5 comments/ 3466 views/ 3 favorites Between the Lines Ch. 04 By: ikhneumon * Doug * For my first morning in Austin, Todd and Aaron take me to a quaint little cafe for breakfast. That's how they describe it. Quaint. "You'll love this place, Dougie," Todd says enthusiastically. "It's so quaint." "Quaint" is not quite the word I would use myself. Maybe "gentrified." It's an old house that has been converted into a restaurant and somewhat arbitrarily expanded into the neighboring lot to accommodate the scores of patrons who flock to it for brunch and coffee. It does have character, though, I will grant that much, of the exposed beams and uneven hardwood floors and art-by-local-photographers-on-the-walls type. And even I have to admit, the food is top-notch. There may be a higher percentage of vegan dishes than I'm entirely comfortable seeing, but at least they offer a decent selection of food for carnivores as well. I succumb to my occasional sweet tooth cravings and order a side of lemon ricotta pancakes to follow my eggs (no doubt from free-range chickens) and organic spinach. Heaven. The kumquat marmalade is a nice touch, too. Todd must have noticed the expression on my face when I perused the menu. While his partner is visiting the restroom, he takes the opportunity to tell me confidentially, "Sorry about the rabbit food. I go along with it because Aaron swears he feels so much better eating this way. And it's certainly helped him keep in shape—I mean, did you see my cub last night?" That's clearly a rhetorical question. I certainly saw all of Aaron there was to see, and fully shared Todd's appreciation for his lover's physique. "But I'll make it up to you later this week," he says. "I'll take you out for some real Texas barbecue one evening. It wouldn't be a visit to Austin without a rack of beef ribs!" We are interrupted by Aaron's return. "So what did I miss?" he asks. "What were you talking about?" Todd and I exchange conspiratorial glances. "Getting Dougie here a rental car during his visit," Todd improvises. "That way he can explore the town on his own without having to borrow yours while I'm at work." I'm impressed by his quick thinking. So is Aaron, albeit for not quite the same reasons. "That's a great idea!" he exclaims. "And if Doug wants to stay out late—or all night—he'll have his own wheels and feel free to keep his own hours." So it's settled. Todd drives us to the rental place and drops us off before heading to his gig at the university. Aaron helps me pick out a nice compact Hyundai ("Trust me, you'll want something small, parking is a bitch in town this week!"), then offers to be my personal tour guide for a trip around the city. "Maybe later this week," I demur, not without regret. "I've got a lot of work to do before I'm ready for this meeting with Larry Ryan tomorrow." Aaron's face falls. "You've written a ton of music already, and we recorded most of the best of it. What more do you need to do?" I ponder this for a moment. What, really, do I need? The answer comes surprisingly quickly and clearly. What I need, deeply and urgently, is to impress Larry Ryan, to blow all his expectations and preconceptions right out of the water. He said he liked what I already sent him, but I need to make him walk away from this meeting loving it. I'm not sure exactly why I need not just Larry's simple approval, but his wholehearted support and encouragement. I'm also not sure I can explain that in any concrete terms to Aaron. Instead, I start randomly listing thoughts as they occur to me. "He hasn't heard anything with female voice yet. I need some demos of Evelyn's arias. You wouldn't happen to know a soprano in the area who's a kick-ass sightreader, would you? Oh, and a tenor. One of those love duets, he needs to hear those. I have to fine-tune the libretto. He wasn't happy about my cutting it into two parts instead of three, I need to rethink that. Maybe rethink cutting the parents, too, or at least the mother, a mezzo would be a nice addition to the cast. There's some connective tissue I haven't quite worked out yet..." "All right, all right, I get it!" Aaron interrupts, laughing. "I doubt I can find you any singers by this afternoon, but I'll see about landing a soprano or a tenor for a mini-recital later this week, if you like." He sighs. "Well, it was a fun visit while it lasted. Time to roll up our sleeves and get to work." "Your shirt doesn't have any sleeves." Indeed, I've been admiring his biceps all morning. "See how well prepared I am? I'm already a step ahead of you!" We hop in the Hyundai and Aaron helps me navigate back to their home, where the dining room table and the baby grand await. I'm exhausted by the time I finally fall into the comfortable bed in the guest room. My head aches and my ass is sore from the previous night's escapades, but I feel confident that I'm fully prepared for my meeting with Larry tomorrow. In fact, I think I'm actually looking forward to it. Aaron, bless his heart, has worked his furry butt off right alongside me, singing through snippets of music, notating last-minute changes as I dictate them, calling in favors from local talent, and cooking dinner for the three of us while I was buried in notes for the orchestration. Apparently, though, he has more stamina than I do: As I'm drifting off to sleep I hear him and Todd enthusiastically fucking in their bedroom down the hall. Maybe there's something to that vegan diet after all. ————— * Larry * Daniel runs a nervous hand over his recently shorn chestnut hair. It's the third time in the last ten minutes he has done this, and each time he appears startled to discover he no longer has any shaggy locks to push away from his face. "I don't know what to do, Professor," he is saying. "Nicki won't stop asking about her motivation, Shawn and Tom still seem ill at ease with each other, I keep second-guessing all my staging decisions. We need more rehearsal time. We're just not ready." He slumps down and chews on a fingernail. "I miss cigarettes," he complains. "I miss Angela. I miss Scott." Very quietly: "I miss Jeff." I am not as ready to despair as my young novice director, but I would be lying if I said I was not concerned. Nicole Foster, playing Thomas's unsuspecting betrothed, is merely nervous. This is the first major role for the young actress, and she's overpreparing. I finally caught on to this after I found myself explaining to her for the third time that Evelyn is an entirely fictional character—neither Ron nor I ever had a fiancée to jilt—and that her portrayal is therefore highly unlikely to offend anyone's historical sensibilities. I am fairly certain she will be just fine come opening night. Tom and Shawn, on the other hand, have me puzzled. Tom idolized Jeff, who kindly took him under his wing from the very start of rehearsals for the Lexington production, and they shared a very believable intimate chemistry onstage. Tom also brought a subtle spark of wit to the role of Henry, with my hearty encouragement. I have never understood why Ron wrote his fictional counterpart so strait-laced—in life he was full of mischief and sparkle, much closer to mercurial Scott than to sensitive Daniel. These plays may lay bare Ron's tender heart, but the madcap, irreverent Queen Mab, in which Jeff and company are currently shocking and titillating patrons hundreds of miles away, is a much better reflection of his personality. With Shawn as his co-star, however, Tom's performance has become much more tentative. I have to admit, the awkward dynamic between them is actually quite charming in Lamps by Day as the two men find themselves gradually drawn to one another, but it falls far short of conveying the characters' overwhelming passion in Likeness of a Sigh and their devotion in the face of impending loss in A Grave Man. Despite all my and Daniel's coaxing, the chemistry between our leading men has yet to combust. I have charitably decided that they are simply saving themselves for the performance, but I completely understand Daniel's anxiety. "Thank God for Joseph," Daniel mutters. There, I concur wholeheartedly. The senior member of the cast, and the only other holdover from the Lexington production, Joseph Hamilton is playing Walter Swanson: friend and mentor to Thomas, doctor to Henry, and godfather to Evelyn, a good man trying to faithfully negotiate his divided loyalties between all of them while battling his own ingrained prejudices. Joseph has been steadfast in his admiration and loyalty for Daniel from day one. I am grateful for his quiet dedication and nuanced performance. Right now, though, even thoughts of Joseph aren't enough to raise Daniel out of his funk. "Tell you what," I say to him, "Why don't I go hunt out Nicole and try to explain to her one more time the difference between truth and fiction?" Daniel nods morosely. "Anything you can do, Professor." He looks almost ready to cry. I pat him on the shoulder and head backstage. I don't find Nicole. But I do find something else. Wandering the unfamiliar backstage maze of passageways at random, I turn a sharp corner and stop dead. Shawn Fletcher and Tom Buchanan are standing entwined with one another in the hallway before me, lost in a kiss that has clearly been going on for some time. Tom has his hands splayed possessively on either side of Shawn's face. His brown curls are more-than-usually disheveled and his cheeks are flushed. Shawn's hands are sliding all over the younger man's waist, hips, and buttocks. There's no mistaking what he's after. And that's even before he plunges them right inside Tom's loose-fitting jeans to cup his ass directly and pull their groins even closer together. Enough skin is revealed during that move to make it clear that Tom is not wearing any underwear. I back away from the unsuspecting lovebirds a few steps, hoping to make a quiet exit before they can notice me. But my hormones kick into overdrive, and my traitor eyes cannot tear themselves away from the spectacle of Shawn's hands kneading his costar's buns beneath their denim casing. I mentally curse both Ron's shade, for ceasing his nocturnal visitations, and myself, for obstinately refusing to take matters into my own hands to relieve the tension. What was I thinking, that by abstaining I could somehow persuade a ghost to manifest itself? Tom moans—I'm guessing Shawn's busily exploring fingers have finally found their target between his flexing cheeks. Involuntarily, I moan myself in response. Shawn's eyes fly open. Shit. The boys spring apart and stand gaping at me. My mind is unhelpfully blank. I can't help noticing that Tom's lips are fetchingly reddened from kissing, and that Shawn is sporting a truly impressive bulge in his trouser front. Right now, I just might be sporting one to match. They still haven't said anything. I suppose that means I have the floor. "Gentlemen," I begin. All right, that will work. "As much as I appreciate the show, might I offer a small suggestion?" They regard me warily. "If you could possibly see fit to redirect some of the abundant passion I just witnessed into your performances, I think you'd find your director eternally grateful." Tom blushes. Shawn coughs and, finally, speaks up. "We... look, I know this is completely unprofessional and I'm sorry, it's just that we... we got carried away. It won't happen again." Tom flashes him a hurt and bereft look. These waters apparently run somewhat deeper than just a casual fling. Oh dear. "I'm not swearing you to celibacy," I answer, "though I would strongly recommend restricting your, ah, extracurricular activities to behind closed doors in the future. I merely thought I should let you know that, in your no doubt laudable efforts to keep your conduct professional onstage, you may have—overcorrected somewhat, shall we say?" Shawn looks puzzled. Handsome, but not too quick on the uptake, this one. Tom, on the other hand, nods his understanding. Encouraged by that response, I appeal to his better sense. "Mr. Buchanan, I see you take my point. If you could just explain to Mr. Fletcher here what I'm driving at before this afternoon's rehearsal, you might be able to save poor Daniel a few premature gray hairs." Tom cracks a half smile. Good. I believe I can count on him. I hope I can count on him. "Very well, then. I won't intrude any longer. Er, carry on," I lamely conclude, and flee. Is this to be the rest of my life, however much remains of it, dispensing professional and personal guidance to all and sundry while nursing a perpetually unrelieved erection? I find Daniel still fretting in the theater, and tell him, "I couldn't find Nicole, but I just had an interesting talk with Shawn and Tom. Gave them a little pointer I think might help considerably, at least if they take it in the spirit intended." Daniel's face lights up with surprised gratitude and hope. I have to get out of here. "I have an appointment to get to," I tell him. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Let me know how this afternoon's rehearsal goes." I'm nearly out of the door before Daniel even has a chance to respond. His belated "thank you" trails out into the lobby behind me. "Thus goes everyone to the world but I, and I am sunburnt," I mutter to myself. "I may sit in a corner and cry 'Heigh-ho for a husband!'" ————— * Doug * Todd and Aaron were right. Austin during South by Southwest turns out to be a madhouse. Coffee houses, bookstores, churches, bars—every possible venue has been claimed as a stage, crowded with performing acts hoping to attract enough attention to move them to the next level in their careers. The whole town is abuzz with creative energy and with frayed nerves: caffeine jitters, stage fright, and road rage from navigating the city's overtaxed streets amid the never-ending hunt for elusive parking spaces. When I finally connect with Larry over coffee (a better-than-expected guitarist playing in the background) he appears to be sharing the general affect of the city. He is slumped in his seat and there are dark circles under his eyes. But his handshake is firm and his voice warm as he greets me. I feel myself relax into that rich baritone. I've been looking forward to hearing it, I realize. My preparation with Aaron yesterday has me confident and focused. I have my sketches, my outlines, some rough recordings we threw together at the last minute so Larry can hear my concept for the musical development of the characters. Last time we met you had me at a disadvantage, Professor Ryan. Let's see what you think now. Only Larry isn't paying attention. Oh, he's trying his best to be polite, but I watch his focus drift away from my words time and again. I've been anticipating his keen insight and intellect, his uncanny ability to see past my awkward sentences to my intended meaning. At first I'm hurt. Has he lost interest in this project? Will he pull the plug after months of work and more than an hour of music written? But no. Paying closer attention, I see that his smile for me is genuine, even affectionate, which causes a strange sensation somewhere below my breastbone. Something else is troubling him, then. Something serious enough that I start to become honestly concerned. Realizing his attention has begun to wander yet again, for, what is this, the fourth time now, I trail off. Larry shakes himself, murmuring apologies, and with a visible effort brings his focus back to me. But I shake my head. "The last thing you need today is a sales pitch. I'm sorry, Larry. This was a bad idea. Let me make it up to you. If you'll excuse the presumption, you look like you're in need of some distraction. Would you like to take a walk?" At first he looks as though he's going to refuse. Then, slowly, a relieved smile spreads across his face. "Thank you, Doug. No need to apologize, you're not to blame. You've come a long way and put a great deal of work into this, and you deserve a more attentive audience. Yes, I think some distraction would be just what the doctor ordered. Maybe we can pick this up again tomorrow." So instead of losing ourselves in words and music, we find ourselves spending the rest of our afternoon exploring Austin. Our trip, first on foot, then by car, takes us from the enormous red sandstone state capitol building; to the Congress Avenue Bridge, home of the city's famous bat colony; to the luxurious performing arts center with the sweeping circular terrace; to the artsy, bohemian SoCo district. With each new sight and fresh experience to remind him that there's still life outside his lover's plays, Larry seems to stand a little taller and breathe a little freer. I'm fascinated watching the transformation. The leading man has returned, charisma and confidence restored. We laugh and chat and generally bask in our newfound camaraderie. And when we bump shoulders standing in line for the State History Museum and find ourselves exchanging grins, I'm amazed to realize I fully intend to take him to bed tonight, if he'll have me. ————— * Larry * Doug is a saint. Midway into his enthusiastic and no doubt well-prepared presentation about his opera project, he checks himself. "You're not listening. Is everything all right? Forgive me, but you seem awfully tired." "I'm being rude. I'm sorry. Rehearsals have been stressful, and I'm distracted. You came all this way, you at least deserve my full attention." He waves off my apology, and instead offers to table the discussion and take me for some sight-seeing. I almost refuse, then take a second look at his face. He's sincere in his offer, the gray eyes warm and concerned. Doug likes me, I realize. Not just as a means to an end, as Ron's literary executor to be courted and won over to grant access to his property, but as a fellow human being. When did I last make a new friend? I wonder. So I accept. And thus an afternoon of discovery begins. This man is interested in things. I had pegged him as a head-in-the-clouds, abstracted artist, living in his music, but today he's putting me to shame. New to this city, he wants to soak it all in, absorb its soul, find out what makes it tick, and he's eager to share each experience and tidbit of knowledge with me. In his presence I find new appreciation for Austin's frantic hum of creativity and the collision and fusion of cultures and traditions it represents. "Todd and Aaron are always telling me I need to get of Lexington more often," he confesses at one point. "Maybe they're right." If a new environment can bring out this complicated, intense man's lively curiosity and playful spirit so effectively, I am inclined to think Todd and Aaron—whoever they are—have the right idea. In a museum's darkened theater, watching a dramatic recreation of Texas' founding play to the sparse mid-afternoon weekday crowd, I feel an arm steal across my shoulders. I tense briefly, then relax. I feel safe with Doug. As astonishing as it seems, I trust him. So, with a very conscious effort, I reach over myself and squeeze his knee. He leans in and whispers in my ear, "I know I'm misbehaving. Tell me if I'm out of line and I promise I'll stop. I'm just really enjoying spending time with you." I whisper back, "I'm beginning to think I've been well behaved a little too long. I'm enjoying this as well, so please carry on." He nuzzles my ear, eliciting a surprised gasp from me and a chuckle from him, before he withdraws to a more socially acceptable distance just in time for the theater lights to brighten. Not such a saint, then. But for the remainder of the afternoon, Doug remains a perfect gentlemen, though I do catch a certain gleam in his eye now and then when he looks at me. I may or may not have a similar gleam in my own eye. Between the Lines Ch. 04 Over a fajita dinner ("Meat!" he exclaims joyfully, then shrugs, and sheepishly explains, "I'm staying with a pair of vegans."), Doug opens up about his life. He was an only child, and his parents, both academics, died fairly young, leaving him without a family in his early thirties. His homosexuality in and of itself was not an issue for them, but his coming out just as the epidemic struck terrified them all. "Set me back a good decade or more, sexually speaking," he reminisces. "Here I am, seventeen, newly out, and primed to fuck just about anyone with a Y chromosome who'll hold still long enough, and sex just became a death sentence." I remember those days all too well. My devastation over losing Ron less than five years earlier bled directly into the loss of dozens of friends. By the end of the decade, exhausted from grieving and fighting for political change, I fled into a new career in academia and a mostly abstinent personal life. I cannot imagine how an adolescent, however precocious, managed to survive that era with his psyche, let alone his immune system, unscathed. "Oh, I made up for it down the line," he hastily assures me, "but the Eighties for me were about college first—with two professors as parents, there was never any question I'd be getting a degree—then about building a career. Immortal Souls got its premiere in '90," he recalls, referring to the orchestral work that established his reputation, "and I've been working ever since." "With the occasional trip to the theater," I lightly remind him. "With regular trips to the theater," he corrects me. We toast. Our eyes meet over our glasses as we drink. There's an unspoken dance going on in the air between us, a will-we-or-won't-we, who-will-be-the-first-to-say-it tango. I finish my drink and, with a deliberate show of casualness, tell him, "Nightcap at the bar is on me, if you'll drive me back to my hotel." ————— * Doug * Larry's hotel may not be the most exclusive in town, but the bar does boast an impressive overview of the city. We settle with our drinks into a secluded corner of the patio and compare notes on the day's adventure. I still maintain that we should have backtracked to the bridge to watch the bats fly out on their nocturnal hunt. Larry shudders, waves off imaginary flying creatures, and insists that we should instead have taken advantage of some of the city's abundant musical offerings. "Though the museum was nice, too," he concludes, with a meaningful sidelong glance at me, then lapses into silence, staring out into the Texas night. I sneak a glance of my own at his profile. In the dim, diffuse light of the city—there's no moon tonight—Larry looks ageless, too sober and wise for a youth, too proud and vital for an elder. He also looks desperately lonely. Without daring to think about it, because thinking will cause me to lose my nerve, I lean in to kiss him. He flinches back from my touch, startled, and looks into my eyes questioningly for a long moment. He's not offended, but he seems to be looking for some sort of confirmation, one I don't know how to give him. I hold my breath and maintain my eye contact, hoping against all odds that what Larry sees will satisfy whatever questions he has. Then all at once he seems to relax, and leans forward himself, offering his lips to mine. They touch. Soft at first, tentative, but achingly sweet. A bolt of fire runs down my spine, causing me to gasp, then move in for more. I can't tell whether Larry is experiencing anything approaching the same thing, but he does respond to me, deepening the kiss. Our hands meet on the table, our fingers entwine. His right hand rises to cup the back of my neck, drawing me even closer. My left hand steals across his thigh, massaging it lightly. When's the last time I made out with a guy like this? Kissing for its own sake, not just as an immediate prelude to sex—though I'm getting dizzy already imagining this leading in that direction—but for the simple joy of give and take, mutual exploration and discovery, tasting, touching, feeling, sensing. He finally breaks free, breathing heavily. "I know where this is headed," he tells me in a rough voice. "And I'm not sure I shouldn't put a stop to it. Are you sure you want this?" I capture his mouth again, firm and resolute to show him I mean business. When I pull back once more, his eyes are dark and unfocused. "Abso-fucking-lutely," I tell him. He gradually comes back to himself, takes another stabilizing breath. "And how's your health?" he delicately inquires. Some people might be offended. Instead I'm impressed he can keep his head clear enough to ask. I'm not sure I could. "I'm negative, and I always play safe. I come prepared, too," I answer, flashing the condoms I always carry in my satchel, just in case. His eyebrows quirk up humorously. He was not expecting that. "But we don't have to fuck tonight. I'd be more than happy to just mess around a bit." "Well, then," he smiles, "would you like to come up to my room?" Was there any question? "Give me just a sec to let my hosts know I've been detained," I say. While he settles up at the bar, I fumble out my phone and send a text to Aaron: "Don't wait up for me tonight. Found my cowboy." Moments later I receive a reply—"Alright, Doug! Ride 'em hard!"—followed by an incomprehensible string of symbols apparently meant to convey Aaron's enthusiastic support. Shaking my head, I turn and follow Larry inside from the patio, through the bar, and across the lobby to the elevators. On our way up to his floor, boxed into a corner by other hotel guests, we fence with our eyes, glances meeting and darting away again. We stand as close to one another as we can without touching, close enough to feel each other's breath against our skin. I'm sweating. Larry's trembling. Once we're in his room and safely away from prying eyes, our flirtatiousness explodes into passion. I wrap my arms around him and ravish his mouth with mine. His hands slide all over my shoulders, my back, my waist, tugging at my shirt, trying to get to the skin beneath. Glued together like this, we crab-walk our way backward through the room until we unexpectedly encounter the bed and collapse on it, me on top. I take advantage of the interruption of our lip-lock to unbutton and peel back Larry's shirt, at long last unveiling his body. He's no fitness model—not many men his age are or can be—but to my eyes he's still in admirable shape, his stomach flat, his chest tight, the fair skin generously seasoned with salt-and-cayenne-pepper hair. He glances down at himself self-deprecatingly. He thinks he's too old, I can tell, comparing his body to past glories. For some reason I find that both sad and endearing. I smile back reassuringly, and move in for another long kiss, taking advantage of our proximity and his distraction to get his slacks unbelted, unbuttoned, unzipped, and slid partway down his thighs. "No fair," he protests, turning his head aside. "I should get to see you, too." "If you like," I answer, trying not to sound too eager. As always, I find myself instinctively jumping to obey his wishes, to win his approval. I don't mind so much tonight. I make a show of it, holding his gaze with my own while I gradually strip away shirt, undershirt, belt, shoes, and socks. I may not be a fitness model either, but I'm not encumbered by false modesty: I've had enough men like what they saw of me to know my body will easily pass muster for most tastes. I keep in decent shape, shower regularly, groom within reason. And I have one asset that tends to win a guy over if nothing else will. In a final flourish, facing away from Larry, I drop my pants and shorts, then turn to reveal my best, or at least most impressive feature. He gasps, gratifyingly. I simultaneously allow my own eyes to drop, for the first time, to Larry's own pride and joy. His cock, the center of his manhood, an elegant ivory tower jutting in a leftward arc from a still bright red cloud of pubes above a sparsely-furred sac, slender, cut, the long narrow glans flushed pink and purple, the slit open wide and gently leaking the tell-tale sign of Larry's need. It hypnotizes and calls to me. I gently remove and set aside his glasses, push him back on the bed, and descend down his torso, kissing my way across his exposed body, a route I have traced hundreds of times before, over hundreds—well, maybe scores—of bodies, but never over this particular inviting terrain. That beautiful phallus rises up to meet me, both proud and vulnerable, offering itself for my delight, a reward after the long trek across chest, stomach, groin. I bow and accept the offering with gratitude. Larry cries out and twitches against the sheets when I take him into my mouth. I've barely done anything yet, so this has to be an emotional response rather than a physical one. I go slowly, teasing out his pleasure, taking the time to savor his unique musk, his soft gasps and moans. He's exquisitely sensitive to my ministrations, a responsiveness I would ordinarily expect to find only in a virgin... Oh. I see. When were you last touched, Lawrence Ryan? When were you last pleasured? Who worshipped at this temple before me, and how long has it stood neglected? Thank you for deeming me worthy. Allow me to reward your trust. Already I can feel the mounting drive toward completion within his body, the involuntary clenching of his buttocks—I haven't even seen those yet, what wonders I have still to discover!—the rise of his hips toward my descending mouth, the swell of his head at the back of my throat. And then comes the climax, the hard, violent internal spasms, the gasp of relief, the rush of thick, rich, salty-sweet nectar, flooding my mouth with the tang of zinc and copper, my nose filled with the intoxicating scent of masculinity. I close my eyes and drift in the moment, relishing the taste of him. I finally surface from my reverie, only to discover that Larry is weeping quietly. Without another thought I quickly climb up alongside him and hold him gently, letting him bury his face in my shoulder and sob out his release. This isn't the fun, sexy evening I had envisioned. This is something more. This is raw intimacy. It terrifies me. It enthralls me. My cock juts angry and unsatisfied between his thighs. I let it be. I had two beautiful men take care of me just the other night. This evening is about Larry and his needs. This strong, smart, handsome, intimidating, lonely man who allowed me to remind him what it's like to be desired. I'm still holding him when we both fall asleep.