A hard day, a cold driving rain, a lonely figure and a night of chance.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual events, characters, persons, alive or dead, or beings of Earth or the multiverse, past, present or future, is purely coincidental. Unless, of course, I'm psychic, in which case this a work of non-fiction. But I highly doubt that, I'm not that attuned. I mean if I was, I’d have won Powerball by now and been able to afford creative writing classes. And a proofreader.
Be forewarned, these writings, including this warning, may trigger some issue or issues that you have. Either by the language used or it’s content in general. If you are one to get bothered by every little thing, you have to make a decision now. You have two choices. One, you can decide, you can be a mature adult about things and continue. Or Two, you can't, in which case just close it now and step away from wherever the hell it is that you are reading this.
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Serendipity Pass
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Chapter 1 : A Ghost, On A Cold, Lonely Road
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Thirty five miles an hour.
That was the speed limit for this road.
On a good day.
And this day... was not one of those.
It was furious.
Its winds were, either, trying to drive the rain through the sheet-metal shell that surrounded me, or toss me into the rock strewn walls mere feet from my tires. It didn’t really matter what it's intention was, the battle was the same.
My hands gripped the wheel, tight enough to feel the threaded seams that bound the leather to its frame, as I reacted to every gust willing that lumbering beast back between the pavement’s edges.
The radio was loud. Cranked up all the way. And still, it was barely high enough to be heard. above the whistles and the howls. Of the, almost biblical, climatic onslaught, going on outside that thin, steel shell.
“Six feet of snoooooow,
coming through my radio,,,
It's raining in stilettooos,
from here, clear down, to Meeehheexico…”
Oh, how appropriate it was, that those lyrics and that song flowed out of those speakers at just that moment…
“My hands are nummmmmmb,
from hanging on that steering wheel….”
But, then again, Little Feat did always have a weird, symbiotic relationship with the soundtrack of my life. As did Mr. Seger. And even Springsteen. Until his angst went from defiance to whining like a little bitch.
But I digress. I do that a lot. My friends say I have ‘Alice’s Restaurant-itis’ . See what I mean.
Anyway, this story, is not about that. It’s about something else entirely. So, I’ll get to it. Before I take another dirt road... Ooh look. A deer.
Now, let me set the stage for you.
It was a cold, crisp, rainy, Thursday evening, in April, two thousand and seventeen. The pockmarked black top before me swayed with an ethereal glow. A dizzying combination of mist, driving rain, and the wavering wisps of steam that were rising off that still hot pavement.
I was making my way home on a dark mountain road, anticipating a nice cozy bed and a well deserved coma. After working for thirteen hours in a sweltering engine room, rebuilding, well more like having a test of wills with, a 100 ton compressor, I was ready for a hot shower, a hit off a bowl, and a really delicious slip into unconscious bliss.
The aura around me was, thick and stagnant. Glued in to my soul by exhaustion, sore muscles and thoroughly aching bones. Lingering undertones of sweat, rust and engine grease were indelibly set into the recesses of my nose. I was, what some would call, spent.
The rhythmic sound of the rain and the hypnotic waves of light off the street, threatened to lull me away from the drive, into a state of dreamy eyed wanderlust. I desperately tried to fight it off, as I sat, slumped behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette, piloting that old E-One-Fifty through a deluge of a storm.
It was a Kraken of a weathering. One that seemed like it would be more at home in an end of days genre of film, rather than this fairly, peaceful little town, tucked into the suburbs of New York City.
'The city that never sleeps'. Hah! It's more like, 'The people that never wake up'.
It had started out, nicely enough. The morning was comfortable, laced with the smells of fresh grass and budding flowers, mixed with the sweet tang of September’s rotting leaves. Then, as the sun rode further on it’s watch, it quickly evolved into one of those paradoxical spring days, that are so typical of the north east coast, at that time of year.
The late afternoon had suffocated in a viscous humid heaviness, sending the temperature of the engine room to well above one thirteen. But as the evening came creeping, the sky started to darken, and, with the help of some grey low hanging clouds, everything just plummeted.
The sun seemed to be chased from the horizon by winds that threatened to quench the very heat from its core. With a cold heart and a very ill will.
Five minutes into my drive, the heavens broke. And a torrent of liquid cascaded from the sky, like a wall of water when a damn's gates open or a levee, long neglected, finally breaks.
Intermittent gusts buffeted against my van, with a solid whoomp over an ominous hollow rumbling.
I had to fight, more than once, to keep the beasts wheels between the yellow and white stripes that designated my lane.
Needing something to wake me up, after the adrenaline rushes slowly faded, I put the drivers window down. Hoping to fight the growing fatigue and the taunting of the light and shadow. The brisk coolness of the air and the icy splinters of spray, that drove through the opening on to my skin, were welcome sensations to my overtaxed shell. The sporadic splashes of rain felt glorious. Invigorating.
Those feelings were not shared, it seemed, by the figure being revealed on the fringe of the old Ford's headlights.
It was a discordant image that caught my attention. A bright flow against the dark, rocky slope and tree-scaped walls of this mountain pass. I watched, as slowly, a slender frame took shape. Topped in light, whitish hair, below shoulder length and matted down straight. Cloth, plastered like a second skin. to the subtle curves they clung to so revealingly. Hands were clenched across opposite arms, rubbing in a swift, steady motion. Desperately losing their battle against an unseen and ruthless adversary.
I knew that kinda cold. Wet, down to the bone chills. Uncontrollable shivers through every muscle. A torturous shaking that stole the energy right from your soul.
‘Ironic,’ I thought, ‘how something so welcome to one person, for some reasons, could be a total discomfort to another, for different ones. Or even one’s own self, under similarly different circumstance.
But that’s life. Isn’t it?’
I raised my foot off the gas pedal, hit the button on my armrest and the passenger window crept its way down. The brake pedal resisted beneath my foot and the old girl slowed, then she came to a gentle stop.
A rain drenched face turned to my direction. Rivulets, glistened in wavy lines, flowing from forehead to chin. Slinking, enviously, down a slender neck. Teeth were clenched tight. Lips, taut and quivering, on the fringe of blue, opened slightly, breathing in more of the cold.
"Want a lift?" I asked.
The words came at me like Morse Code, from a voice lost and freezing. They fought to make themselves heard above the drone of the rain’s chaotic tempo. Tapping, tap tap tapping, incessantly upon the van's metal roof. "I wo would lovvv one. Bbu but I'm sasasoaked, I'll geget your cacar wawet."
"Not a problem. She's seen a lot worse. Water dries, mud turns to dust and vacuums up. Hop in."
The door slowly opened. The dome-light flashed. Everything whitened then slowly came back to view, as my eyes readjusted to the newly, illuminated scene. The once hazy vision became more lucid, as it rose in through the doorway and slid into the seat.
A cute, tomboyish face, wreathed in white, with the faintest hint of champagne. Trembling lips, not on the fringe of blue, as I had first thought, but fully in its color range. Too stiff to even crack a smile. Cheek muscles flexing in unison to the chatter of teeth. White brows and lashes and slightly red, puffy lids, framing piercing, violet eyes. That seemed sullen, yet appreciative.
But it was something else entirely that embellished the scene. A white, button down shirt, almost transparent, clinging, so tightly to the form that it revealed, wonderful shapes and patterns of muscle and the quivering limbs of the body it meshed with. And, the full extent of this beings wintry, pitiful condition, goosebumps.
Yes goosebumps. Tiny lumps of flesh, so pronounced they gave contour to whatever cotton blend the shirt was made of. Making it look like a wet paper towel over rough grit sandpaper. The abstract picture it painted, in my mind, was of a dripping, shuddering mess, cloaked in a heavy, sodden gloom.
The light, of the street lamp above, enhanced this beings silhouette with shadows. They were waifish and smooth, with gentle curves and a sensual, muscular tone. A sculpting, that wasn't so much cut, as it was promised by its fluidity, and gracefully spastic movements. If that makes any sense.
As they fastened the seat-belt, an elegant shifting of limbs contrasted, starkly, against the harsh, pathetic looking, exterior.
"Where are you headed?"
"Mamountain Edgege Sistate Papark."
"East or South entrance?"
"Either wa wone, I'mmmm over bahby the gugugolf course."
I hit the button, raising the windows, pushed the temperature lever to red, turned the fan knob to high and blasted the heat. The V-Eight thrummed as I nudged the accelerator and carefully maneuvered her back on the road.
The silence settled in. Quick, thick and melancholy. The lithesome, isolated figure slouched further into the seat and shivered.
It took some time, but soon enough, the warmth from the vents calmed the more violent tremors that were running through their body. The hot air teased against the shirt's fabric, highlighting dark rings and uncomfortably long protrusions. Contrasting forms wreathed by swells, dips and skintones.
I felt myself starting to rouse, so I forced myself to shift my focus on to other things. It set its sights on the cause of the somber shroud, surrounding the being sulking, in the seat next to me.
"Are you okay?"
There was a slight but sudden shift in the air. Shoulders rose then fell and the words crept at me, monotone, stuttered and low.
"Babetter, thanks. You can tuturn the heat down, if it's totoo much fafor you."
"It's fine, a little more won't kill me and you need it. But that's not what I meant."
"Oh… It's nahnothing."
"That bad huh?"
"It's..."
There was a rise of a chest in the pause.
"...shit."
The sounds tapered off into a desperate exhale. The wipers waved with a futile purpose on the glass, throwing water to the wind slower than the heavens replaced it.
"It’s always, shit. If it wasn’t it wouldn’t weigh so much. If you care to talk about it I'm listening. But I should warn you, I'm pretty good at making things worse sometimes."
A puzzled expression and then a smile, small, half-forced, but nonetheless there, took purchase on their weather worn face. It didn't last long. For soon enough, an apprehensive look crept up and over that wet furrowed brow and labored grin. Transposing itself over the sadness like a black cloud across a moonless night.
You know the face. The one that people get sometimes when they want to shout out and curse the world and circumstances. Or spill their pain in words without knowing where to start, or how to phrase it. Afraid, if they say the wrong thing, you'll look at them like they're some sort of freak, and toss em out, back into the cold, back into the arms of that soulless, hollow bitch, whose bonds they'd just escaped.
Yeah! That look.
Water rushed down the windshield like I was driving through a waterfall.
"It's jjjust... I..."
Words fell away and that sullen face just stared straight ahead. Gazing at nothing. Lost in thought and suffocating in it.
"Look, I've seen some shit in my fifty plus years, one thing I learned is this..." I felt the turn, more than saw it, as their eyes focused on the side of my face, "Sometimes. A stranger's ears are the very best medicine."
"Sastranger's ears, huh? Sometatimes, I thathink that's all that susurrounds m-me."
There was a subtle movement, a light corn-silk wave, as they turned to look out the passenger window. Energy drifted away, grabbing at thought. That dark cloak pulled itself tighter.
"I gaguess, I'm just… depressed."
I could hear an inner struggle and uneasiness, in the shifting tones and warbling sighs.
"Shit! I'm tatwenty-three years old and I've nanever even been kissed!"
"Why not? You're pretty damn cute. I'd kiss you."
“Are you gay?”
"Not in the least bit.”
“I have a dick.”
"So?"
"So? Ddo you still wawanna kiss me?"
"That’s not… Look, what I meant was, you’re cute,” I took a quick look over then back to the road, "I’d say beautiful even, in an odd, science fictiony, anime, sorta way. So how the hell is it, that you’ve never been kissed?"
"Don't be sorry. I just asked because that doesn't make, any sense to me."
His head bent forward and he stared at the dashboard. He seemed to put up a wall, waiting for something to happen. When it didn't, the veil lightened. But it didn't drop away completely.
"If you want to talk. I've got time to listen to complicated. Especially, depressingly complicated. Been there, seen it, lived it. Fought my way out, on more than one occasion."
His look changed a few times. Trepidation. Fear. Loneliness. Sorrow. And a couple more emotions, that I couldn't quite read, drifted across that forlorn face. Then a spark set into those watery eyes, as he looked at me and realized I wasn't judging. I wasn't freaked out or intimidated or whatever and even though I had confessed an attraction, I didn't blame him for it. Nor, was I accusing him of playing some sick game and fucking with my sense of self. I had just accepted him, as a person with a problem, and was willing to hear him out.
After a bit more mental wrestling, his brain surrendered to its need for, something. Anything other than that oppressive weight bearing down. Solitude enhancing the turmoil.
"Ppeople just haven’t reacttted to me in a kindly mamanner and there's other th-things that..." Another pause of voice, but I didn’t hear a struggle in their breathing this time, "Wawait, slow down, there’s a rrred mailbox coming up, that's mmme. My house is jjjust after it, the driveway on the raright."
I pulled up a long, very worn driveway. Steered under an overhang. Edged up, behind the car that was parked there. Put the brake to its limit and stopped.
A sudden gust of wind whipped into the Ford's three ton shell, rocking her with stomach clenching force.
We sat in silence for a few intermittent swipes of the wipers. They started ribbiting from the friction of dry glass under the rubber blades sweeping motions. I shut them off and put the van in park, waiting for his thoughts to return. Or for his courage to fail and then for him to take his leave.
The seat-belt unlatched and his body hunched down. He shivered a little, found the door handle and began to fidget with it, then he sighed, staring blindly through the windshield.
"I've gagot problems!"
"Ha! Don't we all. There's not a person in this world who's wrapped right. The sad part is, the ones that think they are, they're more messed up than most. Hell, some of my best friends went right passed issues, directly to subscrlptlons. I may even have a couple of lifetime ones myself."
Another smile crept up, still forced, but this one sparkled, with more than a glimmer of honesty. The trembling settled but hadn't stopped. I wondered, then, how much was from the cold, and how much was really the weariness.
"You should get out of that wet shit, before you really get sick."
Thin fingers slipped through the silvered handle and paused. His eyes stared at the chrome, like it was a gateway to some uncertain future, or the lever to a slot machine he had just put his last dollar in.
"Would you, maybe, lalike to come in and hang out for a babit, get you a drdrink for the ride? I don't feel like sasleeping, yet. Hell, I don't even know if I cacould."
"Sure."
We walked up a time-worn, but neatly sloped, cobblestone path. Stopping on the porch of a nice, albeit weathered, A-frame house. The cold took hold of his control again. His hands trembled with such ferocity that he couldn't slip the brass into the slot. I took the keys and unlocked the door.
We stepped into the entryway and shut the chaos behind us.
The inside was quaint. Colonial. Almost all wood and stone. It had the cozy air of a well loved home. The smell of old pine and oak mixed with the essences of firewood and smoke. Creating a scent that only enhanced the Alpine feel of the place. It was the kind of place I’d want to escape to after a hard week of work. Or days very similar to this.
I sat down on the stairs and removed my boots. He kicked off his shoes and socks, then took my boots and put them side by side, on a mat by the door. I pulled off my socks and tossed them on the pile.
The worn, blue slate, tile met my feet with cool, soothing energy. Instantly, pulling hours of heat away.
"Damn! That feels good! I could slip into a happy coma right here."
He grinned, turned and walked up the stairs to the living room. I looked up to follow and my brain, along with another part of my anatomy, took notice. His hips had a gentle sway, not forced, but natural, sultry. I shook at the imagery and pushed it away.
"Nice place. Reminds me of an old Adirondack lodge I used to love to stay at as a kid. I like it."
"Me too, It’s cacozy and warm and chacheap enough. I can't afford to sspend too much and go to sk-school."
"Hold on! You're going to school and working enough to pay for this?"
"Hmm? Oh no. I got a settlement from a lllawsuit and a bbbit from insurance. Not a huge amount, but enough to start a dadecent life. If, I'm smart on spending, I can finish school, travel a babit, then start my own thing. Although… I think I already hahave."
Home, safe from the biting chill and a little less frozen, an unrefined, but genuine, graciousness started to take over. His demeanor became more open and welcoming, more hospitable. The cloud lifted a little and an inner warmth began to emerge, as a friendliness, always there but rarely given a chance to be seen or shared, remembered itself and started to push out against the grim.
"Sorry about the mamess, I don't usually have anyone over."
"You call this a mess? HAH! I've got a pathway carved in clothes, from my bedroom door to my bed. I've put in thirteen to sixteen hours a day, going on over two weeks straight now. Trust me, when I tell you, this place, is immaculate."
"At least you have sasome overtime pay to look forward to."
"Overtime? Ha Ha ha hmmmm. No! I'm salaried."
"That sucks."
"It is, what it is."
He picked up some things from the couch, despite having started to shake again. His voice sounded, easier, even if it was still a bit tremolo. Oddly, it seemed softer and more feminine in it’s range.
"Hey! You wawant something to eeeat?"
"Thanks, but I'm good. I grabbed a burger before I left work."
"A beer… or some sssmoke? I usually don’t do either... but lately…” His voice trailed off into the quiet again.
"Not unless you're planning on me being here a few hours. I won’t do either one of those and drive, never mind both."
"That’s okay. I've got nnnothing to do, and I could uuse the company."
"Cool, I'm in. Jobs done. So I have a couple days coming to me. Whatever you got. I'm Joe by the way."
"Sandy."
“Nice to meet you, Sandy."
"You too… And Joe, thanks for the ride."
"No worries, go dry up, we'll talk when your done."
He handed me the remote and headed on down the hall.
I put the remote on the table next to me and just laid back into the couch. Thankful, as I settled into it, that I had done ‘the ole men’s room two step’ before I left work.
"So! What's this business you think you already started."
One door shut. A gentle pitter-patter, plodded on the pine plank floor. Another door opened, with an aged creek, but it didn't close. Words reverberated down the narrow hallway in reply.
"I do pieces for cosplay outfits, mostly l-e-d stuff, scanners, helmamets, anything with lights."
"Really? Sounds like fun. If you ever need some welding or grinding done, lemme know."
"You weld? Cool. I actually have some pieces I wanted to make out of metal. That would be perfect."
"I put my card on the table over here."
"Seriously? You'd give me a hand?"
"Sure. I like that kinda shit, I'm weird like that. And there's never a bad reason to start some sparks flying. Grinding, welding, cutting steel or stone, it's all good fun."
"What other stuff can you do?"
"In my line of work, all kinds, electrical, mechanical, carpentry. All kinds of shit. I've done some leather work, but I'm not great at it. I'm crafty in general though. Especially at work. Sometimes I feel like Macguyver. Without the fucking brains."
I thought I heard a chuckle coming from his direction but I couldn't be sure.
"And you really wouldn't mind?"
"Not at all. Like I said, it's fun. I enjoy using my hands, fixing and creating stuff."
"I'm almost done, gimme a sec."
"Take your time, I'm tactical."
It wasn't that many ticks on the clock before I heard those soft plodding footsteps walking back my way.
He had changed into light-grey flannel pants and a matching shirt. Still barefoot. He handed me two beers, the weed and pointed to the bowl on the lamp table, then turned and walked over to a very old, pot-bellied stove and fed in some of the wood from the pile next to it.
Stiff hands fumbled with the lighter a couple of times. It refused his attempts, then, shot abruptly out of his grip and skittered to a rest by my feet.
"Want me to fire that up?”
"Paplease! My fingers don't seem to be waworking right."
I took the lighter from the floor and sparked it, put the flame to the kindling and watched it singe, smolder and flare. I placed the tinder under the neatly arranged pieces.
Yellow tendrils became flashes and roared upwards. The fire danced, slowly at first, then forced itself to life, hypnotically swaying to it's own quiet song. The heat came off in waves and ignited the rest of the wood, in a violent fury.
The smells of apple-wood and maple soon hinted on the air. Leaving a sweet lingering aftertaste in the back of my throat. He rubbed his hands together, very near the opening, allowing the heat to thaw and loosen their muscles and frozen joints. His fingers were elegant and toned.
I sat back into the couch and took in the scene. The firelight painted images, in the shadows of his shirt, that commandeered my attention. Images of feminine points and profiles and curves, the likes of which my fingers, more than once, had held. My mind began to empathize with his issues. My libido began to deny his gender once again.
I grabbed the beer twisted off the cap, and took a long sip. The taste, unfamiliar to me for a long time, made me cringe, but the coolness was crisp and soothing to my very dry throat. I put the bottle back to my mouth and took a bigger swallow. It burned, icy and wet. Two fifths of the bottle was gone and I felt it lull the thoughts from me. I put it down next to the pipe. My head rested back into the cushion and my thoughts got lost in the blaze.
After a few minutes he shut the door to the stove and came over to the couch, settling into it with an exhausted whoomf. The soft shirt peaked, revealing a chest a little further out and a little fuller than one would expect, from such a thin guys frame. Any guys frame actually.
There was a noticeable jiggle, slight, but unmistakable. Contours, revealed under the streetlight, were now accentuated by the shifting of the grey flannel fabric. The disturbance underneath it recalled, in my brain, memories of shapes more maidenly.
"Is that what the lawsuit was about?"
"What?"
"Those breasts."
A hand went up absently and squeezed the placket of his shirt self consciously. Whether it was out of instinct towards self preservation or modesty, or a learned response to some torment from the past, I couldn't quite be sure.
"Yeah. Sorta!"
"Don't be embarrassed. I was just taking notice and doing the math."
"It's okay, I jajust..."
"I'm guessing that, that mixture of parts, has a lot to do with your issues?"
"Ya think?"
His eyes looked down for a second and his weight slumped further into the seat.
"Sorry Joe. I Didn't mean to snap, I..."
"It's okay," I cut him off, "I get it. I can empathize. But I'm thinking in ways that you're not thinking. And, maybe in one or two that you are."
"Huh?"
"Wow! That was a bit confusing wasn't it. I don't think my brain’s made it all the way out of work yet. That beer might not be helping things either. Been a long time for that."
"Thank god. I had a couple at the bar, I'm pretty buzzed myself. And I think, maybe, something was in one that I didn’t ask for. I'm just glad it wasn't just me."
"Wise ass." I put my hand out and gave him a short friendly push. He flinched a little, then sat up straight again. "Let me try to explain. I'm good at seeing different angles. And it seems, curves too I guess."
"Funny. Funny. Rub it in, why don’t you."
"Don't tempt me."
That elfish face flushed. He shifted a bit, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapped both arms around his shins. I twisted off the other beer’s cap and handed it to him. He took a swig, then rested it on the end table by his side, shaking his head in distaste.
"Better? Can I continue with the collective ramblings of a well seasoned lunatic?"
There was a shrug. His gaze turned toward the crackling stove, as he quietly acquiesced.
"There's quite a few reasons I can see. You're either really apprehensive about people thinking you're a freak. You were bullied, or you hid for so long you can't let people in anymore? It could be someone did something to you that fucked the situation in your head up even more? Or maybe, just maybe, your confidence is so low, your need so deep, you, unwillingly, force people to put you into that poor soul, or worse yet, that creepy quiet category?"
I searched his eyes to see if he was keeping up. More to see, if I was even making any sense. I saw contemplation, in his look, that told me both were probably true. But there was also a hint of a furrow, that told me, I was somehow, a little off. I got lost in those orbs for a beat or two. Then I shook myself out of their depth and continued.
"People are weird. A lot of times they seem to freak out, over things that really have no bearing on their lives. I mean if so and so is gay, or that girl likes to play football, or that guy has a third testicle, is it really interfering in YOUR fucking life? Is it taking food off your table or decreasing your paycheck? NO? Then why is it such a concern? I don’t get them sometimes. It’s like there’s something inside them that is afraid who they are will change, if they don’t freak out and cleanse themselves of the cooties by acting like two year olds."
There was half a chuckle and a grunt of agreement, then another quiet. His eyes stared blankly at the TV's, dark, lifeless screen.
"Look. I'm a skinny mother fucker. been like this my whole life. I wore thick glasses, had curly hair, my skin was not WASPish enough and my last name too Italian, to pronounce, never mind blend in. I was the target of every bully around, who preyed on the weak. But I was skinny, not weak. Though I did let them convince me, for a while, that I was. Then when I had had enough and I finally stood up and fought back, I hit harder and quicker than they could imagine. The damage I did took me by surprise too. I still felt the same pain, but they felt it more. Adrenaline and fury are a very explosive mix. After a few dust ups, they all started walking on the other side of the street, or just shut the hell up and left me alone. As the years passed, there was always someone new who needed to prove himself a man. To his friends or girls or whatever club he was prospecting for. And they always looked for the easiest mark. But by then, I found ways to stop it, most of the time before I needed to throw a punch in return. This," I emphasized, pointing both hands at my lanky frame, "is my burden to bear. That's, yours. Deal with it. Make it work for you."
His head slumped forward as he processed my words, then it tilted back and came to a rest on the cushion. Weary eyes stared up at the ceiling blankly, then closed. I could see his chest rise as he breathed in long and hard, trying to push down against what was rising.
He exhaled heavily, lost that tenuous grip and broke the hell down.
His head turned away, trying to hide the tear, but I could see them glistening on his cheek, as whatever it was he going through just forced itself up from deep, down inside. The somberness, mixed with a buzz and the cold, tore down the defenses, of what I now realized had been a very, stoic facade. It had been nothing more than a mask of sadness, that hid the true depth of the turmoil on the other side.
That cute, tomboyish face was framed in delicate hands. His back was constricting and flexing in an effort to contain his sobs. An attempt to salvage some visage of strength. And still, he had enough self esteem left to urge himself to try and hide the pain.
I fucking hate when people cry. It turns off something in me. It makes me stone. My thoughts stop dead. Never really knowing the right thing to say. Everybody is different in how they want to be consoled. Some things, sometimes even the most innocent of things, just make matters worse. Depending on that individuals experiences. But most of the time, just a simple hand on a shoulder can help wear it out.
So it was, without thought, that my arm stretched out and my hand settled, sympathetically on his back. He trembled and breathed a heavy, heart wrenching sigh, then slid down my arm, right into my chest. Like he was falling into sanctuary.
I didn’t have the heart to stop him.
His whole being was still slightly chilled. And it felt, so good, against my overheated skin. So, I just let him be. He pushed further under my arm and cried, feverishly. Tears soaked into the fabric of my shirt. Sobs merged with the hisses and ticks of the fire, they resonated through my chest.
"I'm sorry.....I swear I don't know what's frakking wrong with me tonight."
"No worries. I did warn you that I can make things worse sometimes. I'm not going anywhere, so just spill it."
The last vestiges of tears ended in a few hard, sharp gasps, a deep breath, an exhale and a wiping of the eyes.
"Sorry your shirt is soaked."
"Not a fucken issue. It was still damp from the rain. Besides it ain't nothing but salt water and pain. And I've seen enough of the latter myself, that I can deal with the former on my clothes."
As he nuzzled his head into my chest and shivered, the hairs stood up on the back of my arm, and I noticed a growing firmness in my pants, that took me by surprise.
"Thanks, I'm just, I guess everything’s just too much today. You’re right about a lot of things."
It got quiet as he captured his thoughts and pondered how to continue. I could feel his breath become steadier and calm.
"Look, like I said before, I’ve seen a lot of shit in this world. So, I’m probably not gonna be shocked by anything you say. So what happened?"
For the first time, I guess in a long time, he decided to take a chance. The door had been opened and it was time to step outside, into the light and just, let someone see.
The words to come, were not anywhere close to what I expected.
"My mother and father tried for years to have a kid. Both my parents, it turned out, were less fertile than they needed to be. They went to specialist after specialist and when that didn't work they went to others. Well it turns out certain therapies should not be mixed. The doctors didn't know it at the time, or in their arrogance they just didn’t care, so..." There was a twist, a heavy swallow, then a final sigh of committal. "One day the therapies took. My mom got pregnant and 7 1/2 months later, I was born. Premature and totally frelled up. Underweight, some organs not fully formed, with a lot of health problems and issues. I spent five months in ICU"
There was a really long sigh and some heavy sobbing, mewls that went deeper than before. So deep, they tore into me and made my heart fall.
He steeled his resolve and continued, “My parents searched everywhere looking for help. One trip, cost me both of them. The only two people I ever had in my life that loved me regardless, and they were gone. The best part of it all… every now and then, I get ambushed. A great day of raging sadness, for no damn reason, creeps in and twists me up. Kinda like today."
I laughed.
He looked up at me, with shocked eyes and an expression that bordered on betrayal.
"Ah shit little one. That happens to everybody now and then. You wake up and the world is just... fucked." The shock dissipated, he turned his head and nestled back in. "For no good reason. It just is, to you. Then you go to work and it shits on you some more, out for a few drinks and it's fucks you even harder. Hell even just watching a movie can rile it up for no reason. Everybody has those days. And you, my friend, have definitely got a brain load of shit to navigate. I mean, from what you’re saying, I'm surprised it doesn't happen once a week."
I let him be for a bit, his mind in thought, his head against my chest, curled up, with his knees pressed up against my thigh.
My mind drifted.
Thoughts and distant echos purged my aches. Once faded faces came back to view, bringing with them a sense of things. I felt a calm emanating around me. A calm I hadn't felt in many years. Not since the last time I comforted a friend, who had just lost her mother. All she needed, was for someone to just be there and let her cry. So that’s what I set my mind to.
He sniffed and adjusted his frame more comfortably.
The faces fleeted and fell away.
Yet the calm somehow remained. It seemed to have taken root in him as well.
I looked down and saw my hand moving through strands of white silk. I had been stroking his hair unconsciously. For how long I didn't know. His softness and curves defied my understanding that this body had parts similar to mine. The smoothness of his skin, the feminine shapes, even the position of things, recalled in me, the times I held girlfriends, or female-friends, in an attempt to steal their pain. Or share in the quiet of an afterglow.
Some of those same women whose faces, just seconds ago, had stolen into and out of my memory.
I searched for a way to detract his thoughts from this melancholy. And mine from the more erotic ones, it was once again having. An X-box Three Sixty, nestled under the TV caught my attention.
"What video games do you play?" Stupid, I know, but it seemed like a start.
He responded, half-heartedly at first, then, as time passed, more enthusiastically. Our discourse continued and the tentative exchange soon escalated into a steady banter. We chatted, for awhile, about movies and cosplay, science fiction, science fact and all kinds of geeky-chic. Anything, to get his mind off the train of fuckall running rampant through that overburdened cranium.
Anything to get the blood flow out of the little head and back into my own brain.
The conversation lulled into a comfortable silence.
"Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette?"
His response came soft, almost absently, "Nnhnn, go ahead."
"I can roll it with some weed, if you care to partake. It is yours after all."
"Mmm, I don’t smoke much, barely ever, but yeah I’ll join you. It’s been a day, what the hell."
I got out my pouch and pulled out a paper. Creased a pocket in the long side, opposite the glue. Sprinkled in a little weed and covered it with some fine whole-leaf tobacco. I rolled it methodically and purposefully.
Half the fun of rolling your own cigarettes, is getting it just so. It's therapeutic, meditative, almost zen. You could never get it perfect, but that didn't mean you shouldn't try.
I lit it, took a nice hit, then I put it to his lips and held it for him. He took a nice slow draw and coughed. His arm pushed behind me, his body went soft and his hands found each other around my side. His fingers entwined, holding me tighter. Like he had found a puppy, thought lost, or a buoy to cling to in a terrible sea. It was a hug of gratitude, it was comfortable, endearing. And somewhat, protective.
Between having my first beer in years, and now having some really nice bud in me, I was settled in nicely. The still slight, coolness of his body was soothing. The embrace was warm and welcoming. I held the smoke to his lips again.
My brain went back in time once more. The Smokey Mountains. Sunrise. The world in fog. Leaning back against my Harley by a campfire. Janine, cuddled up to me, bare as a newborn. Her head on my chest as I put a joint to her lips. The misty veil lifted and the world, slowly unfurled. She drew in deep…
And so did he.
His fingers released their grip on each other and his body shifted to a more relaxed position. One hand came to rest on my stomach, just below his chin, the other stayed behind the crook in my back.
The mood grew lighter and more casual as the minutes slipped away to friendly conversation. His body started warming from my shared heat.
Sometime, during our lighthearted exchange, his free hand found its way to the fabric on my pants, it started playing with the seams. I felt fingertips, absentmindedly, tracing the lines of the denim on my thigh. Not with the intention to excite, mind you, more like a subconscious desire, to feel, to touch, to communicate. Or maybe they were just moving involuntarily, of their own accord.
I felt that heat starting to build again. There was a throb and a twitch, as the circles, he was now tracing on my leg, were getting closer to that place, where ‘i’ was trapped against my thigh. Slowly, his fingers grazed. Not lustful, but inquisitive. Their intention seemed to be more on the texture and the feel of the fabric, not on the object so close to them. Nor, on the effect they may have had upon it. I felt myself throb and grow. They were having it.
I brushed my fingers down his neck, out of either, habit and illusion, or curiosity. Or want, or need, or God knows what the fuck was running through my mind. Whatever the impetus was, they roamed effortlessly, from his shoulder down his arm.
He sighed when my hand slid to his waist, up his ribs and found the side of a small firm breast. He jerked at the touch. His hand gripped my thigh tighter. He exhaled heavy, his body settling as the air left him.
My hand smoothed over his ribs and relaxed on his stomach.
He raised his hand, scratched his nose and rubbed his eyes, then it found its way back to my thigh, casually, and made itself home again. His thumb slipped into my pocket and stayed there. Motionless, yet so damn enticing.
It wasn't too long before I felt those fingers return to their wanderings. Sliding softly, up and down my thigh.
The quiet had settled around us peacefully, interrupted only by the crackle and pops of the stove and the occasional, hushed, breathy purl.
I slid my hand around the curve of his chest and cupped it. He stiffened hard, sighed and melted back into me. Then I felt him push himself back to my palm, just a little.
His hand, slid across my leg, tucking in between, firmly gripping my inner thigh. Lean fingers pressed over my shaft and took its curve. His head shifted, ever so slightly, from the stove to where his hand was searching and I could feel his piercing eyes inquisitively joining the play. Watching with a burning curiosity.
I weighed a breast hungrily in my palm. It was firm yet yielding. I felt a rising, a very stiff desire. It was still a bit cool, even through the warmth of his shirt, but the firmness heated my blood just the same.
He half sighed a moan. His hand slipped deeper between my legs. His body pressed closer into mine and my cock throbbed. Not just from his touch but also from the enjoyably, supple mound of feminine flesh, that was encased in my hand. And that hard stiff nipple that pressed into it, wantingly. Teasing it back with each rise of his chest.
I slowly moved my hand down the side of his stomach, to his leg, down to the tender indentation on the back of his knee. I adventurously stroked the back of his thigh, up to the feminine curves of his ass.
The signals, on my fingers, contradicted what I knew, with what I could feel. His hand clenched, involuntarily, around the bulge in my jeans, gripping tighter in reaction to my movements. My cock pulsed again and pushed itself further into his grip.
His ass urged itself back and into my touch. Exposing the effect I was having on him and the equally hard presence that pushed out from his pants. Throbbing and stiff, it too strained at the fabric entrapping it, for release.
Our breathing matched our anxiousness, the desire that was building inside us, fueled it and awakened in each other a need. A daring desire to just flow, with whatever this night might bring.
His body arched into my hand, as I traced the curve of his cheek, up to the small of his back, then returning, to the softness above his slender legs. It was small but plump, not hard, not mushy, but firm and curvy, and so incredibly warm against my wandering hand.
"Is there anymore of that cigarette left?" He gasped more than spoke. The words breaking the sounds that were filling our heads with intensity.
"Mmhm."
I reached to the ashtray, took the half-joint and lit it. Then I held it just there so he could take a hit. He put his lips to it, inhaled and leaned his head back into me.
"Shotgun."
He looked up at me quizzically.
"Kids these days… What do they teach you at school? When you're ready to exhale, blow the smoke so I can take a second-hand hit."
He acknowledged with a half-smile and a nod, held it a little longer, then he tilted his head upwards, offering me his mouth. He pursed his soft supple lips and exhaled. I opened my mouth in an tight o and drew it in. His eyes danced between my lips and my eyes.
I know because I was watching them.
Their tone shifted, for just a split second, from a shockingly deep, purple to an almost cerulean, blue. Was it how the light had caught them or some trick of the subconscious.
Either way, I'd seen that icy blue before. But where?
My mind decided to answer that question with a very specific memory. Mmm, Rene. Daytona Beach. Bike Week. It was her last day in the states. We rode down to New Smyrna and made love in a grove of palm trees just off the shore. I stared into those eyes as they pierced into my very being. My brain transposed, I could taste the salt air, the sand and her lips. I could smell her heat, just like it was here and now.
My vision returned and I was enraptured by his gaze.
His color had returned. He was still pale, but a lot less blue. His cheeks had the rosy hue of reheated blood. How much of that was temperature and how much the cause of touch, I couldn't say.
My hand was nestled firmly in a valley of soft flannel and warm flesh. His slender fingers were pressed into me as he held his face up to mine and, in some very odd, very serene way, I was quite okay with that.
Now normally, just the thought of a guy's lips being, not even, this close to mine would make me gag a little. But I wasn't feeling that. A few guys, not many, have hit on me in my day. A couple of them, finding me to be 'unyielding to the their charms', gave me the bullshit line, 'Well you just haven't met the right guy yet'. Insinuating, by that remark, that they were, if, I just gave them the chance. My response to them, was usually something to the effect of, “You have a point, and judging by the fact, that we are not going at it hot and heavy in the parking lot right now. Well you’re right and I still haven’t met him yet,”
Now, here I was, a breath away from a guys lips, my hand on his ass, his hands holding me firm and I was nowhere near needing an airsick bag.
But this was not a stereotypical guy, or one who had taken hormones to be a girl. Or a boy trying to pass himself off as female, with great make up and even better fashion sense. No, this was a being, that I knew had male parts. And not just any guy, but the one guy that I have ever told, or definitely even felt, that I could honestly enjoy kissing. Albeit, before I knew which hardware was installed, but still, what’s done is done. What's said, is said. What's felt is felt.
There was more than a hint of electricity in the air. Not quite the way it gets, when that feminine olfactory wonderfulness fills my skull, with whatever drug it mixes and twists and burns inside me. But it was there, sparking to life. There were no hearts beating faster or skipping, a little stronger yes, but not faster. It was a slow, tenuous thumping though, and man, was it, pounding.
Not only was I attracted to his body, the womanly features, that otherworldly look and those fucking amazing, piercing magenta eyes. But I liked him, as a person. I thought he was good people. And even if circumstances hid the truth sometimes, I didn't think, this, was one of those times. He seemed genuinely nice.
And the feeling of his body pressed to mine, was undeniably, weirdly, comfortable.
It was foreign. Not uncharted. But definitely a little off course. And totally fucking erotic, in a taboo sorta way, but comfortable.
Yet, there was also an essence here. A familiar chemistry. One I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
And, I've never been one to run from an experience that I might enjoy, or ones that could have gotten me killed for that matter. If the cause was right, or there was good fun involved. I mean, hell, I left the ground in quite a few more planes than I landed back on terra firma in.
So whatever was going to happen, was going to happen, even if it was nothing. But, if it did happen, it was gonna be really… interesting.
So I took another hit, of that sweet mellow mix, and moved in to return the shotgun. Our faces moved precariously close again. I exhaled. His lips parted and he breathed it in.
I couldn't help myself. By some force of Id, or an involuntary act of my odd sense of humor, I squeezed his ass, right when the first whiffs of smoke entered his throat.
My pinky grazed that sensitive ring between his cheeks. His eyes widened, he straightened up and his forehead pressed to mine. He sucked the smoke deep, shuttered, coughed and gasped. Our eyes locked.
The expression on his face changed from shock, to 'I liked that?' and then to, 'He did that and I liked it!'. His head pitched forward slightly from the sensations running up his spine. His nose brushed tip to tip with mine. He rolled his back into the pleasure he found on my fingertips and half closed his eyes. He hovered there, angled his face closer and inhaled the smoke, deeply, slowly.
His hand move up my back and started caressing my neck. Tingles teased into every hair of my being.
His fingers entwined in my hair, then pushed tenderly into my scalp.
There was a gentle request, spoken from their tips, inviting me closer.
No, they weren’t just inviting me, they were wanting me closer. Hoping and willing me there.
My head went slowly forward, tempting the distance between us. His fingers fondled firmly at the fullness, under the fabric, in his palm.
Now, it was my turn to gasp as he squeezed and pushed up my length. There was a throb and I ground myself up, trying to break through my jeans, into the fingers that had caused it. The awkward angle adding to its desire to be free.
He twisted and pulled his knees up to my side, my hand slid deeper into the recess. I felt for that distinctive depression and traced a line, from it, to the soft flesh of the ring I had grazed before. His eyes grew big, then wanting. He leaned in, matching my tempo. The distance between us, tauntingly close. I brushed my nose alongside his. Two hard points press into my chest and another, hotter, hardness grind into my side.
His fingers whispered at my neck once more.
He opened his mouth slightly, beckoning me with its promise.
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