Date: Sat, 21 Jan 2006 21:00:36 -0800 (PST)
From: Dave Hardon <bucknakedfool@yahoo.com>
Subject: closets, chapter seven, gay , adult friends

This is a work of gay erotic fiction.  It contains graphic descriptions of
sex between adult consenting males.  Do not read it if such scenes are
offensive to you, if they are illegal where you are, or if you are underage
in your jurisdiction.  None of these events or characters are real.

Your encouraging comments are greatly appreciated.

CLOSETS
CHAPTER SEVEN
POOL PARTY

	Lonnie, Calvin, and I hit the shower again, and the three of us set
to work preparing, as best we could, for a possible but unpredictable
invasion of guests in the evening.  In the dining room, we set up a modest
dessert table, with coffee and tea, and in the library, we put out some
sherry, brandy, and other after-dinner liqueurs, just in case.  At the
pool, we set up more of the desserts, along with snack items we found
already there or in the kitchen.  The ice-maker was going, the beers,
wines, and cheeses were chilled.  Still, just getting out plates, napkins,
glassware, and such took quite a while.

	We then hit the kitchen and helped ourselves from the largesse
there.  Tonight was "casserole night."  There would still be plenty for the
gathering following the funeral.

	I strongly suggested that the big-mouth who had brought about this
spontaneous and unpredictable event should stay up front with me from 7:00
to 9:00 (unofficial but honored "visitation" hours in the South), and
Calvin good-naturedly agreed.  He didn't have any appropriate clothing at
my house, but any of mine would fit him fine, down to the size 10 shoes.  I
decked him out in a tan suit, and myself in a blue blazer with khakis, and
I sent Lonnie, still happily naked, out to the pool garden to receive the
club men back there.

	Calvin hung out in the front much of the time, and he directed men
who were casually (or barely) dressed around the side of the house to the
back, and those more seriously dressed, or with wives in tow, to the front
door, where I greeted them.  As we feared, some of Grand-daddy's
associates, and some neighbors, dropped by simply because they saw the cars
parked near the house and deduced that I was "receiving."  I had thirty or
so people to chat with, mostly business acquaintances of Grand-daddy, and I
had to admit, grudgingly, that the opportunity to meet them was going to be
helpful at the funeral tomorrow, and in the weeks to come as I sorted out
the estate.  They put a pretty good dent into the food supply, and were not
bashful with the drinks in the library, either.

	One woman stared at me relentlessly until I was beginning to become
rather uncomfortable.  I was standing in the long hallway that runs the
width of the house, which Grandmother had made into a kind of gallery of
family portraits and photographs, conversing innocuously with a pair of my
grandparents' old friends who seemed unable to make it to the front door
and out of the house.  Goodbyes can take longer than visits in South
Carolina.  Eventually, the couple left, and the woman explained herself to
me.  She had known Grand-daddy from church, but she had also been my dad's
high school trig teacher.  I had been standing, unwittingly, right beside
my father's high school graduation portrait, and this poor woman had been
fighting the unreasonable notion that she was seeing Jimmy Redivivus before
her eyes.  She just wouldn't shut up about it.  She made me go up and down
the hallway, examining all the pictures there, and dissecting every feature
of face and body.  I had probably never paid any real attention to any of
these pictures.  They were just there, part of the wall.  But I had to
admit that she, and all the other dozens of people who boringly brought it
to my attention, had a point: I did look like a clone to my father, who
himself bore a remarkable resemblance to the younger versions of J. P. III.
I had a lot of my mother in my psyche, but my body was all Jim Carter.

	Then, I had a revelation: that might explain a peculiar behavior of
Dalton DuPree that I had noticed.  Sometimes, it seemed he could hardly
look at me-he cast his eyes downward or off to the side.  Other times,
especially if I did not seem to be noticing, he gazed at me intently, with
a deep and soulful expression. If the belief that was building in me was
true, that he and Dad had been paramours, then I might be causing him
considerable pain, just by being here and looking so damn much like his
late lover.  But I had only that snatch of suspect memory and an even more
suspect dream to go on in support of my theory, no real evidence
whatsoever.  I resolved to speak to Bryce, if I ever got to see him again,
and see if he could shed any light on the question.

	There were pictures of the DuPree family on our wall, too.  One was
of both families gathered together, when Dad and Dalton were in their early
teens.  It was at the beach, and the whole bunch were in swimwear.  They
were a handsome lot, clearly having a happy holiday together.  The color of
the photo was somewhat faded, but it seemed like the Peter DuPree of that
time had kind of strawberry blond hair (it had been white as long as I had
known him.)  His wife, Emmy's, hair was a light brown color, and her skin
fair.  I could see some of the delicacy of her facial features in Dalton,
too, but none of the coloring.  Bryce also, though somewhat fair skinned,
had dark hair, and both of them were taller than the senior generation.  It
struck a silly chord of pride in me that the men of my family bred so much
more true to type than the DuPrees.

	I resolved to try to engage Dalton in conversation more, to wear
down any hang- ups my resemblance to Dad might give him by building up his
awareness of my own distinct personality.  It seemed like a merciful thing
to do, and helpful to me in the long run, too.  Besides, it might somehow
throw me into Bryce's path more, as I knew without conscious thought, I
wanted very much.

	Nine o'clock came, and the well-wishers retreated like Johnston's
army from Atlanta.  Calvin had been inside schmoozing the visitors with me
for the last hour or so, and I had something new to scratch my head
over-the puzzled and bemused expressions of my guests on seeing him co-host
their visit with me, contrasted with his poise and casual elegance.  They
clearly didn't know quite what to make of it-him the yard boy, son of the
house-keeper, dressed better than anyone, and clearly present not as butler
or bartender, or as family retainer, but as a family member.  What a shift
since the morning!  I liked to think that I would have welcomed him in this
position even without the morning's revelations, but would I have really?
It was hard to be sure.  But there was no question in my mind that if
Calvin had not known what he now knew about his family and mine, he would
have stayed outside rather than be seen assuming that kind of easy
familiarity with me and the white townspeople.  What an odd society we live
in, and how easily we allow ourselves to be molded by it, I mused.  Still,
I was pleased with him for his helpfulness and adaptability.  And he was
unquestionably a decorative addition to the household in any case.

	We were free to go to the real party out back now.  We darkened the
front rooms and discarded our clothes upstairs.  Then, properly naked, we
walked out into the garden congratulating ourselves on having pulled off a
good save, socially speaking.  The lights in the rear garden were dim,
apparently just the pool lights and some candles.  There was some soft
background music and a low hum of male conversation that were scarcely
audible at the back of the house.

	When we walked through the moon-gate, our eyes were met by some
fifty naked or nearly-naked men, standing in small groups with drinks in
hand, or handing onto the side of the pool together, or seated at tables.
They made a handsome band.  Hebron as a whole was not a very slender or
physically fit town, but the gay and bisexual men of Elysium were,
regardless of their age, undoubtedly leaner and firmer than their
counterparts in town.  And in the center of it all, clearly reveling in his
role as host, was Lonnie.  He had managed everything brilliantly, keeping
everyone both quiet and content at the same time with his diplomacy and
hospitality.

	He was a fantastic front-man for me, though, because he had someone
watching the gate for our entrance, and as we stepped inside, the music
instantly changed to a hipper and louder selection, and the garden lights
rose.  Every head turned in our direction.  Calvin, now turning modest on
me, stepped back, while the men in the garden came forward almost as one to
greet me, welcome me, and offer their condolences.  It was kind of like
running for governor in a bizarre, gay nudist dream, but it almost made me
cry again, too.  I was just beginning to learn how much the gay men of
Hebron cared for my grandfather, and their sympathy to me for his loss,
especially in the light of my father's tragic death earlier, was pretty
overwhelming.  Lonnie worked his way to me with a martini, which he
replaced at intervals, and the show was on.

	It is remarkable how natural it feels to be naked among a crowd,
when they are also naked and everyone treats it as a normal thing.  Several
couples were dancing on the pool deck.  Ordinary and mundane social
conversations proceeded exactly as if we were wearing tuxedos at some fancy
function.  I moved about from guest to guest for a couple of hours, often
standing right next to a couple who were making out with stiffies waving,
or a twosome or threesome engaged in oral sex right beside me.  I noticed
bowls of condoms on the tables.  Lonnie had anticipated everything.

	And sure enough, it wasn't long before I noticed the first couple
fucking, one slim young man who introduced himself to me earlier as Lewis,
squirming ecstatically on the lap of a husky, dark-complexioned fellow
named Stan.  Next, there were a pair going at it doggy-style at pool-side,
and then a couple tried the missionary position on the pool diving board.

	Being a bit voyeuristic as well as exhibitionistic, I found all
this pretty entertaining.  My eyes were restless, though.  I kept scanning
the crowd, not only checking for newcomers I might not have greeted yet-the
group kept changing as more arrived, and a few had to leave-but more
importantly, for a sight of Bryce.  Surely, Calvin would have told him, of
all people, that we'd be out here tonight.  If he was at Peter's house,
he'd hear the music, anyway.  But 11:00 came, then 11:30, and there had
been no sight of him.

	I was on my fifth martini, and feeling a little tight.  Lonnie came
over with number six, and I was slurring my speech a bit.  He suggested
that I have something to eat, and led me over to the cabana, where he
prepared a plate of fruit and veggies for me.  I was not very cooperative,
however.  I remember commenting that I wanted meat, specifically sausages
with cream filling.  I started swaying and he caught me, and I grabbed his
dick.  A few guys nearby laughed, and Lonnie grabbed me under the arms and
sort of danced me gracefully over to the door to the sitting room behind
the serving area, which was darkened.  He dragged me inside, and we fell
onto a daybed, me giggling like a ten-year-old girl.  For once, Lonnie was
being the mature and responsible one.  I would have none of it.  Having not
been fucked for going on eight hours now, I latched onto him like a lamprey
eel.

	"I want your dick, Tiger," I slurred.  "Come on, fuck me."

	It actually took some doing to persuade him.  Finally, he relented,
on condition that I get up and try to get back to being civil with the
guests as soon as we finished.

	"Yeth, thur, Lootenant," I promised.

	He ran out for a condom, and in seconds he had my knees pinned back
to my shoulders, my ass rotated up for easiest access and deepest
penetration.  I dimly heard the throbbing of the music and the murmur of
the voices nearby as I felt the rim of his dickhead press past my sphincter
muscle.  I moaned, rather too loudly.  He slid smoothly all the way into my
bowel, and pressed his shoulders behind my knees.  I was folded up like an
auditorium chair, and he was pumping me smoothly, like he meant business.

	I had my eyes closed and was sort of crooning softly, caught
between a martini haze and a pre-orgasmic stupor.  I heard the door open,
then a voice in the dimness.

	"Oh, sorry to intrude.  They just told me Jamie might be in here.
Very sorry."

	I sensed Lonnie turning to look behind him, slowing in his
thrusting.

	"Yeah, man, I'm here.  You wanna be next?" I began drunkenly.

	Then it hit me like a frying pun upside of the head, that voice.
It was Bryce.  My mind leaped to half-sober in a fraction of a second.

	"Oh, Bryce, is that you?  I'm here, just give me a minute, I...."

	"I'm really sorry, Jamie, I didn't mean to intrude.  It was
nothing, really.  I'll see you tomorrow." His voice was cool, controlled,
courteous, civil.  It cut like a knife through my heart.

	And with that, he disappeared.

	My head fell back against the mattress.  Lonnie slammed at my ass
with renewed vigor.  Almost immediately, he began to blow semen into the
condom deep within my gut.  His chest sweated against the backs of my legs.
His scotchy breath neared my face, as he kissed me gently and
apologetically.

	A tear ran down my right cheek.

	Oh, god, what have I done now, I thought.  I'm truly and for all
time, fucked.