“Abel told me only fags write poems. Then he burnt my notebook of works.” I could tell he hadn’t meant to let that slip. His eyes flared after his confession.
“Abel is your father?” I asked, still cradling his face. I never wanted to let go. A pox on Hank and his heavy-handed ways. May his prick go soft and stay flaccid forevermore.
“Yeah. That’s…this ain’t about me.”
“Mmm, I think this about both of us. Our baggage. Our pasts. I am so very sorry for leading you on then not delivering.” I kissed him softly. He moved into the kiss, slipping an armaround my back to cinch me closer but not too close or not too roughly. “If you want I’d be happy to suck you off.”
“Nope, no, that’s…nope. We’re not doing nothing out of a feeling of being obligated. That’s not how this works. You’re allowed to change your mind, Aubrey. No matter what or when or where. I gather someone was unkind to you, maybe held you down or something?” I nodded as my hands fell from his face to rest on his shoulders. I began to pick nervously at the sling tight to his left clavicle. The bruising was fading, and I could see the tip of the red scar where his shoulder had been pieced back together. “Hey, look up here.” I peeked upward. He was so handsome. Why had I ruined what should have been an incredible sexual encounter by being a stooge?! “I am so sorry someone abused you that way. We do not have to ever do that. Penetration isn’t the ultimate goal. There are so many ways to show affection, to please each other. If it’s too frightening for you then we skip it.”
“I just…I never really cared for it. Anal. But he did, he loved it, and so he sort of…when I didn’t want to he would…”
“You don’t have to go into detail. That will never happen with us. I’m not that sort of guy. I want you to be happy and satisfied.”
“I mean I would if you insisted…”
“Nope. Never going to happen. What we do is perfect.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am ten thousand percent sure.”
“You’re the best man I have ever met.”
His eyes lit up as if I had handed him…well, something a famous bull rider would have owned that would be a fabulous present.
“Not so sure about that.”
“It’s my truth. Just know that I want to kiss you a lot. And do more. I just…I’ve been telling myself I would never give anyonemy heart again and then you came along and…well, I liked you so much. I freaked out. I am sorry.”
“Nah, don’t apologize. Please. Maybe not riding the full eight seconds was a good thing. Sometimes being tossed to the dirt teaches you a thing or two. Like to take things slow and gentle. I never want to make you feel scared of me. I know I’m pretty big compared to you. I will never rough you around or make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
“I know. I sense that about you. May I kiss you?”
“Please.”
So I did, a long exploratory kiss that led us from the floor to my bed, fully clothed, eager to touch arms and chests through our clothes.
“Can we cuddle?” I asked, averting my eyes in case his grew hard like Hank’s used to whenever I asked for a hug.
“Sure. Get on in here. Let me take this off.” He went to remove his sling.
“Let me help.”
He did, with a soft smile, and soon we were curled on the bed, me on his lap, lying on him as if he were a big, flannel cowpoke tatami mat. I’d found my glasses on the floor and returned them to my face as he watched with approval.
“Does your shoulder hurt? Would you like another pillow?”
“No, it’s good. This is…perfect.” He dropped a kiss to my hair. “I like your glasses. And your face. They look good on you.”
“Thank you. It took me an hour to decide on these frames.” My cheek lay on his right pectoral, my arm across his firm belly. Since I’d been such a ninny earlier I made sure not to get my fingers anywhere near his crotch. Not that I didn’t want to touch his dick—did and badly—but tonight was not the night for that. “Would you like some coffee, or tea, or maybe a little snack?”
“Aubrey, this is about as fine as anything in my life has been for a long, long time. Stay put and stop fretting over me. If I’m thirsty I know where the faucet is.”
“Yes, right, sorry. I just want you to be happy.” I ran a finger over the back of his left hand. There were scars scattered over his knuckles, raised and white with age, that I traced with a fingertip. The house was quiet. Somewhere nearby Roberto was crowing. I hoped he was in the shed and not on a tree limb. I had to get him settled into a coop with some lady chickens soon before something came along in the night. Same with Ruggerio. I wanted to get him indoors at night at the very least. That would come after he was neutered.
“I am. Stop fretting.” He rubbed the space between my shoulders.
“This is very nice.” He made a sleepy sound of agreement. “Can you tell me about your other poems? Are there lots?”
