True Story : Part 2

He kept fading off, letting the ends of words slip until they either became new
ones or subtly turned into silence. Then, he slowly picked up his head and looked at me
through those sad, solid eyes.
“Have you ever felt anything like that?”
“No,” I lied. I wasn’t ready to get into that. To talk aboutCole.

“Oh—,” his eyes lit up at my answer, like he wished he could reach out and
instantly share his own sensations of love with me, so that I could see what it was like, and maybe empathize with him. “It’s the most wonderful thing in the whole world,” he added. “And it’s—it just comes from being yourself, and finding someone who loves you for being yourself. And you can’t find it from looking. I learned that—years ago. You know, you can’t go searching for it. It’s always when you least expect it. Maybe when you’re not hoping for anything—.”
“What was it like when you guys were together?”

“We could do anything we wanted. Not every day will be perfect, you know, but if you treasure the person you’re with, then the little arguments and problems don’t matter so much. I really hope you feel something like this, someday. It can be scary—. When you love something so much, it’s hard to—,” he bit his lower lip and lowered his head to the floor. I stayed quiet, tense; so much that I felt trapped in my position on the bed. Every sentence was bringing back a flood of memories.

“It’s hard to know that you might lose them,” he finally finished, after a smile that came out of nowhere. “You’ll be tempted to be jealous, possessive, greedy of his time, and repressive of his needs.Don’t. It’s all about honesty. Be honest and it will work out. And if you don’t mind me asking again—what are you still doing at this party?”

Three minutes later I was on the street. It might have been quicker than that, even. I wanted to get as far away from the party as possible. It was far too late for the ferry, and I was stuck in Provincetown, thinking about the one person who shouldn’t have been on my mind. Cole.

It had been four whole years since I last saw him. Four years since I’d been held the right way, touched the right way. Fucked the right way. Four years of hearing my friends tell me that they were sick of hearing his name, so much that it became uncomfortable to even mention him to anyone. Four years of feeling like I grew up too fast. Four years of struggling through every date and relationship I’d wind up in because I couldn’t find anyone like him.

It’s not an easy thing, for anyone who’s been there. Once you’ve felt that kind of love, that devotion, that—raw, animalistic passion—with someone, I’m not sure you can find it again. Maybe, if you really look. But I wasn’t looking too hard.

I’d compare every guy I met to Cole. It was impossible not to. No one wants to settle; and he’d set the standard. The worst standard possible, since he ultimately broke my heart when he left. But that was our relationship, clandestine and imperfect. Flawed from the beginning. And yet with all the flaws, I still savored every memory I had with him.

There’s a disadvantage to not having a firm grasp on the world when you meet someone like Cole. He was a charismatic guy; someone who could talk to anyone—who could relate to anyone. It’s that Bill Clinton style. I read once in a magazine that it’s a unique thing to meet Bill, because of how important he makes people feel. Like the only person in the room. That’s how Cole made people feel. I’d search for that quality in other guys; for that unique charisma, or that ability to always know how to make me laugh. But no one seemed to do it like Cole.

We met at a party back when I was in college and had a girlfriend. Yes, an actual girlfriend. I’d recently moved to Boston for college. This was a huge leap for me, coming from the rural Midwest, where Salt Lake City was the closest I had to an urban experience. I hadn’t experienced the East Coast yet. New York City, Boston, Philadelphia, Miami, Atlanta, DC—I knew that I wanted to go to school somewhere along that line. To get as far away as possible, and maybe play around with all these sexual feelings I’d had since childhood.

Going to school in Boston didn’t stop me from dating girls, but it did open my eyes to an entire new world of sex. gay men were no longer the caricatures and stereotypes I’d seen out west. My whole world-view became essentially fucked. “You mean it’s not just Catholic priests and heavy truck drivers?” I’d find myself wondering, each time some football or baseball player eyed me up in the gym, or each time I’d walk past Club Café to get a glimpse of what I was missing.
I didn’t know what my type was. I didn’t even know whether I was a top or a
bottom, but I figured at some point the day would come when I’d find out. And even though I wasn’t doing anything to speed up the loss of my gay virginity, I was at least
open to it. Nervous as hell, but open-minded.

And that day did come, the night I met Cole. At that party—I don’t even remember who the host was, but I can pinpoint the building. I can trace my anxious walk home that night—in the dark, cold Boston winter, my cock and balls still wet underneath my jeans as I hurried to get back to my apartment and shower.

And I remember the view—that was the conversation piece. This party was in a penthouse apartment; a beautiful, traditional residence in one of Boston’s nicer buildings. Some friend of Cole’s—a friend of one of my friend’s—had a ridiculous penthouse in a Boston high-rise. And there was a room—I guess you’d call it a study, or just an over- sized office—where an entire wall was one solid window that peered down upon the city. I’d never seen Boston from that view before. And I remember being stunned. The view was high enough that you could see the entire downtown from a clear angle, not like the sloppy view from an airplane flying above the city. This was special.

While my friends were scattered throughout the kitchen—along with the rest of the small and intimate gathering—I was in the study, watching my city. Absorbing the slow pace of the South End, and the darkness of the Charles under a moon-lit sky. I was so fascinated that I didn’t even notice Cole approach, until a hand touched me on the shoulder, and a finger brushed the side of my neck. Instantly there was this sensation, buzzing behind my ears, nervously creeping down my forearms, down to my hands, which restlessly moved in and out of my jean pockets.

Cole stood there next to me, one arm on me—casually, like a straight guy might do to his buddy at the bar—although Cole held his position. And he smiled without showing his teeth, and lifted his head up just an inch. Enough that he drew my attention, so that the view of the South End was overlapped by the charm in his green eyes.
Before I could say anything—or even react to his arm on my shoulder—he turned
away from me, and gazed out the same window I’d just momentarily forgotten about.

“What a view, right?” he remarked. I couldn’t figure him out. And I couldn’t quite figure myself out at that moment. I felt wrapped in anxiety, like it was methodically tightening around my neck—around my upper body. I shifted one leg as my cock hardened uncomfortably in my boxers, rubbing into my tight jeans. I hoped he
wouldn’t notice. I felt embarrassed that I’d gotten hard so quickly.

Was he hitting on me? I’d totally lost track of time, and my head was spinning with anxiety and discomfort, woven together with such erotic temptation that I felt like at any minute I could rip his pants open and shove my face in his crotch. I knew he had to be gay—what straight guy would put their arm around someone like that, for so long? And then again, maybe it hadn’t been long at all. I could’ve gotten so worked up that my body was just working faster, moving so quick that five seconds seemed to be five minutes.

At some point he took his arm off my shoulder. I couldn’t feel that soft touch anymore, but I could still smell him; that amazing, masculine scent, free from any cologne or deoderant, that put me over the edge. I wasn’t sure if he was done touching me or not, but just as I wondered if I should touch him back, I felt his large, masculine hands slide down my back, caressing my body through the t-shirt I’d worn to the party. I took one long breath as I felt his fingers ease onto my skin. He lifted up my shirt and kept his hand right above my ass, digging his fingers into me with just enough force to turn my body towards him. And then he kissed me. I don’t remember where I was looking, but it wasn’t his eyes or his face anymore. Maybe it was the window, or the glossy hardwood floors. I just felt him come into me, hastily. He pushed his whole body into mine, and I shook against the glass wall. The force of his lips drove me backwards, but as his one hand dipped into the back of my jeans, his other wrapped around my head and pulled me closer. I’d never had another man’s tongue in my mouth before. Making out with girls was totally different. As the guy, you’re the one in control, and it’s your tongue that does the directing. When I kissed Cole, he was in control and it was his tongue taking the lead. I was overwhelmed and fascinated at the same time. Giving up control to someone else was entirely new to me. My whole body felt like it was going up in flames.

Both of my palms were on the glass, sweaty, and I felt like we were laying down, hovering above the city of Boston at twenty-some stories. As if at any moment we could break through the glass and fall backwards, head-first down into the South End.

He was pushing me hard enough. Each thrust of his crotch into mine would send us up against
the wall.

Every time I’d look towards the door—to see if anyone from the party was about to wander into something I didn’t want them to see—he’d pull my head back into his. I couldn’t close my eyes while he kissed me. I wanted to see him. I wanted to see those pretty green eyes above dark facial scruff; above a man’s lips. And the careful way his tongue moved about my mouth, filling it the way a girl’s was never able to.

He was pulling my jeans down—I don’t even remember if he unzipped me or not—but I dropped down to my knees before he could take off my pants. He was already unzipped; and so I dug my hands into his gray cotton boxers until I felt him; huge and solid, pressed up against large balls and sweaty thighs. I’d never had a cock in my mouth before, but I’d fantasized about this moment. I didn’t know what to do, but I pulled his boxers down so that his dick swung in the air, bouncing against my cheek.

He pushed his crotch into my face so that I was up against the wall, with not an inch of air separating me from the glass. I gently held his big, heavy balls with one hand and pulled him into my wet mouth. I couldn’t hear anything at that moment except the sounds of my own moaning and breathing as he pushed himself in and out of my mouth, never taking the head out from around my lips. I gently squeezed his balls with one hand and felt him balloon in my mouth. Harder and harder, pulling my lips apart as I moved back and forth. I’d never wanted someone so badly, and I didn’t want this to end. He was moaning, and his knees were bending into my shoulders so that my whole body was wedged against the glass. I could feel the sweat dripping from my forehead, down onto his dick where the salty taste poured into my mouth, coupled with the musky smell of his crotch. As his knees dug further and further into me I could feel him on the verge of an explosion. The excitement was too much for me, and as I jerked my cock with my free hand, I could feel that I was close to shooting. I let my dick fall out of my hand, as my cum burst onto the wooden floor, dripping onto my jeans.

And then he came. Wildly; with one whole hand wrapped around the back of my head, forcing his thick cock into my throat, he exploded inside me. I felt the warmth on my tongue; smelled his climax as I kept my lips gently wrapped around him. He leaned his sweaty forehead against the glass wall and passionately placed both of his masculine hands overtop my ears, motioning to pull me up from his crotch. I pushed against the glass wall with my back, sliding upwards towards his head. As I got closer, with the scent of his cum still on my lips, he stuck his tongue into my mouth and kissed me, the way lovers kiss.

That night my entire world changed. Cole and I would see each other again, off and on, and always for sex. It wasn’t just for sex, but it wasn’t a relationship either. And it wasn’t dating. It was the passionate play of two people who weren’t ready or willing to be in a relationship. I was in love with him, but I still had a girlfriend who I couldn’t shake off. I still had midwestern traits—fears and taboos—that I couldn’t get rid of.

The very last time we met, he told me that he was moving to Miami. That he wouldn’t be back; or at least if he came back, we couldn’t see each other. And that was Cole. When I was with him, I felt like the most important person in the world. Like the
only person in the world. And when it was over, it was over. It’s a sad thing, that

transition. Even with its complications, I didn’t think Cole and I would ever end. And when I had to face the reality of our complex lives (and maybe when he did, too), everything suddenly seemed so finite. Even the things I was sure of, didn’t seem all that reassuring. Some years passed. I graduated from college, got a serious job. I stopped dating girls. Itried to date guys. I no longer felt nervous if I walked by Club Café. In fact, I could stop in for a drink. I knew what I liked in a guy, and what I wanted, and how I wanted to talk to them, touch them, be with them. And yet even in all of that growth, there were still little things that I longed for. Simple boyfriend scenarios, like what it would be like to just live with the person that I was in love with. To watch TV with them, shower with them in the morning, make dinner together, and come home to them after work. Or to be the one in the apartment when my partner got home from work. Deciding things to do, other than just sex. That was my only experience—where all of my growth had come from: sexual relationship. I would’ve killed for a real boyfriend experience with Cole. I guess back then it’s not what I really wanted or was looking for, but I quickly learned that this missing component was what I needed to find.
And that’s why I sat in the guest room at the Provincetown party, I guess.
Because it would be easy to find sex out amongst all the drunk guys in the living room and kitchen, but I wasn’t looking for just sex anymore. I needed to find something
substantial. And I had to stop looking for the nextCole.

I could tell that the bars were closing in Provincetown, because as I found myself approaching Spiritus Pizza after my long walk from Don’s apartment, I could see the massive crowds forming. I knew that if anything was going to cheer me up, it would be Spiritus. Not the pizza, but the people. If you’ve never been to Provincetown, then you’re missing out on a circus that takes place every summer night after the bars close. gay guys from all over Provincetown converge on this pizza shop in the late hours of the night. You can find any type there: from the hottest muscle men to the most outrageous drag queens, to stick-thin scene kids, and even your leather contingent.

This night was no different. Men were piled up, in hundreds. I found myself in- between a group of bears—most of them clad in leather, some dressed in hoodies designed for much younger men—and a couple young twinks who were getting bothered by an older guy with leathery skin and thinning blonde hair. He looked like a porn studio kingpin, complete with gold chains and bracelets, and a gaudy wristwatch that hung loose on one wrist. I couldn’t hear the conversation over all the noise that engulfed the area, but I guessed he was asking them to be in a video. Neither of them looked like they wanted anything to do with this guy, and I didn’t blame them.

On another night I might have intervened, but I wasn’t really trying to make new friends, and twinks have never been my type. I mean, one of these guys had glitter under his eyes. That’s where I draw the line.

My cell phone was in my back pocket, although I hadn’t checked it along my walk. I had no idea how long the party back at the apartment was going to last for. Even though it was kind of far, I half-expected to see Chris show up at Spiritus. That would be an interesting conversation. Especially if he showed up as drunk as he was when I left the condo.

I walked slowly through the crowds, unsure how long I was going to hang around for. I didn’t want to go back to the condo, at least not yet. I thought about meeting someone and just crashing at their place—I mean it wouldn’t be hard, with all the guys scattered outside Spiritus Pizza, to find someone who was my type. But I also didn’t want to use someone for a bed, especially if they were expecting me to stick around the
next morning.

I was open to it. All I had to do was find out the ferry schedule, get my stuff back at the condo, and I could easily crash at some guy’s place for a few hours, then wake up and head back to Boston. I definitely wasn’t going to last the whole weekend in this mood.

Or maybe that was it: that it was just a mood. And it was up to me to figure out some way to kick it. I was beginning to regret not having a couple drinks back at the party.

“Whoa,” I heard someone right near me say. I was walking like a zombie through the dense crowd, my mind focused more on all the shit running through my head than on the people around me. At some point, a few paces past the group of bears and the two twinks and an old couple in Hawaiian shirts, I’d begun to block out the faces and the conversations. It was like my eyes were closed while trying to navigate the crowd.

I kept moving until I heard another sound behind me. Awhoa orhey or something like that—there was so much noise around me that I couldn’t tell what I was hearing. I needed to find a place to sit, maybe. I didn’t want to go off and stand by myself, because that could look too lonely. I just wanted somewhere to sit, so that maybe I could watch the crowd without being inside it.

A hand landed on my shoulder and I was pushed with a few fingers. It wasn’t a friendly touch; more like a quick jab by someone who wanted to get my attention. I quickly thought about ignoring it and going about my walk, but there was some small curiosity to see who it was.

“Apologize when you fuckin’ bump into someone, man,” a muscle queen in a tank top said as soon as I turned my head. He was older than I was—maybe mid-30s— with huge biceps, and pecs that popped out around the straps of his shirt.Army colors, of course. His face was shiny and his eyes were bugged out. He had just got off the dance floor and was clearly still tweaking onsomething.

I don’t know what was in me at that very moment. Maybe the way this guy voiced his complaint. Maybe it was just him, and the whole steroid circuit party look. You know, this was the type of guy who gets his eyebrows waxed and has no hair on his balls, but spends two hours per day in the gym, drinks protein shakes, and therefore thinks he’s a nightclub God. It would’ve been easy to apologize and walk away, but I didn’t really feel like it.

“Hey, chill out,” I said, and I stood my ground. I was surprised that a circle hadn’t already formed around us. But then again, two butch guys exchanging loaded words with each other doesn’t seem as interesting when you’re in a crowd with drunken drag queens performing Madonna songs on the back of automobiles.
“What’d you say?”

How did this sect of gay people even make it out to Provincetown? I guess that’s the curse of gay vacation spots. Any place with circuit parties and big name DJs runs the risk of being infiltrated by these tank top-wearing Ken dolls. And this was just one among many; strung out on some party-boy drug. Probably T or G. There were some guys behind him, but I couldn’t tell if they were friends or just onlookers.
“You have a hearing problem? I said chill the fuck out. We’re in Provincetown.”

By the time the words had left my mouth, this asshole was fuming, and I couldn’t tell if the new redness in his cheeks was from sunburn or rage. Maybe a little of both. I’d been around these types before though, so I knew what to expect. These muscle queens—bent out on crystal meth—were all the same. Lots of talk, lots of flexing— eventually he’d try to push me. They always push before throwing the first punch. I don’t know why they do that. I guess it’s just a way to flex their arms out and show off a little, and hope they’ve scared away whoever had bothered them in the first place.

It wasn’t going to be that easy with me. I was ready for the push; ready to rotate to the right, just a couple inches, and nail him in the jaw with my fist. And even if he didn’t go down, he’d be too stunned to react. The only downside was that I’d screw up my chances of being able to stick around Spiritus and meet someone for the night. It was
almost enough to make me want to avoid the fight. Almost.

“You have three seconds to walk away,” the muscle queen told me. His arms were wrapped in front of him—he must’ve thought he was Hulk Hogan. In fact I was waiting for the moment when he’d rip his tank top off and throw it to the ground, all while making primal roars meant to frighten me. Butthree seconds? This guy was full of shit. If he was half as bad as he was pretending to be, then he wouldn’t have given me
three seconds.
“Count it out, man,” I told him. I think he was shocked to see someone smaller
than him talk back. I could tell in that red face, in those dark, glossy eyes.

Just as I eased my left foot back in preparation for his charge, I felt two arms wrap around me—grab me from around my armpits, and pull me backwards. For a second I thought it might have been one of his friends, coming up from behind to give the muscle queen an advantage, but the latter had this puzzled look on his face as if he had no idea what was happening.

“Take it easy,” someone shouted in my ear, but it blended into all the voices around us. Some people were looking, but most were in their own groups, their own conversations.

“What the fuck—,” I swung my elbows to try and break free from whoever was dragging me through the crowd. I think I hit him a couple times in the shoulders, but his grip was firm and unwavering. It could have been that guy Don—maybe he showed up with Chris at some point, and they saw me in the crowd. I didn’t think it could be a total stranger. It definitely wasn’t a cop.
As soon as the muscle queen was out of sight, I felt the two arms unclasp around
me, and a firm torso pushed against my back to straighten out my balance.

“What the fuck—,” I said as I stood up and quickly looked back to where we had come from, to see if the muscle queen was following. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. What a shame. I really wanted to kick that guy’s ass.

“Hunter,” I heard behind me, maybe two or three times. I hadn’t looked back to see who had grabbed me, and so I finally turned my head. I expected to see Don. That’s who I was preparing to see, at least.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said under my breath. I closed my eyes— tightly—just for a couple seconds, and then reopened them to make sure I hadn’t gone crazy.

“Hunter,” I heard my name again. Why the fuck did it have to be him? Of all the people who could’ve been in that crowd on that given night. It had to be real. I hadn’t been drinking. I smoked a little bit, but that was back at the condo. Suddenly Spiritus Pizza became the last place on Earth where I wanted to be, and so I turned around and began to move as quickly as possible through the crowd of people. Some were still giving me awkward looks—the ones who had witnessed the confrontation with the muscle queen. Others I pushed passed, trying to get as far away as possible.

I kept hearing my name. I heard once that it’s easier for people to hear names than any other words. Even in the chaotic noise of the crowd, I could still hearHunter, shouted loudly in my direction. He was following me, and I had to move more quickly.

“Why are you running from me?” I heard him shout as soon as I broke through the crowd and leaped into a sprint. I didn’t want to turn around and look at him, because then I might get stuck standing there, listening to his apologies or hoping that something more was going to come out of our conversation. And I knew that wasn’t going to happen. He was on vacation—that was the only solution—he must’ve been up to Provincetown on vacation. Maybe because at that time it was hurricane season in Miami. Maybe he was visiting family in Boston. I just didn’t want him to fuck up the rest of my weekend. I needed to get back to the condo, get my shit, and be on a ferry in the morning.