Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2002 23:29:31 -0500
From: Cepes LA <cepes@mail.com>
Subject: The Interviewee Part 9

This is gay erotic fiction.  If you are offended by graphic descriptions of
homosexual acts, go somewhere else.

Neither this story nor any parts of it may be distributed electronically or
in any other manner without the express, written consent of the author.
All rights are reserved by the author who may be reached at cepes@mail.com.

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance of the characters to anyone
living or dead is pure coincidence and not intended.  They are all products
of the author's overactive imagination.



The Interviewee Part 9



"How did you like Brad Peters as a trainer?" asked Charlie as were walking
together toward the mall and a quick lunch.

My mind, however, wasn't exactly processing the words he said.  More like
every fifth word.  I didn't even immediately register he had asked me a
question.

"Huh?"

"Brad Peters.  He was the guy on marketing strategy frameworks at the
training in Miami two weeks ago.  Haven't you been to one of his sessions?"
Charlie had this little smirk on his face; he looked like he knew I'd been
daydreaming.

In reality, I was actually in a walking nightmare.

"I wasn't in Miami for that."

"I know.  I thought you might have seen him before."

"Right.  Yeah, the name rings a bell.  But, I've sat through many bullshit
trainings.  It's all blurred together."  My words were more terse than
usual.  My brain wasn't at all focused on making nice today; it was still
pointed back to the office, back to my mentor standing in the head of
staffing's office with what looked like my recent project reviews.  Who
knows what sort of devilment she was up to.

Charlie seemed to understand he had reached a dead end with this line of
chit chat.  As a good chameleon--or consultant or sales person--can,
he changed his colors and launched into describing a new bar he had been to
over the weekend.  I let him continue talking.  He had done almost all of
it since we left the office building a few minutes ago.

We were still a couple dozen paces off from the entrance when Charlie
asked, "Where?"

"I don't care.  You?"

"Stage's?"

The deli was a time sink, a bit pricey, the food was mediocre, but I hadn't
been there in a while and didn't want a fight.  Variety being the spice of
life, I nodded.

After we were seated and had looked at the menu, Charlie turned the chit
chat back to our earlier, aborted conversation.  "So, you never did answer
me.  Did you like Brad Peters?"

"Yeah, he was fine."  My stomach had by now outpaced my mind's agitation;
hunger for Stage's tasty, reliable, and cheap chicken noodle soup was at
the forefront of my mind.

Strange how one rarely thinks of so many things unless they are sitting
right in front of his face; the mind is a strange thing.  I wouldn't be
craving this soup unless it was so close to me.  I should be trying to
figure out my presentation or Alex or...

"He's pretty cute, too."  That got my attention.

I sat for a moment.  I watched the smile on Charlie's face erode into
neutrality.

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

"I guess you could say that."  The neutral face remained.

"Yeah, he's not bad.  Maybe I should attend more trainings."  I laughed.
The smile returned on Charlie's face.

"You had me sweating there."

"I know.  I'm a cruel bastard sometimes."

A comfortable silence set in.  I was looking around for the waitress, my
stomach still demanding culinary attention.  Eventually my plaintive stares
and motions got us attention and our orders were recorded.

Charlie was chewing lightly on his lower lip by the time the waitress left
our table.  "You should have been there in Miami.  It was fun."

"Fun?"

"Well, fun for me and Brad, at least.  Trainings are boring, as you say."

"Fucking in the office?  Something I've never done.  Too risky.  Plus..."

"What?"

"It's not my thing."

"And your boyfriend might object?"  Another attention-grabber.  Charlie was
not among the few whom I had told about Chris.  Michael, my former mentor
knew, and Jane, the head of the library, had figured it out.

"I suppose he might."

The subjects of contemplated infidelity and my boyfriend put me on guard.
It was one thing for us to talk about Charlie's flings with older men when
he was specifically volunteering that information; it was another thing
entirely to talk about my life.

This time the silence was less comfortable.

"I mean it.  You should have been in Miami."

"You've said that a couple of times.  What do you mean?"  Not offering an
interpretation, just asking for one.  Safer than stepping into a minefield,
although I knew I had left the safety of playing it dumb.

Charlie's mouth screwed up into a tense muscle mass.  Evidently, this was
his tic when thinking hard.  Funny I had never noticed this when we had
worked on engagements in the past.

I saw the tension lessen on his face.  I'm sure I would have heard
something come out of his mouth, too, except for our waitress returning
with our food: my chicken noodle soup and his oversized sandwich.  I was
glad the question I had asked drifted by the wayside; I had been fearing
the answer.

Slurping noises and crunches predominated at our table for the next few
minutes.  A not-silence and vaguely unpleasant to boot.  The question still
hung in midair; the report of its death very much exaggerated.

Charlie finished half of his sandwich and looked at me.  "How long have you
had a boyfriend?"

"That's not an answer.  But, Chris and I have been together for more than
three years."

"How come I never met him?"  Fair question, but hard to answer.

"I didn't want to bring my home life into the office."

The look on his face suggested Charlie didn't find this satisfactory.  "I
wish you would have told me."

He picked up the other half of his sandwich.  In the middle of a chew, he
said or rather mumbled, "I like you."

"Thanks."

He swallowed.  "No, really.  A lot, I like you a lot."

I looked at him hard.  I couldn't figure out what exactly he meant.

"I wish you had been in Miami.  We could have had fun.  Not me and Brad; me
and you.  In the Jacuzzi.  Bubbles, yeah?"

"No.  I don't think so.  Remember, no fucking in the office."

"Who would tell?"

"I would know.  And so would Chris."

His hand reached for mine.  It touched mine for a moment before I pulled it
back.

"I love my man.  Just him.  Nothing like this."  Part of my mind found the
irony of my having panted over Alex so recently to be funny.  My newfound
rectitude.  It wasn't as though Charlie were unattractive; just that Chris
was so much more incredible.

"Man, I still want to get together with you.  I've wanted to since we first
worked together, yeah."  I couldn't read his face when he said this.  He,
obviously, could not read my anything-but-subtle rejections.

I stopped picking at the soup in my nearly empty bowl.  "Thanks for lunch,
but this has been very strange and really awkward."  Ambiguity or confusion
I could handle to a point; but this kind of awkwardness I couldn't.  I
stood up, reached into my pocket for my wallet, and left a far larger
amount of money than the soup and service were worth.  Buying silence,
perhaps.



As I walked back, alone, to the office, I had a tear running down my face.
I couldn't figure out where Chris was, had to devise a plan to get a
reluctant Alex to talk me, guess why my mentor was trying to sink me,
finish presentations, research, and proposals, and find out why a person I
considered to be a friend had begun looking at me hungrily like I was a
strip sirloin hanging in a butcher's shop, to be had simply for the asking.

What I felt worst about was my ambiguity in responding to Charlie: not
getting up and leaving even after it became clear what he was getting at.
And, before that, playing dumb, giving half answers and evasions.  Why had
I been so passive?  Why hadn't I gotten angry?  Why was I now crying?

I had been on guard when I heard some of the strange things Charlie said,
but when he got to his point, nothing.  I felt nothing; just going through
the motions; saying the words I knew I should say.  I knew I loved only
Chris; I had no interest in having "fun" with Charlie; but I hadn't felt
any strong passions.  No anger, no surprise, nothing.  Was there anything
inside of me alive.  I knew the answer to this less and less as the days
went by.


I settled into work, after stopping off to splash some water on my face.
Unlike that turbulent morning, the afternoon provided a platform for
productivity.  My mind was able to concentrate on the work in front of me.
I wrote a note requesting a meeting with the head of staffing; a positive
response and a meeting on Friday were the results.

I got through the final presentation.  A copy sent for review and comment.
Done for today, there would definitely be changes needed tomorrow.  I
plowed through the research for one proposal; I wrote my sections and sent
it off.  I started on the second pile of research when I finally noticed it
was 6.30.  Enough for today.  As I was logging off my computer, I looked
around my desk, littered with papers, and realized how much I had
accomplished today.  A fact that both scared me and impressed.

The fear came because I knew from experience how I had managed to be so
productive.  I knew that I did my best work when in a slight depression.
It sounds funny, but when I get to that point, a few notches below content
and quite a few above catatonic, I find I can focus.  The background noise
drops out, my brain purrs with intensity, my words or whatever else shoot
from my mouth or my pen like lightning on a muggy, summer day.  The only
problem: that place in my psyche is very fragile and unstable.  The least
disturbance and a crash was likely to result.  Painful.  This was where I
was now.

When I had tried to explain this to Chris years ago, I had to resort to a
metaphor I garnered from my limited scientific education.  Think of ice.
Everyone knows where it freezes, 0 Celsius.  But a few degrees above that,
it is actually more hard, more perfect.  It's still partially liquid, but
it's locked into a tighter, more focused pattern than when it finally
becomes completed immobile, perfectly solid.  At 4 Celsius is the brief
spot of perfection.  I was now at 4 Celsius, a distinctly hard temperature
to maintain.


I walked into our apartment to find myself alone again.  No Chris, no
beautiful scent or voice or body.  I dropped my coat and sat on the sofa.
The TV began to glow and my mind got lost in it.  Even my stomach's
protestations didn't rouse my mind.  I fell asleep eventually.

At some point, the kink in my neck woke me up.  I looked up.  I was in our
bed, naked; I could hear the shower running.  I saw clothes strewn on the
floor, some looked like mine.  I leaned down and picked up a shirt; Chris'.
I smelled it.  It smelled of him, faintly, but more strongly of grease or
smoke, perhaps.  Very strange.

I heard the shower cease and the shower door open.  A few moments passed
and then the light from the bathroom filled our room.  He stood there,
beautiful in his nudity, toweling his hair.

"Chris, I needed you today.  I called."  I was whining.  I never did that.

"Jay, shh.  I love you.  I'm here now."  The light turned off.  I heard
steps around the bed and what sounded like the towel falling onto the
floor.

I felt Chris slide onto our bed.  I melted into him, feeling his warm, wet
skin on mine.

"Where were you today?  Paul called-- "

"Shh, Jay.  Let's talk tomorrow.  I'm exhausted."  I wrapped my arms around
Chris and felt the beat of his heart.

I laid there while my Chris fell asleep.  I looked at him; smelled him;
loved him.  He was here; he was mine.


To be continued.


Author's Note: I would thank everyone for their generous comments about my
story.  I appreciate hearing your comments on this story or anything else.
You can send me a message at cepes@mail.com.  I respond to all messages I
receive.