Page 47 of Torn
When we were done, we lay crosswise on the bed before the big front window that faced the street. Darkness had fallen, and there was a yellow glow from the streetlight outside. A breeze with only the tiniest hint of a chill in it blew in, drying the sweat on our bodies.
I dragged my hand across the forest growing on Tom’s chest. “Are you hungry?”
“For more?” he asked, his hand whispering across my thigh.
“Well, yeah. But I meant for some, you know, sustenance.”
“Oh yeah, dinner. I’d forgotten the purpose of our date.”
“Well, we both know we just made the most of thereal purposeof our date. No use kidding ourselves, but I could use something to eat. Besides you, I mean.”
“Why not? I’m delicious!”
“You are!” I tweaked his nipple hard enough to make him scream. “But I need some pasta carbonara.”
Tom rubbed at his nipple, his lower lip jutting out. “That hurt.” And then he replaced my hand on his chest. “Do it again.”
And I did. And that’s not all I did again.
We didn’t get to the restaurant until almost ten o’clock.
Once we were seated in the near-empty Italian joint, we ordered almost everything on the menu and drank two bottles of red wine.
We’d worked up an appetite and were feeling quite depleted.
The wine released what few inhibitions we had, and by the time we walked back to my place again, we were ready for round three, this time on the balcony.
I was surprised we didn’t get the police called on us, or worse, because of all the noise we made as I fucked him and at last—sing it, Etta James!—he fucked me. Glory hallelujah, he might describe himself as a power bottom, and that might be from where he derived most of his carnal pleasure, but that boy’s dick was nice—and he knew how to use it.
We went to sleep that night in each other’s arms with a fan blowing on us. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept so peacefully.
In the morning, when we were hurrying around to get ready for work, my phone began to ring.
I ignored it.
Chapter 15
THE WEEKSleading up to Labor Day weekend passed in a blur.
First, it was a really busy time for me at work—my boss expected overtime every night, and I often found myself, along with the other copywriters and graphic designers, working on Saturdays for a bit of overtime pay and Giordano’s pizza. The extra money, tired as it made me, would help pay for the insanely overpriced airline ticket I’d acquired with my credit card for my trip to Boston. More about that in a minute.
Second, Tom’s and my relationship had been growing like dandelions. I say that because dandelions are the mixed bag of the horticultural world. In bloom, they’re kind of sweet in their simple and sunny beauty. Their leaves can also be delicious in a salad, as my Sicilian mother had taught me.
But.
Dandelions were also weeds, capable of choking off other more desirable plants and eventually turning into an unwelcome blight.
Now, I’m not saying that Tom was becoming an unwelcome blight. Quite the contrary. Our “relationship,” if you could call it that, was going relatively well. If by relatively well you mean hot sex whenever and wherever we could find it. The man was insatiable, and his love for dick knew no bounds. I would have once said that of myself, but Tom put my own horn-doggery to shame. He made me look like the singing nun.
In the past few weeks, we had fucked and sucked countless times at not only my place and his place, but in the back rooms of all three leather bars, along with the “back forty” outdoor area of an iconic sleazy bar farther south on Halsted. Tom was like me in that he liked an audience—we both enjoyed putting on an occasional show, whether the show was inadvertent or purposeful. The inadvertent shows were the ones in his studio, when the headboard banging, mattress squeaking, and moaning and groaning reached such a crescendo that his downstairs neighbor, furious and sleep-deprived, would bang on the ceiling with a broomstick. Did that stop us? Quiet us down? What do you think?
We made use of friends’ cars, alleyways, and the bushes of public parks.
Between Tom and work, I could hardly see straight. And simple pastimes, like TV and even eating, fell by the wayside. I lost over ten pounds in a few weeks—and these were pounds I needed, dammit! I think I lost them all in sweat.
But when we weren’t making the beast with two backs, I have to admit, we were getting to know each other intimately in other ways. And Tom continued to charm me with his reliably sweet disposition and his kindness. It was a real treat to be around someone who never complained, who always saw the best in people, and who found hope in the direst of situations. He cried easily, gave away his meager earnings to homeless people, and was always there when a friend needed help moving, a shoulder to cry on, a can of chicken soup when ill (my Tom was no cook, but his heart was always in the right place)—my list of his kindnesses, small and large, could make up its own separate book.
And he never, ever expected a thing in return. Tom was always about giving.
