Boy Toy (16 page)

“Good.” We laughed while turning the corner at Park Street, moving along our regular route. As usual, I simply enjoyed the sight of Neil at my side, and I let him pull a half pace ahead of me so I could get a better look. As usual, he wore nylon shorts; mine were cotton. Neither of us wore shirts.

We soon left the street, following a steep, shady path that led us through a bank of trees at the park’s perimeter. As the path leveled off and we entered a clearing, I asked, “When did Roxanne go to bed?”

“Didn’t notice. It must have been late. Why?”

Running at a comfortable pace now, I told him, “Earlier in the evening, she mentioned again that she wanted to ‘talk’ to us. We planned to sit down after the party, but things got late, and I forgot about it.”

“God”—Neil shook his head, an awkward feat while running—“I forgot too. There’s obviously something important on her mind. Hope she doesn’t think we’re neglecting her.”

“I hope she doesn’t think
Carl’s
neglecting her, but that’s the impression she gave me yesterday at the office.”

“Once we get back,” Neil said with resolve, “we’ll give her all the time she needs.”

Our conversation lapsed as we entered the long middle portion of our run. I like to think of that phase of our workouts as “the cruise.” Between the warm-up and the cooldown, it’s the extended period of serious exercise, burning calories at a steady, elevated rate. The challenge at this stage is not performance, but endurance, and I’ve always marveled at the trancelike momentum of a runner’s “second wind,” which masks pain as pleasure.

Neil understood this as well. He’d learned this secret of the cruise long before he knew me, and indeed, this common knowledge was one of the things that would bond us when we met. The first time we ran together, on a mountainside road near his home in Phoenix four Christmases ago (it seems like another life, on another planet), the rigors of running took on an erotic edge for both of us. That same morning, I first made love to a man. It was the morning when Neil truly entered my life, entered me, and changed the world as I knew it. No wonder, then, that our runs became an earthy ritual, a shared fetish that sometimes roiled our passions, sounding an overture to sex.

On this August morning, though, my thoughts were more sublime than lusty. The man I loved was there at my side as we ran through a pristine world inhabited by us alone—a piney Eden shared only with benign little creatures, some furry, some feathered, but no snakes.

“Rest?” asked Neil. We had looped three times through the park’s valley floor, logging some four miles. Ahead lay the lagoon. A pavilion near the water’s edge had a broad porch with benches where we often relaxed in summer or warmed ourselves in winter. A pair of ducks splashed near the bank of a tiny island, just big enough to ground a willow.

I replied with a nod, and we veered from the path, slowing our pace to a jog, then a walk, as we approached the shelter. During our run, the bright day had grown hotter, and we were both now drenched with sweat. Having not worn shirts or carried towels, we had nothing we could use to blot ourselves, so we trudged up to the porch, dripping.

Choosing the center bench, which faced a perfectly framed view of the lagoon and the leafy slopes of the hills beyond, we sat and rested. Despite the heat of the day, we had settled mere inches apart, and we instinctively touched knees. Flexing the muscles of my calf, I felt Neil do the same, and I thrilled at the grinding of his ankle against my sock—simple pleasures.

I had not yet told him about my conversation with Kwynn at the party—that she had confirmed my fear that Thad was badly shaken by the mounting suspicion of his friends—but this serene moment was not the time to burden Neil.

After a minute or two, our breathing eased. “So,” said Neil, “what did you think of the Geldens?” The question may have seemed out-of-the-blue, but in fact, the Geldens had crossed my own mind more than once that morning.

“Cynthia’s not quite what I expected, but I do like her. And Frank’s great.”

Neil squinted. “What did you expect? Cynthia, I mean.”

“I’m not sure. Having just met Frank on Wednesday, I didn’t know him well enough to expect
anything
about his wife.” I hesitated. “But I thought she’d be prettier. And younger.”

Neil mulled my words for a few seconds. “Cynthia’s intelligent, sophisticated, and really quite charming—she has plenty to offer.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed at once. “Once I got to know her, I could see that.”

Neil nodded. “But still, she’s not what you expected. Hmm. I met Cynthia first at my office, then Frank a few meetings later. Now that you mention it,
he
wasn’t what I expected.”

“You were pleasantly surprised?”

Neil grinned. “And how.” He rubbed his leg suggestively against mine.

Laughing, I patted his inner thigh, brushing his crotch with the edge of my hand. Aware that I was starting something we couldn’t finish, I removed my hand from his leg and languidly crossed my arms. “I will say this: they both seemed to take a genuine interest in Thad’s predicament.”

“I told you before: they seem to have a genuine interest in
us
.”

Considering this for a moment, I admitted, “I’d like to get to know them better too. It would…round us out.”

Neil swung his face toward mine. “I beg your pardon.”

“Think about it. Since our move to Dumont, by and large, the town has ‘accepted’ us. Sure, we’ve made friends, but most of them are either coworkers or gay—or both—which is fine. It wouldn’t hurt us, though, to count at least one straight, married,
normal
local couple among our social circle.”

Neil snorted. “In other words, we could broaden our horizons.”

I shrugged. “Precisely.”

He ran a hand through my wet hair, flicking the sweat from his fingers. “We could all go to PTA meetings together.”

I reminded him, “Not with the Geldens. They’re childless; until recently, so were we. They’re affluent and worldly; forgive my immodesty, but so are we. When you think about it, we’ve got quite a bit in common.”

“You needn’t convince
me.
She’s a good client, he’s easy on the eyes, and they’re both decent people—a great couple, period. What’s more, they’ve taken the initiative to seek out our friendship. Why not reciprocate?”

“No reason whatever. I’m looking forward to having dinner with them tomorrow night. We should bring something nice.”

The two of us thought about this in silence, gazing at the lagoon. Then we looked each other in the eye, saying in unison, “Wine.” Not very original, perhaps, but we knew we could compensate for the predictability of our gift by liberating an unexpected, impressive vintage from our cellar.

I stood. “Ready?”

Neil nodded, stood, and stretched.

“Are we running back? Or walking?”

A sheepish look of indecision crossed his face. He didn’t want to be the one to shy away from exercise.

So I saved him the angst. “It’s getting hot. We’ve already had a good workout. Let’s walk.”

He didn’t protest, and we strolled off at a leisurely pace, rounding the lagoon and returning to the path that led us through the vast, grassy field of the park’s floor. Without a word, we approached the wooded hillside and climbed the ravine, emerging into civilization—the quiet streets of Dumont.

During our entire time in the park, we had encountered not even one other person, which struck me as odd. The midsummer Sunday should have been a prime date for picnics, I told myself, but still, the day was young, the heat already intense—the whole town, it seemed, had made a collective decision to hunker indoors this morning. I smiled. Churches would have a rough time meeting their quota this week.

“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought.”

Neil’s words broke my train of thought, but I was certain I hadn’t missed some earlier snatch of conversation. With a chuckle, I asked, “What?” We were just turning off Park Street onto Prairie.

He paused. With a twitch of his brows, he answered, “My debt of honor.”

Ahhh. It had been three days since I’d wowed him in the kitchen. With the troubling events that had transpired since then, I’d forgotten his pledge to outdo my inventiveness. With renewed interest, I asked, “Payback time?”

“We need to discuss some options.”

“Now? Here?”

“No, at home.” His pace grew brisker as we covered the remaining block or so, and I didn’t lag behind. Heat be damned.

Arriving at the house, we entered through the front door. (Smelling coffee, I induced that Barb had risen.) The cool indoor air shocked my damp, sun-bit skin as we crossed the hall to the stairway. Upstairs, we made a quick turn into the large, handsome bedroom that had once been my uncle Edwin’s. It was more of a suite than a bedroom, including its own bathroom, dressing room, and a screened, private sunporch beyond a wall of French doors.

Closing the hall door behind us, I asked, “You wanted to discuss something?”

Neil sat on a bench at the foot of the bed and began unlacing his shoes.

“Wait,” I said before he could answer. “Let me.” Crossing the room, I sat before him on the floor. Removing his shoes, I kissed each of his knees and stroked the muscles of his calves. Feeling blessed, I paused to worship him (it was Sunday, after all). When this transcendental moment had passed, I raised my head and looked into his eyes. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Sure you do,” he said glibly, leaning forward to bestow a peck on my forehead. “What’s more, you deserve some significant, creative payback.” He stood.

His nylon running shorts were about level with my eyes, and I observed, with a measure of disappointment, that he was not aroused. As long as I was sitting on the floor, I removed my own shoes, setting them next to his, soles touching. “So,” I said, “you’ve been considering some ‘options’?”

“I have.” He stepped out of his shorts and shrugged into a light cotton robe, cinching its belt. His tone turned unexpectedly serious as he told me, “You taught me something valuable, Mark.”

Not understanding him, I stood. Touching his shoulders, I asked, “What do you mean?”

He took my own robe and helped me into it as I slipped out of my damp shorts. Warming my chest with his hands, he asked, “Got a minute to talk?”

“Of course.”

He jerked his head toward the sunporch, and I followed as he opened one of the glass-paned doors and stepped out to the comfortable aerie with its white wicker furniture and floor-to-ceiling screens. Since air-conditioning the house, we hadn’t used this room often, which now struck me as a waste. Neil had found a wonderful retro-style oilcloth splashed with an oversize pattern of palms and tropical flowers; the furniture was upholstered with it, and the big windows were swagged with it, creating the impression of a garden in the treetops. From this lofty vantage point, a pleasant confusion arose: Was the room indoors or out? Even though the space was open and airy, commanding a view of the landscaped back lawn, it was also secluded and private, with no sight lines to other windows.

The main group of wicker furniture consisted of a sofa and two armchairs gathered around a long, cushioned bench that could double as a coffee table, with trays for this purpose. Neil set these trays aside and sat on the bench, patting the slick oilcloth cushion, inviting me to join him. Shoulder to shoulder, we looked out through the trees, through the dapple of shifting shade and light. Though painted white, the room felt and smelled green.

“You taught me something valuable,” he repeated.

I nodded, listening.

“During the years we’ve been together, our love has grown and our commitment has deepened, but at times I’ve gotten the feeling that our passion has waned—”

I opened my mouth to protest, to reassure him, but he put a finger to my lips.

“Don’t misunderstand me. During the course of any relationship, it’s inevitable: at some point, the honeymoon is over, and what’s left is the rest of your life, your
shared
life together. Commitment replaces infatuation. It’s natural. For some couples, it proves to be a dangerous hurdle, but for us, I think, it was simply ‘the next step.’ We’ve grown well together. And I look forward to growing old with you, Mark.” He took my hand.

“So do I, kiddo. But you’re only thirty-five, and I’m not
ready
to grow old yet.”

He smiled. “Good. That’s my point. What you taught me Thursday morning is that we don’t
have
to let go of the passion—not yet. In my memory and my fantasies, our ‘old days’ of hot sex have always lingered, sometimes with a certain note of longing. But the other day, in the kitchen, you managed to top anything from our past. Did you plan it, every move of it?”

“No,” I assured him with a laugh. “It just happened. It just felt right.”

“
I’ll
tell the world.”

I nodded, reliving the pride I’d felt at the moment of his orgasm. “I noticed that you seemed to enjoy yourself.”

“It was way beyond enjoyment.” He nuzzled my shoulder. “It was ecstasy.”

“It was for me too—knowing I could reach you that deeply.”

“And that’s what made it lovemaking. It was truly ‘physical love,’ not just sex.”

I took his chin in my hand. “It was time to recapture that.”

He nodded, kissing my fingers. “The security and comfort of our relationship had stolen some of its fire. Then
zap
, there you were, holding the match.” He stood, looking outdoors for a few seconds, before turning to tell me, “When I announced my debt of honor that morning, there was an element of humor to the challenge I set for myself.”

“Why not? Sex or love—separately or in tandem—
should
be fun.”

He smiled. “You’re a wise, wise man, Mark Manning. And over the days that have passed since incurring my debt of honor, I’ve arrived at a wisdom of my own. I’ve come to understand that I truly do owe you the passion of our past. What’s more, after considerable thought, I’m confident that I can meet this challenge.” He crossed his arms, grinning.

I lolled on the bench, propping myself on one elbow. “You’ve captured my interest—
and
my attention. Where are you headed with this?”