Date: Thu, 18 Nov 1999 22:13:07 -0800
From: Country Guys <j_and_g@telis.org>
Subject: Wesley: A Love Story

Wesley: A Love Story
by Greg Bowden
j_and_g@telis.org

It had been a dull Christmas Eve party. For some reason Jack is going
through a phase where he invites all these twinkies to his parties and they
are all such immature people, dressed in their with-it clothes and those
little diamond studs piercing them in the oddest places. The weather was
threatening snow too, and I wouldn't have bothered to make the trip into
Manhattan at all that night if Jack weren't such an old and dear friend.
But I did and I suppose the French champagne and excellent buffet made up
for it. That and the fact that dull though they may be, some of Jack's
twinkies are very pleasant to look at.

I had a devil of a time getting a taxi when I left Jack's but at least it
was warm in Grand Central when we got there and the train to Westchester
was waiting where it should have been. Better yet there were still some
empty seats when I got on the train. It always surprises me how many people
ride the one A.M. local. I wondered if they had all been to parties as
boring as Jack's.

I managed to find a seat just below the doors in the fourth car back and
settled in with my book. I looked up when the train began moving and saw
that there wasn't a seat left. In fact, there were several people standing
in the door vestibule. I went back to my book but then looked up again
because one of the men leaning against the vestibule wall had caught my
eye. I pretended to read the poster for the Radio City Music Hall Christmas
show (dreadful that year -- or so I had heard) while I studied him out of
the corner of my eye.

The man looked to be in his middle sixty's -- my age or maybe a year or two
older -- with thick, iron gray hair in an old fashioned brush cut, eyes
that were either blue or green depending on where he was looking, a neat
mustache which was a little darker than his hair and the sort of mouth that
smiles easily. In short, just the sort of man I find it hard to keep my
eyes away from.

I read all the rest of the advertisements in the vestibule, including the
one for roach powder printed in Spanish, and then went back to Radio City
Music Hall. The man had opened his rain coat and I saw that he was in
dinner clothes. The party he was coming from might well have been even more
pretentious than Jack's, I thought to myself with a smile. He was reading a
newspaper, folded so I couldn't see which one it was and I imagined it must
be the Wall Street Journal. Somehow he just looked like someone who would
read the Journal.

A half hour out of Grand Central he caught me looking at him. I was
immediately embarrassed, of course, blushing like a Revlon ad, and I looked
away, pretending I'd been reading the Radio City Music Hall poster again (I
don't know why; I had it committed to memory). The odd thing was, he didn't
look away. He held his paper to his chest, signifying that he was no longer
reading it, and looked directly at me. I, of course, took refuge behind my
book.

When I looked up a moment or two later he was still looking at me and when
he realized I'd caught him at it he didn't turn away. He just looked at
me. And then he smiled -- more of a grin really -- and winked at me. I
didn't know what to do with that but I knew I ought to have some sort of
response. In the end I smiled back but I couldn't bring myself to
wink. Dumb. I might have lost him.

When I smiled he gave me an almost imperceptible nod and then waited,
watching to see if I'd give it back to him. When I did he grinned and threw
me that wink again. This time I managed to wink back which made him grin
and I guess he chuckled or laughed or something because the woman standing
next to him gave him a very odd look and moved to the other side of the
vestibule. He looked after her and scratched his nose, making a dreadfully
rude gesture as he did. Then he looked back at me and arched one eyebrow. I
nodded and smiled, letting him know I'd seen it.

Not long after that White Plains was called and he looked at me with that
questioning eyebrow again. Oh, God, I thought to myself, what do I do
now. What does he want anyway, we were just having a little flirtation
and... The train pulled into the station and the doors opened. He looked at
me, sitting like a lump in my seat, and his smile turned to a sort of sad
resignation. When he went to step off the train he turned and looked at me
again, one foot still in the train, one on the platform and he mouthed
"Merry Christmas". Then he was gone.

I didn't think. I simply snapped my book shut and ran for the doors. When
they started to close I thought I wasn't going to make it but I did,
barely. Outside the air stung my cheeks and I saw that it had begun to
snow. What in God's name have I done, I asked myself. One o'clock Christmas
morning, in the snow and I'm standing on the empty platform of a station
I've never been in before.

"May I offer you a brandy? Purely for medicinal purposes, of course."

He was standing right behind me and startled me when he spoke. When I
turned he pulled off his glove and extended his hand. "Wesley. Wesley
James." He dug in his pocket and produced a card. "My place is only a few
minutes from here and I really would like to share my Christmas brandy." He
didn't wait for an answer. He took my arm and led me away from the platform
and into the parking lot. We stopped beside a large pickup truck and he
unlocked the passenger door. "Be careful you don't slip getting in," he
said. "It's kind of high."

It was high and the step was bright with new ice but I managed. Wesley
climbed in on the other side and started the engine while I wondered what
I'd gotten myself into.  Would Aunt Olivia become furious when I didn't
show up at her Christmas dinner party this afternoon only to read about me
in the next morning's paper: Body of Writer Found in Dumpster and then in
smaller type, but still bold face: Body Violated, Police Say. "Excuse
me. What were you saying?"

He gave me a grin that could only come from a warm, loving man. Or a serial
killer. "I was just asking what your usual stop is."

"Oh. Mount Kisco. Up the line a couple of stops." Why did he want to know?
I knew I was being paranoid but I hadn't done this -- whatever this was --
for many, many years.

"That's not far. I'll run you up whenever you want. After we warm ourselves
with that brandy." He maneuvered the truck -- which I could now see was a
bright fire engine red -- through the deserted, snowy streets with great
confidence. "Almost there," he said, pulling up to a heavy steel gate. He
dug around in the console and pulled out a card which he stuck into a slot
in a little box outside. The double gates opened, rather grandly I thought,
and we drove in. We went through the same routine at an underground garage
and finally came to a stop in a space marked James. "Here we are," he said,
leaning across me and opening my door.

We left the garage and walked along a row of townhouses, turning in at
number eleven. Wesley punched some numbers on a keypad, unlocked the door
and ushered me inside. "Well, this is home," he said. He took my overcoat
and hung it, along with his, in a hall closet and then led me through an
archway. "The living room."

It was a large room and rather nicely furnished with a good mixture of old
and new pieces. There were book cases built along one entire wall and they
were filled with books that looked as though they had actually been
read. The books shared space with a collection of porcelain pieces -- a
mixture of Chinese vases, Japanese bowls and very old French plates. From
what I could tell with just a quick glance they all looked to be authentic
and of excellent quality.

There was a Christmas tree covered with traditional decorations standing in
one corner of the room and Wesley went to it and turned on its lights. He
knelt down and rooted around among the packages, finally finding what he
wanted. "Here we go," he said, holding up a foil wrapped package with a
bright bow. "I think we'll find this to be some very nice cognac." He tore
the wrappings off and brought forth a squat decanter filled with clear
brown liquid. "I can always rely on George. The decanter is different every
year but the cognac is always the same. I think George has it shipped from
France -- probably in fifty gallon casks."

He set the decanter down on the coffee table and took a pair of crystal
snifters from a cabinet. I noticed that his hands shook a little as he
poured and I suddenly realized that he was as nervous as I. "I think you'll
like this," he said, handing me one of the snifters.

I did. The liquor was somehow subtle -- in my book a virtue seldom
displayed by cognac -- and it brought a sudden warmth to my skin. I sat on
the couch and raised my glass. "To George," I said.

Wesley sat beside me and touched his glass to mine. "To George."

We sat in silence, trying to think of something to say. Finally, a little
too loudly, I asked if he'd had an enjoyable evening in town.

"I think so," he said. "It was mother's obligatory Christmas Eve dinner.
Some family, some of her friends. I fill the office of the extra man,
seated next to whichever of the females couldn't corral a date. Tonight it
was mother's sister, Aunt Violet, who is 87 years old and has suddenly
become a radical feminist. No holding her chair, let me tell you." He
laughed. "And you?"

"A friend's party. Nice but a little dull, actually. He's going through a
chorus boy phase."

He nodded. "I know the evening: lots to look at but no one to talk to. On
the other hand, that may well be preferable to dinner conversation with an
87 year old radical feminist."

We lapsed back into silence and he went to adjust something on the
Christmas tree. "You're not making this easy, you know," he said over his
shoulder. "Aren't you supposed to remove your jacket or loosen your tie or
something?"

"What for?" I was that stupid.

He turned and looked directly at me. "The seduction of course." Color
suddenly rose in his cheeks and began to stammer. "Or have I misjudged."

I got to my feet, removed my coat and handed it to him. "No, it's not
you. It's just that it's been a very long time since I... well, since I did
anything of this sort and I guess maybe I've forgotten how." I undid my tie
and opened my collar button, trying to remember what should happen next.

"I think this comes next," Wesley said, apparently reading my mind. He
pulled me into a great bear hug and kissed me. It was almost overwhelming,
kissing a man that way again and my body got a little out of hand. The
hardness pressing against my leg told me Wesley's was doing the same.

When we broke apart I rested my head on his shoulder and looked at him. He
was more handsome in profile than he was full face.

"The script now calls for me to ask if you'd like to see the rest of the
place."

"Meaning?"

"The bedroom."

"Oh. Yes, please, I'd like very much to see the rest of the place."

We went upstairs and into a large, very masculine room done in chocolate
brown and a dark, dusty blue. He pulled open the drapes revealing a small
terrace and a fine view of the woods that bordered the property. The snow
was coming down harder now and the wind had come up, building miniature
drifts on the terrace. There was also a fireplace and Wesley busied himself
with lighting the fire. "There's a bathroom through there in case you need
it," he said, indicating a doorway. I realized that I did need it and went
to relieve myself -- and incidentally to pull myself together. Not only was
this a completely unexpected end to my evening, it was happening very fast.

I was nearly erect and it took me a while before I could function. I
studied the large silver poster hanging behind the toilet, trying to put
Wesley out of my mind. The poster depicted a big bosomed chorus girl,
cleverly created out of nothing but the names of female film stars. It was
just distracting enough to do the job.

When I went back to the bedroom the snifters, refilled, were sitting on the
bedside table and the bed cover had been turned down -- on both sides.
Wesley, standing in front of the fire, held out his arms to me and we ended
up in another one of those long kisses that I was getting to like very
much. When we broke Wesley excused himself and went to the bathroom.

Alone in the room I began to panic. What was I supposed to do now? Was I
supposed to be in the bed when he returned? But wouldn't that look a little
over anxious?  And what if he came back while I was undressing? I didn't
know what to do so I stood in front of the fire and worried.

Wesley was laughing when he came out of the bathroom. "Now I know what took
you so long in there," he said. "It takes a while to relax enough to, uh,
to switch functions, as it were, doesn't it?" He took me in his arms again
and brushed his lips against mine, giving me goose flesh. "You know the one
thing I don't want to do?" he asked. I shook my head, my knees beginning to
feel weak. "I don't want to wake up in the morning holding you in my arms
still wondering what your name is."

My name. Oh, God, I hadn't even introduced myself to him. "I... I'm
sorry. I'm so nervous I've completely forgotten my manners. My name is
Brian. Brian Williams."

He leaned back to look at me. "You're nervous? You certainly don't show it,
Brian. I thought I was the nervous one." He kissed me again. "Can we go to
bed?"

As though it were scripted, we went to opposite sides of the bed, undressed
with our backs to each other, hiding the state of our excitement, and
slipped under the cover.  We met in the middle.

Wesley rolled up on his side and whispered in my ear, "It's been so long
since I've done any of this I was afraid I might have forgotten how." He
ran his hand lightly over my belly, giving me goose flesh again. "I think
it's coming back to me, though."

I turned on my side to face him and reached out, putting my hand on his
chest. He was covered with a soft down and I wondered if it was the same
beautiful gray as on his head. Moving my hand lower I found his bush, the
hair dense and wiry. His penis was thick at the base and very firm. As I
moved my hand along the shaft I was struck by the softness of the skin
there, and the heat, as though it had its own independent source and the
thermostat had been turned up to "high".

Wesley's hand found my penis, too, and was gently touching it everywhere,
as though memorizing it. He began kissing me again too, pulling the air out
of my lungs and into his, then breathing it back. I began to get dizzy and
I didn't know if it was from lack of oxygen or from what he was doing to my
penis. Beyond the dizziness I could also feel that bubble of pleasure
expanding in me, threatening to burst at any moment.

"Please," Wesley said, staying my hand. "I'm very excited. I don't
think..." He pulled me against him, pressing our bodies together and kissed
me. The feel of him against me, his hardness laying alongside mine was more
than I could handle and the bubble inside me burst, washing over me with
pleasure I had forgotten existed. It happened to Wesley too, at almost the
same moment and the feel of his spasms against me only served to increase
my pleasure.

When we were quiet again and able to breathe normally, Wesley kissed the
tip of my nose and said, "Wow. I had forgotten a lot, especially how
wonderful that can be." He rolled out of the bed and went into the
bathroom, returning with a warm, damp cloth.  "May I?" he asked, pulling
the covers back.

He cleaned my abdomen and then took my penis in his hand and gently wiped
it with the cloth. When he was through he bent down and kissed it, sending
a shock of pleasure through me. I had forgotten a lot too, it seemed.

Back in bed, Wesley gathered me into his arms and held me close, his chest
hair feeling wiry against my back. I found myself suddenly very comfortable
with him and began to drift into sleep, wondering if there was a way to
describe how I felt. The word "safe" floated through my mind and I thought,
yes, that's it, safe and warm.

I woke to find myself still in Wesley's arms, lying against him spoon
fashion. I felt the heavy bulk of his erection pressed along the valley
between my buttocks and I knew I wanted him inside me. The feel of him had
brought me erect too and I touched myself with a feeling of wonder -- it
had been years since I'd been that hard. Wesley stirred and moved his hips,
rubbing himself against me. I pressed back to encourage him.

"I want that more than I can tell you, Brian," he breathed in my ear. "But
we can't."

I pressed back again. "Why?"

His hand slid down my body and took hold of my erection. "I... There aren't
any condoms," he said and began to stroke my penis, still rubbing himself
against me. My disappointment slowly dissolved as he took me to the edge of
orgasm again and then pushed me over, following along with his own, his
hardness suddenly expanding against me and then jerking strongly, pouring
himself out against my back.

We drifted back into sleep almost immediately and didn't wake until the sky
outside had turned light and the smell of coffee drifted through the
room. "It's on a timer," Wesley said, turning me over and kissing me. He
ran his hand down my back and gently cupped my buttocks. "You want the
shower first?"

He brought cups of coffee into the bathroom and then stepped into the
shower with me. "The water company recommends, you know, that friends
shower together. I don't know why the water company showers together but
this seems an excellent reason for us to do so." He took my head in his
hands and kissed me. I moved forward and pressed myself against him,
feeling both of us growing erect.

We washed each other and touched each other everywhere, taking delight in
each other's bodies, finally over that awkward embarrassment we'd both felt
the night before.  Afterward we sat in the kitchen with rolls and jam and
discussed the day. I, of course, had Aunt Olivia's Christmas dinner and
there was no avoiding it. Wesley also had a dinner, his with old friends, a
tradition left over from his days with David, a lover of 34 years who had
died of a heart attack four years before.

He asked if I'd had a lover and I told him about Robert. Robert and I were
together for over 36 years, until he'd been killed, three years earlier, in
a stupid car crash.  We talked about a lot of things then -- getting to
know each other -- until Wesley said it was time for him to take me home.

He took me to the railroad station in Mt. Kisco and then stayed to help me
dig the car out. When he left I found myself with a lot of odd feelings,
some of which I hadn't known in many years and couldn't quite identify.

Aunt Olivia's dinner was wonderful as always but it seemed forever before I
could gracefully take my leave. When I did get out my impulse was to drive
directly to White Plains but then I thought, what would he think? Would I
look too anxious? But I was anxious and in the end I said to hell with it
and drove directly to White Plains. When I reached Wesley's townhouse
complex though, I realized that I didn't have the least idea of how to get
in. I went back to an all night drug store I'd seen, bought a couple of
things on impulse and then phoned him, thanking the stars that he'd had the
presence of mind to give me his card. He answered on the first ring and
sounded relieved that it was me. When I told him where I was he seemed very
pleased and asked me to hurry.

When I got back to the townhouses he was there, a dim figure standing in
the snow at the gate. He worked the control and then got in the car and
kissed me. I was embarrassed, afraid that someone might see, but I kissed
him back anyway.

He had me park in the underground garage, next to his car and then led me
through the snow to the house where the cognac had already been poured and
was warming in front of the fire.

When he took my coat I handed him the box of cheap candy I had purchased at
the drug store. He looked a little uncertain but took it with great
grace. Inside, scattered among the caramels and vanilla creams, he found a
dozen condoms and a tube of lubricant. He looked back and forth between the
box in his hands and me and then began to laugh. "Thank you, Brian. This
may well be the sweetest Christmas present ever. Oh, but wait." He went to
the antique desk in the corner, pulled out a sheet of writing paper and
wrote for a moment. He sealed the note in an envelope and tucked it in my
jacket pocket.

"When I was a boy my mother never allowed me to play with any of my toys
until after my thank-you's were written. That," he said pointing at my
coat, "is my thank you.  Now that it's done, would you like to help me play
with my toys?"

In the bedroom I saw that Wesley had been shopping too and I wondered just
how long it would take us to go through two dozen condoms. As it turned
out, not as long as I might have thought.

He was very gentle when he entered me. It had been more than three years
since I'd taken a man into me and I'd forgotten how much I liked it -- and
how much pleasure it brought. We started out lying on our sides but after a
while he turned me on my back so we could look at each other. I wondered if
my expression was as sensuous -- and joyful -- as his and decided it must
be. No one could experience that much pleasure and not show it.

Then he did something I'd never experienced before: he began to talk. His
voice was low and full of passion as he described to me what he was feeling
and how he was attempting to control the enormous pleasure that was filling
him. The more he talked the more I seemed to be part of him, feeling what
he was feeling and responding to his every move just as he wished, just as
he himself responded.

He made it last a very long time and then, when he couldn't control it any
longer, we went over the edge together, crying out in each other's mouths
and giving ourselves up to the pleasure we brought each other and that
pleasure lasted a very long time too.

Later, back in bed with our cognac after a long shower together, we talked
about likes and dislikes, about movies, music, books and food. We talked
about sex, too, and Wesley got embarrassed about liking to talk while he
made love. I told him not to be, that I found it very erotic and then
somehow he was inside me again, this time asking what felt good to me, what
I wanted him to do and just how he should do it. It was wonderful.

Afterward I asked him to stay inside me, to let me go to sleep still
connected to him. "I must come out," he said, "but please don't move." He
withdrew, quickly discarded the condom in favor of a fresh one and
reentered me. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked, settling me in
against him. We drifted off to sleep and I had the most erotic dream I've
ever had in my life.

He slipped out of me sometime during the night, I think so we could turn
over, and I woke lying on my back with Wesley's leg thrown across me and
his head on my shoulder. I did some soul searching and wasn't particularly
surprised to find that I was very happy. I was surprised, though, to find
that I was also very content.

We spent much of the day in bed. Around noon we went down to the kitchen --
naked! -- and Wesley made a salmon salad while I opened wine and made
chocolate butter cream to spread on toasted cake slices for desert. We
carried our lunch up to the bedroom and ate in bed, making love between the
salmon salad and the butter cream.

After lunch we talked abut the condoms and Wesley said he would not make
love without them. It would be unfair to both of us -- at least then. He
also asked me to take the active role and make love to him. When I did I
found him to be so responsive that I lost all control of myself and
couldn't stop until I climaxed. I apologized but Wesley just laughed at me
and put my hand on his penis which was still dripping out the last of his
orgasm. I was amazed -- at both of us -- and then did it again, just before
we got up to see about dinner. In the shower we decided we had to go out,
if for no other reason than to let the bed cool for a couple of hours.

"Just think, Brian," Wesley said, "here we are sixty-three and."

"Sixty-one"

"Sixty-three and sixty-one and we have made love five times in less than
twenty- four hours. Amazing." After dinner we made it even more amazing..

The next morning I had to go home. I had an appointment but even more, I
thought Wesley and I needed just a little time away from each other. Things
were going very fast. When I got home and took my jacket off I remembered
the note Wesley had written and I opened it.

	"Dear Brian,

	"Thank you very much for the present. You have no idea how it --
	and you -- has touched me. You are the sweetest man I know.

                    "Wesley

	"P.S. You should know, Brian, that I am falling in love with
	you. You may wish to run."

I did run. All the way back to that dusky blue and brown bedroom with the
fireplace. And Wesley. That's why this little effort is titled "A Love
Story."