Date: Sat, 6 Nov 2010 22:34:13 -0300
From: Mike Nifty <niftymike@gmail.com>
Subject: My Boy Paul - part 3

My Boy Paul - part 3

By niftymike@gmail.com (cc-by-sa-2.0: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/)

A soft voice: "Mike. Mike??"

Paul gently shook my shoulder. "I have to go to work, and you should go
home to finish your nap."

I lazily opened my eyes, and arched my back, my shirt lifting up my abs.
Mostly smooth - just a dusting of light brown hair enough to accentuate
the work I put into them. I never played sports, but I did work out. I
guess my athletic appearance made guys less likely to think I'm gay. Yay
stereotypes 9_9

"Mmmmmmmkay" I growled. "Oh god, I'm sorry man. I didn't mean to fall
asleep on you."

"It's fine. Your body's really.. comfy, and smells good," Paul blushed a
bit, speaking fast, as though I might not hear what he was saying if he
got it over with quickly.

"I guess I shouldn't stay out late tonight. Early to bed for me."

"Well, enjoy open mic night. Maybe if I get off work early I'll come for
a bit later."

"Sweet, that'd be awesome!"

We parted ways, my hazy head still wondering what was meant by 'smells
good' - I guess he couldn't help but smell me, right?

I was actually a bit crushed he couldn't come to open mic night - was
that a rejection? Didn't he even want to be friends? But maybe he really
did have to go to work. And he even said he'd try to come later.

I brooded the rest of the way home, and tossed myself into bed. Tossing
and turning, I couldn't sleep - Paul was camping inside my head. Again,
I grabbed a pillow, and imagined he were mine.

A few hours later, I showered and got ready to go out. I tried to make
sure I looked good even though I knew I'd be overdressed. Open mic night
attracts hippie-types - wearing a shirt without holes was dressing up,
much less a collared shirt under a cashmere V-neck, dark-washed
straight-leg jeans and leather shoes.

On the way, I met up with Emily, and we went off together, me lugging
her guitar and a new rainstick the whole way. I didn't mind. Really.

Still, it was always fun to hear her play, and the little bar had a
great group of regulars who always came for open mic night.

I made sure to get a seat at the back but facing the stairs up to the
bar in case he came - I'd be able to see him, and we'd be able to talk
without disturbing the music.

One of the regulars, a football player on the university's varsity team
came over - we have become sort-of friends over the past while. Between
sets we'd talk about surprisingly intellectual subjects. He wansn't just
there to meet girls (although he did date one girl who sang weekly), he
actually loved the arts. Eventually he asked me who I was waiting for; I
guess I had been keeping one eye on the stairs the whole night. I didn't
want to talk about it so, I just shrugged it off. "It's nothing, I'm
just tired." Not a complete lie, but David knew me better than I
thought.

"I guess I'm just looking forward to Paul coming. If he gets off work, I
guess."

David prompted me: "New friend?"

With a sigh, I confessed "I hope so. Actually, I hope more than that.
But I don't know how fond he is of me. I fell asleep while he was
reading to me today, which is kinda disrespectful, and..."

"Hey, stop it. You're a catch." He looked me in the eyes. "Really. Just
run with it." I smiled and gave him a playful punch on the shoulder.
"Hey! It's not my fault I'm a dumb jock - all I know are sports
metaphors!" David protested in jest.

A quiet voice from beind me interrupted our laughter: "I'm gonna get
myself a drink." I turned to see Paul heading back towards the bar - he
must have come in using the stairs at the back of the building.

"That's my cue." David smiled. I got up to shake his hand goodbye, but
he gave me a hug, whispering "Go for it, man. Seriously. You can do it"
before he abruptly released me and bounced down the stairs two at a
time.

Paul was still waiting for his drink, and looking at him, I suddently
felt parched, so I grabbed my wallet quickly from the bench and joined
him at the bar. "I'll have half orange half cranberry." (I don't drink
alcohol.) Paul had the same, plus vodka. He gave me a mock salute &
imitated a pirate: "Ye has good taste, little one, but yer missin the
most potent part."

"Who are you calling little one?" I laughed, and we headed back to the
bench.

We ended up sitting far enough apart that we weren't touching, but close
enough I could feel Paul's body heat against my arm and leg. Which did
nothing to help my nerves, or the tightness of my jeans. I drank quickly
and tried to relax, studiously watching the performers - I didn't want
to be seen staring at Paul, even though that was the only thing I really
wanted to do.

In between the performers, Paul went up for another drink, and another,
and yet another. He offered to get me something. "Just water this time;
I've had enough sugar."

When he came back, the previous performers had packed up and left,
replaced by one woman and her guitar - no mic. As she started in, we
could barely hear her voice. As it rose to the song's climax, a haunting
melody fell over the bar, and the mood became subdued. Paul relaxed,
sinking into his seat and actually closed his eyes to better absorb the
music with a little grin on his face. I wanted to put my arm around him,
but I thought that might scare him off.

As she reached the end of the second song, Paul made that decision for
me by leaning over just enough to rest his head on my shoulder.
Instinctively, I pulled his head to my chest, my arm around his
shoulder, and shifted down on the seat. Christ, he smells... perfect. A
hit of shampoo leftover in his hair, and the woodsy smell of man. Until
now, I had had my cock under control (well, mostly), but the combination
of touching and smelling and the music, now fading, did me in. To make
matters worse, Paul slipped a hand down to my knee. On purpose, just a
coincidence - I don't know, but the effect was the same. I needed an
emergency "bathroom" break.

Propping Paul back up straight, he opened his eyes and frowned at me. I
guess it's not just my stomach that's comfy - but I needed a break. Off
to the washroom for me. I tried to take a piss, but that woodie wasn't
taking a break.

After a few minutes' respite from Paul's smell, and the feel of him
curling up on me, I got soft enough to do my business, and headed back
out. Back out to find Paul finishing off a double of vodka. His second
double of vodka since I left, it looked like. He saw my stare, and
giggled a bit, then turned back to the concert. We sat quietly for the
final set of the night. It wasn't great, but maybe I was just missing
Paul curled up at my side. He didn't say a word, and didn't make eye
contact the whole time.

At the end, we waited a bit before leaving. I put a hand on his back and
quietly asked if he wanted to stay, or head home. He wanted to head
home, so we were off towards my apartment. I asked "So, where do you
live, anyways?" - hoping we could walk together part of the way.

"Oh, I wanted to hang out at your place for a bit. Is that OK?"

Of course that was OK! I grinned. "Yeah, man. Of course." Paul's face
lit up too.

Coming inside, Paul looked pretty timid, and uncomfortable. I figured he
just didn't feel at home here. "Can I get you something?"

"Yeah, a beer, if you have one." I was surprised - was Paul trying to
get drunk? But I guess if he wanted one, and I wanted him to feel at
home, he chould have it. Paul had grabbed a chair, and I took the couch.
He nearly chugged it, then set the bottle down heavily and - without
meeting my eyes - moved to the couch beside me. With his head down, he
quietly seemed to confess. "Can I stay here tonight? I don't want to
go." I figured he meant that he didn't want to go to his home. Not my
place to pry.

"If you want to, sure."

"K, thank you" came the whispered reply.

I got the sense Paul was done for the night. He was a bit tipsy, shall
we say, and we had both had long days behind us. I steered him towards
my bedroom, and he plopped down on top of the unmade covers. Leaving him
to get himself ready for bed, I got changed in the bathroom. When I came
back, Paul had kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his jeans, and fallen
asleep already. With his dishevelled appearance, and sprawled across
seven eighths of the bed, I figured he really did look like he had
fallen from the sky. Not an angel perhaps, but certainly some kind of
person I'd never encountered before.

I covered him up and slipped in the opposite side of the bed. Not
trusting myself, I turned away, and concentrated on sleeping. Despite my
aching hard-on, darkness came quickly to my mind.