Page 67 of Grumpy Bear

I loved it. Every second of it. I tried to hang on to every image, every sensation, so I could relive it in memory. If it never happened again, it was happening now. I didn’t care about anything else right then as long as Luke didn’t stop.

“Coleman.”

“Yeah, fuck me. It’s yours. It’s all yours.”

Luke’s eyes snapped to mine, his mouth torn open in the most tortured expression, and his hips stopped moving. He thrust home one last time and shouted, coming hard. He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me down on his cock as far as possible as he unloaded through three more blasts.

“Stay there,” I begged him, grabbing my cock and jacking myself furiously. “Stay in me.” I needed to come with the fullness of him inside me. I only needed a few more seconds.

He waited for me, watching, never looking away.

My cum shot through my belly hair, my chest hair, striping my beard.

“Fuck.” Luke stroked my arms, petting me as I caught my breath. “Damn.”

When my breathing finally calmed down, his grin relaxed into the fondest smile. When his softening cock slipped out of me, Luke gave an enormous sigh, and I swear to fucking God, his eyes were welling up.

He rolled away from me, off the bed, looking for the trash can and muttering about a towel.

29

Luke

After I wiped us down with a wet washcloth—a whore bath Coleman called it—he lay back on the bed and opened his arm to me. I smiled, suddenly feeling a little shy, but so fucking happy to get to cuddle in close with my head on his shoulder. Whatever dominant streak had possessed me was gone for the moment. After all the highs and surges of emotion I’d experienced that evening, feeling small and being held against his strong body were the feelings I’d gladly hold on to for as long as I could.

We stayed like that for a few minutes, silent except for contented sighs and a few satisfied groans when he squeezed me, pulling me tighter against him.

There were so many things I wanted to ask him. Even though I no longer believed there was anything between him and Trey, I still wasn’t comfortable asking him about it. I didn’t want to spoil the mood by bringing up the rumor I’d heard, about how he only fucked people on their last night. If that were true, then he’d clearly made an exception for me, and this—us—had to be too real for any of his rules. But I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing him say otherwise or causing him to regret breaking his self-imposed rules for me.

There was one thing he’d said at the swimming hole that stuck out to me. Something I felt like I could get away with asking. “What did you mean when you said you were a stray too?”

Coleman went entirely still. For a few heartbeats I thought I might have blown it and killed the moment. I braced for him to pull away.

He let out a huge breath and scanned the dark ceiling like he was reading or watching something there. “I was basically a runaway.” His throat clicked dryly, and his voice was low and resonant, rumbling through his chest. “My dad was an alcoholic who beat the shit out of us.”

I didn’t want to do anything to interrupt or discourage this story. I reached across his chest and gave his shoulder a squeeze. What could I have said anyway? Sorry felt unnecessary, too lame and too small a word.

He patted my arm in acknowledgment. “My older brother and sister got the fuck out of there as soon as they were out of high school.”

“What about your mom?” I was careful not to move, praying he wouldn’t clam up on me.

“She died when I was thirteen. Breast cancer. It was awful as I’m sure you can imagine. And it made my daddy worse. He’d been bad before, but after she was gone… Fuck. He lost his shit entirely.” Coleman shook his head at the memory before continuing. “My sister, Evie, was always inviting me to come stay with her and her husband, Tony, just to get me out of that house. Tony didn’t want me there though. They were newlyweds, and I wasn’t exactly an angel. I started going out and partying pretty hard before I was even old enough to drive. We were in Morrow, which is south of Atlanta, so I’d hitch rides with anybody who’d take me into the city. Got into all kinds of shit. Drinking, smoking weed, dropping acid. Ecstasy was big. I’m not proud of it, but I don’t regret it either. I had a shit ton of fun. But nobody wanted their teenage brother coming home wasted like that. Evie was afraid I was gonna get AIDS, and Tony tried to sit me down and have a talk with me about my choices. And of course I was like ‘Who the fuck do you think you are? You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my dad.’ Yada yada yada.

“I didn’t make it to high school graduation. I left for good when I was sixteen. I bounced around for a while. Odd jobs. Doing whatever random shit I could to make a buck. Outstayed my welcome with any number of tricks and drug buddies. Let all kinds of people think I was their boyfriend to avoid sleeping on the streets. I managed to survive like that for eight years.

“I was twenty-four when I landed here.

“I saw an ad for this place in the back of Etcetera magazine, which was Atlanta’s little weekly gay rag. Their job classifieds were shitty, mostly telemarketing, dishwashing, and escort services.”

“Did you ever do that? Like…” As soon as it was out of my mouth, I felt guilty for asking.

Coleman turned his head to meet my eyes. “Prostitution?” He studied me for a moment with an amused smirk before shrugging and letting his head drop back on the pillow. “I actually tried to get a job escorting at one point. Filled out a questionnaire, let some creepy dude take some Polaroids of me for a binder full of boys. They gave me a pager. I was a long-haired, redneck hippie then, so my look wasn’t exactly in great demand. I was way too furry and unwilling to wax and all that bullshit. I wasn’t even a twink. The beard always made me look a little older than I was. I only ever got paged one time. Some guy out in Conyers who wanted somebody to smoke with him and play video games. He didn’t even try anything sexual. He was just lonely, I guess.”

I’d come to think of Coleman as a man of few words, but maybe bottoming for me had shifted something in him, peeled back some protective layer. As much as I hung on every word of his past, I was hypnotized by the cadence of his storytelling, the intimate tone of his voice. What must his singing voice sound like? A low baritone, I imagined.

“As hopeful as I’d been about the genius idea of selling what I loved to give away, I realized pretty quickly I wasn’t going to make it as a hooker. One day I was hanging out at a buddy’s apartment after he left for work, and I saw a new ad in the back of Etcetera for a summer job at a clothing-optional campground. My interest was piqued, so, on a whim, I called and talked to somebody who said his name was Wayne. He was nice, told me the place was hard to find, but if I could get up to Edgewood, he’d come pick me up. I wasn’t sure about spending all the pocket money I had on a bus ticket just to interview for something that might not work out, and then have to turn around and come back. But he told me, even if I didn’t want the job, I could stay for the weekend in their bunkhouse for free. Meals included. So, I figured, what the hell?”

Coleman paused, letting what he’d said hang in the room with us. That same decision that had brought me here. I’m sure he felt me smile against his shoulder.