off. I try not to stare but I find myself mesmerized by his taut hard stomach. Little beads of sweat leave shimmering trails down the smooth brown flat plain. A ghost of his tan line peeks out from above his low-cut jeans, making me yearn—ache—to see the rest of it.
I catch him smiling at me. He reaches over, attempts to pull my T-shirt up, but I resist, shielding my torso with my arms. Once upon a time, my shirt would have come off as soon as I entered this place, and all other places like it. Once, I lost so many T-shirts in so many different clubs that I’d have to pack at least five extra ones whenever Jeff and I headed out to yet another party. But now my shirt stays on. Henry Weiner had such a short time at center stage, so few brilliant years, that I won’t do anything that might tarnish his memory. The love handles jiggling under my shirt will not be exposed for the world to see. Let people keep their memories of Henry intact.
Or perhaps it’s just me who remembers him at all.
Luke motions for me to follow him. I’m glad to leave the dance floor. I’m not at home there the way I once was. These days, I’m happier on the sidelines. For a moment, I lose sight of him, and I feel a tinge of panic. But then I spot him, pushing through the crowd with an agility I find impressive. The sea parts for boys like him, as I’m left to battle my way forward on my own.
Once outside in the sharp salty sea air, Luke turns abruptly to face me.
“So,” I say awkwardly, “will you be looking for work here?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s suddenly in my face, his lips on mine, hot, wet, slippery. He kisses me. Oh, man, does he kiss me. But I don’t kiss him back. I’m too stunned to do anything but stand here, allowing myself to be invaded by his tongue.
He pulls back, the suction of our lips actually popping when we break contact.
“Wow,” I say.
He’s looking at me again from under his long thick boylashes. Ecstasy? Maybe. Tina? Quite possibly. But then I dismiss the idea. Luke’s eyes don’t have the typical hardness of tweakers. “You want to get out of here?” he asks.
“I—I—well, it depends on where you want to go.”
“Upstairs. To my room.”
Thank God he has a room. I couldn’t take him back to the guesthouse that I manage with Lloyd. Too many guests hanging around, plus Jeff would probably be there and he’d want to meet him, and then—well, let’s just say it’s never been a good idea to introduce my tricks to Jeff. They rarely remain my tricks when that happens. Besides, Ann Marie and J. R. would be out in the backyard grilling tofu burgers on the barbeque…no, it just wouldn’t do.
So I let Luke take my hand and lead me out of Tea Dance and up the wooden steps to the bank of motel rooms that overlooks the pool. He fumbles for a key and lets us in. The room is dark, the drapes pulled. It’s chilly, smelling of air-conditioning and cigarettes. I don’t get much of a chance to look around because suddenly Luke is pushing me down on the bed. Literally. His hands on my chest, shoving me backward. I topple over, flopping down onto my back across the shiny bedspread. Then he’s on top of me, kissing me again. This time I manage to kiss him back.
We pull at each other’s clothes. His shirt is already off, so all I need concern myself with are his jeans. They slip off easily. He’s not wearing any underwear, just a seven-inch boner that’s already engorged and raging. After all, he’s twenty-three.
He finally gets my shirt off. Looking down, he seems pleased enough by what he sees. He slaps my pecs with his palms and grins widely. Then he turns his attention to my shorts and briefs. My own dick is plump with excitement but not yet at full attention. After all, I’m thirty-three.
“Nice tat,” Luke says, fingering the starburst around my navel.
“Thanks,” I say, in a husky, unsure voice.
Luke drops down on top of me again. “Henry,” he says, lips pressed against my ear. “I want to put sliced peaches on your chest and lick them off you.”
Now, there is just no answer for a statement like that. I don’t even try.
He’s off me once more, jumping like a naked bunny in the half-light, popping open the small refrigerator against the far wall. I hear the snap of a Tupperware lid. Then, not expecting it, I feel the coldness of the peaches on my chest. I gasp. Luke pays no mind, rubbing the fruit into my skin with the balls of his palms. My nipples perk up immediately at his touch and the coldness of the peaches. My nipples are quite sensitive: it’s like they’re little dicks. Luke senses this, leaning down to lick them. I shudder in pleasure. Then his tongue travels up to the hollow spot under my Adam’s apple, where some of the peach syrup has gathered. He laps at it like a kitten.
Is this really happening? We make eye contact, Luke and I. Such soul-filled eyes gaze at me from under those long lashes. I make a sound, close my eyes, and roll back my head. His tongue is incredibly nimble, darting down between my pecs, licking up the peaches, teasing my nipples. I can sense that my dick has finally responded fully. Next thing I know he’s on it, giving me the best peaches and syrup blow job I’ve ever had.
I pull him up to me. I don’t want to cum. Not yet. He lies on top of me, our torsos sticking together from the syrup.
“Damn,” I say, and kiss him.
And then, in that moment, Henry Weiner comes back.
I flip Luke over, pinning his arms against the pillows with my hands. My mouth moves down to conquer his ears, his neck. It’s Luke’s turn now to squirm in pleasure. I continue licking and kissing along his smooth torso, his skin so tight, so flat, so young. I make love to him with a passion that’s been too long bottled up, that bursts out of me like champagne released on New Year’s Eve. I move down his legs, making him tremble when I lick the inside of his thighs. I take first one foot then the other and massage them with my tongue.
No more thoughts—no more conscious ideas. I’m inside him now, the bed is squeaking, I’m pumping and pushing and he’s moaning and crying and everything is tingly and sparkly and who the fuck knows what time it is.
Or where I am.
Or who this boy under me is.
Silence.
Blackness.
“Henry.”
A voice from somewhere.
I open my eyes.
I’m collapsed on top of Luke, breathing deeply in and out.
“Henry, dude,” he says under me. “That was fucking awesome.”
I pull up slightly, looking down at him. Our skin still sticks together. Cum and peach syrup.
“Man,” Luke says, “how’d you get so good?”
I smile. “Age has some advantages.”
“Man, you were rockin’.”
I slide off him. The boy sits up, reaching over to a side table to light a cigarette. I don’t like cigarettes, but say nothing. It’s his room.
“Actually,” I tell him, “I was a professional.”
Luke gives me a quizzical look, blowing smoke over his shoulder.
“I was an escort,” I explain.
“Cool,” he says. “For how long?”
“A year or so. Then for a while after that I was kind of a quasiprostie, billing myself as a ‘sacred sex’ bodyworker.”
Luke grins. “In other words, you rubbed their shoulders and then jacked them off.”
I roll over flat onto my back, looking up at the ceiling. “Sometimes it was a lot more than that. It was all about reaching spiritual catharsis through physical sensation.”
“Sounds hot,” he says, nestling up beside me.
“It