Date: Sat, 25 Sep 2010 18:08:05 -0600
From: Roy <roynm@mac.com>
Subject: Owen chapter 46 - gay college section

Owen

Chapter forty-six

By Roy Reinikainen


	Riley smiled a greeting, and threw the doorman to Bailey's
apartment building a casual salute as the crisply dressed man opened the
door for him.  The look of distaste on the man's face was priceless.
'Looks like he's been sucking on a lemon,' Riley laughed, to himself.  'No
matter how many times I've been here, and even though Bailey has introduced
me to him, he still isn't quite sure I belong anywhere near this building,
much less in it.'

	"Mister Wilkins said to be expecting you, sir," the doorman
managed, in a pseudo British upper class accent, doing his best not to look
down his aquiline nose at the visitor, and the large bouquet of pale yellow
lilies he carried.  "He asked that I send you up to his apartment.
Directly," the doorman added, as if Riley might wander off on his own and
scare one of the other "pure breads" which seemed to fill the building.

	"Relax, Mister Witherspoon," Riley grinned, deciding to have some
fun with the man who was entirely too full of himself.  "I'm aware that you
cook the chickens 'round here.  I'm not fixin' to do anything to embarrass
you."

	He studied the high ceiling, and the surrounding lobby, then turned
his brightest smile on the man who involuntarily backed up a step.  "This
place reminds me of my old stompin' grounds," Riley drawled, playing up his
accent.  "In fact," he leaned closer, causing Witherspoon to move back, yet
again.  "Come t'think about it, you, and my mama and daddy's butler could
be twins." Riley theatrically suppressed a shudder.  "He gives me the
heebie-jeebies too."

	The doorman sniffed his indignation, and attempted to make a
dignified retreat.  "Indeed," he huffed, looking to his left, then right,
seeking a clear route to escape.  "I'm sure Mister Wilkins must be anxious
for you to go up to his apartment, as soon as possible.  The, 'and leave me
alone,' went unsaid.  "Perhaps it would be best for you to go . . .  now.
We don't want to keep Mister Wilkins waiting."  The man went so far as to
make small shooing motions with both white-gloved hands.

	"Yeah, you're prob'ly right," Riley responded, lazily, refusing to
be coaxed into leaving.  "I'm gonna suggest t'him that you, him, and me go
out for a drink, real soon.  Y'know, since we're all such good buddies,
n'all.  I just love havin' a couple beers and swappin' stories."  The
doorman's eyes widened as he imagined spending an evening with the young
man and Mister Wilkins.

	Riley could almost hear the stuffy man's thoughts.  'If Mister
Wilkins' father didn't own the building, I'm sure this . . . person
. . . wouldn't be allowed to step foot into the lobby, much less go
upstairs.'  He shook his head.  'What is the world coming to?'

	Riley turned away then looked back and waved as the older man
tugged at his uniform's jacket, and heaved a sigh of relief.

	'His attitude is nothing a good roll in the hay wouldn't cure,'
Riley smiled to himself, as he crossed the granite-floored lobby, with a
spring in his step.  'Makes me wonder what the poor man's wife must be
like.  Or, boyfriend,' he added.  'Now that I think about it, that does
seem likely.'  He suppressed a shudder, pitying whomever might be Mister
Witherspoon's . . . partner . . . bedmate . . . friend.

	As he waited for elevator he smiled broadly at a woman who appeared
to be not quite sure if she wanted to be near someone who appeared to be
dressed in second hand store rejects, much less share an elevator with him,
even if he was carrying a beautiful bouquet.  She surreptitiously looked
around, obviously praying someone would join them and ease her discomfort.

	"Howdy, ma'am," he drawled, tipping his illusory hat as he and the
woman stepped into the elevator and the door silently slid shut.  "Sure is
a purty place, isn't it?"  He squinted at the fur stole draping her
shoulders, and lowered his brows, leaning closer, as the woman leaned
equally back.  "Y'mind me asking' what that poor critter was, when it was
living?"  The woman made a non-committal noise, smiling fixedly at him as
she jabbed at the elevator buttons, never taking her eyes off his.  The
elevator sighed to a stop.  "Have a nice day, y'hear?" he shouted, as the
as she scooted, sideways, between the barely parted doors in an unseemly
retreat.

	'I've got to stop this,' Riley scolded himself, while the elevator
stopped at every floor for which the recent escapee had pressed a button.
'I may get Bailey into trouble, and it wouldn't be worth me having a little
fun with all these stuffed shirts.'  He shook his head.  'People are just
so impressed with themselves they're unwilling to have a little fun.'  He
smiled.  'I'm glad Bailey's loosening up some.'  He stepped out of the
elevator into the dimly lit elevator lobby of the floor with Bailey's
apartment.  'Corey,' he smiled to himself, 'I wonder if you realize what a
wonderful person you left behind.'


----------


	Lucas turned out the lights and swung open the two large French
doors which opened onto, what he thought of as a Romeo balcony, and inhaled
the night air.  "I'll never get tired of this," he said, without turning
around to face Owen and Sam, who both sat on the big bed, their backs
against the headboard.  "It's so quiet . . . and dark."  A dog barked, in
the distance, causing Lucas to smile.  'Just as I described it to Mother,'
he thought.  'The sound carries on the still air.'  Below, the town's four
streetlights cast widely spaced yellow pools of light on the deserted main
street, while, closer by, the sidewalk was lit with the flickering sign in
the window of Sally's restaurant.

	"He likes standing naked in front of the window, exposing himself
to the world," Owen muttered.  "His long-term goal is to start showin' off,
in the daylight."  Sam nudged him with an elbow.

	"Can you explain to Sam and me what we just experienced, out on the
stair landing?" Lucas asked turning to the two men.  He crossed the room
and climbed into bed, at Owen's side.  "I'm worn out, just watching the
poor guy.  I can't imagine what he must be feeling."  Lucas leaned closer,
as Owen laid an arm over his shoulder, pulling him close, just as he'd done
with Sam.

	"I can only fill you in on a couple generalities."  Owen spoke into
the darkness.  "Corey's never been able to talk about . . . stuff
. . . because he's never been close enough to anyone to talk about what his
childhood was like, or how he feels about . . . things.  What he did, a
while ago, out there on the stairway landing, took a lot of courage."  Owen
sighed.  "When I met him, he'd been holdin' stuff in for so long, he was
hardly able to even think about it, much less talk.  He has a long way to
go, but he's begun.  That's the important thing."  Owen tightened his
one-arm embrace, around Sam's shoulder.  "You remember how rough it was for
me to . . . start?"

	Owen turned to Lucas, even though he was close to invisible, in the
darkened room.  "Sam and I used to lay on the grass in our meadow, lookin'
at the stars.  He'd ask me what was botherin' me, and I couldn't answer.
It seemed I was being critical of Pops, or something.  I figured I should
be able to handle things on my own.  That's what Corey's been doing
. . . trying to handle things on his own.  He's like me.  We both built
walls around that part of our past which was painful.  My walls haven't
been completely torn down yet.  Corey's only beginning to work on his."

	"What do you have yet to do to . . . tear those walls down?" Lucas
murmured, running a hand over Owen's thigh, amazed, as always, by its
smoothness.

	"I have to learn to . . . handle the hate, the anger, and the fear,
I still feel.  Sometimes those feelings 'bout take me over."  He lowered
his voice.  "Then, I go out for a run, or somethin'.  I actually hate
running.  But I'd rather run than . . ."  He shrugged, in the darkness.
"I've got a lot to do yet.  I'm thinkin' that maybe, I'll never finish,
but, I figure, just like with Corey, if I'm chipping away at all there is
to do, maybe, someday, I'll be able to handle . . . those things, I feel."

	"Will Corey be okay?"

	There was a brief pause, as Owen thought.  "He'll be okay, Sammy.
It looks like he's havin' a bad time of it, but really, he's beginning to
do something he's wanted to do for years.  By us all giving him our
support, he's feeling safe enough to do what he needs to do.  It'll still
be rough for him, but, since talkin' to us, things'll get easier.

	Lucas spoke into the silence.  "What's all this about?"

	"He's beginning to come to grips with a pretty terrible childhood."

	Lucas tilted his head back and asked the ceiling.  "Has anyone
around here had a happy childhood?  Geez," he exhaled, in a gust of breath.

	"Mine was fine," Sam volunteered.  "The only thing which would have
made it better was if Owen had been happier.  Sometimes, that was
. . . difficult."

	Owen drew Sam closer.  "Corey's a survivor.  He n'I have talked,
and talked, and argued, and talked some more, until we're both exhausted
from all the emotions.  He has to find a way to forgive, otherwise his
childhood will become the thing which rules his life, affecting everything
he does or thinks.  His childhood is past . . . over with, just like
Jonah's and mine.  He . . . all of us, can't continue to live in that past,
and stay sane.  Jonah and I, just as much as Corey, are survivors.  We've
won!  Realizing that . . ."  Owen lowered his voice.  "It helps."

	"Owen . . .?" Lucas murmured.  When Owen made a noncommittal sound,
he continued.  "Are you talking only about Corey, or is there a little bit
of advice for Owen thrown in there with what you just said?"

	"Geez . . . I don't know."  He paused, then softly snorted.  "Yeah,
I guess there is.  Maybe more than a little, in fact."  He leaned his head
back against the headboard and took a shuddering breath.  "Damn, guys
. . . this is rough.  Kneelin' there, watching Corey was like I was
reliving all the bad stuff in my life.  I think I've overcome . . . things,
only to have them slap me in the face.

	"Sorry for bein' so preachy, guys.  It's easy for me to say what I
think is good for Corey; it's an entirely different thing when I try to
decide what's best for me."

	"What . . . ?"

	Owen interrupted.  "It's not only stuff that happened between Pops
n'me.  It's also about that picture of you'n me, Sammy."  He glanced toward
the nightstand where the photograph, propped against the lamp, was nothing
more than a grey shape, in the darkened room.  "I've tried . . . hard
. . . but I still can't figure out what that photo represents, to me.  I've
tried to throw it away a couple times, but I just . . . couldn't do it."

	"Then, let's not get all worked up, trying to figure it out,"
Lucas, always the calming influence, intervened.  "Have you considered that
maybe it doesn't mean anything?  Maybe you keep it because it's a great
picture of the both of you.  It symbolizes how much you love each other,
just like the photographs of the three of us show what we feel.  That's
what I prefer to think.  Analyzing things to death, sometimes doesn't help
produce any answers.  It seems that the only thing all this talk of one's
childhood may do is serve to keep the past stirred up.  Maybe, it would be
best to let the past remain in the . . . past."

	"I think you're wrong, Lucas, at least about tryin' to think things
through.  To me, it just doesn't seem . . . healthy . . . tryin' to keep
things bottled up, allowing all those memories to fester and change the
type of person you are.  People like Corey and me have to believe that,
while the past can't be changed, it might be . . . I don't know
. . . understood, maybe.  We have to believe that we can do it.  We don't
know how long it'll take to get where we want, but as long as we believe
that the goal we're seeking can be reached, reaching it is at least
possible.

	"Recovering from something takes a long time; possibly even a
person's whole life.  But, not trying to recover is a sure road to
unhappiness.  Tonight, Corey took his first step toward makin' his life
better.  I'm proud of him . . . more'n I can say.  What he did, considering
what his background is, took courage."

	"I understand both sides of the argument, Cowboy."  Lucas leaned
close and kissed Owen's cheek.  "I really do.  I guess that, since I've
never experienced the stuff you and Corey have, I shouldn't be so free with
my opinions.  I'll try to keep them to myself."

	"No, don't do that.  Guys, neither of you should be afraid of
telling me what you think.  Just 'cause I say, or think something, doesn't
make it so.  Sometimes, I get the feeling that folks think I'm some sort of
super-human person, who can do no wrong.  All I do is listen to people who
want to talk about something important to them.  I don't actually do
anything, other than sorta give 'em permission to talk, by paying attention
to them.  When I do say something I'm just saying what I think.  You and
Sammy should feel free to do the same thing.  Deal?"

	"It's a deal."

	"Deal," Sam added, to Lucas' agreement.

	"So, before we do anymore talking about Corey, let's give him a
chance to do it on his own.  It'll be hard for him, but he's strong, and,
with Jonah standing by his side, he's stronger than ever.

	"Jonah's good for him," Owen stated.  "He'll give Corey confidence
he never knew he had.  Jonah's like that.  Right now, Corey hasn't become
accustomed to thinking of Jonah as the person he should be talkin' to.
That's why he asked me if he was doing okay.  Soon, he'll be talkin' only
to Jonah."

	"I understand what you're saying," Lucas hesitated.  "But, you're
wrong about something."

	"A lot of things, surely," Owen chuckled.

	"Maybe . . . but, Owen, you do more than listen, and give folks and
chance to talk.  Anyone can do that.  You are an example to others.
Knowing you makes them . . . me . . . all of us . . . feel like we can do
more.  We can be better people."

	From Owen's opposite side, Sam murmured, "Got that right


----------


	Jonah turned to Corey, who was sitting on a barstool, leaning on
the counter top of the kitchen island.  He'd understandably been quiet
since describing some of his childhood, and Jonah was worried.  'That
little talk took a lot out of him.'

	Jonah dimmed the lights.  "D'ya want me to close the door?" he
asked.  The front door to his and Corey's apartment was hardly ever closed,
the same as that of Owen, Lucas, and Sam.

	"Nah."  Corey straightened and looked over his shoulder.  "I'm
okay, Jonah . . . really.  I'm just feelin' a little drained, that's all."

	"I'm glad to hear it."  Jonah met Corey's lips for a tender kiss
then rounded the counter into the kitchen and began preparing some soup and
a sandwich.  "Things were pretty rough out there."

	"Yeah . . . rough, but not as bad as I thought they might be.  Just
thinking about . . . some of the things I talked about has always scared
the beejeebers out of me.  So I didn't think about 'em.  Owen was right.
Not thinking about . . . things . . . was a mistake.

	"I don't know how I managed that," he snorted.  "I've always had
that painting, and those photographs, close-by.  I've looked at them every
day, since goin' to college.  But," he shrugged, "I guess there's a
difference between lookin' at those things and really seeing them.
Tonight, I saw them, for the first time, in years.

	"I'm embarrassed though, 'cause of how I behaved."  He reached for
Jonah's hand.  "I want to apologize to you for turning to Owen instead of
you."

	Jonah's brows lowered into a frown.  "First off, there is nothing
to be embarrassed about.  Remember, back in the shower, the other day, when
Lucas was talkin' about the five of us sharing things?"

	Corey nodded.  "Our good times, and out bad."

	"Our laughter and our tears," Jonah concluded.  "All of us feel
honored, that you were comfortable enough to share that bit of your past
with us.  Trust me, our turns will come, and none of us should be
embarrassed any more'n you should.

	"And . . . what's to apologize for?  From the sound of it, you and
Owen have been discussing all this, for quite a while.  While I can
sympathize with your feelings, I was not the person who could comfort you.
Only Owen could do that."  Jonah smiled.  "I'm just glad he was around,
when you felt a need to talk about things."  He lowered his voice.

	"Y'know, Corey, you're not the only person who was benefitting from
talking about your childhood.  Maybe you didn't notice, but my brother was
hanging on your every word.  It was like you were speakin' both for
yourself, and for him."  Jonah snorted.  "Everyone thinks Owen's in total
control of his own emotions.  That's not the case.  My brother holds
himself together by sheer strength of will.  He learned to do that while we
were growing up, 'cause of our father.  He built this wall up around
himself, cutting himself off from Pops, but fencing himself in.  It's not
somethin' he did consciously, and I don't know if he'd even agree with me
that that's what he's done.

	"He's always been afraid to allow himself to look out past that
wall he's built.  I don't know if it's because he's afraid something will
hurt him, or if he just plain, can't.  Whenever, he's helpin' someone, like
what I hear he did for Bailey, or you, or the doctor, or Sam's dad, or his
little friend Nicky, or whoever, he's also tryin', a little bit at a time,
to come out from behind that wall of his.

	"I was really afraid for him, when he left for college.  He was cut
off from Sam, Mama, and me . . . all of us who supported him.  I wasn't
sure how he was gonna be able to handle it all.  I breathed a sigh of
relief when I learned he'd met Lucas.  He needs that . . . I don't know
. . . support, I guess, whether it is Mama, or me, or Sam, or Lucas.  He
needs someone to treat him differently . . . better . . . than our father
treated him.  Maybe more'n any of us, Owen needs to feel useful, to know
that he's contributing . . . that he . . . himself . . . is worth
something.  Pops, constantly told Owen how worthless he was.  Owen believed
more of what Pops said, than he would like anyone to think.

	"I guess what I'm sayin' is that, as difficult as it may be to
believe, you have made more progress toward recovering from your childhood,
than my brother . . . even though it seems the opposite is true.  All of
the help Owen provides to folks like you n'Bailey, Lucas, n'all, is sorta
like a safety valve for him.  You all are giving him an opportunity to
create himself in the image he hopes to be.  By your actions, you all are
tellin' him that he's a good person.  You're helping undo some of the
damage Pops did.

	"Y'see, his entire self image was built on our father's constant
criticism, telling him he wasn't good enough for anything worthwhile, that
he shoulda been born a girl, 'cause he was 'bout as useless as a girl.
Everything Owen loves, Pops would either belittle or destroy.  Owen could
do no right . . . None.  Hearing that sorta thing all your life is bound to
affect a guy.  So . . . Owen's always trying to convince himself that he is
a good person, and that his life does have a meaning."

	Jonah took a deep breath.  "When Pops was laying there, dying, in
that courtroom, he told Owen n'me that he was sorry for how he treated us
. . . that he wished he'd been a better father.  For Owen, it was too
little and way too late to hear that.  It helped, but it didn't wipe away a
lifetime's worth of hurt.  It couldn't.  I'm not sure anything can do that.
But, talkin' can help.

	"Y'know, everyone has to overcome things which happened while we
were growin' up.  We could have had a happy childhood, but we're still
overcoming something, expectations, unrealistic dreams . . . something.
We're all workin' to make ourselves better people.  We all are hopin' for a
better future, no matter how sad or happy our past was.  And, no matter how
bad or good it was, it'll always be with us.  We can do our best to
overcome it, or, as Owen said, to forgive, but none of us can ever forget.

	"But . . . none of us should live in that past, forgetting t'focus
on the here and now.  We can only do our best to make the future a place
where we can be happy."

	Corey rounded the island and took Jonah in his arms.  "I am so
lucky," he murmured, as he nuzzled the thick hair at the side of Jonah's
head.  "I am so damned lucky."  After those few words, his voice failed him
and all he could do was to hold Jonah in a tight embrace.


----------


	"Uh, oh," Daniel murmured, nodding to the small group of people
blocking the sidewalk ahead of them.  "Dear Maxine is trying to stir up
trouble," he murmured.  "Wherever she is, trouble seems to follow
. . . something like my brother's wife."

	Maxine appeared to be in rare form, making choppy movements,
alternating between madly waving her arms, pointing an accusatory finger at
the person she was speaking to, or disgustedly putting her hands on her
hips, no doubt, giving her listeners a withering glare, and a disdainful
sniff.  'Geez, I hate those sniffs,' Daniel told himself.  'This has got to
stop!'

	It appeared that Gracie Miller and her husband, Peter, one of the
couples Maxine was lecturing finally had had enough.  Peter dismissed the
stick of a woman with a casual hand motion, then he and his wife turned
away, leaving Maxine poised, finger in the air, to make another point, only
to find half of her audience, walking away.

	"Hello, Bea . . . Daniel," Peter said, in greeting, as they
approached.  "Nasty night out, isn't it?"

	"I can't say, Peter," Daniel answered.  "Is it?"

	"That woman hates you and your whole family, Bea," Gracie muttered,
as if afraid Maxine might overhear.  "She always has, but you all have been
pretty much untouchable."

	"What's changed, Gracie?  My family and I are the same as ever."

	Gracie shook her head in disgust, recalling the venom Maxine was
spewing.  "The difference is, you've added Lucas and Corey into the mix,
introducing them to everyone as your son's partners."

	"That's what they are, as is Sam.  And, a finer group of young men
I couldn't hope to meet."

	"Well, Maxine doesn't think they're so fine, and she's doin'
whatever she can to stir up trouble.  She doesn't really care about the
young men.  She's after you and Daniel, and by hurting the boys, she thinks
she can hurt both of you.  Not many people are listening to her, but some
are.  Watch your back."

	"Warn the boys too, will you?" Peter asked.  Whatever else he might
have said was interrupted by a loud . . ."

	"Well!" from Maxine, accompanied by her ever-present sniff.
"Spying on me, I see."  Her voice, high pitched, and nasal, carried in the
still evening air.  "Typical of people like you.  First, you drive your
poor husband to take his own life, then, before the body's even cooled, you
begin carryin' on with another man.  Makes one wonder what was goin' on
behind poor Jonathan's back, doesn't it?" she asked, folding her arms and
turning to the nearby couple, as if seeking agreement.

	"You drive your husband to suicide, then drive your children into a
life of sin.  And them!  They go and bring back all sorts of bad
influences.  Our children aren't safe with . . . ones . . . on the loose.
Need to be locked up, all of you!"

	"Maxine!" Daniel called out, using his deep voice to its best
advantage, speaking as he would to an unruly child.  "I've told you time
and again, to not leave your house if you've forgotten to take your meds.
You know what a couple days off of 'em do to you."  Daniel shook his head,
ignoring Bea's warning clasp on his arm.

	The couple standing next to Maxine took a couple steps away,
distancing themselves as their eyes widened."

	"So . . . that explains a few things," Peter Miller murmured as he
turned to his wife, not quite sure what Bea's frown meant.

	Daniel shook his head, as if resigned to Maxine's wayward ways.
"I've said way more'n I should, my dear, but . . . stayin' on one's meds is
something I stress to all my patients."

	"That's quite enough, Daniel," Bea warned, in an under voice.  "Too
much, in fact."  She tightened her grip on his arm.  "Don't you agree?" she
asked, before Gracie and her husband turned back to her and Daniel.

	"Y'know," Peter Miller observed, as Maxine turned and walked away
in a straight-backed huff.  "From behind, her skinny hips remind me of a
thirty dollar horse I once had.  It's opinion of itself was as high as our
dear grocer's."

	Gracie laughed, in recollection.  "That horse's name was Terror.
It's hair sorta stood out like Maxine's."  She paused, as her husband
laughed.  "Come to think of it, ol' Maxine does remind me of Terror, in a
lot of ways."

	"Were you makin' all that up, just to put ol' Maxine in her place?"

	"Daniel's always trying to look out for me, Peter, but bein' nasty
isn't the way to achieve anything good, is it, Lumberjack?"  Both Bea's
voice and eyes sparkled at the name, which drew their friend's attention
and smiles, and diverted their attention away from the recent
unpleasantness.

	"Lumberjack?" Gracie chuckled as she examined the tall man in his
ubiquitous plaid shirt, with sleeves rolled half-way up his forearms.  "Now
that Bea's mentioned it, I do see the resemblance."

	Peter turned a puzzled look at his wife, then at Daniel.

	"I'm macho," Daniel explained.

	Bea smiled.  "No, that's not it!  I tease him because he wears
these lumberjack-type shirts.  He is working on macho, though, and I must
say, he is improving."  She turned to Daniel, saw his expression, and burst
out laughing.

	"Oh stop looking at me like that.  I'm just teasing you.  You're
way more macho than . . . ahem . . ."  She looked from side to side, as if
seeking someone with whom to compare her husband, then looked at the
darkening sky, and finally turned back to Daniel, who, along with the
Miller's was smiling.  "You're way more macho, than some men I've known,"
she concluded.  "And, I love you just the way you are."

	Peter Miller leaned close to his wife.  "For a moment there, I
thought Bea was going to use me as an example of an un-macho person."  His
wife only grinned and patted him on the arm.

	"Should I throw you over my shoulder and carry you home, like a
caveman, just to prove my . . . macho-ness?" Daniel asked, finishing with a
deep throated, "Grrrrrr."

	"No dear."  Bea consolingly patted his arm.  "The last time you
threw a caveman over your shoulder you had a terrible time with your back,
remember?"  She blinked disingenuously, as both their friends and Daniel
laughed.

	"You're making this all up, aren't you?" Peter asked.

	"No Peter.  He was no good for anything, for days and days."  She
leaned closer to Peter and his wife.  "Cavemen'll do that to you, I'm
told."

	Gracie, known for her distinctive laugh, filled the night with a
response to Bea's humor.  "You both are certifiably crazy.  I love it!"

	"No, that's Maxine, dear," Peter said, as he and his wife prepared
to resume their evening stroll.  "Do watch out, the both of you.  She wants
to hurt someone.  That's her goal.  She works behind the scenes, laying
long-range plans.  When she's quiet, is when she's doin' the most damage.
I'd warn the young men too."

	"Rest assured," Daniel said, taking Bea's hand.  "My wife and I
will not tolerate lies and innuendos without standing up for ourselves.  We
don't want to start a fight, but we will not back down from one, either.
We all know that the vast majority of stuff our friend, Maxine, spouts, is
pure fabrication.  The remainder may have some basis in fact, but has been
embroidered to a point where the original kernel of truth is no longer
recognizable.

	"She is about to step over the line, where we will no longer be
able to make fun of her, or ignore her.  I've spoken with my sister, who is
an attorney, and have been told precisely what we should do when dear
Maxine steps over that line.  I dare say that Maxine has not ever
considered anyone fighting back.  When she tangles with me or the woman I
love, she's going to find herself up against a formidable opponent, one who
will not back down, no matter what sort of threats she hurls in our
direction."

	He lowered his voice and grinned.  "I'm talking about my sister.
Now, she is the macho one in the family.  She'd probably mount dear
Maxine's head and hang it on her wall as some sort of hunting trophy, or
something."

	"Alongside the black bear," Bea added in a droll tone, rolling her
eyes.


----------


	"Uuuu," Riley cooed, as he and Bailey separated from their kiss,
and Bailey closed the door to his apartment.  "Someone special coming to
dinner, Gen'rl?"  He turned away from the elaborately set dinner table,
looking at Bailey, with a sparkle in his eyes, as he handed his host the
bouquet of butter-yellow lilies, with stems wrapped in tissue paper.  "Must
be someone pretty special."

	"Oh . . . no one special," Bailey answered, as he filled a vase
with water.  He's just some guy I've been hanging around with."  He set the
vase on the table, amidst the forest of glassware, then kissed Riley on the
cheek.  "I do love it though that he comes bearing flowers, and lilies too
. . . my favorite."

	"Favorite flowers," Riley murmured, "for my favorite man."  He
wrapped Bailey in an embrace and nuzzled his neck.  "I'm talkin' about you,
Mister Wilkins."  He nuzzled closer.  "Hmm, you smell good . . . sorta like
pot roast." He held Bailey at arm's length and laughed at Bailey's snort of
amusement.

	"That's my best cologne you're smelling . . . Essence de au jus."
He turned toward the apartment's spacious kitchen, as Riley snorted his
amusement.  "The only problem is that the stuff attracts flies," Bailey
added, waving a hand about him, as if fending off a cloud of flies.

	"I love it!"  Riley smiled, as he hitched himself up onto a
barstool and watched Bailey remove a roasting pan from the oven.

	"What?" Bailey asked, his attention drawn to the man who was
quietly watching him, wearing a pleased smile.

	"You!  Your self-confidence!  You've changed a lot, in the past
couple months," Riley observed.  "It's been wonderful to see."  He watched,
in admiration, as Bailey arranged their dinner on a platter, then opened a
bottle of wine with a flourish, and a satisfying pop.  "I didn't know you
could cook."

	"Neither did I," Bailey laughed, as he dimmed the room's lights,
then set the platter on the table, and lit the two candles.  Outside, the
lights of the surrounding buildings burned like stars, arranged in neat
rows against the deep purple sky.  "In the past, the couple times I had
someone to dinner, I borrowed Mother's cook."  He smiled brightly.  "I
found that doing things myself is much more enjoyable.  Now, the only
question is, is it palatable?"

	"Oh, yes," Riley swallowed, pleased as Bailey's look of worry was
replaced with a relieved smile.  "Are you sure your mother's cook isn't
hiding out somewhere?"  He glanced around the large open space of Bailey's
thirtieth floor apartment.  "The meal is delicious."  He raised a glass of
wine in a toast."

	"May we have many, many more meals together, my wonderful friend."
He raised his brows in appreciation of the wine.  "Actually, I think you're
quite a bit more'n a friend," he added, returning to his meal.  "I mean,
after last night!  I don't do that sort of thing with just anyone, y'know."
He set his fork down.

	"In fact, I was talking to Mother about you."

	"Not about last night!"

	Riley laughed.  "No, she may be liberal-minded, but I think she
might have trouble imagining me on my knees between your legs, with my
whatsit buried, pubes-deep in your hole, as I did battle with your tongue."
He playfully squirmed on his chair.  "Uuuu, don't you love it when I talk
dirty?"

	He sadly shook his head.  "Nope, telling Mother that sort of thing
would go over about as well as a pregnant pole vaulter."

	"So, you spoke to your mother, about me," Bailey prompted, making a
hurry up motion with one hand, as he nervously toyed with the stem of his
wine glass with the other.

	"Yes.  I told you about that big European trip she and m'father
have been planning to celebrate my younger brother's graduation from that
swanky school, and my graduation from college?"  Bailey nodded.  "Well, I
told her that I was gonna have to meet up with the family, because I'm
going to Riverton to be with you when you inaugurate that project of yours.
I also want to meet your friends."  Riley's lips thinned.

	"I don't like the whole family leaving at the same time, if for no
other reason, than it leaves all of my father's shifty attorneys in charge
of things.  Father's told me that the boys have, 'gotten too big for their
britches.'  I don't know if he's done anything about replacing them yet,
though.  It's funny, how Father seems to tell me his thoughts, when I'm the
person least involved with the company.

	"'Those rascals think they own the company!' Father told me, the
other night.  'I don't like it one bit.  In fact, soon as we get back, I'm
going to replace them all.'

	"I suggested the firm my older brother's with, but m'father doesn't
think they have enough experience handling a big company like Pruitt
Builders.

	"Father's right.  Those guys have been around so long, they think
they're running the show.  They can't stand me, and I like 'em about as
much, which is to say, not at all.  I, 'lack discipline,' they complain,
over and over."  Riley snorted.  "What I lack, is a love of building
things.  Now, some of the guys Father has running the business are a
different story.  They love building things, and they love the company.

	"The attorneys don't like them, either, and are always trying to
get Father to get rid of two or three of 'em, 'just to streamline
operations.'  In reality, what they're hoping for is a couple fewer thorns
in their side.

	"Anyway, I told Mother that your project's unveiling is important
to you, therefore, it's important to me.  After all, I won't be missing
much of Europe, and it's not as if I haven't seen it before.  I'll meet 'em
a day or so after they arrive.  They don't like the arrangement, but, I
told them I won't change my mind.  After all, Kirby and Catherine, my older
brother and his wife, and Nathan, my younger brother, and Lisa, my sister
and her husband Michael will all be with Mother and Father.  The clan won't
even miss me!"

	"Your conversation with your mother was more difficult than you're
leading me to believe . . . wasn't it?"

	Riley shrugged, and smiled.  "Some.  But then, conversations with
my mother have a tendency to be difficult.  She has standards which
everyone must meet.  She has despaired of me ever being a, 'true Pruitt,'
so, in some ways, I have things a little bit easier than my brothers or
sister, when I have to deal with her.  There have been a few shouting
matches, when I or my strong willed siblings have run up against my equally
strong willed mother."

	Riley's conversation with his mother had actually been much more
acrimonious than he was describing.  His mother, the 'social snob' let him
know, in no uncertain terms, that she didn't approve of Bailey.  "He's
nothing but, 'new money,'" she'd told her son.  "And, to make matters
worse, he's a Northerner," she concluded, as if describing a leper
suffering from an untreatable case of sea sickness combined with terminal
bad breath, with whom she'd be sharing a small room . . . with one bed
. . . on a ship weathering a severe storm.  Riley shuddered to think of how
his mother would deal with such a description, much less the real thing.

	"New money, or old . . . Northerner, or whatever, Bailey is
important to me, Mother.  I want to be with him at this exciting time for
him.  And, I want to meet his friends.

	"Mother, Bailey is a fragile person, whether he knows it or not.
He's important . . . very important to me.  Both he and his happiness mean
a great deal to me."

	His mother's disgusted snort of disapproval had pushed Riley beyond
endurance.  "I've got to go now, mother," he said.  And, before she could
say anything more, he'd abruptly cut the connection, cursing himself for
allowing her to push his buttons.  It made him even angrier to imagine his
mother's pleased expression at having, 'gotten a rise,' out of her lazy
son.  'I want to hit something,' he'd seethed.  'Better yet, I'd love to
tell that woman precisely what I think of the little games she plays.  How
can she possibly say that she doesn't like Bailey?'  He threw a shoe across
his apartment, in frustration.  "New money, indeed!"

	He clenched his fists at his sides and shouted at the top of his
lungs.  "I don't care if he didn't have a penny to his name . . . Mother.
I love that man, and there is absolutely nothing you can say . . . or do
. . . which will change that!"

	He pushed the unpleasant conversation to the back of his mind.
'Mother'll get over it," hopeful Bailey didn't detect his anger at his
mother.  "My behavior is just one more way in which I am a disappointment
to her.'

	He smiled crookedly as he helped Bailey clear the table and load
the dishwasher.  "So . . . I'll be going with you to Riverton.  Then, as
soon as we get back, I'll have to hop on a plane and head out to Europe, to
be with the family.  I can do as I wish, but only so far.  I've tested the
limits of exactly how far, by telling them I'll meet them.  I mean
. . . really!  What am I going to miss? I'll only be a day late!"

	"Whom are you trying to convince?" Bailey asked, as he and Riley
sat on the sofa, facing the lights of the city, and Riley continued talking
about his 'unpleasant' mother.  He snuggled up to his friend.  "I
appreciate it, Riley, but I don't want to cause a rift between you and your
family."

	Riley snorted.  "There'll be no rift.  Mother's just accustomed to
getting her own way, in everything.  If it were up to Father, he'd be
staying and tending the business, but Mother has strong armed him into
going."

	He laid a hand on top of their linked fingers.  "Don't worry about
me and my mother.  We've always had a tumultuous relationship."  He took a
deep breath, hoping to calm himself.  "Let's just sit quietly for a while,
okay?  I'm tired of talking about the family."  He closed his eyes and
rested his head on the back of the sofa, letting his mind move to the sound
of the soft jazz which played in the background.

	"I wonder what Mother would think of Bailey if she'd seen him, last
night."  He smiled, both at the memory, and because the heat of Bailey's
body next to his.


----------


	'It's nice sitting here, in the quiet, looking out at the lights of
the city," Riley thought.  Bailey had outdone himself, preparing a
wonderful meal, and was now dozing, his head resting on Riley's shoulder,
snoring lightly.  Riley smiled.  'He wanted so bad for everything to be
just perfect.  It's sad, really.  He seems to believe that he's going to be
criticized for everything he does.  He kept looking at me, during dinner,
as if I was going to find fault with his wonderful meal.'  Riley shook his
head.  'The poor boy needs to develop some self-confidence about his
personal life.  I've seen him interact with people on a professional level,
and he's entirely at ease.  But, when he's doing anything other than
business, he's a mess.'

	"I've gotten everything prepared for our trip to Riverton."
Bailey's voice caused Riley to jump.

	"Huh!" he asked, blinking his eyes.  The erotic dream he'd been
experiencing faded.  All he could remember was Bailey, sprawled on a bed,
humping the bed sheets.  From where Riley stood, in his dream, he could see
some of his own sperm leaking out of Bailey's sloppy hole.

	"Huh?" he repeated.  "Did you say something?  I thought you were
asleep!"  He rubbed his eyes and yawned, and grinned.  "I was having the
most wonderful dream . . . about watching you hump the bed.  Your legs were
spread wide, and your lily-white ass cheeks would spread each time you
raised your hips, letting me see my sperm leaking out of your hole.  Then
. . ." Riley said, in a stern voice, "someone interrupted me . . . by
talking."

	Bailey smiled at Riley's indignation.  "I was just saying that I've
made all the arrangements for us to go to Riverton.  Both my folks and
Lucas' will be going too.  Not with us, of course.  Sam's told me that
Lucas has finished a nice bed and breakfast which should have room for all
of us."

	Bailey paused.  "Um . . . now that I'm close to doing this thing,
I'm wondering if it'll look as if I'm trying to run Owen's life.  Damn, I
hope not!"

	He turned his head and grinned.  "I was humping the bed sheets?"
Riley nodded, once.  "My asshole was sloppy?"  Another nod.  "With your
juice?"

	Riley laughed.  "Unless you're letting someone else shoot inside
you, yes, it was mine."  Riley snuggled closer, casually resting a hand on
Bailey's groin.  "I'm thinking that the next part of the dream should have
been me, climbing onto the bed, between your spread legs, and sliding my
thing into you, for another round of fun.  I think it's so cool to slide
into someone whose hole is already full of my own sperm.  And," he
continued.  "You do have an awesome butt.  Round and firm . . . just like
. . . I like 'em.

	"You were going to say that my round and firm butt was just like
yours, weren't you?" Bailey snickered.

	"Well, it is isn't it?  I'm too much of a gentleman to have brought
that to your attention.  However, since you brought it up."  The corners of
Riley's eyes crinkled as he smiled.  "We do make a handsome pair, don't
we?"  Riley's eyes widened, as he turned to Bailey.  "Hey, I've got an
idea!  Why don't we hightail it down to the lobby and ask Mr. Stuffy
Witherspoon, which one of us is the prettiest?  I'd have to keep my clothes
on though, since, without them, it would be no contest."

	"Hmmm," Bailey considered.  "No, actually, I think you should let
Mister Witherspoon see your weenie.  I mean, geez . . . I wasn't going to
mention it, but the size of your weenie would certainly draw attention away
from the fact that your face is best viewed on a radio."

	"What!?" Riley shrieked!  "Are you saying I'm small?"  He grabbed
Bailey, and dragged him to the oriental rug, narrowly missing the polished
zebra wood coffee table, and the two glasses of wine.

	"It's okay," Bailey managed, between laughs.  "I didn't mention
anything about you being so clumsy, you sometimes trip over a cordless
phone . . . or that your mind makes squishy noises when you try to use it!"

	"I'll show you!" Riley vowed, pinning Bailey's shoulders to the
rug.

	Bailey tightly closed his eyes.  "No, no!  Please!  I don't think I
could stand to see it a second time!"

	Riley rolled off Bailey, laughing.  "I love it!"

	"Hmm?"

	"You!  Your sense of humor . . . and, the fact that you're
beginning to feel comfortable enough with me to joke, and wrestle on the
floor, without fearing that you'll wrinkle your clothes or mess your hair."
He propped himself up and gave Bailey a kiss.

	"I'm thinking that you look about as sexy in rumpled clothes with
messy hair, as you do lying naked on a bed with rumpled sheets.  What d'ya
say?  Let's go into the bedroom and mess up the bed."

~ to be continued ~

	Thank you for taking the time to read my work.  I always welcome
your email and enjoy hearing your thoughts.  If you would like me to send
you a pic of the character(s), please ask.

	If you have enjoyed this story, you might also like to read,
Phalen, also in the Gay College Section..