1.
Ian’s never been much for parties, but of course this weekend is so much more than that. He spins the invitation, watching the art deco lettering blur between his fingers, and then stops to read it again.
Be our guest at the Whitman Grove for a weekend of socialization with trustees of the Whitman Society, and the announcement of our Whitman Fellowship Awardee for Writing. Special guest, plus one.
Ian does not have a plus one and thus has one less thing to worry about. He believes in traveling light.
He turns the invitation around and around, agitated now that he’s on the ferry to the Whitman Society’s exclusive enclave on an island in Puget Sound. He’s eager to get through the social niceties and on to the things that matter.
On the back of the invitation is an excerpt from Walt Whitman’s To a Pupil.
Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul
that when you enter the crowd an atmosphere of desire
and command enters with you, and every one is impress’d
with your Personality?
He’ll work on that.
Ian’s not a social imbecile. One-on-one he can even be charming. But this weekend, with two dinners and breakfasts and final interviews, amounts to more group socializing than he does in a month or more.
He looks in the rear view mirror to assess the slight bags under his gray eyes. He could hardly sleep the night before, and hopes it won’t show just when he needs to impress. His circular glasses will cover some of it.
“Look alive,” he tells himself. He purses his lips, pats his cheeks and runs his fingers through the thick dark crest of hair that twirls over his forehead. “It’s just a weekend.”
He hopes a breath of fresh air will revive him, and he needs to take a leak, so he exits his car to make his way to the men’s room on the deck level of the ferry.
The thing that most perks him up is the sight of a tall ginger standing at the urinal in the men’s room. He’s a good-looking guy, in a rough way. He’s got a jutting jaw with a few days scruff, the same burnt orange and gold as his hair. He’s broad shouldered, and stands with his legs spread wide.
Ian wonders for a moment if he’s a ferry worker in his caramel colored Carhartt jacket, heavy canvas pants and boots. But his clothes have no ferry insignia, and they’re the wrong colors, all warm like his ruddy cheeks.
He shifts slightly as Ian joins him at the urinal, one of those single shared basin types that make Ian think of pig troughs. Ian tries not to glance at the ginger’s dick, just out of curiosity, and also to not get punched out if he’s caught. But damn, the ginger is good looking, which makes it — and Ian — hard.
The ginger is still there when Ian’s done, and even when he washes his hands. He must be full of piss, or something, Ian thinks, drying his hands. But he notices the ginger finishing up and stepping away from the urinal just as he exits the restroom.
He wanders to try to get a better look at the ginger but somehow misses him. Too bad, he thinks. It’ll be something he can think about when he jerks off that night.
Returning to his car he notes how few people there are on the lower level. It occurs to him that there’s no need to wait until night to relieve himself. If he let his seat recline, he could get away with jerking off in the car unseen. Then he might be able to relax.
He lets his car seat drop back and unbuttons his pants when a door opens. Before Ian even understands what’s happening the ginger drops into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind him.
Ian is startled and thinks he’s being carjacked. “What are — what are you doing?”
But when he sees the big grin on the ginger’s face, he realizes it’s something else.
“Been in the head since we left Seattle,” the ginger says. His voice is as rough as the whiskers on his jaw. And he’s better looking full on, with a blunt nose and blond eyebrows. “From the veins on your arms, there’s a nice-looking body under that shirt.”
He leans in for a kiss, tentative at first, and then more aggressive, and as their mouths hungrily meet, he gropes the bulge in Ian’s pants. With surprising deftness for such strong looking fingers, he unzips them and jerks them down, releasing Ian’s erection.
He licks the palm of his hand to smear it with saliva and confidently gives Ian’s cock a smooth stroke as a big grin spreads across his face.
“Thought you could use some help with that.”
2.
The ginger goes down on Ian’s erection, taking most of its length in one good gulp, and then all of it on the second.
Holy fuck, Ian thinks, gasping and grabbing the sides of his car seat.
The ginger is fucking good at this, pulling his Ian’s balls down with one hand so he can bob his head and work the full length of the dick with his spit, slurping and teasing it from root to head and then back again.
Ian groans and tries to reach under the ginger cocksucker to grab his hefty package of dick and balls, but the ginger twists to avoid his reach, and finally pins Ian’s wrist down while he swallows his erection.
“Oh fuck! Oh my god!” Ian gasps as he feels his cock probing into the tight squeeze of the ginger’s throat. He’s never had anyone do that, not that far, not that tight. It’s like a whole new experience.
He usually has a hard time cumming from just a blow job, but the ginger is so aggressive, and the tightness of his throat has Ian helpless. And on top of all that he’s so fucking good looking, Ian could get off just watching him.
He swallows Ian’s dick again, snorting through his nose to breathe. The waves of pleasure in concert with his looks coax Ian’s cock to swell and stiffen, and then to surge a load right into the ginger’s throat.
“Oh fuck!” Ian gasps, and the ginger groans as he chokes and gurgles, swallowing Ian’s load.
When he’s swallowed it all he lets Ian’s dick loose and looks up at him. HIs eyes are watery, his lips inflamed, and he snorts through his nose, but grins anyway.
“I knew you had a big dick,” he says, his voice raspy with the thick spit in his throat, still working Ian’s waning but slicked erection with his fist.
“That was amazing,” Ian replies, reaching for the ginger’s crotch. “Let me do you.”
“That’s okay bro,” the ginger answers. “I’m good. We’re going to be landing soon – folks’ll be coming back to their cars.” He holds out a fist for Ian to bump with his own knuckles, and Ian reciprocates, though it’s a comically bro thing to do. “Name’s Finn.”
“Ian.”
The ginger — Finn — wipes his mouth on his fist and glances in the back seat of Ian’s car. “What’s with the books? And the tux?”
As if the blow job wasn’t enough, the hot guy is asking about his favorite topic.
“That’s my book,” Ian answers, doing his best to sound nonchalant.
There’s an open box of bound copies, The Silver String printed in elegant letters on the cover. And hanging in a garment bag is a charcoal-colored tuxedo.
Without asking, Finn reaches back and pulls one out. “You’re a writer?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Ian answers. He’s never sick of that question.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a novella,” Ian answers. “A modern interpretation of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice — do you know Greek mythology? Anyway, it’s about an older gay couple. When one of them passes away his husband goes to the underworld to retrieve him.”
Finn nods, studying the cover. He juts his jaw and when he concentrates he presses his lips between his teeth so they almost vanish. When he relaxes them they’re pale, but they color quickly as the blood rushes back in. Ian wants nothing more than to kiss them.
“Right on,” he says softly, nodding.
Ian continues as Finn turns the book over to scan the back cover. “It’s told in alternating chapters, between the journey to the underworld and recounting their past from when they met as young guys before AIDS and up to the present.” Finn nods without looking up. “The story’s thesis — sorry, this is going to sound pompous — is that truth can only be seen in retrospect, when we look back.”
Ian can’t resist sharing the next part.
“I’m… one of three finalists for this thing called the Whitman Fellowship.”
Finn’s blond eyebrow perks. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, the Whitman society is — well, pretty much a bunch of rich gay guys. A lot of them came to the area at the start of the tech boom and made their fortunes. They’re older so, y’know, they’ve been through a lot. And they mostly have no heirs, so they’re kind of big patrons of the arts and literature.”
“Older like the guys in the book?” Finn asks.
Ian nods, surprised that the ginger so quickly connects the dots. A cynical person might even conclude that the novella is practically tailor made for the senior gays of the Whitman Society, many of whom would be peers to the couple in the story
“It’s a dumb thing,” Ian says, “but if I get it, it’ll cover my living expenses and travel for the next five years. So I can dedicate my time to my writing.”
He yawns, the exhaustion of the last sleepless night released by his orgasm.
“Right on,” the ginger says, nodding his head again.
Did the words right on ever sound better than out of his lush lips?
“We’ll see,” Ian adds, glancing at his invitation. “They decide —” long yawn “— this weekend.”
“Can I?” Finn asks, holding up the copy of Ian’s book. When Ian says sure, he slides it into an inner pocket of his canvas jacket and helps himself to a swig from Ian’s water bottle. “Hey, you mind if I sit here till we dock?”
Ian realizes with post-cum sobriety he has a complete stranger hanging out in his car. He might be a thief or a crazy person or worse. But it seemed the least he could do for the hot guy who just blew him.
He takes his glasses off, and feeling relaxed for the first time in days, closes his eyes to rest them, for just a minute.
3.
Ian wakes to the alarm of a shrill car horn nearby and a ferry worker giving him the stink eye through his windshield. Shit, he realizes, they’ve landed.
He pulls on his glasses, buckles up and suddenly remembers the ginger — Finn. He wanted to sit till they docked but he’s gone. Fuck. He was the hottest guy Ian had ever been with, and he’d slept through any chance to get to know him.
No romantic entanglements, he reminds himself. No plus ones. Still, he wishes he’d made a better effort to return the blow job. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.
Fumbling to start his car he notices his overnight bag is on the passenger seat. Packed with care, it’s now open and the contents askew. More horns sound off – angry this time. Stink Eye walked over. “Is there a problem here?”
“Yeah, I’ve been robbed!”
God damn it.
Once off the ferry, he pulls over to talk to security. Naturally he omits the blow job. Instead he says the ginger asked for a ride and Ian naively said sure, but while he nodded off the guy rummaged through his things. It was a bit of a lie, but it got around to the truth in the end.
Ian tells them what’s been stolen, which is fortunately nothing of real value. Just some sweaters that could hardly fit the ginger, having at least 50 pounds of muscle on Ian, some protein bars and the invitation to the Whitman Society. That he’d miss the most, for sentimental reasons. But his laptop and phone are untouched, and his wallet is still there, cards and cash and ID intact, though clearly rummaged through.
What kind of thief leaves money but takes sweaters and protein bars?
Ian describes the ginger, and security asks him to stay on to see if they can spot him exiting. He looks at the time on his watch and grumbles, but consents. But the ginger doesn’t show. Probably a walk-on, security explains, saying they exit the ferry first before the cars.
They say they’ll take a look at security camera footage for anyone matching the description of Finn and let Island Police know.
“Oh no, no. Don’t bother with it,” Ian says. “It’s nothing.”
He worries that the cameras picked up what was going on in his car, and he doesn’t want to find out he just accidentally made his first sex tape. He should have thought of that earlier, and almost regrets his impulsivity. But the ginger, Finn. Well, it was hard to regret that.
Next, he calls his contact at the Whitman Society, Mr. Choi, the program officer assigned to him, to let him know he’d be delayed and why. It’s so unlike him to be late for anything, but that would sound like an excuse.
Hanging up, he sighs. He hasn’t even arrived yet and it’s already gone off the rails.
The Whitman Grove is another 20 minutes away, a former seminary constructed in the 1930s to prepare young men for life in religious service. It was purchased by the Whitman Society and renovated at no small cost to serve as a destination for elite gay men to stage their events and retreats.
There must be a joke in there, but he’s too anxious to see it, Ian thinks. He imagines how many of the original seminarians were young gay guys using the priesthood to abstain from connecting with other guys.
It’s a handsome structure, surrounded by towering evergreens, the campus crisscrossed with winding paths. It feels so isolated, it’s hard to believe it’s just a ferry ride from the city. The cost must have been staggering, Ian guesses, imaginary dollar signs in his eyes.
He pulls on his blazer and knots his tie to look presentable and steps up to the grand entrance.
“My name is Ian Smith,” he practices in hushed tones. “What’s that? Oh, yes. Yes, I am one of the finalists for the fellowship. Did you read The Silver String?”
As he makes his way through the main hall of the facility he’s impressed by the quality of the interior work by the Society. The wood floors are glossy as mirrors, the period chandeliers sparkle, and the walls are lined with tall leaded glass windows. The gays always make everything look good, especially when money is no object, Ian thinks. And the Whitman Society had the dollars to back up their aesthetics.
There’s an attractive young woman at the reception desk who greets him enthusiastically.
“Oh, you’re one of the finalists,” she says in a lilting voice. “How exciting for you!”
“But look at how late I am,” Ian replies. “What a bum.” They both laugh.
“Mr. Smith,” she continues, “you are just on time. Please don’t worry. And I’m so sorry about the mix up with the other Mr. Smith. I want you to know we’ve taken care of it all, and the addition will be seamless. The reception tonight is in the foyer to your left, and we’ll bring your bag to your room so it will be there after dinner. Welcome to Whitman Grove.”
Ian turns to walk away but stops when he hears her say his name again. “Mr. Smith… good luck.”
He doesn’t know who the other Mr. Smith is, but it’s such a common name he’s not surprised by a mix up. It’s happened before. He mentally tucks the story away; in the event he meets the other Mr. Smith. They’ll have something to chuckle about.
The foyer is a deafening din of chatter, chuckles and even roaring laughter. There must be 150 men, trustees of the Whitman Society, and with the exception of the caterers and a few others, they’re all much older, white haired or bald. They’re in good spirits, hugging and laughing and passing champagne flutes around.
Ian runs over his introductions once more, reminds himself to smile, to ask questions and be curious, and, again, to smile.
He spots a circle of men at the far end of the foyer, growing as others attach to it. This particular circle is laughing louder than the rest, and Ian thinks it may be a good place to make his way in.
As he approaches, he hears a familiar voice quipping, “And I said threesome? We can barely agree on what’s for dinner, much less who to have for a threesome!”
There’s a roar of laughter, and Ian feels a gentle touch on his elbow. It’s Mr. Choi, who he recognizes from their virtual interviews. He looks to be about 40, attractive, in an exquisitely tailored suit.
“Mr. Smith, I’m so glad you could be here. We were so sorry to hear of your troubles on the ferry and the resulting delay. But your husband has been delighting us in your absence.”
The laughter from the nearby crowd is so loud Ian thinks it’s affecting his hearing. ”I’m sorry, I thought you said my husband.”
He turns to look into the circle at the source of so much laughter and sees him. The ginger.
“Finn,” says Mr. Choi. “Your husband.”
4.
Ian thinks he might still be on the ferry, dreaming of the robbery and his arrival at the Grove. All of it. And especially the raspy voiced ginger, surrounded by fawning older men.
“And there’s my better half now!” says Finn, the ring of trustees turning to Ian, measuring him up.
Finn steps away from the center of attention to hug Ian, to the cooing of his admirers.
“What are you doing here?” Ian asks.
The ginger man turns to the onlookers and chuckles, “He hates that I get around faster than he does.”
“That’s my sweater,” Ian gasps. “You took my sweater.”
“Caught!” Finn says, raising his hands, and the circle of men guffaw with him as if on cue. “Why be married if you can’t swipe each other’s clothes?”
The ginger man’s name badge reads Finn Smith, even after Ian adjusts his glasses to be sure. He looks down and turns his own badge to read it. Ian Smith. At least he still knows who he is.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” Ian says.
“I’m sorry,” says Mr. Choi. “Let me get you a refreshment.”
As Mr. Choi steps away, the ginger wraps an arm around Ian, leading him away.
“What are you doing here?” Ian hisses. “Are you even supposed to be here at all?”
“Bro, relax,” says Finn. “This place is awesome. Did you see the shrimp bar?”
He snags two champagne flutes from a passing tray without the server even noticing and puts one in Ian’s hand.
“What? No, I didn’t see the shrimp bar.” Ian downs the champagne, barely tasting it. “You stole my clothes. You’re wearing my sweater right now!” It’s hard to keep his voice down.
“Yeah, it’s a little snug.” It looks incredible, hugging his athletic form. “You ought to get some more color in your wardrobe. You dress like a black and white photo.”
“You need to get out of here,” Ian replies, as firmly and quietly as he can.
“Why? I was here first,” Finn says, tossing back his champagne.
“Here first? Here first? With my invitation! Pretending to be my husband! I’m going to call the police.”
“Oh, I don’t think you want to do that, my bro.”
“Why not?”
“You want to tell all these nice people you hooked up on a ferry ride to their posh party? And you want them to give you money? Dude, no.”
This gives Ian pause. As he processes the thought, the ginger takes his hand and without warning slides something onto his ring finger — a simple gold wedding band.
“What are you… STOP!” Ian gasps. He twists the ring and tries to slide it off, but it won’t pass his knuckle. “Oh god, it’s stuck.”
“Right on,” Finn chuckles, and holds up his own mitt, sporting an identical gold band. “Matching.”
“No! Not right on!” Ian protests, “Not… matching! Did you steal this from someone here? ”
“Bro, it’s not from here,” the ginger sighs.
“Do you promise? Swear to me.”
“Honest. I just want to help.”
“Help? HELP? Are you crazy? How are you helping?”
A sly smile spreads over Finn’s face. He pulls a folded card from his rear pocket and reads aloud.
“Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul that when you enter the crowd an atmosphere of desire and command enters with you, and every one is impress’d with your Personality?”
“That’s my invitation!” Ian snaps, grabbing at the card, which Finn holds just out of reach, teasing until he surrenders it.
“Bro, have you not been paying attention? Those old dudes love me.”
The ginger raises an arm and flexes, the snug sweater threatening to split at the seam as the cinder block of a bicep inside it swells.
“Oh my God,” Ian gasps, pulling Finn’s arm down. “You ARE crazy.” Crazy hot. “This is a serious thing. This is about my book!”
“You think too much,” Finn says, grinning. “Here.”
He hands over his empty champagne flute, which Ian takes, in addition to his own and the invitation.
At that moment Mr. Choi returns with another round of champagne. “Ah, gentlemen.”
He watches with eyebrows raised as Ian reorganizes his two empties and the invitation in one hand so he can accept a third full flute.
As he does, Mr. Choi cocks his head, looking at Ian’s chest.
“Mr. Smith,” he says, “you’re upside down.”
Ian looks down to see his name badge, still spun around from reading it earlier. He tries to turn it while his hands balance a growing collection of champagne flutes and his invitation.
Finn grins. “Sure you don’t want some help?”
“No,” Ian snaps, and then moderates tries to moderate his tone. “I do not need any help.”
The lights flicker off and on again twice, and Ian looks around. A power outage would be just about right. “Oh now what?”
“Gentlemen,” answers Mr. Choi. “Our signal. Dinner is about to be served.”
He leads the pair to the dining hall, pointing out noteworthy elements of the hall, the chandelier, the restored woodwork. In fact he speaks so much it’s easy for Ian to fall behind unnoticed, pulling Finn over to his side.
“Look,” he says to the ginger, in a hush, “I’m going to explain this whole crazy mess at dinner. I’ll just say this was a joke of yours that went too far. I’ll apologize, and then you are going to leave.”
“What do I say?”
“YOU? YOU don’t say anything. You just agree with me, one hundred percent. Understand?”
“If you say so, bro,” Finn shrugs. “One hundred percent.”
With that they enter the dining hall.
5.
Ian takes a place at his table, setting down his array of champagne flutes, assessing the scenario.
He’s at a ten-top, as are the other finalists. He can see them nearby. Younger, like him, each paired with a program officer, his being Mr. Choi. The others at the table are white haired trustees of the Society, who will be making their recommendations to the Awards Committee later.
Okay, Ian says to himself. Time to impress.
“This is Mr. Ian Smith,” Mr. Choi says, introducing him at his table, “one of our fellowship finalists this weekend. And his husband, Mr. Finn Smith.”
Mr. Choi laughs nervously and mops his brow with a handkerchief, and sighs.
Ian recognizes some trustees, having done his research. But it’s Finn who’s on a first name basis — or more accurately, on a nickname basis — calling each by a name he’s given them. Sully for Sullivan, Flo-Bro for Flores and so on.
As they’re seated, caterers pour into the dining room carrying trays of the first course. Finn swipes a carrot from a passing tray without the server even noticing. It snaps loudly between his teeth, drawing Ian’s attention,
“And what color BMW did you arrive in today?” he asks the trustee nearest him, eliciting a chuckle from the older man and an eye roll from Ian.
Salads hit the table, and Finn picks out the cherry tomatoes from his, tossing them up in the air and catching each in his mouth, like the seal act at the aquarium. Ian has an impulse to stop him, but then a trustee tosses his own cherry tomato, which Finn agilely snaps up. The juice squirts when he bites down, and the trustees applaud.
“Oh good lord,” Ian mutters, catching the attention of the table for the first time. He tries to salvage the moment. “I didn’t realize it had gotten to be so late.”
He’d intended to weave into the conversation to excuse Finn, to send him on his way, but as the meal goes on it gets harder and harder to do so, even when salad plates are cleared, and dinner plates are placed. In fact, he can barely get a word in as Finn regales the trustees.
“And then Ian pulled me back,” the ginger mimics grabbing a phantom figure and pulling back so hard he spins in his seat. “Or the bus would have squished me flat.”
“That never happened. That never happened at all,” Ian mutters, but while the trustees are looking admiringly at Finn, not one is listening to Ian.
He leans in close to Mr. Choi, drawing him in for a sidebar. “Mr. Choi,” he says, “Could we have a word? It’s about Finn. I owe an apology.”
He doesn’t have a whole story worked out, but enough, he thinks. It’s just words to be strung together, a narrative that makes sense. He knows how to do that.
“An apology?” Mr. Choi interjects. “Oh no. I couldn’t help but notice your exchange earlier. Every couple has its little quarrels. And this must be a stressful weekend for you both. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Yes, but —” Ian tries again.
Mr. Choi leans in closer to him. “Finalists often overprepare, and the weekends can be so stodgy.”
Ian glances at Finn gabbing with the trustees on either side of him as he wolfs down the last of his meal, chewing while he speaks. The older men are nodding and laughing at whatever he’s saying, and he listens attentively to their responses.
Ian sighs. He’ll need another tack.
He turns back to the table where Finn sits with his legs spread wide, his back arched and a hand resting on his belly. “That was awesome, but man is my stomach doing a number. Can you hear it rumbling?”
The trustee nearest him says no, and Finn reaches over to pull the man’s gray haired head to his belly, an ear against his stomach, the trustee’s nose nearly in his crotch.
“Oh! I do hear something,” the trustee declares. When his head comes back up he’s red faced but delighted.
“Anyone else want to hear it?” Finn asks, and half the table rise to their feet as if the queen had entered.
“Oh for God’s sake,” Ian groans, and then stands. “Excuse me, I have something to say.”
All eyes turn to him, and the table goes silent. Every face is expectant but flat, except Finn who looks giddy.
Ian feels the change in tone, the sudden drain of joy and frivolity. He begins to breathe fast and then faster, drawing even closer scrutiny from the trustees at his table.
“Mr. Smith, what is it?” asks Mr. Choi.
“Finn… Finn isn’t…”
“Mr. Smith?” asks Mr. Choi, the concern in his voice growing.
“Finn isn’t… he’s not… he isn’t able to stay.”
The trustees gasp.
“Why not?” asks one, and the others shake their heads.
“Finny! No!” declares a second, and third adds, “What a shame! Why not, Mr. Smith?”
Ian knows this feeling. He’s backed himself into a corner in a story. He doesn’t know how to get to the end, but it’s happening in real time, with the most important readers of his brief career. His armpits are damp, and his collar is itchy, and the whole room seems to be tilting.
Everything’s going sideways, but for Finn. He’s steady. Beaming. Grinning ear to ear. Eyes fixed on Ian.
He raises and curls an arm behind the head of the trustee to his right, biting his bottom lip as his bicep swells. The sweater fabric stretches thin, and Ian can see a single loose thread hanging from the seam, twisting as the sleeve begins to split, coming undone before his eyes.
Ian meets Finn’s gaze, his eyebrows knit together as he mouths a silent plea. Help!
“What Ian means,” Finn volunteers, dropping his arm, “is when his car got burgled, they took my tux. So I’d be super underdressed for dinner tomorrow.”
The trustees at the table shake their heads. “I’m certain we can do something,” offers one.
“There’s a person on the island who does alterations for us from time to time,” suggests another. “A retired tailor. You wouldn’t believe how often those things are needed. There must be something he can pull together. Or we can have something sent in the morning so they can alter it to your fit.”
“Mackie, you’re my man,” Finn says, and gives him a bro hug from the side, adding a good manly slap to his back.
Mr. Choi says he’ll attend to it, of course, and asks, “Does that take care of everything, gentlemen?”
Ian gulps. “It certainly does.”
Finn beams at Ian. “One hundred percent.”
As everyone begins on the dessert course, Finn spreads his arms over the chair backs of the trustees on either side of him and winks at Ian.
“You know,” he says for the table to hear, “I love a morning run. Don’t you?” There are many nodding heads. “I would like to propose a morning run. I’ll be ready to hit the trail by 8 a.m. and hope you can all join me.”
Ian sinks back into his seat. That went well.
6.
Finn follows Ian with an easy stride walking to their — his — room. “So far so good.”
“Good? GOOD?” Ian spins around to face the ginger. “This is definitely not good. I had trustees to make a good impression on, and I barely talked with them. I’m so far behind and it’s just the first night!”
“Relax. It’s not a race,” Finn replies. He deftly swipes Ian’s glasses from his head and holds them up to his eyes, squinting.
“Everything. Is. A. Race.” Ian says with an eyebrow arched. He reaches to snatch back his glasses, but Finn holds them just out of his reach. Exasperated, he turns to the fuzzy looking hall. “And now I can’t find the room.”
“You’re standing in front of it,” Finn says with a smile, putting the glasses back on Ian.
“What? Oh god.” Ian turns and fumbles to get the key card in the door.
“You crack me up,” Finn says, wrapping a strong arm around Ian’s waist and pulling him back. He feels like a wall of muscle.
Ian turns into the room and Finn follows, attached at the hip, matching each step and giggling.
“Quit that,” Ian says, breaking free. God, he’s making it hard to stay mad at him. “Why are you even doing this? I just want to get my fellowship and go somewhere and write.”
“I like you,” Finn answers, pinning Ian against the wall, so close to his face their noses touch. “Except when you act like a stiff. Ah who am I kidding? I like when you are a stiff too.” He reaches down to grope Ian’s crotch. “And when you are stiff.”
“Stop,” Ian groans, sliding down the wall and turning away, his underwear bound up from his erection.
“That’s a funny way to say thanks,” the ginger says, stripping out of the charcoal sweater, and tossing it to Ian. His shirt under it is wrinkled and overdue for a cleaning, Ian notes. It was smart of him to cover it up.
“Thanks? THANKS?” Ian gasps, wadding up the sweater. He wants to bury his face in it, to take in the ginger’s scent.
“You’re welcome,” grins Finn, unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the downy reddish hair on his chest.
“I’m not thanking you, you crazy himbo!” Ian groans. He pulls his overnight bag up onto the dresser. Everything he’d so carefully packed, complete with backup of everything just in case, is now askew. “This fellowship is important to me.”
“I know,” Finn replies, pulling off his shirt. He’s as muscled as he seemed, not sculpted like the gay social media influencers, more like a boxer. He even has a slight manly belly. “That’s why I’m helping you. Or were you not paying attention back there?”
He drops his canvas work pants, standing there in just white cotton briefs and socks. Ian can see how his strong legs are also covered in little red-gold hairs and gulps.
“Look,” he says, turning to pull clothes out of his bag, “maybe you’re a nice guy, you know, when you’re not stealing stuff. But I don’t need you to help me. I can do this. I don’t need to commit fraud.”
Finn drops onto the bed and slides all the way back, resting his arms behind his head, so his biceps are peaked and the golden tufts of hair in his pits are exposed.
“What are you so worked up about?” he asks. “You’re the writer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m a writer, not a serial liar.”
“You did pretty good back there for someone who’s not a liar,” Finn says with a shrug. “What’s fiction but telling the truth with lies?”
Ian turns to him, his mouth agape. “I don’t even have the patience to tell you how wrong you are.” He can’t find the words. “You’re exasperating.” He waves at Finn, muscled and golden, his pink nipples, and his full package. “Have you always been like… this?”
“Mostly since puberty,” he shrugs again, his biceps subtly flexing.
“Well, the rest of us need to get by in other ways,” Ian says, pulling his t-shirt up over his smooth torso.
“Like writing?” Finn asks, gleefully.
“Don’t make fun of me,” Ian snaps, letting the shirt fall back down.
“Quit joking,” he replies. “You’re hot as fuck. Look at your shoulders and waist. And those veins in your arms. Your mouth. And that dick. Unf.”
“I always appreciate a sound instead of an adjective,” Ian says. But who knew communicating in grunts rather than words could be such a turn on?
While Ian brushes his teeth, Finn idly rummages through his bedside drawer.
“Bro, look at this,” he says as Ian returns.
He pulls out a bound collection of Whitman poems, a box of tissues and a little clear bottle.
“Lube,” he says, holding up a hand sized bottle. “Branded. The rich gays think of everything.”
They did, and they were making it so much harder to resist Finn sitting there in just his full briefs and so much muscular goodness.
“I need some sleep,” Ian says, sliding under the sheets.
“In your underwear?”
“I can use the extra layers,” Ian answers. “In the absence of a strait jacket. Or an iron lung.”
“You’re funny,” the ginger grins, leaning over him. “Wanna cuddle?”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Ian says. “I’ll figure this out in the morning, and then you’re out of here.”
“After morning run?”
“Ugh. Yes. After morning run.” He removes his glasses to rub his eyes. It’s going to a tough night.
“You need to relax,” Finn says, dropping the lube back in the drawer. “It’s just one sleep and a run. What could go wrong?”
“Please don’t ask that,” Ian groan. “Theft. Fraud. Mayhem. Oh wait, those things already happened.”
Ian turns out the light and curls up onto his side. It’s hard to get in a comfortable position with his dick as stiff as it is. He invokes all the seminarians who slept there and struggled not to act on their desires.
Finn chuckles as he snuggles up behind Ian and wraps an arm around him. “You think I’m a himbo?”
7.
Ian wakes with a start.
It’s morning and he slept through the night without even a single wake up. Even in a strange bed with a handsome ginger beside him. But he’s alone now, Finn’s side of the bed empty, his pillows tucked up against Ian’s back. When Ian rouses himself he sees that Finn’s not in the bathroom either.
It’s the second time in 24 hours that Finn’s vanished while he slept.
Wherever he is, his backpack is still on the floor and Ian has a mind to rummage through it. He’d done it to Ian’s on the ferry. But for once he decides the less he knows the better. He couldn’t know what incriminating items it might contain, and Ian would rather be able to plead ignorance if it came to that.
Instead, he cleans up, tries with soap to get Finn’s wedding band off his finger, which fails.
He dresses to seek out coffee. There’s a cafe in the facility, of course, and bistro tables lining the main hall in the morning. Heading to it he wonders what the ginger is up to, and if there will be a new mess for him to clean up. Please let him not be stealing anything.
Turning into the main hall, he hears a voice he now knows well.
“Finnegan? Nah, it’s for Huckleberry Finn, actually,” followed by a chorus of approving murmurs.
And there’s Finn. He’s in a bro tank — a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off right down the sides — showing off his brawny shoulders and teasing a look at his chest and tawny flanks. He’s wearing the snuggest running shorts Ian’s ever seen, their rightful owner no doubt smaller than the thief.
His easy stride is followed by a band of older men in assorted running wear, some looking like pros and others like they’d never run a day in their lives. As they pass Finn gives Ian a fleeting wink and a smile, and a flash of the overhang of his pecs exposed by his shirt.
Ian sighs. Who would have pegged him for such an early riser?
And his name? Ian should have known. Huckleberry Finn. Another liar.
“Sullivan, pick up the pace,” Finn urges as they near the main door, heading out. “I want to see those buns up front. Don’t hide your light under a bushel! Howie, looking hot. Keep it up bro!”
Ian orders an americano with 1% milk, not creamer, and a bagel with lox. He sits at a table next to a tall window where he can watch outside as Finn runs laps through the winding paths around the Grove. His band of followers lag behind him, but grow with each successive loop as more trustees join the runners, looking like a trail of geriatric goslings trotting behind their mother. Their unbelievably hot, handsome mother.
Mr. Choi at some point pulls up a seat at his table.
“You don’t run with your husband?” he asks.
Ian demurs. “He doesn’t look lonely.”
Mr. Choi sighs. “I don’t imagine he often hurts for company when he wants it.”
“No, I don’t suppose so.”
As the running group approaches, Ian can see there must be almost three dozen trustees in the pack. Finn turns to trot backward, then doubles around the group, high fiving them or swatting their rears, like the world’s most attentive coach, before returning to his position in the lead.
“There must be almost a third of the trustees out there,” Mr. Choi says. “By my count.”
And if you count the trustees watching from inside, there must be at least half, Ian thinks.
“As I understand the process,” he says, “all trustees are invited to make their recommendations to the Awards Committee, to decide who wins the fellowship.”
Mr. Choi nods. “By lunch.”
“That could be a lot of recommendations,” Ian adds, gazing out the window where the running group is passing.
Mr. Choi stirs his tea. “Indeed.”
Ian sighs. It was easier coming out to his parents than this.
The runners pass in loops for a while longer, and then Finn leads the group back to the facility. Trustees pour into the main hall, some looking simply winded, many red faced and panting. Their sandy running shoes tramp over the long rug that runs the length of the hall. That’ll cost a fortune to clean, Ian winces.
“Mr. Choi,” Ian says, “about tonight… the tailor. I don’t want you to make any special effort. Finn can just go home. He’d hate to be… underdressed.”
Finn enters the hall, making sure to be the last of the runners. His bro tank is off and tucked into the back of his shorts like a tail, and his downy furred chest is dewy with sweat.
“I see,” Mr. Choi says, an eyebrow arched. He smiles. “But it’s no problem at all.”
“Shower time bros,” Finn cheerfully orders his followers, encouraging them on. “Don’t stink up the joint!”
“Mr. Choi,” Ian begins, trying to build up his courage. “About this weekend —”
“It seems to me it must be difficult,” Mr. Choi interrupts. “Even though the trustees are well off financially and have lived full lives, once we’re past a certain age we can treat our own as if they’re invisible. As if they don’t exist.”
Ian sips his Americano, listening.
“I think, in that sense, you and Finn must have made this weekend for some trustees. Don’t you think?”
Ian sits back. “I certainly do. But Mr. Choi —”
One of the last of the trustees from the run, a particularly elderly man, stumbles, and Finn catches him under an elbow, steadying him. It’s barely perceptible, but Ian is caught by the sight of Finn’s strong hand, his ruddy skin, against the pale elbow of the trustee.
Ian stops. “Nothing. Thank you.”
“Very good,” says Mr. Choi, rising. “The tailor is arranged for, and the details left at your door. Interviews will begin shortly.”
With the last of the trustees safely returned, Finn turns to give Ian a wink, and proceeds. The bro tank hanging over his rear sways as he walks, loose hipped, down the hall.
Ian, Ian. What are you doing?
8.
The trustees of the Awards Committee are gathered when Ian arrives. He recognizes a few from the morning run, looking a little worse for the wear, some still red faced and damp at their collars. He’s the first of the three finalists to be interviewed.
They’re friendly but organized. It’s a setting that would make some men anxious, but Ian feels a calm settle on him. He tests well. He always has. And all he has to do is be himself.
“Mr. Smith, your writing is impeccable,” says the committee chair. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise. But the point of the weekend is to assess your character. It’s important to the Society that our fellows represent its values.”
Ian says he understands.
“Then let’s begin,” says the chair. “We have a lot to cover.”
They discuss Ian’s novel, The Silver String.
“My aim,” Ian says, “was to cover the whole period from pre-Stonewall to the present, through the lives of one couple. So much happened in just that lifetime, from gay men being secreted to reviled to tolerated and then accepted, to being almost ordinary.
“But I did fall in love with the characters. And then it was about telling their story, because that’s the through line: love. When I think especially about the darkest days of AIDS, when gay men were on their own, when their own government scorned rather than caring for them. I felt such anger for the way they were treated. But also, such awe, that they pulled through the way they did, with such bravery and humor and wit. And what could explain all that, how gay men rallied, but love?”
The trustees write notes as Ian rubs his hands together. He’s relaxed but feels he’s forgotten something.
The trustees ask how he thinks he might represent the Whitman Society, how he might carry out their values and how they align with his own.
As they near the end of the interview they ask about his aims for the five-year fellowship, if awarded, and his ability to meet his goals.
Ian replies, “I’m sure I can. I’m committed to having no distractions or entanglements of any kind, outside of my writing.”
“With the exception of your husband, presumably?” asks a trustee, with a chuckle.
“My… oh yes,” Ian answers. Finn.
He’s suddenly distracted and sweaty, brushing his hair back and wiping his brow with his forearm. Then his glasses fog up.
“Mr. Smith?” asks a trustee.
“I just… I think I’m hyperventilating a little bit.”
He drops his head between his knees, and Mr. Choi crouches at his side.
“Mr. Smith? Are you asthmatic?” asks a trustee. “Or allergic? It’s not your heart, is it?”
“My heart?” Ian gasps. “I’m 29. What could be wrong with my heart?”
Mr. Choi and the trustees are silent while Ian’s breathing slows.
“I just suddenly thought I might be wrong about everything,” he says, doing his best to sound breezy, pushing his sweaty hair back. He turns his face to meet Mr. Choi’s eyes. “That’s just nerves though, right? I mean this must happen all the time. Right?”
Mr. Choi smiles warmly but doesn’t answer.
“It’s okay,” Ian says, sitting up. He feels the damp in his armpits and the small of his back go clammy. “I’m good. Let’s proceed.”
Maybe it’s his panic attack. Maybe it’s a standard final question. But Mr. Choi looks at his notes and asks, “Ian, is there anything else you think important for us to know that we didn’t ask?”
It’s Ian’s chance to come clean. He can tell he has their ears and hearts. He can feel it. He can tell them everything, and not even come up with a cover story for the whole comedy of errors.
He can just explain Finn. His raucous laugh. Catching cherry tomatoes in his mouth, beaming. The way he high-fived the trustees. How he caught one by the elbow so carefully, with no one but Ian seeing it. The way he looked on the ferry. How he says right on. His grin.
Ian holds his breath for a moment and then answers. “No. Nothing.”
9.
Ian walks back to his room at a faster than usual clip. His shirt is clammy against his back, still damp with sweat though his body temp is back to normal.
When he throws the door open, he finds Finn in their — his — their bed, in just his briefs, surrounded by folders and books strewn on the bedspread, and Ian’s laptop. He has a cup of steaming tea beside him.
“You’re here!” Ian says, breathlessly. “I just — what is all this?” Ian picks up a folder and flips through it.
“Bro, these other guys got nothing on you,” Finn replies, looking up over the laptop.
“These are the finalist applications… and their writing.” Ian gasps. “Oh my God. What did you do?”
Finn winks. “Just checking out the competition.”
“How did you —” Ian looks back and forth from Finn to the contents of the folder. “You stole these!”
“Don’t insult me,” Finn chuckles. “I’m borrowing them.”
“Oh fuck, these are good,” Ian whispers, reading more carefully.
“But you’re way better.” Finn holds up Ian’s novella, The Silver String.
“You read it?”
“Back on the ferry. While you were snoring. What kind of husband would I be not to?”
“Well, the non-existent kind, to start with,” Ian scoffs. “And I don’t snore.”
“Right,” Finn smirks. “Now who’s lying?”
He’s exasperating.
“Oh,” he says, excitedly, turning the laptop to face Ian, “bro, look at this!”
“How did you get into my — never mind, I’m better off not knowing. What is it?”
Ian’s desktop is a scattered mess of files and images, and the browser must have two dozen tabs.
“That’s Sully,” Finn says, showing an old photo of a thirty-ish guy in glasses, an ACT-UP t-shirt and leather jacket. “Look at what a regulation hottie he was.” He changes tabs and scrolls to a photo of another young guy, posing next to what had to be some early generation home computer. “And Tanaka-San. Did you even know all the software he invented? You probably use it all the time. He’s like a genius.”
He continues, flipping through the pasts of the trustees he’d gleaned. There are social media posts, professional profiles and old newspaper stories from their younger days in the 1970s and 60s. Some were AIDS activists, some ran for elected office, some were twinks. Mostly they were just young guys no older than Ian and Finn are now, with no idea what’s ahead for them.
“You know what?” Finn adds, “Howie told me that him and his husband are the only guys each other knows from when they were young in the 70s, because they lost all their friends. Every one of them. Can you believe it?”
He doesn’t even look up at Ian, his eyes intent on the screen, scanning and flipping between tabs to show what he’d discovered.
“You know it’s too late to affect the decision,” Ian tells him. “The trustees are already voting.”
“I know,” Finn shrugs, still focused on the laptop screen, as if it doesn’t matter. “Just curious.”
Ian had done his own research on the trustees, but Finn’s brilliant at it. And in such a short time. “You’re quite the detective.”
Finn closes the laptop and grins, “We’re a good team, you and me.”
“You and I,” Ian sighs, turning away. “I need to… take a shower.”
He hangs his shirt and pants, and on the way to the bathroom pulls his t-shirt up, glancing back in the mirror.
His resolve softens. “Unless you want to join.”
In the shower he lathers up, with Finn so close behind he can feel the golden-red hairs of his chest and thighs. He feels Finn’s soaped up hands run over his shoulders and back, and lets out a long breath.
He turns and they kiss, for the first time, he realizes, despite the blow job on the ferry.
Their erections meet and the soap smacks as their bodies rub up against each other. They run hands over one another, eliciting soft gasps and sighs.
Running his hands over Finn’s chest, tracing his pink nipples with his fingertips, Ian slyly says, “I owe you for the ferry.”
He kisses the ginger’s chest and belly, dropping all the way down to his knees.
Finn shudders as Ian swallows him, holding his balls secure so he can bob his head to work the big pale cock. He takes it deeper with each gulp until the cockhead is well into his throat where the tightness draws groans out of the ginger.
Ian continues to work Finn’s cock with his mouth, finally swallowing it so completely he can feel the red-gold pubes at his lips, as he pries the ginger’s pale ass cheeks apart.
“Bro,” Finn gasps as he pulls Ian’s head away from his crotch, leaving a trail of spit stretching from his wet erection to Ian’s lip.
“What?” Ian asks. “What’s wrong?”
He pulls Ian up and kisses him hard, his tongue diving in as he holds Ian’s head firmly between his meaty hands.
“Is this some weird edging thing?” Ian asks as they break away and then kiss again.
“Bro, no,” Finn answers in his gravelly voice, so close they almost share the same breath.
“Do you not want to…?”
“I have to go to my fitting. I’m already late for the tailor.”
The dinner. There’s a dinner, Ian remembers.
“Right,” Ian sighs, his hands on Finn’s chest, his own heart pounding hard. “Rich guy stuff. Go.”
He stays under the shower until he thinks he hears a click that jars him.
He rushes out, wrapping himself in a bath towel. “Finn? Finn!”
The room is still. The “borrowed” folders are gone, and Ian’s laptop is closed and set aside on the desk.
Finn is nowhere to be seen, and his backpack is gone with him.
Everything is in its place, but the copy of Ian’s novella, fanned open on his bedside table.
“Finn.”
10.
The pianist plays Cole Porter’s You’re the Top as the foyer fills with gray hairs in black and white tuxedos, but there’s not a sign of the tall ginger.
“I hate the whole commodification of desire,” says one of the trustees standing in a small circle. “I don’t like the apps.” He turns to Ian. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend, if that’s how you met.”
“What? Oh no,” Ian responds, snapping to attention from scanning the crowd. “We met on a ferry.”
He might as well weave some truth into the whole fiction.
“A chance meeting.” The trustee nods. “Now that’s very romantic. That’s a story you can tell your children.”
Ian coughs up a little of his drink at the idea of telling any children about hooking up with a stranger in the ferry men’s room. “We might need to change up some details.”
“I see!” the trustee laughs.
“That’s how we used to do it, before the apps,” another chuckles, between sips of champagne. “Signaling to one another, wondering is he gay, isn’t he gay? Will it even matter?”
“It wasn’t all great. Don’t get nostalgic,” says a third.
Ian tries hard to stay focused, but his vision keeps straying over the sea of black, gray and white formal wear for a sign of Finn.
“Was it maybe more lust at first sight than love?” asks the second trustee.
“A little of each,” says a raspy voice from behind. “Ian took a little convincing.”
There are incredulous gasps, and Ian turns to see the handsome ginger, standing even taller than before in proper shoes, in a scarlet tuxedo jacket and bow tie. Under the chandelier his ginger hair curls up into licks of flames, and his scruff is trimmed to a fine sandpaper that accentuates his handsome jawline.
“I thought he was only gorgeous,” Finn continues. “But it was his writing that got me, like…”
He mimics shooting an arrow, and then clutches his chest and staggers back, as if he’d been struck in the chest.
“Like an arrow!” says a trustee.
“Just like,” grins Finn.
Ian forgets they’re not alone and asks, “Where were you?”
“Yeah sorry, my tailor bro was setting me up, and the back kept splitting. You like?”
“What’s not to like?” Ian says, running a hand over the smooth fabric on the brick of his shoulder. He sighs, “Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear.”
“Hey, Shakespeare! Right?” Finn asks. When Ian nods, he beams. “Right on.”
Good lord he’s adorable when he smiles.
“Where was your honeymoon?” asks Mr. Choi, who’s joined the circle.
Finn looks Ian in the eye, as if to see if they’re in agreement, and says, “Greece. That’s where a lot of Ian’s novella came from.”
He spins a yarn about their courtship and impromptu wedding on a Greek island getaway, weaving in little bits of The Silver String so cleverly Ian finds myself lulled into half believing there’s something to it.
“I have to ask: Where did you get the idea for Persephone being into boys kissing?” asks the third trustee.
“Well, who’s not, right?” Finn quips. He’s good at evading the questions he can’t answer.
“Tumblr girls,” Ian says. “The ones online who gobble up gay romances. In Japan they’re called Fujoshi, for female fans of manga about romantic relationships between men.”
“That’s right. I forgot,” Finn says more softly, cocking his head slightly at Ian.
“It’s just the right touch,” adds another trustee. “And her love of dirty jokes. Just the right humor at the right time in the story.”
Finn and Ian steal a glance at each other. They might pull this off yet.
Mr. Choi suggests they take seats at the dinner table as the program is about to begin. Finn turns to set his empty champagne flute on a tray and Ian hears a definite ripping sound.
“Damnit,” says Finn, looking over his shoulder. The back of his scarlet jacket is split halfway up his back. “Bros, sorry — that’s why I was so late. I think it’s my lats.”
“Or shoulders,” says a trustee wistfully. “That could be the problem.”
“Or maybe you just shouldn’t wear clothes at all,” adds another.
The second trustee’s partner elbows him. “That’s enough. This one’s taken.” He nods to Ian.
It’s later, after dinner, when Mr. Choi taps Ian’s shoulder for an aside.
“Mr. Smith,” he says, when they’re alone, “I hope you both enjoyed the dinner and the program.”
Ian realizes Finn was on his best behavior. He was his gregarious self, but there were no antics.
Mr. Choi continues. “I’m pleased to tell you that the awards committee has provisionally selected you for the Whitman Fellowship.”
“What?” Ian asks. “Really? Are you serious? Can you even tell me that?”
“I can, and I did,” Mr. Choi says with a smile. “We prefer to give the finalists a heads up. It would be unkind to have those not chosen to learn in front of an audience.”
“So, they know too? Oh my god… Oh my god…” he grabs Mr. Choi and hugs him tight, like the world’s softest teddy bear. “I’m so… thank you, thank you.”
Mr. Choi pats his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re pleased. In the morning the executive committee of the trustees will meet before the ceremony to ratify the selection of the awards committee — which is only a technicality — and then will make the announcement public at the breakfast. Until then I must ask you to embargo this information. Even most trustees don’t yet know. And I must tell you that failure to do so will jeopardize the decision, which is not final until signed in the morning.”
“Oh my god, yes, I understand.” Finn. He has to get to Finn. “Can I tell…?”
“You husband? Of course. Marriage has its privileges.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Ian admits, turning one way and then another.
“Go. Go tell your husband!” Mr. Choi says, waving him on.
In his scarlet jacket and ginger hair, Finn isn’t hard to find.
“Come on,” Ian says excitedly, pulling him away by the hand.
“Bro,” Finn replies, for once caught by surprise. “Too tired to hang out for small talk?’
“I am. Tired. Can we go back to the room? I need to tell you something.”
He takes Finn’s hand and pulls him along.
For once Finn looks caught off guard. “You don’t look tired.”
They walk, then trot, then run, giggling.
He can’t keep his hands off the handsome ginger the whole way back to our room, and Finn responds in kind, laughing and catching each other only to kiss or grope and then to run again.
11.
Finn’s hot breath is on the back of Ian’s neck as he fumbles with the card key, and as soon as the lock clicks, they roll into the room, twisting around each other, kissing and pulling at each other’s clothes.
“What —” Finn asks between kisses “— did you —” kiss “— need to tell me?”
“I want you in me,” Ian groans, panting. “Or me in you. I don’t even care.”
The vers curse. Wanting to do everything all at the same time.
“Right on!” Finn whoops, jerking his red jacket off and throwing it across the room.
They pull at their own and each other’s clothes, kissing and groping one another.
“What about the thing back there?” Finn asks, his lips red and wet, gesturing back to the door.
Ian pulls his bow tie off and hoists his shirt over my head, throwing it behind without a glance. “Do I look like I care about the thing back there?”
Finn nearly growls as he wraps his big mitts around Ian’s waist, dropping to run his tongue down his smooth chest and the streak of hair that bisects his abs like a book spine, and then sliding his pants down to free his hard on. “Fuck yeah.”
He works Ian’s erection with his tongue and mouth and then rises up to kiss him, dropping his own pants so their cocks can grind against one another. His is thicker and paler than Ian’s, but they’re a good match.
Ian tugs at Finn’s bowtie. “Let’s get you out of this.”
Instead of loosening it holds fast.
“Dude, what the fuck?” Finn grunts. The more they pull at the tie the more secure it seems.
“What did you do?” Ian laughs.
Red faced, Finn grabs either side of his shirt and pulls hard, jerking it open. Pearly buttons rain on Ian as it splits, and the collar slides under the bowtie, leaving it on Finn’s thick red neck, like a gift wrap ribbon. It’s the hottest thing Ian’s ever seen.
Riled up, Finn wraps his hands under Ian’s ass and pulls him up off the ground so they’re pressed together, and then turns to toss him onto the bed. He follows in turn, dropping the full weight of his muscled body on the writer, grinding into him.
“We gotta fuck,” Ian groans, wrapping his legs around Finn.
“You top,” they both say at the same time. “I’ll bottom”, they both say again, laughing.
Ian takes the initiative to position his hips so Finn’s cock is nestled against his hole. How long can he resist that?
Finn groans. “You have to finish in me.”
“Deal,” Ian gulps.
His cock smeared with the branded lube, Finn positions himself between Ian’s legs and lets his big pale erection slide slowly into Ian as they kiss. He glides in and out of Ian to the thickest part of his length, stretching him and then easing into his full length.
“Oh fuck me,” Ian pleads.
Finn shifts to his knees, hands on the headboard, thrusting more forcefully.
“Is that good bro?” he asks, the sweat building on his forehead and sides.
It feels fantastic, of course, Finn filling him up. But the feelings inside aren’t getting him off as much as the sight of Finn over him, his red-gold furred pecs rising and falling, how he pulls his lips in, the way his pale eyebrows knit together. His focus.
“You need to stop,” Ian groans.
“Is it too much? Am I hurting you?”
Ian laughs and slaps Finn’s firm ass hard. “No, you goof. you’re gonna make me cum.” He grins. “And I have to get in you.”
Finn stops mid thrust and a big smile spreads across his mug. “Right. On.”
When he slides out, Ian’s insides ache for him, but he’s quickly distracted by the sight of Finn on hands and knees, positioned to face the full-length room mirror. Good lord.
He gets behind Finn, marveling at the white muscular mounds of his ass, opening him with lubed fingers — thanks for that, Whitman Society!
The lube smacks as he coats his erection, and he positions himself at Finn’s rear, learning on his strong broad back. He’s not going to last long, he can tell.
“Fuck, you’re big,” Finn grunts as Ian enters him, taking it slow.
“Too big?” Ian asks. He pauses, looking at their reflection.
Finn looks at him in the mirror, smirking, eyebrow raised, as if to say, Are you serious? I’ve got this, bro.
He pushes back and takes Ian’s full length into the superheated furnace of his insides.
Ian fucks him, grasping at his shoulders and sides, hypnotized by the smooth flow of muscle in his back, the firmness of his ass and the way he rides back to meet every thrust. He runs his fingers through Finn’s red-gold hair and feels his dick go even stiffer.
“You can do this all day, bro,” Finn growls, gripping down with his ass, milking Ian.
“No, I can’t,” Ian gasps, feeling himself nearing the edge.
He rests his weight on Finn, slamming into him, looking at their faces in the mirror, and wraps an arm over Finn’s shoulder to clutch at his chest. It takes his all to hold back from cumming, to hold this one precious moment.
“Fuck me,” Finn groans, jerking himself with one hand, supporting them both with other.
“Okay — you crazy — hot — himbo,” Ian grunts, as his cock erupts, shooting his hot load into Finn.
“Oh yeah bro,” Finn roars, working his cock. “Oh FUCK!”
Ian’s body contorts as he continues to pump his load into Finn, and then fucks him even after that, when he’s got nothing to give but his still hard dick pushing up into the eager bottom.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, OH FUCK,” Finn gasps.
His face goes red, and he groans out loud as he shoots a massive load onto their bed in long white streaks, his ass convulses on Ian’s cock. It’s so intense Ian wonders if he might cum a second time, but he’s content to just be there in Finn, give him this pleasure.
Finn drops to the mattress and Ian comes down with him, his belly fitting almost seamlessly into the arc of Finn’s back.
When they finally part, Finn turns onto his back and Ian lies beside him so they can kiss, their dicks still more than half hard.
“Fuck, bro,” Finn laughs, breathing heavily. “That was amazing.”
Ian runs a hand over his shoulder and caches one end of the bowtie between his fingers. It unraveled at the slightest tug.
Ian lets his head rest on Finn’s shoulder. He was so wrong about everything.
They lie there till the sweat on their bodies cool, and Finn turns to Ian.
“Oh hey.” He sounds drowsy. “What did you need to tell me?”
Oh God. He’d meant to tell Finn, in the moment at least.
He looks into Finn’s eyes, trying to understand who he is, how he got to be that way. If he’s real.
“What is it?” Finn chuckles. “Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?”
Ian leans in close and whispers in his ear.
When Finn yells “RIGHT ON!” it can be heard across the Grove.
Their second fuck is called in as a noise disturbance.
12.
“I should have known it couldn’t be that simple,” is what Ian thinks he’ll say when he tells the story.
Finn is gone when Ian wakes, and before the Island Police show up, following up on the Ferry robbery. Conman instincts, Ian guesses. Or a helpful tip-off from one of his admirers.
They show him a mugshot and ask if this was the man from the ferry. It’s Finn’s face, but his name is Larry Baker. He has a history of petty theft and trespass.
“I’ve never seen that man before in my life,” Ian answers, surprised at how easily he lies through his teeth. Maybe because in the ways that matter, it’s true.
The police speak to Mr. Choi and a few trustees, and as they do, Ian deftly swipes the mugshot and pockets it, as if his long fingers were made for the job.
It surprises no one that the Island Police couldn’t find the mugshot to show to Mr. Choi and the trustees. They’re a bungling sort. There’s not a lot of crime to solve on their turf.
The Society has no interest in a scandal regarding their fellowship, and with their significant influence on the island, the Police are sent on their way.
Still, their visit and Finn’s absence raise too many questions.
“Is there something you’d like to share?” Mr. Choi asks Ian.
It’s strange how it’s almost a relief to tell the truth when the time comes.
At the convening later that morning, the three finalists take to the stage to share a brief reading.
“Trustees of the Whitman Society,” Ian says, at his turn, “thank you for having me. For reasons that I imagine are, by now, well known to you all, I’m setting aside my planned reading for something different.”
He clears his throat.
“I came to the Whitman Grove with a novella, and a plan for the next five years of my life. Part of that plan was to avoid romantic entanglements. Of any kind. To be about writing.
“It’s funny that I was only invited here because I’d written a book about two men in love, but I’d carved out the possibility of that in my own life. But we’re funny — people — aren’t we?
“But on the way, a man wandered into my life by accident, upsetting my intentions.
“To be honest I took him for a crazy con artist, trying to scam you, and me too. And at first I tried to get rid of him. I thought if I could do it quickly and cover it with a white lie or two there’d be no harm done. But it got more complicated at every turn, and my white lie spun out into a whole cloth fabrication.
“What’s fiction but telling the truth with lies, Finn asked me once.”
He chuckles.
“But by the time of my interview on Saturday I was already beginning to wonder if I’d been wrong about everything. About myself. About Finn.
“You see, I was sincere in thinking I would avoid entanglements. I’d had boyfriends and hook ups, and they were… fine. They were nice. They were brief. Giving them up wasn’t such a sacrifice.
“But like every Orpheus, my downfall was that I looked back.
“After final interviews I returned to our room and undressed to take a shower. That’s when I caught sight of Finn behind me in the mirror. He did a double take as I walked by with my shirt up. And he bit his bottom lip. Unf.
“You guys. You’ve been around. You must remember the first time someone wanted you that much wanted you too. In that way.
“And just… everything changed. Or maybe, in retrospect it happened little by little, and then all at once. I don’t know. But I was crazy about him.
“And then the one thing I swore I would give up became the one thing I was terrified of losing.
“In closing, please know I never meant to deceive you. Any of you. And neither did Finn. For all his… fictions, he never lied. Not really.
“Even now, I can’t regret it. I think Walt would have approved.
“Thank you all.”
Ian’s feet almost bounce down the steps from the stage, feeling lighter than he has in a long time. He feels that way even walking out into the parking lot, as it begins to rain.
As he pulls out of his parking spot he sees Mr. Choi, trotting to him, waving. He rolls down his window.
“Mr. Smith,” he says. “Ian. I’m… I’m sorry things went this way.” The rain is coming down harder as he pauses and looks back to the central building. “You said inside that Finn came into your life by accident. It occurs to me that you may be in error. It occurs to me that you discount that he was drawn to you. It occurs to me that it wasn’t an accident at all.”
He smiles as he places an envelope in Ian’s hand.
As Ian starts up the car, Mr. Choi waves goodbye and calls out, “Good luck.”
Ian thinks he may not mean in his writing.
13.
The late afternoon sun feels good on his face, sitting on the ferry deck, the coastline of the city drawing closer. They’ll soon call for passengers to return to their cars, but there’s a little time left.
It’s not so bad, Ian tells himself, running his thumb over the ring Finn stuck on his finger. He’s still got that. He’ll figure out the rest. “Write on”, he can hear Finn say in his gravelly voice.
Wait. His gravelly voice?
He turns to see the handsome ginger at the end of his bench, in the same rumpled jacket and henley he wore when they first met. His own pilfered wedding band is still on his hand,
He drops his full weight down onto the bench and nudges Ian’s knee with his own. “What’s up, bro?”
Ian takes a deep breath, and his voice croaks a little, “I missed you.”
“I know,” Finn replies. “Sorry about your fellowship.”
It’s the first time Ian’s seen him look pained.
“Well. The Society isn’t used to being defrauded.”
“I just wanted to help.”
“I know,” says Ian.
He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieves an envelope embossed with the Whitman Society logo and hands it to Finn. He watches expectantly as the ginger pulls out the letter, the one Mr. Choi gave him, and the enclosed check with it.
“What?” cries Finn. “Ian! You got it!” He leans close to wrap his arms around the writer.
“Not really,” Ian replies, squirming — but only a little — in Finn’s hug. “It’s ten grand. The finalists who didn’t get the fellowship both got it. Kind of a kiss goodbye.”
Finn eyes the check again. “Ten grand? Right on! Bro, we’re rich!”
His definition of rich and Ian’s are at odds. Still, Ian can’t help but smile at Finn’s boyish glee.
“There’s enough for a trip,” he says. “I was thinking maybe Greece.” He pauses. “For two. If you’re free.” He waits for the grin to spread over Finn’s handsome mug. “If you can… leave the country? You can do that, right?”
“Bro, you think I can’t get my hands on a passport? How long till this tub lands? I’ll have one before we hit the dirt. Two if you need one,” he says, half rising from his seat.
“Oh God, please, don’t.” Ian shudders. Island police he can handle, but the Department of Homeland Security is another matter. “How about we do it the boring normal way?”
The ginger shrugs.
“Besides, what would I tell the kids if you got into trouble?”
“Kids?” Finn asks.
“Our kids,” Ian answers, glad to have caught him off guard. “Boy and a girl. She has your coloring, he has mine. She’s a handful, he’s a little too serious. But they’re gonna be okay.”
Finn’s not the only one who can spin a tale.
“Oh yeah,” Finn says, spreading his arms over the bench back, one behind the writer. “You’d better refresh my memory.”
So he does, telling Finn a tale about their life together, starting with how they met on a ferry, went away for a weekend and came back changed, hopefully for the better. What’s fiction, after all, but telling the truth with lies?
The story is interrupted by the loudspeaker. Drivers should return to their cars to prepare to dock.
“What now?” Finn asks.
And for the first time, Ian doesn’t know at all.
END