had in years.

Entering, I realized that I hadn't paid any attention to the décor when we'd come in to … undress.

"Just a minute," he said, releasing his hold on me. "Don't want the neighbors seeing in." He went to the window and closed the ceiling-to-floor shutters – not the slatted kind that most people might have – but solid shutters, hinged to either side of the window-frame. And those shutters were covered with dark brown suede. When they were closed, no outside light could enter the room at all. And then I realized that the four walls were covered – 'upholstered', I think the word is – with the same dark brown suede, only they were padded – as was the ceiling! The entire room was elegant in the golden glow from the wall-mounted torchieres above the cantilevered night-stands on either side of the king-sized bed that was covered with a brown and gold duvet, with several matching throw pillows piled against the headboard. The opposite wall had an enormous built-in entertainment system made of brown-and-white Monkey Pod wood. Exquisite!

Now that the shutters were closed and I could see no street-lights, I said, "Wow! This is gorgeous. I feel like I'm in a cave."

"That's the idea," he said. I can't sleep with any light coming in, and if you'll notice, there are no echoes of any kind – none of our words bounce off hard surfaces, and all sound is muted – can't hear the cars outside, can't hear the air conditioning or heating units, and you can barely hear the toilet when it's flushed in the bathroom. This is my own little…" he paused a moment, grinned, held a seductive hand out to me, and said, "… den of iniquity."

Taking his hand, I said, "Oh, my God. What have I walked into? What am I in for?"

Without a second thought, Tom replied with care, concern, compassion, and, yes … love … in his eyes and voice. "Whatever you want, Gabe. Whatever … you … want. Tonight is yours."

I wanted to cry. No one … no one … had been so sweet, so kind to me … in so many years, I couldn't count them.

It was hard to believe, but I had a happy, feeling I knew what he'd hinted at several times during the evening.

We were bantering – making conversation – saying nothing, but saying a lot. Then, an awkward moment had come upon us. It seemed that neither of us wanted to move toward the bed – not yet, anyway.

"I usually sleep nude," Tom said, looking at the bed and not at me. "I used to, too, before I moved to ... the Home," I replied, also looking at the bed and not at him.

I looked at his face, then scanned down … there; then back to his face. "You wouldn't mind an old, flabby body like mine in bed with you?"

"Not if it were yours, Gran'pa… errr … Gabe," he said, his eyes tightly closed after saying what he thought were the wrong words."

I stepped toward him and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. "Sonny…" I said, purposefully using the name his Great-Grandfather had so lovingly called him, "I don't know how to say this just right, but … I'd love that … I mean, I'd love for you to call me 'Gran'papa' … provided that your calling me that would not cheapen or take away any feelings you have for him, and provided that … occasionally … I can call you Sonny."

He threw his arms around me, and mine naturally went around him. Our lips met, and after a moment our tongues timidly slipped into the other's mouth. Meeting no resistance and only acceptance, they began to battle, exploring every inch of each other's mouth.

Our naked chests – old and flabby, young and taut, slid over each other – nipple against nipple, rib against rib.

I felt a stirring in his briefs, and I even felt a small stirring in my own boxers. A momentary flash of regret flew through my thoughts – My flaccid old cock can barely be found, even in my sparse and brown and gray pubes. It's nothing but a nubbin, most of the time.

Fumbling, we moved to the nearest side of the bed and eased down onto it. We rolled to the center of the bed – I, on my back, and he, on my chest.

"We keep this up," I said retrieving my tongue and moving back a little, "and you're gonna end up with a stained duvet," I further said, rubbing my gnarled old hand back and forth over the mound in his very small garment.

"Well, I do, and I need a breather," I said. Let's get these off of you – I fingered his silky, but synthetic waistband – and get rid of the duvet. I hate a mess." I rolled over and stood by the opposite side of the bed. He did likewise, at his side of the bed.

We pulled back the duvet a third of the way down, then picked up the bottom edge and tossed it over the other fold. Then we pulled the sides up and tossed them, in thirds onto the others, and Tom lifted the whole thing and dropped it near the far wall. The top-sheet was pulled back and we stood there, staring at each other. Another awkward moment had come upon me – Who is going to make the first move toward total nudity?

Then, at the same time, our fingers slipped inside our waistbands, and our hands gradually slid the remaining garments down.

Quickly – as quickly as my old bones and muscles would move – I lay on the bed on my stomach. I felt some movement and realized that he, too, was lying on the bed.

We moved, quickly righting ourselves so that neither could see the nakedness of our genitals. Why, I could not discern, for we both had had the opportunity only a moment earlier. But it mattered not – we could feel the nudity of each other.

Side by side, with an elderly soft chest against a young taut chest; a fully aroused young cock, pulsing against a withered but slowly growing ol' nub; and two daylong unshaven beards scratching against each other's cheeks and lips, causing whisker burns – I supposed – as we kissed again and again. We responded to each other not only with desire and lust, but with joy and love. The decades between us were forgotten as the spirit of life surged between us from head to toe. We gave to each other. We received from each other.

For the first time in ages, it seemed, my penis grew and engorged. It began to throb and bounce and pulse and even leak as seldom before. I felt young again. Ohhh, the feeling was one of bliss.

Tom's pre-cum-leaking penis slid beneath my old balls and between my thighs, teasing my perineum with its hot moist head. Back and forth, back and forth, again and again, faster and faster. I'd forgotten how hot sex could be between two men.

Suddenly, it felt like a flood – almost as if he were pissing on and between my upper thighs, but he pulled back and continued shooting on my aged balls, my newly engorged cock, my pubes and lower abdomen. He was moaning with pleasure, not from urinary relief – I do remember the difference in those two sounds.

Tom must have noticed my own movement down below. Quickly he slid down and, knowing the stimulation a tongue can give to certain areas, he began licking up his own offerings, cleaning up every drop of his gift of life itself.

I could feel my manhood bouncing and jerking, throbbing like crazy. With my gnarly old hands, I grabbed his head and led it toward my needy cock. His lips were soft and warm as they slid down its short but hard length. God! I wished it were bigger … to give him more – what, to me, had been pleasure in my younger days. He didn't even gag, as many had done before, but it felt … it felt … I felt I would explode at any moment, with each retreat and advance he made.

Years – many years – before, my first masturbatory shot – for the day or night – could fly over my head, but as happens with most men, the force of ejaculation diminishes in proportion to the increase of age. I could feel that the quantity was only several oozing little spurts, but the quality was … was … there. But there just aren't enough words to describe that feeling of wonderment.

I ground my teeth together, squeezed my eyes shut in exquisite, painfully pleasurable ecstasy, splayed my arms out to the sides, gripping the sheet in my fisted arthritic hands, thrust my hips up, and tried to plunge upward into the depths of his throat. My breathing was heavy, my heart beat wildly, and my soul soared. It had been so long, I'd almost forgotten what a real climax was like – one brought on by someone else – ohhh, so much better than my own mere hand job!

After my erection softened in post-climactic useless-ness, Tom swung around and covered my mouth with his own, depositing his gift between my lips onto my probing tongue. It was the sweetest tasting gift I'd ever received, whether from the source or not. Our tongues swapped the gift of life from one mouth to the other, again and again.

Finally, we separated, each rolling on our sides, slowly returning to normal. "When I was licking up my own cum," Tom said, smiling, "I didn't swallow it. Part of you is now in me, and part of me is now in you, Gran'papa. I've wanted that for so many years. I hope I didn't do any – "

"Shhhhh," I said, rolling over and giving him a kiss. "What you did, Sonny … what I did … what we did … together …" I kept correcting myself, "was the most wonderful thing I've ever done in my life."

I wanted him deep inside me. I wanted to be deep inside of him, but I doubted that I'd be able to do any more, at least for several … many … hours. And so we cuddled, for the briefest of eternities it seemed – so satisfying, so gratifying and fulfilling … filling my arms and my aching heart – but I'm sure it was for only a few minutes.

"I just need to rest for a little while – I'm not as young as I once was," I answered. "I don't think I need the Pepto-Bismol, this time."

"Let me put on some soft music, and then I want you to turn over and let me hold you," he said. Tom got up, found the CD he wanted, inserted it in the slot, and it began to play. Then he slipped back into bed, pulled the sheet up over both of us, and gently kissed me on the lips, the nose, the eyes, and then just lay there, looking at the eighty-eight year old man who, in less that twenty-four hours, had become the … second … love of his life.

"Sonny … I want you to know that you … you … have made me happier today than I've been in many … many … many years."

"I've enjoyed it, too," Tom simply said. "And I'd like for us to spend many more days and nights together. Now rest … and sleep a little, my love."

I rolled over and his arm became my pillow while his other arm lay over my chest, his fingers running gently through my white chest hair, my back spooned against his strong, youthful chest. Soon, I raised my hand and our fingers interlocked, resting together – over my heart. I hummed a moan of peace and contentment. I was truly happy for the first time in many, many years – perhaps, in all the years of my life.

It was then that our breathing became as one, inhaling and exhaling together. In rhythm. At the same time. Slower and slower. As one. In heart and soul. Slower and slower, until I fell asleep.

The next morning when Tom awoke, he reached over to hug Gabe, only to found that he was cold and not responsive.