Date: Wed, 2 Jul 2003 04:26:19 -0700 (PDT)
From: Tim Mead <timmead88@yahoo.com>
Subject: Out of the Night 01

The following narrative involves sexually-explicit erotic events between
men.  If you are offended by such material, are too young, or live in an
area where that sort of thing isn't allowed, don't read it.

This is a work of fiction.  No character here is based on a real person.
Lake Polk is fictitious, but it is, I suspect, like many real communities.

In the world of this story, the characters don't always use condoms.  In
the real world, everyone should practice safe sex.

The author retains all rights.  No reproductions or links to other sites
are allowed without the author's consent.

I want to welcome my friends who've been reading "Dr. Tim and the Boys."
Fans of that story may find a familiar character or two here.  And, of
course, I want to welcome new readers as well.

D.Z., you suggested that I write something about "older" guys.  Hope you
like this.

Mike and Tom J., this story's for you, my friends.

As always, I need to thank Evan, Patrick, Ash, Tommy, and Mickey for their
love and support.

Timmead88@yahoo.com
Chapter 1


On his hands and knees, Doug was sixty-nining with the guy under him.  All
he could see were long, hairy legs and long, thin feet whose toes were
wiggling.  The guy underneath was doing a good job.  Doug took the cock in
his mouth all the way down, ending up with his nose in the cleft between
the guy's balls.  His partner hummed his appreciation.  That vibration made
Doug's pleasure all the greater.  He didn't know who the guy was, but at
this point he didn't care.  He simply gave himself over to the dual
pleasures of having his cock sucked by an expert and of working over the
big tool in his mouth.

He wasn't sure just how long this had been going on or, for that matter,
how long it continued.  At some point, however, Doug felt himself being
pulled off his partner.  `Awww,' he thought.  `Don't do that.  Just when it
was getting good!'  He was pulled into a standing position.  Turning, he
saw that the guy behind him was a muscular blond with green eyes.  The tall
guy with lots of black hair rose from the floor and helped the blond
position Doug on a bed, on his back.

Spreading Doug's legs apart, the blond began to rim him.  His former 69
partner straddled Doug's head and dangled his cock just above Doug's lips,
teasing, holding his cock just out of Doug's reach.  Doug lifted his head,
straining to get his lips on the snake he'd had to relinquish a moment ago.
Simultaneously, the blond stuck his tongue further up Doug's ass than Doug
had ever thought a tongue would go, and the dark-haired guy allowed Doug to
kiss the tip of his dick.  Then he slowly allowed Doug to swallow it,
gradually sliding it all the way down Doug's gullet.

When the blond took his tongue away, Doug felt deprived, much as he was
enjoying sucking on that delicious piece of meat in his mouth.  A moment
later, though, he felt the head of the blond's dick pressing against his
anus.  Again, ever so slowly, it was shoved up his hole.  So there he was,
spitted and loving it.

GOOD MORNING.  IT'S NOW 7:00 AM.  THIS IS WSJT, THE HOME OF SMOOTH JAZZ IN
TAMPA BAY.  TRAFFIC IS BUILDING ON THE MAJOR ROADWAYS INTO THE CITY.
THINGS ARE ALMOST AT A STAND-STILL AT THE INTERSECTION OF I-4 AND I-275.
NO WONDER IT'S CALLED "MALFUNCTION JUNCTION."  THE TEMPERATURE RIGHT NOW IS
77, HEADING FOR A HIGH OF 94.  THERE IS A 40% CHANCE OF SHOWERS OR
AFTERNOON THUNDERSTORMS.  NOW, BACK TO SMOOTH JAZZ, WITH A SELECTION BY
BONI JAMES.

`Damn!' Doug thought, `that radio's been playing for half an hour.  What a
dream that was!  I've got to get dressed and get breakfast.  Blair will be
here soon.'  He gave his leaking cock an apologetic rub, got out of bed,
and threw on some clothes.  There was no time for anything more than a bowl
of cereal.  Promptly at 7:30, Doug heard the thundering thump thump of
Blair's car stereo as the boy approached his house.

`Man, he is fine stuff,' Doug thought as Blair got out of the car.  `It
must be a sign of age,' Doug supposed, `that I keep thinking of him as a
boy.  He's twenty-one, and he wouldn't be happy to be called a boy.'

Blair stood about six feet tall, a couple of inches taller than Doug.  He
had medium-length dirty blond hair with lighter streaks that came from the
Florida sun rather than a salon.  His eyes, very pale blue, were set in a
square face.  He had what Doug's mother used to call "fine features,"
delicate, just this side of feminine.  He was lightly tanned, and the hair
on his arms and legs was sun-bleached almost white.  This morning he wore a
sweat band on his head, a loose t-shirt cut on each side from the arm holes
almost to the waist, and the long, baggy shorts that all the young guys
were wearing.  He had over-the-calf soccer socks which did nothing to hide
the fact that, like many soccer players, he had legs like small tree
trunks.  His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, his body fat somewhere
around zilch.

Blair approached, hand extended.  He always shook hands with Doug whenever
they met.  Hoping not to get a stiffie, Doug shook hands with Blair and
thanked him for coming.  Blair's hand was surprisingly cool on this muggy
morning.

For a while, he had Blair weeding and mulching the foundation plantings
around three sides of his house and along the wall that went the whole
width of the back yard.  This had been a project that had taken all of
July.  As Blair finished it, Doug worked with the clippers cutting back
overgrown plumbago, oleander, hibiscus, and thryallis bushes.  After Blair
had had some water and rested for a few minutes, he was ready to do more.

Flashing his killer smile, Blair asked, "Do you trust me with those
loppers, or are you afraid I'll make everything too square?"  This was a
reference to earlier garden sessions when the two men had found they had
different ideas about how a garden should look.  Blair, a math major, liked
everything in straight rows.  The first time he had "trimmed" a plumbago,
he had made it perfectly cube-shaped.

Doug's preference was for a more natural garden where everything looked as
if it had just "happened."  It takes care to make a garden look that way,
and it requires much more careful pruning.  Blair good-naturedly learned to
do it Doug's way.  But he teased the older man from time to time about
their different tastes in gardens.

As Blair worked with the clippers, Doug began to rake up the clippings and
put them into plastic lawn bags for disposal, keeping an eye on what Blair
was doing all the while.  Together they worked companionably for another
hour or so.

"It's getting too hot, Blair," Doug said. "Let's knock off."

"Whatever you say, boss," the younger man replied.  "You want me to carry
these bags of trash to the curb?"

"No, they won't be picked up until Wednesday, so just put them behind the
garage.  I'll move them Tuesday night."

A few minutes later, Blair said, "That's done.  Anything else you want me
to do?"

"No, man.  You've done a lot of work this morning.  Now, go enjoy your
weekend," Doug said, handing the boy money.  "Everything looks great."

"Thanks, sir.  I hope I didn't make the bushes too geometrical," he said,
smiling again.

"Blair, after four weeks, I think you can drop the `sir.'  You know I wish
you'd call me `Doug.'  And the bushes will be fine.  This is Florida, after
all, so they'll grow back quickly.  Can you come again next Saturday?"

Folding and pocketing the bills, the boy responded, "Yeah, but soccer
practice starts Monday after next, and classes begin the week after that.
So I'm gonna be pretty busy.  But I'll see you at 7:30 next Saturday
morning for sure if that's ok."

"Great," Doug replied.  "You know I appreciate your help.  When does Mary
get back?"

Smiling even more broadly, Blair said, "Next Friday.  But she'll sleep late
Saturday morning, so I can still come over here."

"If you're sure I'm not taking you away from your lady, I'll look forward
to seeing you Saturday morning."

Turning to go to his old but well-kept Honda, Blair said, "Thanks, Doug.
See you next week."

Doug stared wistfully at the boy's beautiful butt moving deliciously under
the baggy shorts.  His cock began to leak.  `Down, Spike!' Doug thought.
`He's not jailbait, and you're not his professor.  But Blair is obviously
straight.  He seems pretty fond of Mary.  He trusts you.  You're almost old
enough to be his grandfather.  You can be a friend to him, but you have to
leave it at that!  Yeah, yeah, do the right thing.  You know very well what
can happen otherwise.  But "the right thing" sure as hell gets old.'

He cleaned each of the tools carefully, hosed out the garden cart he and
Blair had been using, put down the garage door, and stepped into the
laundry.  There he stripped naked, put the dirty clothes in the appropriate
bins, and walked through the kitchen, across the dining room, and into his
bedroom.  He'd always thought that, though being alone was no picnic, at
least you didn't have to worry about the proprieties.

He looked at himself in the large mirror over the double basins of the
master bath.  `Ironic.  What do I need with two sinks?'  The guy looking
back at him from the mirror was certainly nothing special.  With light
brown hair graying at the temples and all along the edges, and very dark
brown eyes, Doug stood at 5'10".  His body was wiry, he'd been told.  He
thought he was just plain skinny.  He'd never been particularly hairy, but
what hair there was on his body was beginning to turn gray.  That was
harder to take than the gray hair on his head.

`Damn!  That Blair is gorgeous!  I'd like to spend an afternoon just
licking all his delectable places.  And the evening sucking and fucking.'

As thoughts of Blair caused his cock to stiffen and rise, Doug reached into
a drawer from which he took a dildo and a bottle of lube.  Liberally
coating the middle finger of his right hand, he inserted it into his hole,
which had been twitching in anticipation.  Removing the finger, he put lube
on the dildo and slowly worked that into the hole.  He had done this often
enough that it went in easily, almost popping into place.  Then he flipped
the little switch in the base, and the plastic cock began to vibrate.

Doug leaned forward, putting a hand on the marble counter top around the
sinks.  He closed his eyes and got lost in the feelings generated by the
vibrations against his prostate.  It took longer to come now than it used
to, but that just prolonged the pleasure.

He thought of Blair, especially that hot ass, as the dildo transmitted
shock waves throughout his body.  Eventually, he decided to take matters
into his own hand, so to speak.  By this time, he had been leaking so much,
all he had to do was smear the pre-cum over his throbbing dick and rub a
little.  `Oh, yeah!'  That was doing the trick.  There was the familiar
tingling in his balls.  His breath came now in short gasps.  And the needed
release, the explosion.  `Ah!  There it is!  Yesss!'

He caught the cum in his left hand and rinsed it off under the faucet.  No
sense making a mess.  The ersatz cock made an obscene noise as he pulled it
out of his hole.  He washed it carefully in antibacterial soap, dried it,
and put it away.  Then he stepped to the shower stall and turned on the hot
water.

As he showered, he was still thinking of Blair.  He was bright.  Made good
grades at the local university.  Had a subtle sense of humor and a wicked
smile.  Doug sensed, however, after having taken Blair to dinner a couple
of times over the summer, that they wouldn't have much in common.  The age
difference was simply too great.  There was the music the kid listened to.
Christian rap, for Pete's sake!  And he was very conservative politically.
No, Blair was sexy as hell, but even if he were gay and if he found Doug at
all attractive -- two pretty big "ifs" -- they had nothing on which to
build a relationship.

All of which left Doug where he started -- alone and longing for a man.

* * *

As he drove back to his apartment, Blair was thinking about the man whose
garden he'd just spent the morning working in.  `Doug's pretty cool for a
guy that old,' he mused.  `He's easy to work for.  Tells me what he wants
done and trusts me to do it.  I like it that he doesn't mind getting dirty
and working with me sometimes.  And he always pays me more than I've
earned.  Used to be a prof.  Wish more of mine were like him.  He seems
pretty lonely, though.  Why else would he ask someone my age to go to
dinner at Friday's with him?  With Mary gone, I've been pretty much alone
in this totally boring little town all summer.  Made a nice change to just
relax and visit with a professor type.  Made a nice change from the crap I
make for supper when I'm alone, too.  He's a really nice guy.  Kind of shy,
though.  At dinner he asked me lots of things about myself.  When I asked a
direct question about his life, he'd answer it, but he never volunteered
any information.  He always managed to turn the conversation back to me.  I
wonder why he doesn't want to talk about himself?  Shy, maybe?  Or does he
have something to hide?'

* * *

That afternoon Doug worked for an hour or so on his pc, read for a while,
eventually nodding off.  He awoke with a start.

"Shit, I've got to get changed and pick up Hallie."

He rushed to the bedroom, got out his electric razor and shaved again, and
splashed water on his face.  He put on a blue oxford cloth button-down,
khakis, and cordovan tassel loafers.  Although it was 92 degrees outside,
he felt more dressed up in a long-sleeved shirt.  Besides, in
over-air-conditioned places like movies and restaurants, he was perfectly
comfortable in long sleeves.

Doug had first met Hallie at St. John's, the Episcopal church where they
were both members.  Hallie was on the vestry.  Both she and Doug were lay
readers/Eucharistic servers.  They soon discovered that they were both also
involved with the Henry Ridenour Gardens, Doug as a volunteer and Hallie as
a member of the board and volunteer as well.

Hallie was a divorcee a few years younger than Doug.  A graduate of one of
the posh eastern women's colleges (at least women's when she graduated),
she came from "old money."  She now lived in an old, wealthy, gated
community, Davenport Hills, in a house her grandparents had originally
built as a winter retreat.  She had inherited it from her parents, and
after her divorce she had moved in.  So she now lived in a place where she
had been a frequent visitor in her childhood.  The divorce had been
shattering for her; from what she had said, she was still deeply in love
with her husband when he told her he had fallen in love with a younger
woman.  "And, Doug, the bitch IS gorgeous," she had told him.  The divorce
had just been finalized when Doug had moved to Lake Polk four years
earlier.  A year later, when the two of them became friends, she was still
hurting.  Doug had been, he hoped, a good listener.  They had become close,
in their own way.  Doug thought it was perfectly possible to have a real
friendship with a woman.  He just hoped she never wanted to move it along
to anything sexual.

When he stopped at the gate, the guard said, "Good evening, Dr. Curtis.
Ms. Hall is expecting you."

Driving through the manicured grounds, past a lake, along a golf course,
and eventually passing the mammoth clubhouse of Davenport Hills, Doug
thought what a fine job the original planner had done with this community.
Designed and opened in the 20's, it was one of the first gated communities
in the country.  Young, the architect, had been commissioned to do the
community by Henry Ridenour, a railroad magnate who had helped open up that
part of Florida in the early twentieth century.  Adjacent were the famous
Ridenour Gardens, Lake Polk's only tourist attraction.  Ridenour had built
a house in Davenport Hills, and it had become a place where the wealthy had
homes, some of them year-`round, many of them, mansions though they were,
used only in the winter.  The houses were on spacious lots, all set back
from the winding roads and surrounded by enormous old liveoaks.  He thought
to himself that, though he was financially independent, he was certainly
not in this league.  Hallie obviously had major money.  She was, however,
totally unpretentious, as comfortable as an old shoe.

The Hall house was invisible from the road because of a thicket of pines
and oaks.  It was large, but not ostentatious, resembling a bungalow that,
like Topsy, "just growed."  By the time he had turned the car around,
Hallie was halfway down the steps.

Hallie was a tall, thin woman, as tall as Doug.  She was striking rather
than beautiful.  She was a brown-eyed blonde, and it obviously took a fair
amount of money to keep her hair as perfect as it always looked.  She had a
longish face and fine features, very much the patrician.  Born in the
South, she was one of those women who covered a steel-trap mind with true
graciousness.  She had two grown sons, both of them married, and she went
to see them often.  She had been everywhere, done everything.  By
comparison, Doug felt provincial and unsophisticated.  But they had hit it
off well from the time they first met.  Now they often went to plays,
movies, concerts, or restaurants together.  In a purely platonic way, Doug
was very fond of her.

Despite women's lib, Doug was true to his upbringing.  He started to get
out of the car to open the door for her.

"Doug, darling, I love you for wanting to, but I'm quite capable of opening
this door for myself."

As she buckled herself in, she said, "I've been looking forward to this
evening.  The paper made the exhibit at the museum sound fascinating.  And
as long as I've been around this area, I've never been to Hank's Bar and
Grill."

"Yes," he replied.  "I'm curious about the exhibit, too.  But I'm surprised
that you haven't been to Hank's.  It's in the middle of downtown
Parkerville."

"Don't know how I have managed to miss it."

During the forty-five minute drive into Parkerville, they chatted about
Hallie's recent trip north to visit relatives, church matters, the Gardens,
and local gossip, including the appointment of a new Lake Polk city
manager.

Doug had first seen Parkerville's Imperial Museum of Art four years
earlier, not long after he had moved to Lake Polk.  It was brand new at the
time, an impressive two-story, very modern facility.  There was a
nicely-landscaped sculpture garden off the lobby, which had a glass wall so
that one could admire the garden and its waterfall from inside.  At that
time, however, Doug's impression was that it was a nice building with
nothing much inside.  Since then, they had acquired a small but impressive
permanent collection.  The gallery spaces for visiting exhibits were
carefully planned, versatile, and well lighted.

The exhibit Doug and Hallie had come to see was . . . interesting, that
catch-all word people use when they can't think of anything better.  The
artist was a faculty member at a prestigious college in Maine.  Some of his
works, abstracts with vivid, mostly primary colors, were done in acrylic on
large, loose, unframed canvases, perhaps four by six feet.  The background
was generally white or cream, and, since there was a lot of background, the
brilliant colors stood out.  In addition to the large canvases, there were
a dozen or so smaller framed monoprints.  These, too, were fascinating.
They were generally abstracts in muted grays, pinks, lavenders, and blues.
What was most interesting, however, was that the monoprints had a sparkle,
as if they had been sprinkled liberally with ground glass.  Doug and Hallie
examined each work carefully, finding lots to talk about in each.

"Do you suppose," Hallie asked, "that he did these on sandpaper?"

"Well, artists who work with pastels often use sandpaper.  Maybe that's
what he did here, even though the medium isn't pastel."

"I'll be right back," Hallie said.  She went to the desk in the lobby to
ask if there were a brochure about the exhibit.  There was, but it only
gave a bio of the artist and listed the works with titles, sizes, and, of
course, prices, leaving them no wiser than before about the paper used for
the monoprints.

After spending an hour on the special exhibit, they revisited the museum's
excellent pre-Columbian gallery before thanking the volunteer who was
staffing the gift shop, putting some bills in the contribution box, and
going to the car.

Hank's Bar and Grill is a popular, unpretentious restaurant on a busy
corner in downtown Parkerville.  There's a city-owned parking building
directly behind it, however, so finding a space for Doug's car wasn't a
problem.  The restaurant was busy even though it was early, but they were
seated immediately.  When a young woman came to take their drink orders,
Hallie had a gibson on the rocks and Doug had Dry Sack.  The two of them
had developed a system for keeping waitpersons from bothering them too much
while they talked.  They ordered an appetizer whether they really wanted
one or not.  On this occasion, they ordered deep-fried calamari.  Doing so
bought them some time to nibble and work on their drinks.  And the calamari
was delicious.  Later their server brought them a second round of drinks
and took their orders for the main course.  Both selected grilled
mahi-mahi, with black beans and rice plus a salad, since the restaurant
featured New Orleans style food.

At one point, Hallie mentioned that she had recently heard from an old
friend of hers who lived in New York City.

"Margi's single, you know.  She was saying that she has several men friends
who are gay."

Doug took a long pull of his sherry, suddenly tense.  What was coming?
Would he have to pretend, to say things he didn't believe?  This was one of
the things about his life that made him restless, irritable.  He knew that
if he ever came out in the conservative little town he had chosen to live
in, things would never be the same.  He would probably lose his friends,
become a pariah, perhaps even have to move away.  He was very comfortable
in most respects.  He found his work at the church and the Gardens
fulfilling.  It galled him that he couldn't live openly as a gay man, but
he didn't have the guts to do it.  He had invested too much time and effort
into finding a place in this community, which in other respects he really
liked.

"Anyway, Doug dear, Margi said that for a woman in her position, having gay
men friends was perfect.  They make charming companions, but you don't have
to worry about entangling alliances and things like that."

"Mmmm," Doug said, taking a bite of calamari and another sip of sherry.
Here was his chance to come out to someone he really liked.  But Doug has
learned discretion over the years.  Why risk a good thing?  He needed
Hallie not only for cover but also because he really enjoyed her
friendship.  He knew, moreover, that she had so much money that she might
properly be suspicious of any man who showed an interest in her.

"What's wrong, Doug?" Hallie asked.  "Did I say something I shouldn't
have?"

"No, Hallie, of course not.  But there's something I want to say to you,
and I'm thinking how to put it."

"Oh, darlin', just SAY it!  You know you can tell me anything."

Doug took a deep breath.  "OK.  I want you to understand me here.  Please
don't think I'm telling you that I'm gay."

She started to say something, but didn't when Doug held up his hand.

"I'm NOT telling you I'm gay.  But there's no reason why you and I can't
have that kind of relationship.  I love you.  I truly enjoy your company.
I love our outings together.  But at this point in my life, I have no
interest in what your friend calls `entangling alliances.'  I hope that
clarifies things for you and makes you comfortable.  I'd hate for you to
misunderstand."

"Dougie, I understand completely.  Pretty much, I had assumed that all
along, but it's nice to have an understanding, isn't it?"  She patted his
hand and changed the subject.

"When do you `read' next?" she asked.

"Tomorrow at 8:00.  Cal Jones is doing the psalm and the prayers, I've got
the lessons."

"I just love to hear you read.  You do it with such clarity and feeling."

"Aren't you sweet?  You need to remember, though, that I spent my career
reading literary texts to people, so I've had lots of practice."

"You surely aren't sight reading those Bible passages, though, are you?"

"Come on!  You know I'm not.  Just like you when it's your turn, I go to
the church early in the week and find out what the readings are.  Then I go
home and practice them."

"Well, Dougie, it shows.  You never stumble."

"Thanks, Hallie.  As I'm sure you'll agree, the point is not to do anything
to call attention to one's self, to keep the focus on the meaning of the
liturgy."

Later, at her house, Doug got out of the car and walked with her to the
door.

"Thanks, Doug.  I've really enjoyed the evening.  I haven't been to the
county museum often, and Hank's is a neat place."

She offered her cheek, which Doug duly kissed.

"See you bright and early at church," she said.

"Well, early, if not bright.  Good night, Hallie."

"Good night, dear."

As he drove home, Doug was feeling guilty.  He hadn't lied to Hallie back
there in the restaurant, but he hadn't been totally honest with her,
either.  Life would be so much easier if he could be honest with his
friends about who and what he was.  But then, would they still be his
friends?  His position at St. John's and at the Gardens would certainly be
jeopardized if he came out.  This was, after all, a very small town in
conservative, rural, central Florida, a town where everyone knew everyone
else, or at least, as some of the snobs would say, "everyone who counted."

* * *.

That same evening, in a booth at a pub in Lake Polk sat Mary, Blair, and
another couple.  Three of them were having beers.  Blair had a coke.

"Sure you won't have a beer with us, Blair?" asked the other male in the
group.

"No, thanks, Sam.  You know soccer starts soon, and I'm supposed to be in
training.

"Your coach will never know.  Besides, soccer practice hasn't even started
yet."

"I know.  To tell the truth, I've never had much of a taste for it."

"Man!  You have tried it, haven't you?"

"Yeah, so get off my case, Rogers.  I just don't want any, ok?"

"Sammy, leave Blair alone.  He doesn't need to drink if he doesn't want
to," said Sam`s date.

Putting his hands up in a gesture of surrender, Sam said, "OK, OK, I was
just trying to be sociable.  So, Mercier, what's with this guy you've been
workin' for this summer?"

"He's a nice guy.  Used to be a prof up north somewhere."

"Mary was telling us while you were in the pisser that you went to dinner
with him a couple of times?"

The blonde with Sam spoke up.  "What a drag!"

"Well, it wasn't so bad.  You guys were all home for the summer.  I was
here, trying to make enough to pay my rent and buy food, and working at the
Gardens.  Doug is there a lot, and one day we got to talking.  He was
asking about me, and I mentioned that I missed Mary, didn't know what to do
with myself here in Lake Polk with everyone gone, and needed to earn some
money."

"So?" encouraged the blonde.

"So he told me his garden had gotten out of control while he was away in
June and wanted to know if I'd like to help him with it.  I said I could
use the money."  I was doing my work at Ridenour weekday mornings, and you
know how hot it is around here afternoons.  He suggested that I come early
on Saturday morning and work for a few hours while it was still sort of
cool."

The others nodded, so Blair continued.  "One day he asked what I was doing
that evening.  He knew Mary was at home and my folks are four hours away in
Fort Meyers.  I said I would probably stay home and eat a pbj sandwich and
watch whatever was on television.  That's when he asked me to go to the
mall and have supper with him."

"Booorrrring," said the blonde.

"Well, it was a free meal.  Besides, he's a decent guy, not stuffy at all.
He seemed OK about being with me.  I mean, what am I to him?  Just some
college jock he never saw before this summer.  I think he was as lonesome
as I was.  So I suggested the next weekend us going to a movie.  He said
he'd like that, but why didn't we have dinner again first.  So we did.
That's all."

"Sounds like a goddam queer to me," said Sam.

* * *

When Doug got home after dropping Hallie off, he checked his voice mail.
Nothing.  Then he booted up his computer and logged onto the internet to
check his email.  Nothing.  Then he checked to see if any of his several IM
buddies were on.  No one.  `Pathetic,' he said to himself.  `Here it is,
9:00 on a Saturday evening, and you're alone, trying to think of something
to do until you can reasonably go to bed!'

He turned on one of Tampa's two PBS stations and watched BBC sitcoms until
11:00, at which point he turned off the tv and went to his bedroom.  After
taking off and carefully hanging up his pants, he threw the rest of his
clothes in a hamper.  He brushed his teeth, flossed, urinated, and went to
bed.  He might have turned on the tv in the bedroom, but he knew there was
nothing on that he wanted to watch.  Besides, he wanted to be fresh for the
8:00 service the next morning.  After setting his bedside radio to play for
30 minutes before shutting down, he turned off the light.  By the time the
radio had switched off, Doug had drifted off to sleep, hoping to revisit
that morning's dream.


No such luck.  Doug awoke when the radio came on at 6:30, not aware of
having dreamed at all.  He pulled on some shorts, sox, sneakers, and a
t-shirt.  He had time to run a while before eating breakfast and cleaning
up for church.

Back home after his run around the neighborhood, he had orange juice,
scrambled eggs, and toast.  Bacon would have been nice, but he was
beginning to be more careful about cholesterol.

He showered and shaved.  Instead of his usual suit or jacket and tie, he
put on a white shirt, open at the collar, dark slacks, and black loafers.
Since he was reading this morning, he knew a jacket and tie would be
superfluous under his vestments.

He arrived at St. John's at 7:30, a half an hour before the service was to
begin.  He found no one in the vesting room when he got there.  At the 8:00
service, there were no acolytes.  Father Dave was no doubt around, but Doug
hadn't seen him yet.  And Cal Jones would predictably arrive at the last
moment.

Doug put on the full-length black cassock.  When he donned that garment, he
was always reminded of Bing Crosby and Gregory Peck, who had both played
Catholic priests in movies he had loved when he was a kid.  Then he pulled
on the short, white cotta over the cassock.  As he told Hallie, he had gone
to the church earlier in the week to find out what the lessons were.  He
had the insert from the bulletin tucked into the appropriate place in his
Book of Common Prayer/Hymnal combination.

When, about ten minutes before 8:00, Father Dave walked in, said hello, and
began to put on his vestments, Doug lighted the candle lighter and went
into the sanctuary to light the candles on the altar.

As he was putting the candle lighter back into its holder, Cal breezed in,
said a casual good morning, and began putting on his cassock.

"Who's doing what this morning, Doug?"

"You're doing the Psalm and the Prayers of the People.  I've got the
lessons."

"OK.  I guess I'd better take a look at the Psalm for today."

A few minutes later, Father Dave said a brief prayer, and the three of them
entered the sanctuary from the side.


Things went smoothly during the service.  Both Cal and Doug were
experienced, though they had different styles.  Doug tended to be
over-prepared, over-conscientious.  Cal, by contrast, was very casual.
This morning, for example, he was wearing sandals with no socks under his
khaki slacks.

`I suppose,' Doug thought, `he is wearing on his feet what monks did for
centuries, so I shouldn't be critical.  But some people in the congregation
are going to be upset.  We Episcopalians are a pretty up-tight bunch, for
sure.'

Both men read their appointed passages without stumbling.  For Doug it was
old hat because, as he had said to Hallie, he had years of experience
reading to college students.  After the passing of the Peace, both men went
to the Gospel side of the church, out of sight of the congregation.  Cal
gave Dave, the priest, the wine and water as needed.  Doug rang the bells
at the appropriate places.  All of this gave Doug a feeling he could hardly
describe.  He felt that he was participating in something different from
anything else he did in his life, and he looked forward to the Sundays when
it was his turn to be what was called in the bulletin a lay
reader/Eucharistic server, or LEM.

The most special part of the service, however, was the point at which the
two men, each taking half of the three-sided altar railing, followed Father
Dave, offering the chalice after the priest had put the wafer into the
communicant's hand.

This serving of the wine always gave Doug goose bumps.  He wasn't sure why,
but something was going on at this time which overrode his years of
training in logic, his experience as a scholar.  What was happening here
defied logic.  "Call it the Holy Spirit if you want," Father Dave had told
him often.  "It's something greater than yourself, whatever you call it.
You step back from your being there and become only the bearer at that
moment."

At St. John's, there were three ways a communicant could receive the wine.
The most common was for the server to hold the chalice while the
communicant took a sip from it, usually steadying it from the bottom with
one hand.  If, for whatever reason, the person did not want to drink from
the chalice, she or he could hold the wafer between thumb and forefinger.
The server knew to hold the chalice so that the receiver could dip
("intinct") the wafer into the wine and then put it into his or her own
mouth.  A third and fairly common way was for the communicant to leave the
wafer in his or her upturned palm.  The server thus knew to intinct the
wafer, which he then put on the tongue of the communicant.

As Doug passed along the altar rail, when nearly everyone had been served,
he noted a bowed head that he did not recognize, obviously someone who had
been sitting near the back of the church.  `A visitor,' he thought, `or a
new parishioner.'

Moving in front of the kneeling newcomer, he saw that the wafer was resting
in the man's palm.  He took the wafer, dipping it into the wine.

In Doug's experience, it was fairly common for the communicant to smile at
the server at the time when the wine is offered.

In this case, however, the stranger tilted his head back, opened his mouth
so that Doug could place the wafer on his tongue, looked Doug steadily in
the eye, and winked!

Then he was smiling, with what could only be described as a devilish
twinkle in his eyes.  Doug's heart and his cock lurched.  There was a
magical, instant connection that certainly was not religious.  This had
nothing to do with the Holy Spirit.  This was all to do with the flesh.

The man was about Doug's age, or perhaps a bit younger.  He had short,
dark, curly hair, salted with a little grey.  He wore a neatly-trimmed
mustache and a short goatee, both of which had a little more gray than the
hair on his head.  They eyes which had so jolted Doug were an intense blue.

"The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ keep you in everlasting life," Doug
said, putting the wafer on the stranger's tongue.

After chewing and swallowing the wafer, the kneeling man crossed himself
and said "Amen" as Doug passed on to the next person.

As the last hymn was sung, Father Dave walked up the main aisle to the rear
of the church.  Cal and Doug exited to the side, into the vesting room.

"Cal," Doug asked, "would you mind putting out the candles?"

"No problem, Doug," his partner for the morning responded.

Doug quickly took off and with uncharacteristic carelessness hung up the
cotta and cassock.  He hurried into the parish hall in hopes of seeing the
stranger whose look had burned so deeply into him, but the mystery guy
didn't seem to be there.

"Doug, darling, you were marvelous, as usual," Hallie said.

"Thanks, Hallie," he responded.  "I saw that we had a newcomer this
morning, obviously an Episcopalian.  Do you have any idea who he was?"

"No, darling.  As you know, I always sit near the front, so I have no idea
who's sitting behind me."

"And you didn't notice anyone new returning to his seat?"

"No, I'm afraid not.  What's all the fuss?  This man seems to have made a
strong impression on you."  Not waiting for an answer, Hallie asked, "Are
you going to stay for breakfast?"

"I've already had my breakfast.  I guess I'm not a traditionalist on that
score.  But after running, I'm not about to wait through the service to get
something to eat.  Besides, when we have to help Father Dave consume the
leftover wine, I'd fall on my face if I hadn't eaten before the service."

For the rest of the day, thoughts and visions of the sexy stranger kept
troubling Doug.  He felt guilty that he had had sexual thoughts during the
very holiest moments of the service.  He had to admit, though, that the guy
was a hottie.  And there WAS a connection when their eyes met.