Date: Thu, 21 Feb 2002 15:04:36 -0800
From: marcar007 <marcar007@netzero.net>
Subject: I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU

I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU

By Carlos Martinos
marcar007@netzero.net

For adults who are into man-to-man sex
The characters in this story are over 18 years of age
The setting is Buffalo, New York in the pre-condom year of 1980


Those eyes.

Those opalescent, milky blue orbs.  The windows to his soul.  Etched
forever in my memory.  Haunting.  Agonizing.  Pleading.  Eloquent in their
silence.  Screaming soundlessly for recognition.

His eyes distinguish him from the other homeless souls who roam this urban
hell.  His eyes are alive.  Vibrant.  They speak with a mute urgency.  "I'm
descending into oblivion, but I'm not lost yet.  Save me!"

The falling snow has painted the festering inner city with a sparkling
white veneer.  Concealing the rot that lies beneath it.  He's huddled in
the doorway of an abandoned building.  But it offers scant protection from
the bitter Canadian winds that have been assaulting Buffalo for the past
several hours.

I walk over to the doorway where he is crouching, and stare at him for a
long moment.  "Hey, man!" he barks with anger.  "That's it.  Take a good
hard look at me.  I'm part of the unwashed, indigenous fauna that populates
this area."

And I'm thrilled.  The kid has real potential.  Who would expect
"indigenous fauna" from a denizen of this horrific nether world?

"I'm impressed!"  I fire back at him.  "But I should tell you that
"indigenous fauna" is somewhat redundant."

"Redundant, huh?  Hey, I like you!"  Big grin from the kid now.  "You like
to play semantic games, just like I do."

I extend my hand to the kid, who is still huddled in the doorway.  "Give me
your hand."

He eyes me warily before grasping my hand with his big grubby paw.  "What
is this?  Are we supposed to be bonding now?"  A grin flickers across his
face.

I pull him to his feet, and at 6'1" we stand eyeball to eyeball.  His face
is a collage of grit and grime and two-week stubble.  And he is redolent of
off-putting aromas that are better left un-described.  Suffice it to say
that he hasn't been up close and personal with a shower in weeks.

I yank his chain now.  "That's right, dude.  We're bonding.  I operate a
home for wayward boys.  And I'm going to take you there and give you a
shower and a double espresso and a gourmand dinner of streak and potatoes."
I give him a sly wink to let him know I'm kidding him about the "wayward
boys" bit.  But he's already light years ahead of me.

"Wayward, huh?  I've been called "forward" and "backward".  But never
"wayward".  So maybe I don't qualify for all this largess?"

"If you don't get out of this blizzard soon, Junior, your frozen ass won't
qualify for anything but a slab in the morgue.  I promise you'll like my
place better than that."

* * * * *

My new DeVille purrs like a pussycat as we ride toward my home in virtual
silence.  Finally, as we pull into my driveway, we exchange vital
statistics.  He's Zack.  And he's 19.  I'm Drew.  And I'm on the wrong side
of 40 - but just barely.

Then Zack takes a deep breath and admonishes, "You really shouldn't be
doing this, you know.  You shouldn't take in a stray man the way you might
take in a stray dog, Drew.  I might be the reincarnation of Jack the
Ripper.  Or the proselytizing son of Jerry Falwell."

"Shhh, Zack.  That's enough.  You're starting to sound just like my
mother."  I slip him a quick grin.  "Granted, it was an irresponsible,
impulsive thing to do.  I know I have my moments of irrationality.  But
they shake up my life, and I cherish them.  I refuse to live a life of
quiet desperation.  My impulsive little adventures nurture me.  They
provide me with intellectual sustenance.  They light up my life,"

* * * * *

We've been home for half an hour now, and Zack is still in the shower.
Great clouds of steam billow from the bathroom.  And Zack is singing.  Zack
is singing!  I didn't realize anybody actually did sing in the shower.  "It
Was a Very Good Year" bounces off the tile walls of the bathroom, and
echoes into the living room.  It's a surprisingly sweet rendition of the
old Sinatra tune.

There's a glass bottom conversation pit at one end of my living room, which
looks down on a night-lighted koi pond.  And that's where I find myself
now.  Waiting for Zack.  I'm experiencing some sort of unanticipated
trepidation.  Probably because I have absolutely no idea what Zack will
look like, once all those grungy layers of grime have been showered away.

Or is my apprehension due to our age difference?  That shopworn cliche "old
enough to be his father" keeps running through my mind.  But even though
middle age is rearing its ugly head and beckoning me, I suppose I'm still a
pretty good looking dude.  I've managed to hold onto all of my thick curly
black hair.  My cobalt blue eyes are still as piercing as ever.  My
sparkling grin still gets me noticed.  And when I'm in a dark bar wearing a
tight t-shirt I still stack up pretty well against most of the
twenty-somethings.

Then Zack mercifully interrupts my agonizing self-appraisal.  I look up and
he's standing at the far end of the living room.  Wearing a towel and a
quizzical smile.  The most astonishing transformation is his hair.  Before
the shower, his hair looked like someone had dumped a quart of industrial
strength motor oil on it.  But now a thick mop of clean, tow-headed blond
hair flops casually into his eyes.  As he walks toward me, his smile
blossoms into a mischievous grin.  And now he's the personification of a 19
year old Dennis the Menace - too cute for his own good.

Zack crosses the living room in long, looping strides.  And stands smartly
in front of me, as though he's standing at military "attention".  He's
trying to look serious, but a persistent smirk tugs at the corners of his
mouth.  "Sir!  PFC Zack, reporting for inspection.  Sir!"

"At ease, private."  I love game playing, so I go along with him.  "I see
you have a square jaw.  A prominent adams apple.  Bulging pecs.  Flat abs.
And hairy, muscular legs.  I like that in a man.  You'll go a long way in
the infantry, son.  You are in the infantry, aren't you, private?"

"Sir!  No sir.  I'm heavy artillery.  Sir!"

"Oh yeah!  I just bet you are, soldier!"

"Sir!  You haven't told me explicitly, sir.  But my intuitive powers of
observation and deduction tell me that you're gay.  Sir!"

"Very astute observation, soldier.  And I suppose you have heard the rumor
that I have bedroom maneuvers planned for later tonight."  With that I
stand.  Embrace Zack.  And kiss him tenderly on the lips.

And Zack whispers in my ear, "Ummm!  Keep that up and I'll follow you
anywhere.  Sir!"

* * * * *

My bare leg brushes against Zack's, as we sit side by side on the bed.
We're slurping our double espressos and reveling in the warm glow created
by our two naked bodies in such close proximity.  In fact I'm amazed at the
heat that radiates from Zack's bare body.  He's a regular little Vesuvious.
I'll have to ask him about it tomorrow.  And it occurs to me that there are
vast numbers of things I will have to learn about Zack.  For indeed, I know
not this lad who is about to share my bed.

* * * * *

There is something ethereal about the events that follow.  We both seem to
be experiencing them through some sort of erotic fog.  Time transcends its
usual dimensions.  We make love for an hour or two.  Or is it all night?

Zack encloses me in his arms and we kiss.  Tenderly.  Then passionately.
And then tenderly again.  Zack's tongue plunges in and out of my mouth.
And I am ecstatic, feeling the thrust of his tongue in my mouth.  And then
I become gradually aware that now it is no longer his tongue.  It is his
awesome erect phallus.  Plunging.  Thrusting.  Into my mouth.  He gives me
more of himself with each stroke.  Until I finally feel my lips pressed
hard against his flaxen pubic hair.  And I marvel that I have taken all of
him into me.

Ecstasy abounds as Zack switches his position and eases his mouth down upon
my cock.  All the time holding his cock within me.  So now our erections
are connecting us.  We lie on our sides.  Heads resting on thighs.  Our
heads remain motionless as our hips thrust in unison.  Slow penetrations.
Gentle and deep.  And we delight in the glorious sensation of being fucked
in the mouth.

We fit so well.  We move together as if we are slow dancing.  Most of our
motions are on the sub-conscious level.  The dual sensations of sucking and
getting sucked dominate our beings.  And with eyes wide open I drink in the
beauty of Zack's golden blond crotch.

Now my impending orgasm is building within me.  And Zack's sensual groans
tell me that he too is close.  I swallow Zack's cock.  And he swallows
mine.  The exquisite intimacy of it all overwhelms us.  And we both slide
over the brink.  Our seed flows between us in great massive spurts.  Zack
flows into me, and I into him.  Ultimately we come down from the heights.
And then, blanketed in the warm afterglow of love, we remain locked
together in erotic embrace for the rest of the night.

And I marvel at the inevitability of it all.  From the first moment that
his eyes locked onto mine, I knew that we would culminate our passion
tonight.

* * * * *

It's two weeks later now.  The big bird is flying silently at 30,000 feet.
Returning to Buffalo from Key West.  Inside the cabin, Zack and I are
sporting golden bronze Florida suntans.  Thirty-six hours after we met, we
were on our way to a two-week Key West vacation.  Impulsive?  Yes.  And we
wouldn't have it any other way.

Our travel agent guaranteed us 14 "sun-sational" days, luxuriating in one
of the world's great gay Valhallas.  Every day, after a late brunch
overlooking the ocean, we would grab a few rays on the beach.  Then it was
back to our hotel room for Rest and Recreation.  In the evening there was a
little dining, a little dancing.  Then, we would stroll hand in hand on a
moon-kissed sandy beach.  Our feet washed by a silvery surf, as the
breakers rolled in to the shore.  And finally it was back to our room for
more R and R.

And yes.  We were bonding.  Each day our relationship became a little more
intense.  We stopped thinking in terms of "me" and "you".  It became "we"
and "us".  We became inseparable.

On our last morning in Key West, Zack jumped out of bed with all the
enthusiasm of a frisky colt.  He threw open the drapes and bright tropical
sunshine inundated the room.  I groaned and opened one sleepy eye.  Zack
tossed me a sly grin.  "I'm going to serenade you this morning, Drew!"

Then he sat down on the bed beside me and launched into Rod Stewart's
"Maggie".  After he sang the line "the morning sun when it's in your face
really shows your age" he stopped singing and flashed me his "naughty
little boy" grin.  Then I opened my other eye and playfully growled at him,
"You keep this up, sweetheart, and before this day is out you're going to
be a Teen Angel."  We stared at one another for a long moment, and then we
both burst out laughing.  And I heaved a giant sigh of relief.  As long as
we can joke like this about our age difference, it's not a problem.

That evening, as we were eating dinner in an ocean front cafe, Zack gave me
a thoughtful look.  "You know, Drew, we've been here for two weeks.  And
I've been totally oblivious to all the people surrounding us.  I can't
recall the face of even one person we have seen since we arrived.  I'm
hooked, sweetie.  I've only got eyes for you."  And then he burst into
song, singing the chorus of that golden oldie at the top of his lungs.  I
know most guys would have been at least a little embarrassed.  Every head
in the cafe was turned toward us.  But I just grinned, and joined Zack in a
loud and lusty second chorus.

On our first night in Key West, Zack asked me to let him take the masculine
role in anal sex.  And I happily acquiesced.  Every night Zack filled me up
with his long, thick tool.  Entering me gently.  Probing me slowly.
Prolonging the ecstasy.  And driving me wild.

Then, on our final night on the island, he put his arm around my shoulder,
nuzzled my neck, and whispered, "I want you to fuck me tonight, Drew."

I was so stunned by his unexpected request, my memory of that night is
incomplete.  I have no recollection of entering Zack.  But my memory of his
lying on his back with me deep within him is crystal clear.  I remember
lying motionless, letting him adjust to my thickness.  As usual, Zack was
radiating heat.  And I reveled in it, as my cock was embraced in the hot
cocoon of his body.

 Then Zack whispered, "Fuck me now, Drew.  Fuck me slowly.  Fuck me with
deep slow strokes.  Prove to me that the initial pain of this first time
pales when compared to the ecstasy that comes later.  And show me that
masculinity and virility can be gentle and loving.

I have incredible memories of easing gradually out of Zack, and then
thrusting slowly back into him.  I remember seeing my erect cock.  Plunging
and stroking.  Slow strokes.  Gentle strokes.  Deep strokes.  I still
recall his grunts of discomfort being transformed into moans of delight.
And I remember my own delight when he started meeting the downward thrusts
of my hips with the upward movements of his.  Creating a unity of body and
soul.

Once again we fit perfectly.  It was as if all our movements had been
choreographed.  It seemed inevitable when we ultimately orgasmed together.
My hot seed spurting deep into his bowels.  His splashing copiously onto
his belly.  Then I collapsed onto Zack, with tears in my eyes.  The
exuberance of our lust had been transformed into the euphoria of our love.

* * * * *

But returning to Buffalo changes Zack's mood completely.  For the first
time since I have known him he seems pensive.  Restless.  Withdrawn.  I ask
him about it that night as we are lying together in bed.  "Let's discuss it
tomorrow morning, Drew.  For tonight, just hold me, sweetie.  Hold me tight
and don't turn loose.  Let's make believe that this can go on forever."

* * * * *

"Her name's Cindy.  And we're engaged."  It's the following morning and we
are sitting in my dining room, noshing on bagels and cream cheese.  I look
at Zack, dumbstruck.  He has just shown me a photo of his fiancée,
Cindy.  The daughter of one of the wealthiest land barons in Buffalo.

"We had set the date.  Then one day, a couple of weeks before the wedding,
I went into total meltdown.  Her family issued a press release saying that
I had a nervous breakdown.  And I guess I did.  That, and a massive case of
cold feet."

"Next I followed the lead of zillions of other dumb fucks who can't cope
with their problems.  I started drinking.  And I didn't stop.  Twenty
four/seven.  I was drunk every waking hour of every day.  I had been living
on the street for over a month when I met you.  You saved my life, Drew.
And I will be eternally grateful to you for that."

Zack is silent now.  He looks at me expectantly.  Wanting me to say
something.  But I wait him out.  Waiting for the inevitable.

"I have to go back to her, Drew.  I owe her that.  For a multitude of moral
and ethical reasons, I have to go back to her."

"And what about us, Zack?"  My voice is an octave higher than usual.  "What
do you owe to our relationship?  You do know you're gay, don't you?  You're
not in denial about that are you?"

"Well. . . .I have some issues about my sexuality, Drew.  Let's put it that
way."

"Issues, Zack?  You have issues?  I didn't detect any of those issues
during the past two weeks.  We had the wildest, most uninhibited sex
imaginable, sweetheart.  And you loved every moment of it.  Just as much as
I did!"

I'm about to continue my harangue, but then I see them.  The tears flowing
down Zack's cheeks.  And my heart melts.  I walk to him and hug him.  And
he hugs me back.  And I kiss him tenderly, the tears streaming down my
cheeks merging with his.  And we just stand there.  Swaying gently to and
fro.  Kissing each other.  And sobbing.

* * * * *

It's been thirty days now.  I've been counting the days since he left.
Stupid, huh?  It's been a miserable, rocky, barren thirty days.  I've been
going through the motions of living.  But it's all a farce.  I'm dead, but
I just won't admit it.

I pass by "the doorway" every day after work.  That doorway in the
abandoned building where we "met".  Even though I try to avert my eyes when
I pass, I always find myself glancing furtively in that direction.

This evening as I pass, the falling snow is so heavy it almost obliterates
my view of the building.  I'm just a foot or two away from the doorway
before I look over at it.  And then, when I look, the snow vanishes!  And
the sun shines brilliantly!  And thousands of bluebirds sing ecstatically!
Because I am looking into those eyes.  Those opalescent, milky blue orbs.
The windows to his soul.  Etched forever in my memory.  Sparkling.
Glowing.  Loving.

Zack has come home!

And his voice is choked with emotion as his shout echoes from the doorway,
"Sir!  I've come home to you, sir.  I've come home to love you.  And this
time it's forever!  Sir!"


The End

marcar007@netzero.net