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Sweet Spot Ch. 01

By: podga



At first, Andy barely noticed the prim and shy-looking man in glasses standing at the bar; his eyes had settled on the blond twink in the tight orange T-shirt swaying to the music one seat to the guy's left. Unfortunately, by the time Andy fought his way to the bar, the twink had already been pulled onto the dance floor by somebody else, and Andy ruefully settled on the emptied bar stool and ordered a drink. As he pivoted around to rest his elbows on the bar and look out on the dance floor, he accidentally hit the man with his knee.

"Sorry about that," he said, taking a closer look. Not bad at all, if you liked dark curly hair and tanned skin, which, let's face it, you sort of had to if you lived in Greece. The man was wearing a baggy shirt and jeans, generally never a good sign of what lay underneath, especially since one didn't come to S-CAPE to relax in one's most comfortable clothes, but the rolled-up sleeves disclosed muscular forearms and strong-looking wrists. And anyway, Andy was hardly one to demand perfection in a body, given the slight spare tire he'd developed over the past couple of years.

The guy smilingly cupped a hand behind his ear, indicating that he hadn't heard. The move pulled his shirt tight against a nicely swelling bicep, and the smile was cute, as well.

"Sorry," Andy repeated more loudly.

"Oh. No problem." 

Even with those few words, Andy could tell he wasn't a native Greek speaker.

"American?" he asked, speaking English this time.

"Yeah."

"Me, too," Andy said, pointing at himself with his thumb. "At least, my mom is."

The man nodded, smiled again, and then looked down at his drink. He was either not very interested or a little shy, but by this point Andy was hooked enough to try and keep the conversation going a little longer.

"Do you live here? Have you been to S-CAPE before?" he asked, wincing inwardly at the triteness of his questions. He really wasn't good at small-talk.

"Yes, to both." This time around, the man didn't even try to meet Andy's eyes, though he did smile again.

OK. Awk.Ward. 

"I'm Andy. Do you want to dance?" he asked, feeling a little desperate. Twinks were a hell of a lot easier, and he didn't care if that made him a dirty old man. He pointed at them, then at the dance floor, and they either nodded or looked right through him and he knew exactly where he stood. Older guys were more complicated; Andy always felt like he needed to engage them in some type of conversation, as if the sex, whatever form it might later take, would be better if they could both just pretend they hadn't met at a dance club frequented by guys a lot younger than them.

"Paul. Sure."

Paul wasn't a particularly good dancer, but he seemed willing to get up close and personal, and Andy took full advantage of that. He slid his hands across Paul's shoulders and down his strong back, then hunched over a bit to briefly cup Paul's ass, before straightening up to clasp his hips and pull him against him. As they ground and swayed together, Andy came to the very firm conclusion that the baggy clothes were not an attempt to conceal love handles or a soft belly. Paul was either blessed by nature or spent way too many hours in a gym. Or maybe he worked for the US Embassy in some kind of security position. That would explain the conservative hair cut, athletic body and poor dress sense.

A head shorter, Paul reached up and looped his arms around Andy's neck.

"You're a good dancer, Andy," he smiled. "I'm sorry if I'm trampling you."

He didn't look particularly sorry. He looked a bit dazed, and, if the hard-on grinding against Andy's thigh was anything to go by, a lot horny. Andy pulled him more firmly against him, and bent down to rub his cheek against Paul's stubble.

"That's okay. I blame the size of my feet, they leave less floor for others to stand on."

"And is it true, what they say?"

Andy backed away and stared down at Paul. "You did not just ask me that."

"So it's not true?" 

"Maybe," Andy smirked, and Paul laughed. Andy bent and rubbed his cheek against Paul's once more, liking the faint scratch of his soft stubble. "We could go somewhere and you could see for yourself."

It was Paul, who backed away now, but only far enough so that he could see Andy's face, his groin still firmly pressed against Andy's thigh.

"Okay."

He said it a bit challengingly, as if he thought Andy hadn't really meant the invitation. 

"Okay," Andy echoed emphatically. "Let's get out of here, then."

It was still fairly early when they stepped outside the club, only just past midnight, and people were waiting to get in. Paul had reverted to shyness, not quite meeting Andy's eyes as they stood on the sidewalk. The night was so warm and humid, it felt like they were still inside.

"Uh, I'd invite you to my place, but I live pretty far from here. How about you?"

Paul shook his head. "No, my place is no good. A hotel?"

Andy grimaced, not particularly thrilled with the idea. There were a few hotels in the vicinity that were both gay friendly and available by the hour, but he wasn't too sure about their discretion and the last thing he needed was an exposé on how Andreas Giannopoulos was booking himself into gay hotels for a few hours' playtime. Even the larger hotels had employees with paparazzi phone numbers on their speed dial. He wasn't a major celebrity, and he was out, but he was also the son of a politician,, whose opponents would take any opportunity to sling mud, especially during an election period.

"I don't know..." he said hesitantly, and Paul obviously understood at least part of the reason for his hesitation.

"Come on, there's a pretty nice hotel I used to stay at back when I used to visit here on business. I'll book myself in, tell them it was an unexpected stopover, and that I'm headed back to the airport tomorrow. It won't be the first time. You can follow me in and come straight up to the room. They never noticed anything before, or at least they pretended not to."

"So I'm not the first cute guy you've picked up at S-CAPE?"

Paul just grinned and flagged down a taxi. During the short ride, they idly commented on the weather and new movie releases. Paul mentioned how much he liked the open air cinemas in Athens and Andy reminisced about being seven and spitting sunflower seeds into the hair of the girl sitting in front of him, until his Dad caught him at it and dragged him outside halfway through the movie.

"It was "Jaws", too. I didn't even dip a toe in the sea for at least two weeks after that. I still think that's the scariest movie I've ever seen."

At their destination, Andy waved off Paul's attempt to pay.

"My last name is Pappas," Paul said, before ducking into the hotel. "Give me a few minutes to get checked in, and then call through reception and I'll let you know my room number."

Andy lurked outside the hotel for about ten minutes, pretending to be fascinated by the suntan lotions and orthopedic shoes on display in the pharmacy window next door and puzzling over Paul's conflicting behavior. His apparent shyness at the club didn't really jive with his brisk efficiency in the subsequent arrangements. He was putting on an act, but Andy couldn't figure out why or to what extent or which part was the real Paul. For a brief paranoid second he wondered if he was somehow being set up for a public outing, with embarrassing pictures and everything, but nobody could have known he'd be at S-CAPE that night.

He forgot his trepidation once Paul, already stripped down to his jeans, opened the door for him. Usually Andy went for hairless twinks, but Paul was more of an otter, his pecs, abs and arms covered by a dusting of fine dark hair, and if he was slender, his musculature made it evident that it was due more to exercise, than to not eating or a high metabolism. After admiring him for a couple of seconds, Andy stepped forward and pushed him back, letting the door swing shut behind them. Paul's shoulders were warm and smooth and slightly damp with perspiration under Andy's hands, and he only resisted Andy briefly, before moving docilely backward, until they stood together in the middle of the room. Paul had also taken his glasses off, and in the better light, Andy could see that his eyes were a medium brown with darker flecks adding depth and warmth. Honey eyes.

"So," Paul smiled, slipping his fingers between the buttons of Andy's shirt. Andy tensed his muscles, equally against the tickle and in an effort to conceal the softness of his belly.

"So," Andy smiled back, his own fingertips sliding down the Paul's body, tracing the groove between his pecs, his abs, then the skin on either side of his belly button, before finally pushing slightly under the waistbands of his jeans and underwear. Paul shivered, his skin erupting in goosebumps.

For the first time in many years, maybe ever, Andy found himself unsure about how to proceed. By rights they should have already been tearing the clothes off each other, and yet Andy was oddly reluctant to move so quickly, and it had nothing to do with how turned on he was, because his dick had never been so hard for so long. Despite looking like he was in his early thirties, Paul somehow seemed more innocent than all those twenty-something-year-old twinks that had been Andy's favorite fare until that point. And yet he clearly wasn't inexperienced, so a slow careful approach wasn't called for either.

"So," Andy repeated awkwardly, as he pointlessly waited for inspiration on the best way forward.

"So, can I see?"

"Huh?"

"If it's true that big feet mean a big dick," Paul explained, his eyes teasing, and Andy laughed.

"Yeah. It's what we're here for, right?"

"Among other things," Paul muttered and without further ado, dropped to his knees in front of Andy and started undoing his belt. And thank God for that, because clearly Andy had been hit by some kind of evil freeze beam that stopped him from moving or thinking. It didn't stop him from feeling though, his belt and waistband loosening, his pants and underwear being shoved down, Paul's breath gusting over the tip of his cock and his lower belly.

"Wow," Paul exclaimed, his fist closing around Andy. "It's enormous."

"No, it isn't," Andy protested, looking down to check just in case something had changed from the last time he'd seen his cock earlier that day. Too big could be just as impractical as too small.

Paul leaned forward and licked the head, and Andy moaned.

"In any case, the myth isn't busted," Paul chuckled, and his tongue slid against the top of Andy's dick again, probing under his foreskin and tracing his slit.

"So long as it fits in your mouth, I won't complain," Andy hinted, and Paul took the hint, his mouth wet and warm and so, so right. Andy groaned and grabbed at Paul's head to somehow anchor himself, his fingers combing through Paul's short curls and clutching them. He rolled his hips, trying to control the speed more than the depth, to slow Paul down a bit, because he wasn't so sure he could last very long, and given the choice, he'd prefer Paul's ass to his mouth. Still, he could probably hold out a little longer, if he really had to. After all, Paul seemed to be enjoying himself, and Andy was not a selfish lover.

"Is this okay?" Paul asked suddenly, looking up at Andy.

"Fuck, yeah. You can't tell?"

"I can't really see your face that well without my glasses."

Andy dropped to his knees, as well, and kissed Paul's swollen lips. Paul immediately opened up for him, letting Andy search for his tongue with his own. Paul tasted of beer and of Andy.

"Can you see me better now?" Andy asked, even though Paul's eyes had closed somewhere along the line, his thick short lashes fluttering.

"Yeah," Paul breathed, but he didn't open his eyes, just searched blindly for Andy's mouth again, his kisses wet and hungry, his hands busy unbuttoning Andy's shirt and pushing it off his shoulders. Andy let go of Paul's hair for as long as it took to get rid of the shirt, then reached up again, liking how the thick short strands felt cool and soft between his fingers, how Paul's breathing changed when he tugged on them.

"Are you gonna take off your jeans and turn around for me?" Andy asked breathlessly against Paul's mouth, and Paul moaned and shook his head, a slight, unsure movement. "Come on, honey eyes. Turn around," Andy urged again, and this time Paul nodded, twisting around so that he was kneeling with his back to Andy.

Andy reached around and unbuttoned Paul's jeans and with a hand between Paul's shoulder blades, pushed slightly, so that Paul bent down to prop himself on his elbows, presenting his perfect ass to Andy.

"So sweet," Andy murmured, bending over Paul so that he could lick a long stripe from his nape down to the top of his crack, even as he was shoving and pulling Paul's jeans and briefs down his thighs and completely off. 

"So fucking sweet," he repeated, sitting back on his heels and admiring the taut cheeks that contrasted whitely with the tanned skin on Paul's back and legs, the shadowy cleft between them. 

"Spread yourself for me," he whispered, and Paul partly complied with a sound that sounded like a sob, widening his knees and burying his face in the crook of one elbow, so that his back arched. 

"Jesus Christ, Paul," Andy muttered reverently, his hand reaching out to trace around Paul's hole, then down his perineum to his balls, hanging full and tight between muscular thighs. Paul was drawing deep, harsh sobbing breaths, but he wasn't resisting. If anything, he was pushing back against Andy's hand, opening himself further, seeking more contact, and if Andy didn't sink himself balls-deep into Paul in the next three seconds, he was going to explode with lust. He reached into the back pocket of his pants, which were still hanging loosely from his hips, and pulled out a condom and a pillow pack of lube.

"Any allergies or other stuff I should know about?" Andy asked as he hastily gloved up and slathered himself with lube, and Paul shook his head, his face still tucked into his elbow. "Me neither. I mean I'm clean. We should have probably discussed this a bit earlier," Andy babbled, suddenly nervous again.

Paul turned his head slightly to the side, so that he could speak. "I'm clean, too. Now shut up and carry on," he growled and Andy started laughing.

"Yessir," he murmured, taking a brief moment to get rid of the rest of his clothes, then knee-walking forward and so that he was tucked tight against Paul's backside. He reached one hand down to hold and guide his own dick, and the other to grasp Paul's. And the first touch of his cock against Paul's hole, Paul bucked nervously, then steadied himself, as Andy started to push in by slow increments. Despite the mythbuster jokes, Andy's dick wasn't particularly thick, and he rarely had to prepare anyone to take him as long as he moved slowly, so he was surprised when Paul jerked away from him.

"Paul? What's wrong?"

Paul took a deep breath. "Nothing. It's just been a while. Don't stop."

Andy backed away and kissed Paul's back. "It's okay. We have plenty of time," he soothed. Still stroking Paul's dick with one hand, he pressed the middle finger of his other into Paul, and Paul sighed, his tense muscles relaxing. He reached back awkwardly to clasp the back of Andy's thigh and pull him tighter against him.

"It's good now," he said after Andy had introduced a second finger and stroked Paul for a while longer. "I'm not going to last much longer."

This time Andy was able to sink all the way in, until his hips were tight against Paul's ass. He braced himself with one hand against the middle of Paul's back, pushing his chest even further into the floor, and fucked Paul with slow, deep thrusts.

"Harder," Paul moaned, and Andy obliged. He was no longer jerking Paul off so much as forcing Paul to thrust into his fist every time he slammed against his ass. Andy's palm was slick with sweat and Paul's pre-cum, and when he tightened his fingers to get a better grip, Paul gave a short high wail and started spurting. Andy followed a second later, his orgasm spreading from his balls to his fingers and toes, his muscles clenching and releasing in sync with Paul's tunnel tightening around his dick. When he could breathe again, he draped bonelessly over Paul's back as Paul collapsed flat on the carpet, and kissed his cheek.

"That was awesome," he said, nuzzling Paul's ear, his fingers drawn irresistibly to Paul's hair again. "Thank you."

"Uh huh," Paul agreed blearily. "You can get off now."

"I already did," Andy assured him, and Paul chuckled breathlessly.

"I mean off of me. You're crushing me."

"Wimp," Andy scoffed, but he picked himself up and wandered into the bathroom to take care of the condom and clean up a bit. When he walked back into the room, Paul had rolled onto his back,, but otherwise hadn't moved.

"You should maybe get up off that carpet," Andy advised as he started dressing. "It can't be too clean."

"New carpet. The front desk assured me I'm the first guest in this room after the remodeling. You can't smell it?"

Now that Paul mentioned it, Andy recognized the distinctive smell of new carpet and fresh paint. For the first time he looked around the room, and realized everything looked particularly fresh and sparkling. He wondered if part of the dizziness he'd felt had been due to the chemicals rather than to lust for Paul, but he was clear-headed enough now, if slightly rubbery-kneed.

"And now you've christened the new carpet with spunk. Nice."

Paul laughed and finally sat up, scooting backward and propping his back against the foot of the bed.

"You're leaving?"

Andy paused in the act of turning the sleeves of his shirt right-side out so that he could put it on, and looked down at Paul.

"Yeah. I've got an early start tomorrow. Do you want me to drop you off at your place?"

Paul shook his head. "Nah. I might as well sleep here."

Andy finished buttoning his shirt and sat on the foot of the bed to tie his shoe laces. After he was done, he ran his fingers through Paul's curls one last time, and Paul leaned his head back into the caress.

"Take care, okay?"

"Yeah. You too, Andy."

During the entire cab-ride home, he thought of calling the hotel and asking to be connected to Paul's room again. He held his phone, his thumb hovering over the button that would send the call through, but that wasn't the way he did things. Besides, Paul hadn't seemed interested in further contact either. He finally put the phone back in his pocket. Best not to fool with the tried and true, or ruin the memory of a great night by trying to pin anything more onto it.

**********

If there was one thing Paul had learned over the years, it was that it seldom served to try and find answers to the mysteries of life at 3:00 in the morning. Still, as he leaned closer to the mirror to examine the angry red carpet burn on his left temple, cheek and collarbone, he couldn't help but seek answers.

First, would the burn look as obvious in the morning (and he suspected it would) and how would he explain that, as well as the burns on his knees, without going into the details of being fucked on the floor of a hotel room? Second, how could he possibly not have felt the pain at the time his face was being rubbed back and forth against the carpet by Andy's powerful thrusts? Third, why hadn't they used the bed, when that was the very reason Paul had rented a room, despite his non-existent financial resources? And fourth – and most important – why the hell hadn't he gotten more information than a first name from a guy, who had demonstrated the ability to fuck him so senseless? 

Unfortunately, Andy was long gone, leaving Paul to his ruminations, his pleasantly sore hole and his  unpleasantly sore face. He considered avoiding the walk of shame in the early morning and returning home now, but the hotel boasted amenities he wouldn't find in his studio apartment, namely air-conditioning, a large shower stall, and a full breakfast included in the price of the room. He stretched out on the soft mattress and closed his eyes, trying not to worry about the hit his bank account was taking, because he'd wanted to stay on neutral ground with Andy, and about the fact that he'd once again opted for the nameless fuck, even though he'd moved a continent away from his home and family in order to try and change his ways.


Sweet Spot Ch. 01



His parents, brothers and sister had disagreed with his decisions to drop out of the family import business and move to Greece, and they'd picked every opportunity to express their objection. For months, every single conversation had revolved around their trying to figure out Paul's reasons for, as they termed it, his desertion. Paul's responses were evidently unsatisfactory. While they were sorry that he wasn't feeling happy or fulfilled, they were convinced that absconding from his duties to his family would only cause him more unhappiness, not less. And finally, his personal happiness didn't matter, because in the large scheme of things, doing what was right for the family (or maybe what the family thought was right) was more important than personal feelings. He hadn't planned on moving without having found a job in Greece, but he could no longer stand the recriminations or attempts to change his mind. So he'd accepted the highest offer on his apartment, one which at least fully covered his outstanding mortgage if not much more, purchased a one-way ticket, made sure his providers and clients knew he was leaving the business, and had landed in Athens on a sunny mid-March day, nervous but optimistic.

Three months later, results were mixed. He had underestimated how tough the job market was in recession-hit Greece and none of his business contacts could provide him with leads, or even ideas as to where he might turn. His savings had been dwindling dangerously low, when he finally managed to land a position as a coach at one of the more exclusive tennis clubs in a northern suburb of Athens.

"Your Greek is terrible, of course, but that will work in your favor," the club manager had blithely explained. "A tennis coach and English language instructor all wrapped in one. Parents around here will really like that." 

The pay was shockingly low, and Paul had hoped to be doing something other than lobbing balls at a bunch of pampered and talentless kids, but it was either that or return to his family's bosom in defeat, and he wasn't quite ready to do that yet.

So here he was, still trying to make a go of it, still not really addressing the one part of himself that had driven him to make all these changes in the first place, tossing and turning on a bed in a hotel room he couldn't really afford.

An unknown while later, he jerked awake, disoriented and sweating heavily despite the cool air. He pressed the indiglo button on the trusty Timex he'd had since he was a teenager. It was only 5:00, which explained why he still felt so drained. His first tennis lesson wasn't until 8:00, so he had some time, but despite his exhaustion, he doubted he'd fall asleep again, and breakfast was no longer the strong lure it had been earlier, when he'd still been buzzed with drink and sex. After a quick shower, he checked out and walked home.

His apartment was located near Pedio tou Areos, one of only two large green parks in central Athens, and, still restless, he took advantage of the early morning empty paths and relatively lower temperatures to go for a quick jog, before biking the approximately six hilly kilometers to the tennis club. One thing was for sure, he was getting back into the best shape of his life and without the hard demands of professional sports on his body, he was enjoying himself a heck of a lot more. Even though he'd tried to stay in shape after leaving tennis in 2005, he hadn't realized how far he'd slipped and how good, by comparison, he felt now.

"Yasoo, Pavlo," Zois, one of his fellow coaches greeted him as, after his third shower of the day, he was pulling on his tennis whites. Zois' English wasn't much better than Paul's Greek, so conversations between the two of them generally never went beyond the weather and fairly simple gossip about club members, during which Zois expressed his appreciation of certain female members with a lot of eyebrow waggling and cupping of hands to indicate the size of specific body parts, and Paul nodded and smiled weakly in response. Although Paul hadn't intended on hiding the fact he was gay once in Greece – after all, that was the reason he'd moved, to come out of the closet and get used to living openly, before returning home – he didn't think coming out to his fellow coaches, with whom he shared locker and shower facilities, was the best course of action, either. And anyway, he was still hoping this was going to be a temporary job. At 32, he was much older than the rest of the coaches, most of whom were either still in university or had only recently graduated.

Paul nodded and smiled back in greeting, and Zois let loose with a stream of Greek that Paul didn't have a hope of following. He shook his head to indicate that he hadn't understood, and Zois repeated more slowly that Paul's first lesson of the day had called in to cancel.

"You could have slept an extra hour," Zois said, enunciating clearly and carefully.

"It would have just been hotter riding here."

Zois twirled his forefinger by his temple, the common Greek gesture for indicating insanity, and grinned. Paul just shrugged, well aware of what his colleagues thought of his riding a bike everywhere. It never crossed their minds that he couldn't afford a car or even a motorbike; after all he'd been a professional tennis player and, more importantly, he was American, and it was a well-known "fact" in Greece that all Americans were wealthy, or at least wealthy enough to own a car. Truth be told, it hadn't occurred to Paul himself that he wouldn't be able to afford one, until he'd seen the prices of even the most used clunkers, and of the parking space he'd have been forced to rent. Public transportation was both slow and unreliable, without a direct or convenient connection between home and work, neither of which were near a Metro stop, so for the time being his bike and the odd taxi ride were the best options.

Paul took advantage of the unexpected free time to grab an iced coffee in the small club café and calculate his budget for the rest of the month. Coaches were allowed to take on private pupils, provided they paid the small fee for using the tennis courts past a certain number of hours per week and also devoted the minimum required time to the free tennis academies provided through mid-July and again in September. Paul had counted on getting more pupils when schools let out in early June, but his fellow coaches explained that summer actually meant fewer pupils, given that many families moved to summer homes and that lessons were rarely booked from mid-morning to late afternoon, due to the heat. If he lost rather than gained coaching hours during the next two to three months, he wasn't sure he'd be able to afford even the miniscule rent he paid.

The barista, Maria, wandered over to see what he was scribbling and practice her English on him. Once she understood his problem, she also had a constructive idea.

"Why don't you post something on those internet expat sites? Unless they send their families home in the summer, there could be children, and maybe even wives, that want to learn or play tennis and would prefer somebody with your experience."

"Are there still a lot of expats? I thought with all the financial problems here, many of the foreign businesses had moved out."

Maria shrugged. "Well, even if that's true about business, there are still all the embassies and diplomats' houses around here. It doesn't hurt to try, right?"

Paul nodded and sat tugging absently at his earlobe as he considered Maria's suggestion. He really had nothing to lose, especially if he could post a free notice on the expat sites.

"By the way, what happened to your face?" Maria asked.

"Oh, uh, I tripped over a bag strap and fell." Paul stuttered in a failed attempt to sound nonchalant and matter-of-fact. "My knees, too, see?"

"You fell on your face?" Maria asked in disbelief, then shook her head. "Good thing your glasses didn't break."

"Yeah," Paul choked out, and gulped his coffee, hoping the cold drink would help both his blush and his sudden erection subside.

Another thing Paul had learned over the years was that the more he tried not to think of something, the more he thought of it. Since the result was ultimately the same, he felt free to indulge in thinking about Andy and wondering if their paths might cross again. He was actually feeling optimistic, because at 6'4" and with hair so blond it was almost white, Andy would be hard to miss in even the darkest dance club. And next time around, Paul intended to get his last name and as many contact details as he possibly could.

**********

"I do hope we're not boring you, Andrea."

It took Andy a couple of seconds to parse the content of the comment and realize that it was aimed at him and not entirely on topic.

"Not at all," he responded smoothly. "I was just thinking of the ramifications of your proposal." 

Adding that he thought better with his eyes closed would probably be laying it on a bit thick, so he decided not to explain further, even though it was true. He did think better with his eyes closed, particularly if he was thinking of a certain tallish, dark and handsome Greek American, and not about how to recuperate on a relatively small, but ultimately ill-fated, investment in a US retro-style diner. God, he was so sick and tired of these meetings. He would have far rather been working in the diner than making decisions about it. But then, the heirs of the Giannopoulos name didn't do menial work; Andy's dad has just about disowned him, when he'd taken a job a short-order cook during college. And Andy knew enough about himself to know that he preferred bored but comfortable to challenged but possibly barely scraping by.

"I don't think we've given it enough time," he said finally. "People will go for this if the prices are right, and they are. We just need to give word-of-mouth a chance, maybe jack up our presence in the social media."

Nikolaos Harissis rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, no doubt to make a snide comment. Andy hated the guy, but as his first cousin, he had an equal say in the business, plus he had an MBA from Tuck, whereas Andy hadn't moved past a BA, something Nikos never missed an opportunity to rub in.

"This is more of your socialist sentimentality," Nikos sniffed. "You just don't want to lay anybody off. Never mind that we're losing money every month."

"You're right, I don't. Especially since we haven't given the diner enough time," Andy insisted. "I want us to wait until after Christmas. It's only six more months, and we'd pay penalties for breaking the leases on the equipment and the property anyway."

"We're throwing good money after bad."

Andy sighed. "We're not going to come to an agreement, Niko. Let's just put it up for vote at the board meeting next month."

Nikos sneered his assent and moved to the next order of business.

Andy just managed to suppress another sigh and leaned back in his chair. He didn't like being here, but at least he could occasionally make a small difference. He let the rest of the meeting drone on without paying much attention, and then made his way back to his office, wondering how soon he could make a graceful departure for the day. Three hours of sleep just didn't cut it for him anymore, especially when followed by the disappointment of finally deciding to contact the hotel, only to find out that Paul had already checked out, and that the hotel naturally refused to provide any contact details. He guessed he could hang out at S-CAPE every night in the hopes that Paul would show up again at some point, but at 42 years old, a daily regimen of loud music, alcohol and late nights would probably kill him within a week. No, that bird had flown, and it didn't matter now how many times during the day Andy's dick has stiffened at the memory of Paul's mouth and body or how much he wished he'd taken more time and done more things to Paul before they parted. 

He frowned at his laptop and then, without much expectation of anything but how pointless it would prove, he googled Paul Pappas. Over six million results. Okey dokey. He tried again, enclosing the name in quotation marks, and narrowed the results down to slightly over forty thousand. Hopelessly, and feeling a bit too much like a smitten teenager again, he scrolled down and suddenly there Paul was, glaring at him from a photo. A much younger Paul, his face narrower and his hair longer, but Paul nonetheless. Andy clicked on the photo, and from there to a Wikipedia link. He suddenly became aware that his mouth was hanging open, so he snapped it shut and continued reading and clicking through more links.

Although Andy was a member of the same tennis club his grandparents, parents and assorted other relatives had been members of since its inception in the late 1920s and although he still played fairly regularly (if once every six months or so could be called regularly), he'd never been that interested in following the sport, or any other sport except for basketball. He racked his brain trying to remember if he'd been aware of Paul's name, but he couldn't come up with even the vaguest memory. Pete Sampras, he remembered. Ditto Mark Philippousis. Not Paul Pappas though, although from the articles it appeared that he'd also made a fair name for himself, before retiring for undisclosed reasons in 2005.

Andy wondered what kind of effect, if any, his complete lack of recognition had had the previous night. On the one hand Paul hadn't mentioned tennis at all, so maybe he liked flying under the radar screen. On the other hand Andy himself always felt a brief kick of disappointment and subsequent animosity, when somebody, who should have recognized his name, didn't. Or did that just make Andy shallower than most other adults in the world? Be that as it may, the one thing Andy didn't find in any of the articles, even though it was what he wanted most, was how to get in touch with Paul now.

**********

After he placed his ads on two different expat sites, Paul started to receive a trickle of interested calls. Two people even actually asked him if he was "the" Paul Pappas, though neither panned out, because they both lived in the southern suburbs of Athens and didn't want to trek all the way north for lessons. Still, at the end of two weeks he was able to add five pupils to his roster, and one, a Czech eight-year-old, showed real talent. Paul spent a lot of time boning up on coaching techniques; he couldn't stand the thought of letting that drive go to waste or somehow turning little Libor off the game, as one of his coaches had almost done to him.

"Same time Thursday?" he asked Libor's mother as he was seeing them off, and she nodded. He tracked them to the club exit, then strolled to the café to get a drink. At 7:30 in the evening the courts were all full, and he tilted his chair back against the wall and idly observed. He didn't have any more lessons and should probably head home, but he was feeling too relaxed and lazy to move for the moment.

"Jesus, Andy, will you stop doing that?"

Paul sat up straight, his chair landing back on its front two legs with a thud, and stared towards where the indignant woman's voice had come from. And there he was, big, blond and laughing even as he danced around trying to avoid a small woman swatting at his butt with her racket. Andy.

"Mom! This is domestic abuse! I'm reporting you," Andy yelled, just avoiding another swat.

"I'm going to serve whether you're ready or not," a thin, dark-haired teenager threatened from the opposite side, and Andy and his mother both took their positions, although both were still laughing.

Paul observed them with a concentration that the level of play hardly merited. A younger woman about Andy's age made up the foursome; all were fairly competent though, with the exception of the teenaged boy, hardly dedicated. Andy repeatedly bumped into his mother, and Paul couldn't tell if he was doing it deliberately or not. With his long legs, he could certainly cover a lot of ground quickly, but he either didn't seem aware of where his mother was, or she simply wasn't getting out of his way soon enough.

After forty minutes the foursome gave up the court, and Paul, mouth dry and palms suddenly damp, watched them make their way to the café. Andy had an arm around the teenager's shoulders and was talking to him, and the boy was laughing and trying to squirm away. Paul suddenly wondered if this was Andy's son, and his gut clenched at the thought. Was his family rather than the distance involved the real reason Andy hadn't invited him to his place that night? If so, he'd wasted a lot of time looking for Andy and even more stupidly day-dreaming about possibilities once he found him.

For everything they'd done together a couple of weeks ago, Paul hadn't actually looked at Andy all that long. He remembered him more as a composite of body parts: gray eyes with laugh lines radiating out, platinum blond short hair, generous wide mouth, large warm hands. Then it was more of a sense of Andy holding him, of his chest lying against Paul's back, of his legs between Paul's. And his cock, of course. Long, uncut, pink against his blond pubic hair and white skin, fitting just right in Paul's mouth and hitting all the right spots in his ass. He hadn't bottomed since his first lover, over eight years ago, but somehow with Andy it hadn't occurred to him that it would be otherwise.

Now though, he could take in the whole man, the way he carried himself so easily, despite his height, his athletic build, broad shoulders tapering to lean hips and long, muscular legs. He was probably carrying about six or eight extra pounds, more obvious now in his T-shirt than they had been when he was wearing a dress shirt, but they hardly made a difference on a guy his size.

They were now close enough for Paul to hear the boy complaining about something to the younger woman, whom he called "mama". Although he was speaking Greek, Paul understood enough to grasp that he referred to Andy as his uncle. The relief he felt was less surprising to him that the disappointment he'd felt earlier.

He still hesitated about coming forward. Though he'd seen both women and the boy at the club pretty often, he'd never spoken to them, and he'd obviously never seen Andy. What would be his excuse for approaching them? He briefly considered offering some feedback on their play, but with the exception of the boy, he doubted they'd be very interested.

He was still stalling indecisively, when Andy finally noticed him, his gray eyes widening in surprise and then narrowing in a brilliant smile.

"Hey, Paul! How've you been?"

He strode over and was towering over Paul, before Paul even had a chance to get up.

"Good. I've been good. You?"

He clasped Andy's outstretched hand, and stared up into Andy's eyes.

"I was hoping like hell I'd find you again," Andy murmured, then pumped Paul's hand once more before letting go and turning to his family.

"Mom, Anna, Kosta, this is Paul Pappas. Paul, my mother Elaine and my cousin Anna. And this skinny matchstick is Anna's son, Kostas."

The two women smiled, while Kostas blushed a bright red.

"Nice to meet you," Paul said politely, then smiled at Kostas. "Hey, good game. You certainly ran circles around your uncle."

"That's because I let him," Andy defended himself, and both Kostas and Paul booed.

"Are you a member here?" Andy asked, still smiling, and suddenly both women looked uncomfortable, though Paul couldn't immediatly figure out why. It became a little clearer after a second, when Andy's cousin turned to him.

"He's a coach," Anna said, and then, in Greek: "I thought you knew him."

Andy's smile slipped for a split second, before returning, though not quite as bright as before.

"I do," he responded in English, and even Paul recognized the want-to-make-something-of-it tone of voice.




Sweet Spot Ch. 01



"Elaine, Kostas and I need to get going," Anna said, ignoring Kostas' immediate protest. "Do you want us to give you a lift?"

"Uhm, that would be nice." She stretched up and Andy obligingly lowered his head, so that she could buss his cheek. "Bye, darling. Let's do this again in less than half a year's time, hmmm? Goodbye, Mr. Pappas."

Andy and Paul watched them go. Only Kostas turned briefly to wave another goodbye.

"Anna's okay," Andy said as he sat uninvited at Paul's table, though Paul hadn't asked for an explanation. "She just worries too much about me."

"She knows you're gay?"

"Yes, of course," Andy responded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"So what's she worried about? That you'll be taken advantage of by some money-grubbing tennis coach?"

Andy laughed. "No, not really. More that I'll damn my eternal soul by taking advantage of a poor tennis coach by offering him more money or gifts than he can bear to refuse."

"I don't need money," Paul retorted, stung.

"No, I wouldn't think you do. You're Paul Pappas, after all. Sorry I didn't recognize you before."

"So your cousin doesn't care about you being gay, just about you potentially being a sugar daddy?" Paul tried to clarify.

"Basically. Well, she also gets the fact that I don't like having sex with women, but she doesn't particularly want to have to acknowledge the fact that I fuck men."

"And what? She assumes you fuck every guy you meet?"

"Every sexy, good-looking guy, whom I'm obviously happy to see, whose name I know, but not what he does for a living? Yeah, probably," Andy said, sounding pleased about it.

Paul thought about it for a while, decided he'd been paid a compliment, and smiled.

"I went back to S-CAPE four times in the past two weeks, hoping you'd be there," he admitted. "Will you please give me your phone number and last name, so that I never have to go back again?"

"I did, too, last Tuesday and again on Friday. I have to say, that place isn't nearly as much fun when you're only looking for one specific person, and he never shows. Plus I googled you, and found out all about your glorious past."

"Not so glorious," Paul said dismissively.

"Listen, this time around my place is only three blocks away. Are you done here? Can you come over?"

"Yeah. I'd like that," Paul smiled. "I just need to get my stuff and my bike."

"Okay. I walked here, so I'll wait for you at the front gate?"

Paul started towards the locker room, but turned, when Andy called his name.

"I'm really, really glad I found you," Andy said softly, and Paul nodded jerkily, then turned away again, his heart almost bursting out of his chest.

Zois caught up with him as he was unlocking his bike.

"Was that Andreas Giannopoulos I saw you with?"

"Yeah. He's a friend of mine," Paul responded, though he wasn't sure he could make that claim just quite yet, seeing as this was the first time he'd even heard Andy's full name.

Zois' mouth curled in disgust. "Einai poustis," he said, and Paul knew enough Greek to understand that. He's a fag.

Paul gripped the handlebars of his bike so tightly, his knuckles turned white. It took him a few long seconds, but he was finally able to look up and meet Zois' eyes, and his voice couldn't have been clearer or calmer.

"Ki ego eimai." So am I.

He waited for Zois' eyes to drop, then he wheeled his bike towards the gate, where he could see Andy waiting for him, his heart both lighter and fuller than he could ever remember it.



Sweet Spot Ch. 02



"Not bad, Andy. You live here alone?" Paul sounded impressed.

Andy opened the gate and motioned for Paul to precede him through it into the garden, then stood looking at his home, trying to see it as Paul probably did. He wasn't glib or artless enough to pretend that this was just a place to live, although it was that, as well, and had been for all 42 years of his life. The house had been built in the mid-1950s, a one-story, minimalist brick structure that also referenced Greek traditional architecture in the light gray stone from Pelio covering one wall and the wooden shutters. Unlike his neighbors to either side, who in the past twenty or thirty years had torn their homes down in order to construct two-story buildings with garages to fit their growing families, Andy, an only child with no prospects of having children of his own, had maintained the existing structure and renovated the interior, tearing down walls to enlarge the living areas and installing new plumbing and greener heating and cooling solutions. Calm and sedate in the middle of a large garden and shaded by pine trees, the house bore testament to his family's successful ascent into the affluent upper middle classes.

"Yeah. My parents moved to a seaside condo in Rafina a few years back. My mom grew up right outside Newport, and as she got older, she wanted to be closer to the sea again. Anna lives two blocks away here, and she also has a summer home in Rafina, so it's convenient all around."

"Sounds like you're all on top of one another," Paul commented.

"Well, yeah. It's the Greek way, right? Greek-American families can't be too different, I'm sure."

"No, it's pretty much like here. My brothers' and sister's families and our parents all live within ten miles of each other in New Jersey, as well as my dad's two brothers and mom's first cousin and their families. I was the black sheep of the family, because I lived in Manhattan."

"Here, you can leave your bike next to mine in the entrance. Did they cast you out?" Andy asked curiously. He'd met a number of what he thought of as "real" Greek-Americans, that is first and second generation Greeks living in the US as opposed to him who happened to have one Greek and one American parent, and while some were progressive, many seemed to hold even more traditional and narrow-minded values than the villages they'd left behind, forming tightly-knit communities that could be very supportive, but also hellishly judgmental if you broke their rules in any way.

Paul propped up his bike and then dropped his bag next to it. He'd seemed in an odd mood since they'd left the tennis club, subdued yet also somehow excited. Andy wanted to ask him if he was okay, but that seemed presumptuous. After all, it wasn't like he knew Paul well enough to read his moods or attempt to actively address them.

"Would you like something to eat or drink? I was thinking of ordering in souvlaki, but we could get something else, if you want. There's plenty of choices."

"Aren't you going to show me the rest of your house?" Paul asked. He scuffed the toe of his sneaker against the small rug in the hallway. "No offense, but this doesn't look very new or thick enough to comfortable."

Andy grinned, both at the mischievous smile on Paul's face and at the thought of what his father would have to say if he ever found out that his son had fucked another man on a 19th century family heirloom. 

"So that's a no on the food?" he asked innocently.

"Well, if you're hungry I can give you something to nibble on," Paul said suggestively.

Andy groaned at the bad joke, but then found his arms full of man intent on sealing their mouths together. He cupped Paul's ass and lifted him, and Paul helped by wrapping his arms and legs around Andy, his ankles crossing behind Andy's back. Paul's tongue filled his mouth; he tasted sweet, as if he'd been eating watermelon, and Andy chased the flavor with his own tongue back into Paul's mouth. After a while, he reluctantly let Paul slide down onto his feet again.

"I'm sweating like a pig," he said. "Lemme take a quick shower."

Paul licked his throat and nuzzled into the curve of his shoulder. "I don't mind. In fact, I like it."

Generally speaking, Andy liked it too, but he'd already had a full day before jumping into his tennis clothes to go meet his mother, Anna and Kostas. He gently shoved Paul back.

"I won't be five minutes," he said, backing away. "The bathroom is on the way to the bedroom, so it's not even like it's a big detour."

"Three minutes," Paul said firmly, trailing close behind and groping him all the way to where Andy firmly shut -- and locked -- the bathroom door in Paul's face.

"What if you have an accident in there? How will I help you?" Paul yelled from outside, but Andy was already stripping and ducking into the shower, not even waiting for the warmer water to flow through the pipes, and didn't bother to answer. His erection refused to retreat despite the cold dousing, so that was good, anyway.

It was more like two and a half minutes by the time he was headed down the hallway, still damp and his hair dripping. Paul had put the time to good use: he'd shoved the top sheet down to the foot of the bed, flung his clothes in pretty much every corner of the room, and was now lying naked on the bed, his shoulders propped against the headboard, stroking his cock. Andy paused at the doorway to admire him and wondered if Paul had any idea just how hot and sexy he looked lying there, his tan dark against the white sheet and a paler narrow strip at his groin, his long limbs loose and relaxed. 

Andy had to clear his throat to speak, but his voice still came out a little choked. "Hey."

Paul stopped jacking himself and flung his arm out, his whole posture open, an offering Andy couldn't refuse. He moved to the foot of the bed and kneeled on the mattress, crawling up Paul's body, until he was looking into those honey eyes. Paul smiled at him and ran his hands slowly up Andy's arms, over his shoulders and cupped his face. "Hey, yourself," he said, before pulling Andy's face closer to kiss him.

**********

Paul wasn't naïve enough to believe that he'd moved out of closet and was now ready for an out, loud and proud life, simply because he'd faced down one 23-year-old jerk. The whole walk to Andy's house, he'd been trying not to think of the next day, when he'd have to go back to a workplace, where the news would have spread. He was fairly certain that the tennis club couldn't fire him, even if they were inclined to do so, but he could lose his private pupils. He wondered if little Libor's parents were homophobic. Losing the other kids would cost him money, but losing this one would hurt that part of Paul that still secretly wanted to achieve something in the world of tennis, even if it was only coaching one small promising boy for a summer.

Still, he couldn't really regret what he'd done either. He'd made the first step, and, as he lay there on Andy's bed, Andy's hair dripping cool water on his wrists, he felt the same elation that he had right after he'd walked away from Zois. He didn't know where things would lead with Andy, but for the first time in his life, the prospect of a normal relationship was there, within his grasp. And if he regretted waiting so long to make this move, well then, Andy was a hell of a consolation prize.

"Honey eyes," Andy murmured, and Paul, who'd never thought of himself as somebody that liked to be called by pet names, particularly not corny ones like "honey eyes", nipped at Andy's lips in order to hide the fact that he was turning into a pile of goo. He rolled them both over, so he was lying on top of Andy, propped himself on his elbows, and kissed along Andy's hairline, then the bridge of his nose, his gray eyes so that they closed, blond lashes fluttering over flushed cheeks, and finally his lips, lingering there, waiting for Andy to open his mouth for him and then diving in, tasting him. He rubbed his body along Andy's, his dick trapped between their bellies and leaking.

"You promised me something to nibble on," Andy said, when Paul lifted his head for a necessary breath.

"I did. What would you like?"

Andy reached between them and grabbed Paul's cock. "This'll do for the time being. Why don't you bring it on up here." He tugged hard, and Paul's hips necessarily followed, until Paul was straddling Andy's head. He reached down and petted Andy's silky blond hair. He wished he could see the expression in Andy's eyes more clearly, but he'd taken his glasses off.

"I've never done it like this, before. You sure this is okay?"

Instead of answering, Andy simply squirmed a little further under Paul, raised his head and damn near swallowed Paul whole. Paul leaned forward against the headboard, so that the angle felt more comfortable, and thrust into the wet heat. He heard Andy's choking cough, and tried to pull back, but Andy grabbed his hips and he held him in place, then actually pulled him deeper. After he seemed satisfied that Paul was going to stay put, Andy let his hands wander, one cupping Paul's balls and squeezing gently, the other tickling at his crack. Paul gripped the headboard with both hands, trying to hold off his orgasm, but he didn't really stand a chance against Andy's determined onslaught.

"Andy, let go, I need to cum," he gasped, pulling back with more determination now, and Andy let him go with a final strong suck. Paul tried to turn away, but his first spurts painted Andy's face, before he covered his dick with his hand. "Shit, I'm sorry," he mumbled afterward, and he moved one leg so as to kneel next to Andy's shoulder, rather than straddle him.

"You did it, you clean it up," Andy grinned, then hooking a hand around Paul's neck, pulled him down and kissed him, and Paul obligingly licked Andy's cheek, chin and throat clean.

Afterward he stretched out next to Andy, one arm resting across Andy's stomach. Andy laced their fingers together and turned his head to look at him. It was darker in the bedroom now, the last of the daylight fading, and Andy's features were in shadow.

"Why didn't you just cum in my mouth?"

Paul shrugged. "Too many one-night stands. I'm clean, but I'd like one more test, if we're going to be doing this."

Andy remained quiet, but his fingers tightened around Paul's momentarily, as if he was flinching, and Paul's cheeks went hot at the realization that maybe he and Andy weren't on the same page about what 'this' was. "I mean, not that I mean we have to do this-"

"We don't have to, but I certainly want to," Andy interrupted him firmly.

Paul let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. 

"Yeah. I want to, too."

**********

Andy was still hard as stone, and planning on doing something about it that involved lube, a condom and Paul's ass, when Paul's stomach grumbled loudly and at length. He figured Paul wouldn't object to pushing dinner back a while longer, but it would take thirty minutes minimum from the time they called for the food to even show up, and he didn't feel like rushing things or fucking to the musical accompaniment of Paul's belly. Their first time had been too quick. This time around, Andy wanted to take his time, drive Paul crazy and keep him coming back for more.

"Listen, why don't we take a break, place our order, and get something to drink? Can you stay a bit longer?"

"I don't know. The thing is, I've got the bike, and I'm not too sure how well lit some the streets on the way home are."

"No problem, I can drive you home. Or you could stay over, if you want."

It felt like Paul took a long time to answer and Andy's first instinct was to jump in and push harder, but staying, for however long, had to be Paul's decision. Instead of saying anything, he reached over and caressed Paul's cheek with the back of his fingers.

"The trouble is, I go through so many shirts and I don't have any more clean ones with me," Paul said slowly. "If you could lend me a couple, I could stay over, and make a quick run home tomorrow, after my morning classes. I should have more than enough time, before the afternoon sessions start."

"Sure, no problem," Andy responded, firmly quashing the impulse to tell Paul he could run his clothes through the washer and dryer and come back to his house for his breaks anytime he wanted to, even if Andy was at work. "So what will it be? Souvlaki? The place I order from makes really awesome chicken, but their pork is also good, if you prefer that."

"Do they have salads, as well?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so. They should. I've got the menu in the kitchen."

In deference to the delivery guy, who would eventually show up, Andy slipped on a pair of shorts, but Paul just wore his briefs, and Andy instantly discovered in himself a strong kink for the deceptive innocence of snow-white BVDs against tan skin and lightly furred thighs.

Paul perused the menu with a frown, taking so long over it that Andy thought the place must not have salads after all. He threw a quick look over Paul's shoulder.

"Hey, more choices than I thought, even a couscous-lentil salad. Can't decide?"

"I'm just not too good at reading Greek yet. I learned at Saturday classes, back when I was in grade school, but hadn't really practiced until I came here in March, and I'm still not very diligent about it. Yeah, I'll have the couscous."

"And what about the souvlaki? How many? Chicken or pork?"

"I don't eat meat. Just the couscous, please."

"You don't eat meat?"

"No."

"How 'bout lamb?"

Paul grinned, obviously recognizing the reference to 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding', and shook his head.

"Boy, you weren't kidding when you said you were the black sheep of the family. Not only gay, but a vegetarian, as well? I can just about picture you at the Pappas family gatherings: no wife, no ankle-biters and then you won't even touch the psito? Yikes! "

"They don't know I'm gay."

"Huh?"

Paul shook his head. "Look, why don't you call in the order? I can tell you all about it later, if you want, though it's not very interesting."

Andy tried to hold Paul's gaze as he hurriedly placed the order, but Paul was twitchy, wandering into the living room and back, minutely readjusting the positions of Andy's Kinder Egg toys on the kitchen shelves.

"Your family doesn't know you're gay?" Andy asked after he'd hung up, just to make sure he'd heard correctly.

"You know they don't allow these in the States?" Paul asked, his back turned, still fooling around with the toys. "I think they found lead in the plastic, or something."

"Hasn't killed me yet. Paul. You're not out to your family?"

Paul finally turned around to face him. "Why are you so surprised?" he asked harshly. "I can't be the only closeted guy you know."

"I'm sorry. I just thought... I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry about? It's not your fault."

"No, I know. I didn't mean to bring up anything unpleasant."

Paul's shoulders dropped a little. "It's why I'm here," he said more quietly. "To come out."

Andy gaped at him. "In Greece? What did you do, read the 'Last of the Wine' or something and think it's still like that here?"

"The last of what?"

Andy sighed and sat down at the kitchen table. After a brief hesitation, Paul came and sat down, as well, his hands clenched together on the table.

"'Last of the Wine' by Mary Renault. It's set in Athens, around the Age of Pericles, and a large part of the book is about the love affair between these two men, Lysis and Alexias. That's what spelled things out for me, because heaven forbid that we should learn about homosexuality in high-school history classes or even biology, for that matter. Not when I went to school, at any rate. You should have moved to Sweden. Or the Netherlands. Or pretty much anywhere in Europe but here."

"Yeah, but my Swedish and Dutch are even worse than my Greek." Paul joked, but the accompanying smile didn't reach his eyes. "Anyway, it wasn't really about the destination. I just needed to get as far away from my family and friends as possible to do this, and I thought they'd kick up less of a fuss if I told them I'm coming here, rather than Sweden or even California, for that matter. I think they think I'm searching for my roots. Then, when I'm more ...used to it, I'll go back and tell them."

"Do you still have family here?"

"Not in Athens, that I know of. There are a few cousins down in the Peloponnese, near Kalamata. I'll have to look them up eventually."

Andy smoothed a finger along the grain of the wooden table, surreptitiously inching his way towards Paul's clenched hands. He wasn't sure his touch would be welcome; Paul seemed to have hunkered deep into himself.

"I will come out, Andy. I already told somebody at work, earlier." Paul suddenly sounded scared, and Andy stopped being afraid of rejection and trying to be subtle, and simply covered Paul's hands with his own.

"I don't care, Paul. It doesn't make any difference to me, if you're out or not." He wasn't sure that came out quite as he'd intended, and he sought to clarify: "I mean, I do care, but only in terms of how it affects you or your happiness. I wish I could do something to help."

Paul shook his head and drew his hands out from under Andy's. Andy pretended not to notice, and stood to get them both a beer, then sat down at the table again. Paul accepted the bottle, but didn't drink. From time to time he'd look up at Andy, then his eyes would quickly slide away again. He seemed to be waiting for something more, but Andy couldn't begin to guess what that was.

"Me, I was outed," he said finally. "I'd just graduated from college, in the States, and one of my friends came over for vacation. We went to Mykonos, which had a lively gay scene, even twenty years ago. We weren't the subjects of the photograph, a well-known hairdresser was, but there I was in the background, in a gay club, sucking face with a guy. Somebody recognized me when they saw the picture in a gossip rag, and the rest is history. My dad's in politics, and at the time he was a key member of the conservative party, so you can probably imagine the shit storm that followed."

Paul was finally maintaining eye-contact. In fact, he was staring so hard, he was barely blinking. "Wow. What did you do?"

"There wasn't much I could do. Just kept my head down, until the next big scandal. My dad refused to discuss the subject in the press, saying only that he loved me and that my personal life had nothing to do with his political beliefs or performance, but he was under a lot of pressure, even from his own party, to resign. He wasn't too happy about the whole thing, still isn't, but he's there for me if I need him. But there were plenty of people, close family included, who were actively angry at me or disgusted by me or whatever, and they cut off all contact." Andy spread his hands. "But at the end of it all, I was out, and it was almost a relief, you know? There wasn't anything I needed to do, it just happened and finally the dust settled and I went on with my life."

"I read somewhere that all gays have a duty to come out. If people knew who we were, that we're just like them, they'd have to accept us."

"Maybe. In my experience, though, a lot of people easily find plenty of reasons why you're different than them and deserve to be hated. Coming out is a decision every person has to make for themselves. Nobody has the right to tell you how you should live, and that includes the LGBT community."

The doorbell rang then, and Andy went to pick up the food. By the time he came back with the packages, Paul had turned on the radio and was shuffling through the pre-set stations, finally stopping at one playing Hadjidakis.

"My mom listens to this a lot. You'd think he's the only Greek composer."

"He isn't?" Andy raised his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. "Do you want another beer?"




Sweet Spot Ch. 02



"No, I think I'll switch to water, thanks."

Paul helped Andy transfer the food onto plates and they ate in silence for a while.

"I don't think my parents will be okay with it," Paul said eventually. "Probably not my older brother or my sister, either. My younger brother, maybe, but he'll never stand up to the rest of the family."

"So why tell them, then? Why not just live your life, and let the cards fall, where they may?"

"I met this guy on a business trip last year. Nate. He recognized me, had even been to what turned out to be my last professional game, and we hit it off. I wasn't positive he was gay, and I don't think he could really tell about me, either, but I liked him. Anyway, we finally figured things out, and we saw each other a couple of times. It didn't work out, but he said something that made me see what I was missing."

"What's that?"

"He said that he didn't want to be in a relationship, where it was a given that he'd never get to meet his lover's family or friends, or even hold hands with him in a movie. And the way he said it, it seemed like such a simple thing, you know, not much to ask for at all. And it just hit me, that I'd given up on all that, that it never even occurred to me that I could have somebody in my life to share stuff with, like my parents, sister and brothers do."

"You might still not find anybody, and you'll also have alienated your family." Andy hated himself for saying it, but it was true. Finding someone permanent wasn't a given, and he had 20 years' worth of proof.

"I know. But my family all have their own priorities, and at least I'll have given myself a fighting chance." Paul chewed his last bite thoughtfully. "I want them to know me. I want them to know who I am, whether they like it or not. I've always done what I have to do, what they've wanted me to do. I've been a good son, a good brother. Now I want to do what I want to do."

Andy watched him spell-bound, touched by the quiet certainty and pride in Paul's voice.

"For what it's worth, I think you're great," he said quietly, and Paul's smile blazed bright before he ducked his head again.

**********

Paul hadn't actually meant to reveal so much about himself, and certainly not so quickly. At first he'd been sure that history was repeating itself, that Andy would want the same kind of assurances that Nate had, and even though Paul was a little closer to being able to offer those assurances, he'd panicked at the thought of a deadline he wasn't ready for. Andy's understanding had been an unexpected gift, especially since overall he seemed a less considerate and understanding man than Nate. Then again, Nate had only expected of Paul the choice he'd made himself, whereas Andy had as much as said that he was ultimately relieved the choice had been made for him.

Andy was separating the trash from the recyclables, humming along with the radio, pausing every now and then to drink his second beer, and Paul felt a sense of deja-vu, as if he'd spent other nights sitting in this same chair, watching Andy clean up after a shared dinner. He felt like he could relax, just be at peace for a while.

Andy finally shoved the recycling bin back into the cabinet, dusted his hands, and then turned to smile at Paul. His hair had parted right down the middle and dried flat against his head and a cowlick was sticking up at the crown.

"You look like a blond Alfalfa," Paul smiled, and Andy's hand immediately flew up to pat his cowlick down and then sweep his hair to one side. "Guess that's not the first time you've heard that, huh?"

"I always wanted Greek hair instead of stupid Scandinavian hair," Andy said grumpily. "And Greek skin, too. But no. At the beach I was always the little dork covered with a hat, shirt and thick layers of sunscreen that my mom kept on reapplying every time I even looked at the water."

"Yeah, I never had that problem," Paul smiled complacently, then pulled his waistband down slightly in order to show off the contrast between tanned and untanned skin at his hip. "Do you know when I was five, a scout approached my mom because they wanted to put me in one of those Coppertone commercials? You know the ones, right, where the dog is pulling down the little kid's bathing suit? Of course, I've never really needed suntan lotion, except maybe the first couple of outings to the beach, so it would have been false advertising."

"Fucker," Andy growled and approached menacingly. "How would you like a wedgie? I bet it would work really well with those whitey-tighties you're wearing."

Paul might have been more worried if it weren't for the tent in Andy's shorts. Nevertheless, he got up in a hurry and backed away. And really, there was only one way to completely eliminate the risk of a wedgie, so Paul shoved his briefs down down his legs and kicked them out of reach.

Andy pointed at him. "You just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire, young man."

Paul decided that further retreat would only make him look like a coward, so he stood his ground and placed his fists on his hips. "Yeah?" he snarled, though it came out more like a giggle.

Next thing he knew, though he wasn't sure quite how it happened, he was slung over Andy's shoulder and they were moving fast. He held onto Andy's waistband with one hand to steady himself, although Andy had a pretty good grip on his bare butt, and onto his glasses with the other. Then he was sailing through the air, and he landed on the mattress, where he bounced once. He barely had time to take off his glasses and set them on the nightstand before approximately 185 lbs of growling man landed on him.

"Ow! Get off, you big lug."

Andy had trapped both of Paul's wrists over his head with one big hand, and now he propped himself up one elbow and cupped the top of Paul's head with his free hand, tangling his fingers in his hair and immobilizing him. Paul arched his back in an effort to throw him off, but Andy didn't budge. Paul struggled a bit more, but, reluctant to resort to the dirty tricks he'd used when wrestling with his brothers as they involved tender body parts, not really wanting to get free anyway, eventually gave up.

"You're always crushing me," he whined a bit breathlessly, looking up into Paul's laughing eyes.

"Yeah? Is that a complaint? Because I like having you under me, so I'll probably keep on doing it."

Andy dipped his head and gave Paul a quick kiss, then withdrew out of reach, when Paul tried to kiss him back.

"I like how your skin feels against mine." Kiss. "I liked how your nipples tightened into little pink peaks, when I was blowing you earlier." Kiss and a quick, tickling lick. "I liked the way your inner thighs felt against my face, and how you smelled." Lick. "And two weeks ago, in the hotel, I liked how you arched your back and spread your legs for me, so that I could see your hairy little hole." Wet, slow lick. "I liked how you eventually opened up for me, and the sounds you made when I was fucking you." Kiss.

"Fuck!" Paul gasped, and he strained upward again, ignoring the small pain from Andy tugging his hair, trying to capture Andy's mouth with his own.

"Most of all, I liked how my dick felt inside you, honey eyes. I liked how you squeezed me when you came, your beautiful dick spurting in my fist. I want that again."

"Me too, Andy!" Paul panted, lost in Andy's words and his voice and his touch, in the memories he was evoking. "Please!"

"But I can't decide now. Do I flip you over again? Or do I just lift your legs, push 'em back until you're folded in half, so that we can both watch me fucking you?"

"Oh, Jesus!" Paul writhed, rocking his hips up so that he could rub his cock against Andy. "Fuck!"

"How? What'll it be, honey eyes? Tell me."

"Like this. I want to watch."

Andy finally let Paul's wrists go, though he still kept hold of his hair, and kissed him deeply. His arms free, Paul wrapped them around Andy's back, pulling him harder against his body, still rocking his dick between both their bellies, on the verge of cumming.

"Yeah," Andy whispered harshly, his free hand forcing Paul's thigh up, then trapping it between his arm and his body, opening him up so that Paul could feel Andy's cock, slick with pre-cum, sliding damply along his crack. "Just like that, Paul. Just. Like. That."

Paul heard himself begging Andy to fuck him, and even in the middle of an orgasm that was causing every muscle in his body to spasm, he wondered how he could lose such complete control of himself, that he hadn't even realized he was speaking out loud. He squeezed his eyes shut and clung to Andy as he rode out the final waves of his orgasm. He felt Andy shifting his weight, and he opened his eyes, but Andy wasn't going anywhere, just reaching for the lube and condoms.

"Let me," Paul said, and tore the small package open, as Andy, still holding onto Paul's leg, kneeled and sat back on his heels. Paul crunched up a bit to reach, and rolled the condom on, and then, remembering the pain of initial entry last time, lay flat again and lubed and stretched his own hole, while Andy watched with hot eyes.

Finally, Andy roughly pushed his hand away, and grabbing Paul's other leg, as well, pulled Paul's hips onto his thighs. "I can't wait any more, honey eyes."

"So don't. Fuck me, Andy."

The first slow thrust burned as it seemed to stretch Paul impossibly, and he took a deep breath, then released it as Andy partly withdrew.

"Okay?" Andy whispered and Paul nodded and reached out to pinch Andy's nipple. Andy's hips jerked in response, and Paul pinched him again.

"Naughty," Andy mumbled with a smile, and he rose from his heels, raising Paul's hips higher and folding him, as he'd said he would, until Paul's weight was resting on his upper back and shoulders.

"Can you see?"

Paul grunted an affirmative, his eyes glued to where their bodies were joined. He watched Andy's dick fuck his hole, and then he looked up into Andy's eyes, and reached up and cupped his cheek. Andy bent over awkwardly and kissed him slowly, almost tenderly, then straightened again and picked up the rhythm. Paul could tell by the way his eyes were starting to shut and by his breathing that Andy was about to come, and he clenched his hole deliberately, trying to make it even better for Andy. Andy cried out and he shoved hard into Paul once more, his final thrusts more reflex than deliberate. Afterward, he laid Paul's legs down on the bed and lay back on top of him, framed Paul's head with his big hands, and kissed him again. In a blissful daze, Paul returned the kisses and he hugged Andy against him.

"Can I crush you some more?" Andy asked after a while. "Maybe tomorrow? And the day after?"

His voice was teasing, but Paul thought he heard something else, as well, hope maybe, or affection, or maybe just pleasure in what they'd just done, and he was fine with any of those possibilities.

"Yeah," he responded gruffly, and Andy kissed him again, before finally rolling off and expertly getting rid of the condom by tying it up and scoring 3 points in the wastebasket clear across the room. Paul was sticky with drying sweat and semen, and he was half-hard again, but too sleepy for any further physical activity. He stretched his muscles, relishing the slight ache, and lay on his back, not thinking about much of anything, just feeling good.

"Hey, Paul?"

"Hmmm?"

"My alarm goes off at 7:30. Do you need it earlier?"

"No, 7:30 is fine," Paul answered, smiling up at the ceiling. He thought about turning onto his side, because he always snored when he slept on his back and his brothers had hated sharing a room with him, but he fell asleep before he had a chance to.



Sweet Spot Ch. 03



Andy would be the first to admit that he wasn't one of those disgustingly chipper morning people. As far as he was concerned, anything that could be done well before noon, could be done even better after noon. He hit the snooze button three times, before finally dragging himself out of bed and shuffling to the bathroom. It was only after he'd splashed some cool water on his face that he remembered there should have been another man next to him in bed. He checked the bedroom, in case he'd somehow missed a naked Paul in there, hastily donned his discarded shorts, then went searching through the rest of the house. He found Paul in the kitchen, drinking a glass of juice and looking disconcertingly alert.

"Good morning," Paul said pleasantly.

Andy grunted and bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile, then made a beeline for the coffee, which Paul had thoughtfully prepared. He poured himself a big mug and added milk and sugar, then turned around and leaned a hip against the counter. Paul had obviously showered, and was wearing white shorts, socks and sneakers. Andy felt grubby and wrinkled in comparison.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, then scowled at Paul's raised eyebrow. "I mean the second time around." 

In any case, if anybody was to blame for last night, it was Paul. Andy had woken up in the middle of the night and, for the first time in his life, had realized the truth of the expression "sawing wood" in reference to snoring. He'd first tried to push Paul over onto his side without waking him, with only minimal success. He then decided that if he was awake, Paul might as well be, too. Very pleasant developments ensued, but they didn't get back to sleep until the birds had started their morning song outside.

"Better than you, if your mood is anything to go by," Paul answered dryly.

"No, I'm always like this first thing in the morning," Andy assured him. "Just ignore me until I've had my second cup of coffee."

Paul checked the old-fashioned digital watch on his right wrist. "I have to get going pretty soon. About those shirts?"

"Oh, yeah. Do they need to be all white?" Andy regretfully placed his mug on the counter, but he couldn't very well let Paul look for the shirts on his own.

"Mostly white, if you've got a couple. If not, don't worry about it."

"I should. Hold on, I'll go check."

Despite his instructions, Paul followed him into the bedroom and waited, while Andy rummaged through his closet.

"Here, these two are a bit tight on me, so they should fit you alright."

Andy held one of the shirts, still on its hanger, against Paul's torso, trying to judge the size. He raised his eyes to Paul's face, to check for his reaction, only to catch him staring intently at Andy.

"They're great," Paul said gruffly, though Andy doubted he'd even noticed the proffered shirts. "I'll get 'em back to you, once I've washed them."

"You can keep them, if you want." Andy rather liked the idea of Paul wearing his clothes. "Like I said, they don't really fit that well."

"Yeah, okay," Paul said, but he was still staring at Andy in a way that made Andy's mouth go dry, and Andy was pretty sure Paul wouldn't have been able to repeat any part of their conversation.

He finally resorted to nudging Paul, and Paul took the shirt and started to pull it over his head. 

"Paul? Can I see you tonight?" 

It was easier to ask, when Paul couldn't see him, but then he had to wait, while Paul went through an endless series of minute adjustments to the shirt's shoulder seams, sleeves and collar. He buttoned one button, then unbuttoned it again, then combed his fingers through his hair. Andy could tell he was about to ask for a mirror, and he resignedly pointed to the one behind Paul, and watched Paul stall some more.

"I finish at 9:00 tonight. Will that be okay?" Paul eventually asked, looking at Andy through the mirror.

Andy breathed a sigh of relief.

"Sure. Do you want to go someplace for dinner? Do you like seafood? There's a pretty good place I know at Porto Rafti, right near the water. Do you even eat seafood? Or we could stay here." He finally managed to shut his mouth, wondering why Paul always reduced him to a babbling idiot.

Paul hesitated briefly, then shook his head. "I'd rather stay here, I think. Anyway, I'll have already eaten by that point."

"Staying here is good, too. It's fine, in fact."

"Okay, great. Well, I'll see you tonight then." 

With a last adjustment to his collar, Paul turned briskly and almost trotted out of the bedroom. Andy followed Paul to the front door, where his bike and bag were, and watched him squat to carefully pack the extra shirt. He once again considered telling Paul that he could wash his stuff here, and once again decided that at this point it would complicate things. One thing he'd learned during business negotiations is that you never make an offer if you're not at least 70% sure of what the response will be, and while this wasn't business, some of the same principles applied.

Paul stood, slung his bag across his shoulder, and grabbed hold of his bike, wheeling it so that it was between Andy and him. Andy opened the door, and watched Paul navigate his way down the path and through the garden gate.

"Hey," he called out impulsively, right before Paul closed the gate, and Paul looked back, but Andy had nothing to say; he'd just wanted to postpone Paul's departure if only for brief second. He ended up with "Have a nice day" and a weak wave, and Paul smiled and waved back, before riding off.

As he closed the door, Andy knew the entire morning up up to that point could have been handled better, but, even in hindsight, he was damned if he knew how. He should have at least kissed Paul, though. Or Paul should have kissed him. He'd make sure one or the other happened next time.

---o-O-o---

Given that Paul had no alternative but to go to work and face whatever the situation there was, he wished he'd managed to get out of the house before Andy had woken up, even if it would have meant wearing one of yesterday's shirts. He'd been too wound up to really interact with Andy -- not that Andy seemed to want much interaction -- and now he was wearing a shirt that he was convinced everybody would know belonged not to him, but to the guy he'd spent the night with.

A block away from the Tennis Club, he had to stop. Half-hidden behind one of the enormous oleander bushes lining the sidewalk, his stomach tied in knots, he bent over and tried not to throw up. The temperature was already in the high 30s and he was sweating right through Andy's shirt.

"Fuck," he whispered, finally straightening up. He rummaged through his bag for one of his wristbands or bandanas, and eventually gave up and just wiped his forehead on his sleeve. He gave himself a stern and unsympathetic lecture, reminding himself that this is what he had wanted, and that thousands of men had come out before him, under much more difficult circumstances. "Stop being such a fucking coward," he muttered, and cranked his head right and left, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders. "This is nothing. Who the hell even cares what they think? It's none of their business. You're an adult, Pappas, Act like one." He wiped his forehead once again and climbed back onto his bike. 

By the time he reached the club, he'd worked himself up so much in anticipation of a confrontation, that he was actually spoiling for one. He stomped into the locker rooms, but they were empty, which was rather anticlimactic. He banged his locker door open, and then, once he'd collected tennis racquets, water bottles and the rest of his paraphernalia, banged it shut again, but nobody was drawn inside to check what all the noise was about. He trudged out to the courts, where the tennis academy kids were already gathering around Zois and Michalis.

"Yasoo, Pavlo," Zois greeted him like he did every morning, and if his tone was any different today, Paul couldn't tell. He was adjusting a dampener on one of the kids' racquets and didn't look up, but that wasn't suspicious either. Michalis was kneeling on the ground, tying his shoelace, and he waved a hand in lazy greeting.

Paul nodded at them and bumped knuckles with a couple of the older kids, then took his position with the other two coaches to start the drills. His adrenalin still running high, he tried to concentrate on the children, but he couldn't stay focused, his emotions flying from disbelief that things were really going to turn out to be so simple -- and, if so, why the hell had he waited so many years? -- to relief to suspicion that he was somehow being set up. Zois and he couldn't quite meet one another's eyes, but by this point Paul wasn't sure if that was his fault or Zois'. Maybe he'd imagined the look of distaste on Zois' face last night. Maybe Zois had been simply trying to give him a friendly heads-up, in case it was Paul himself that might feel uncomfortable in the company of a gay man.

After the academy, Paul rode home in the late morning heat, too hot and sweaty for his thoughts or emotions to take specific shape. Overall he was feeling relieved, and optimistic, and a bit stupid, as well. He'd always expected some reaction when he came out, some Significant Obstacle that he'd need to bravely overcome; instead, life seemed to be going on as usual. Well, not quite as usual, because now there was Andy. Paul rode the last uphill kilometer smiling broadly.

He emptied his bag into the washing machine, then took a quick cool shower and went out to the small balcony to collect the previous load of wash, which he'd hung out to dry two days ago. The shirts really needed a bit of ironing, but Paul made do with smoothing them out a little prior to folding them. Not that it would fool anybody. He really missed the state-of-the-art washers and dryers his building in Manhattan had boasted, but supposed he was lucky enough that his apartment had come with a refrigerator, oven and washer, even if they were all twenty years old. Judging by the wash hanging out on balconies and terraces, not many Athenians owned a dryer.

He took a quick nap, then emptied the washer and hung out the clothes. He re-packed his bag with enough tennis clothes to last him through tomorrow, plus a pair of jeans in case Andy and he decided to go out for a drink or something later. He debated grabbing a cab to the Club, then thought of his bank account and decided to ride. Although the temperatures were still soaring, enough of his ride was through narrow streets with apartments on either side and then through the tree-lined streets of the suburbs, that he could stay in the shade and keep cooler. Or that was the theory, anyway, and it proved totally irrelevant, because even in the shade it was way too hot; Paul was reminded of that old Twilight Zone episode, where the Earth was falling towards the sun. 

Paul arrived at the Club with minutes to spare before his first lesson, and hurriedly toweled dry before pulling on a fresh shirt. He rushed out to the courts, to find another instructor he didn't know too well already putting his pupil through her paces. 

"I'm here now. Sorry I was late," he said in his careful Greek, but the instructor shook her head at him.

"Mr. Maras wants to see you."

"What, now?" Paul asked surprised, and only got a nod in return. "Okay. I'll be back as soon as I can. Thank you for helping."

The woman nodded again, but otherwise didn't respond.

The club manager's office was on the 2nd floor of the main building that also housed the café and the members' changing rooms. Wide windows looked down on the courts, though the blinds were drawn against the afternoon sun. The office was an oasis of cool, and Maras gestured towards one of the visitor chairs.

"Please, Paul, sit down. Can I have Maria bring you anything?"

"No, thanks," Paul responded, a bit nonplussed at the offer. Maras, a penny-pinching dapper 50-year old, hadn't even offered Paul a drink during his first interview, let alone after, once he'd become a member of staff.

"You're sure? Maybe an orange juice? A water? You must at least have a water," Maras insisted in his precise English.

"Water would be great, thank you."

Maras dialled Maria, then waited for her to pick up, giving Paul a tight-lipped fake smile the entire time, and Paul's heart began to sink. This was the other shoe dropping. Maras placed an order for coffee for himself, as well as for Paul's water, then replaced the receiver and leaned forward, an earnest look on his face.

"So, Paul, it seems we have a little problem." He nodded once and smiled encouragingly, as if prompting for Paul's participation.

"A problem, Mr. Maras?" Paul asked obligingly.

"Yes." Maras held up his hand, thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "A small one. Yet we must now manage it, before it becomes bigger."

Paul crossed his arms over his chest. "Okay."

Maras' smile was replaced by a look of deep disappointment.

"You should have told me, Paul. It is not right that I did not know. Maybe in America this is usual, but here we need to be careful. We have a responsibility."

"Mr. Maras, I'm still not quite sure what the problem is," Paul said, trying to sound calm and hoping Maras couldn't hear the slight break in his voice.

"Why, that you are a homosexual, of course! I must confess to great surprise, Paul. Great surprise! I, personally, have no problem with the homosexuals, as long as they are private and behave properly, but some of the members are not as open-minded as I." 

Maria knocked on the door then, and silence reigned as she placed the coffee and water on the desk between the two men. Once she'd closed the door behind her, Maras reached for his coffee and took a dainty sip.

"And then, there are the children."

"The children," Paul repeated, his calm facade starting to crack. He pressed his crossed arms hard against his chest, as if that would somehow slow his heart down and contain the emerging rage.

"The children, Paul. The children are entrusted to us. We cannot expose them."

"Expose them to what, exactly?"

"Greek parents are strict, Paul. They wish their children to be brought up properly," Maras evaded.

"Even if that were true -- and by the way, these kids are just about the most spoiled and ill-behaved I've ever come across -- I still don't see the problem, Mr. Maras. Are you accusing me of something?"

"Accusing you? No, of course not! There have been rumors, but if you tell me that they are untrue, we shall say no more of it and I shall reprimand those who started them."

"Rumors?" Paul felt sick. What the hell had Zois said? That he'd done something to the children? "What rumors?"

Maras sat back. "But... That you are a homosexual, of course! What have we been talking about? Are you saying it's not true?" He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his forehead. "Thank God that's resolved."

"No. I mean yes," Paul said. "I mean yes, I'm gay. That's all you're referring to?"

Maras looked worried again. "That's all? My dear boy, this is a serious matter."

"Why? I've worked here for almost three months and nobody knew, until I told somebody. Which means that I was private and behaved properly, so there's no problem."

"But..."

Paul stood up. "This conversation is over, Mr. Maras. What I am is actually none of your or anybody else's business. If anybody has a complaint about how I teach tennis or how I treat my pupils, a valid complaint, I'll be happy to listen to it." He pointed at Maras. "I don't like name-dropping," mostly because he had no names to drop, but Maras didn't need to know that, "but I still have very good friends in the world of tennis and I also have good friends that are members here. You should think about that, Mr. Maras. And while you're at it, you should also think about the fact that your coaching staff is composed of twenty-something-year-old graduates, most of whom know just enough about tennis not to totally embarrass themselves out there. I'm the only tennis name you've got. So if you want your tennis academy to grow, and if you want to host country and regional tournaments here, you should probably start figuring out how to safeguard me and keep me happy."

Maras had shrunk back into his chair. "Perhaps if we denied the rumors," he suggested tentatively.

"Yeah? How do you suggest we do that? Issue a letter to the members? Or maybe I could take them all aside and assure them that I'm straight?" Paul shook his head in disgust at the dawning hope on Maras' face. "No. I'm not denying anything. I'm not dealing with it at all. I'm going back to my class. Don't worry, she's a girl, so she should be safe enough with me."

Paul almost slammed the door behind him, only stopping himself at the last moment and pulling it to softly. He was trembling, and he concentrated on getting down the stairs in one piece, because his knees felt weak and shaky. He started out towards the courts, but at the last moment veered off towards the staff facilities, that were housed in an older one-story building that might have once been a stable. A couple of the coaches were sitting on plastic white chairs outside, drinking juices and cokes and snacking on yoghurt and fruit. They'd been talking animatedly but fell silent the moment Paul appeared around the corner. 

Paul didn't have the heart for another confrontation; he ignored them and walked into the sweltering locker rooms, where he sat on a bench and stared blankly at the little square of pale blue evening sky visible through the high window. He might as well let his replacement finish this session, then he only had two more lessons and he could go home. Or rather, to Andy's home. Where Andy would be waiting for him, big and blond, with his Alfalfa hair and his smiling eyes. Paul inhaled deeply and relaxed back against the locker.

Okay, so things weren't going to be that easy, but everything would be fine. He'd be fine.

---o-O-o---

Andy calculated that Paul would need maybe five or ten minutes for any last tasks at the Tennis Club, plus another five minutes tops for the bike ride to his house. That would put him on Andy's doorstep at 9:10, 9:15 at the latest, and Andy couldn't fucking wait. He'd spent the early part of the evening at his gym, figuring he now had a reason to suffer the pain required for him to lose his spare tire -- unfortunately, Andy had always found vanity a much stronger motivator than health concerns -- and the last hour trying to recuperate from the evil treadmill and weight-machines by lying in the hammock in his back garden with a beer (a light one). He'd even ordered chicken souvlaki again, although he'd really wanted a double bacon cheeseburger, so all in all he was feeling pretty virtuous.

At 9:05, Andy roused himself from a happy fantasy, in which a naked Paul was rubbing warm oil all over him and massaging his aching quadriceps, made sure his cowlicks were all gelled into submission, and took up a post at the living room window. He didn't have long to wait; Paul wheeled his bike through the front gate and up the path to the entrance.

Andy rushed to open the door. "Hey, you!" he beamed and helped Paul with his bike and sports bag. 

Paul's eyes were tired, but he smiled, as well. "Hey, you!"

Andy was well aware that he wasn't one of this world's deep thinkers. As far as possible, he liked to keep things simple and he wasn't given to second-guessing himself. He knew he liked Paul and, if it were solely up to him, would have seen no reason to hide the fact or to not proceed full steam ahead as was his usual m.o. Still, he was aware that Paul was coming from a very different place, one he didn't fully understand, and that worried him. If things ultimately got screwed up, he'd deal with it, but he didn't want to be the one to kill any chance at a longer acquaintance dead by pushing too hard too early. So he tried not to be too obvious about the rush of excitement and happiness at actually having Paul in his house again.




Sweet Spot Ch. 03



"You look hot. Feel like taking a swim?"

"A swim? Where?"

Andy grinned. "That's right, I never did give you the full tour last night, did I? Right this way."

Paul followed him through the living room, to the sliding windows that opened to the back garden. He stopped short at the sight of the pool. "Oh, wow."

"Nice, huh?"

"I'll say. You should have told me. I'd have brought a swim suit."

"Well, unfortunately it's not private enough that you don't need one, unless it's maybe three in the morning, and my trunks would probably be too big around the waist. You should be fine in those tightey-whiteys you wear, though," Andy leered.

"You like those, huh?"

"Oh, yeah." More precisely, he liked Paul in them.

"I don't know. They turn fairly transparent."

"Oh, well. Maybe next time."

"Ah, to hell with with it," Paul growled, and started undressing in a hurry. Andy barely had a chance to admire the unveiling, before Paul was diving cleanly into the water. "Oh, my God," Paul moaned, surfacing in the middle of the pool and shoving his hair back. "This is great."

Andy pulled off his shirt and joined him. He relaxed at one side, his arms stretched out and resting on the edge of the pool, and watched Paul swim a few laps.

"Do you understand the concept of relaxing?" he asked curiously, when Paul paused for breath.

"Yes. Why?"

"Well, this..." Andy waved his hand back and forth vigorously, indicating either end of the pool several times, "this is not exactly relaxing."

Paul grinned and swam closer to Andy. "Activity relaxes me."

Andy snagged one of Paul's wrists, and pulled him even closer, then spun him slowly, so that Paul's back was resting against his chest. He wrapped his legs loosely around Paul's body, supporting his weight, so that Paul could float without exerting any effort. "Here, try this instead," he said.

Paul tensed for a couple of seconds, then slowly let his head fall back until it was resting on Andy's shoulder. He took a deep breath and relaxed, his arms loosely floating on the surface. "This is nice, too," he murmured.

Andy kissed his temple and then rested his cheek against Paul's and closed his eyes. The cicadas' song, a bit too loud to be considered truly peaceful, had been the constant background of every one of Andy's summers, and with Paul's body brushing against his in the cool water, he felt a sense of well-being and completeness that he couldn't remember having felt for years. He wished he had a better-stocked fridge, so that they could share watermelon and feta cheese, and that he'd thought to dock his iPod, so that they could listen to music. He wondered if Paul like the Eagles, or if he knew any of the Greek songs that had marked his own summers.

"I could fall asleep like this," Paul mumbled.

"You can if you want to. I'll hold you," Andy said seriously, and he felt Paul smile against his cheek.

---o-O-o---

"It's Friday tomorrow," Andy commented, after they'd hoisted themselves out of the pool and stood air-drying at its side. Paul thought it must be nearing eleven.

A cool breeze had kicked up, rustling through the pine needles, and Paul curled his toes into the grass and stretched pleasurably. He was aware of Andy's gray eyes on him, and he arched his back a little, pushing his groin forward. It was probably too dark for Andy to see his dick starting to swell, but Paul was sure that Andy grasped the implications of his move.

"TGIF. We've got the tennis academy in the morning, but then I'm off until Monday."

"Yeah? Any plans?"

"Not really. Laundry, sleep." Paul swallowed. "Maybe we could do something together?"

"Sure. Hey, have you been to Delfi?"

"Back when I was fifteen or sixteen. I was competing in Germany and the whole family flew over and we came down to Greece for three weeks."

"So you probably don't want to go again." Andy sounded disappointed.

"No, I do. I don't remember much," Paul hastily assured him.

"Great! We could take off Friday afternoon, stay in Galaxidi and then go up to Delfi Saturday morning. Afterward, we could either head back to Galaxidi or Itea and find a nice beach, maybe stay another night, or come back to Athens."

"Sounds good." And it did, although it made Paul a little nervous, too. It felt too early for them to be planning weekends away together. Andy was easy to talk to, but Paul had trouble imagining what they'd find to discuss for a whole day -- perhaps two -- together. Plus, Paul was pretty sure that their ideas on what constituted an affordable hotel room differed considerably.

"Do you have someplace in mind to stay?" he asked with trepidation. Maybe he could look it up on Tripadvisor, figure out the finances. Better yet, if Andy didn't know a specific hotel, Paul could book something he'd be able to afford half of.

"Yeah, I'll make the reservations, don't worry about it," Andy said easily.

"Uhm, Andy, listen, I'm not sure..." Paul paused, wondering if he should address the whole weekend away together idea, or just the affordability issue. The latter seemed less of a rejection of Andy -- of them together -- but it was just as hard to tackle, because Paul had always thought that by now he'd be settled financially. Instead, it was still like he was trying to figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up.

"Not sure about what?"

Paul figured there was no point to being honest about one part of his life, if he was now going to start being dishonest about another.

"Remember yesterday, when I said I don't need money? Well, I don't, but it's not like I have that much, either."

"But what about your tennis earnings?"

"At my level, the winnings aren't as big as you seem to think they are, not that I won all that often in the first place. And while I had a couple of sponsors, they only covered some of my expenses: travel, participation fees, a trainer, that kind of thing. I'd started to put money aside when I worked for my family, but I sank most of that pot into my co-op in Manhattan, and when I sold it, there wasn't much left over. So I... well, basically it's money in, money out right now," Paul explained painfully, his face aflame. 

"So I'll cover this. It's no big deal."

"No, it is. I mean, maybe it isn't, not for you, but I want to cover my half."

"That doesn't make sense, Paul. If it's no problem for me, why are you worrying about it? If I went alone, I'd still spend the same money on hotels, and this way I've got good company, as well."

"But you wouldn't go alone."

"You don't know that. Maybe I would," Andy said stubbornly.

"How often have you been to Delfi alone up until now?"

"Well, not that often, really. But as I'm getting older, I'm starting to appreciate my national heritage more."

Despite his embarrassment over the whole financial issue, Paul found himself fighting not to smile at Andy's sheepish tone. "So, how often over the past five years? Once? Twice?"

"Well, to be precise... sort of...never."

Paul laughed. "Oh, Andy. I appreciate it. I do. It's just..." He gestured vaguely, uncertain as to how to complete the sentence.

"Okay, how about this then. You come over tomorrow after work. We lie around the pool and order in. Then, Saturday morning, I dig out the slides from our family trip to Delfi when I was seven, and we look at those, and then we return to the side of the pool, drink ouzo and eat mezedes. After that we play it by ear."

"Yeah?" Paul smiled, relieved that Andy was taking it so well. "That sounds excellent."

"You say that now, but you don't know how many slides my dad is capable of taking on a single trip," Andy said darkly. "Most of them from very bad angles."

Paul laughed. "Still doesn't sound too bad. When we came to Greece, my mom had a camera virtually glued to her right eye and she insisted that all four kids needed to be in every single frame. My brothers were both in college by that point, and they hadn't even wanted to come along on the trip, let alone pose for endless photos. My mom nearly cried when she saw the pictures and realized they were glaring in every single one of them."

"What about you?"

"I had sort of an afro do going, these aviators that I thought were cool but really weren't, braces and zits. So not an improvement, really."

"Huh. You turned out pretty well then, all things considered."

"Why, thank you, sir."

Andy reached out and hooked a finger on the waistband of Paul's briefs, drawing him closer. Paul went willingly, and looped his arms around Andy's neck. Andy bent down to kiss him, his lips warm and soft on Paul's, the faint scratch of his stubble making Paul shiver with sensation.

"Cold? You want to go inside?" Andy asked.

"Yeah, let's."

Paul followed Andy inside and stood by as Andy closed and locked the shutters. Andy's trunks were riding low on his hips, and Paul reached out to trace one of the two dimples at the base of his spine. Andy threw him a smile over his shoulder, and moved through the living room toward the bedroom.

"I'm going to rinse the pool water off. Want to join me?"

It was one of those things that Paul had never figured the attraction of. A shower had always seemed like a damn uncomfortable -- not to mention a little dangerous -- place to fool around in and while Paul always appreciated a group shower scene in a porn film, he was also glad it wasn't his knees or butt down on the tile. Still, he found himself nodding eagerly in response to Andy's suggestion. 

Andy stripped and adjusted the water temperature and pressure, then stepped into the cubicle and turned towards Paul. Paul became lost in contemplation of Andy's dick, long and pink, the foreskin slightly pulled back from the plumb head.

"Well?" Andy asked, and he sounded like he was smiling, but Paul couldn't drag his eyes away from that cock, and from the wet blond curls at its base, to check his expression. He stepped into the stall and cupped Andy's balls with one hand, the tips of his fingers tickling the tender skin behind them. Andy's breathing quickened, and he widened his stance.

"Oh, yeah," Andy whispered, when Paul wrapped his other hand loosely around Andy's succulent dick and gave an experimental tug or two. He leaned his forehead against Andy's shoulder, and Andy reached behind him to brace himself against the wall and support Paul, as well. Feeling more secure, Paul dragged his mouth across the base of Andy's throat and nipped slightly at his collarbone, both his hands still busy stroking. Andy grunted his name, and rocked his hips, looking for more friction.

"Shh, relax," Paul soothed, and Andy gave a strangled laugh.

"Can't. You drive me crazy. Zero to sixty in nothing flat."

"You wanna cum? Or maybe we could stop, go to bed, glove up, and I could suck you," Paul teased, slowing his ministrations, and Andy wrapped his free hand around Paul's and forced him to move more quickly again.

"Fucker," Andy gasped, then "Oh, yeah, just like that," and then he wrapped both arms tightly around Paul and came in warm spurts against Paul's belly and hands, before relaxing. Paul felt a moment of pure panic as they both lurched off-balance, but Andy steadied them, even as he kissed Paul deeply.

"Good?" Paul asked, because he was a little uncomfortable with the silence, but couldn't think of anything to say, and Andy sighed gustily.

"Not bad," Andy said, "but you could do with some more practice." 

"Asshole," Paul grinned, and pushed Andy a little to the side, so that he could stand under the water and rinse off. Andy stepped out of the stall to dry off, then handed Paul a fresh towel.

"I've never done that before," Paul commented, as he rubbed the towel briskly through his hair.

"What, jerk someone off? Yeah, I could tell. See, that's why you need practice."

"No, showered with someone. I've never had that kind of relationship with anyone before," Paul continued, before his brain caught up with his mouth.

"What, never?"

Andy looked surprised, but he also looked pleased, the smile in his gray eyes warming Paul. Paul wrapped the towel around his waist and then combed his fingers through his curls in an effort to untangle them. Andy came to stand behind him, and replaced Paul's hands with his own. Paul closed his eyes and let Andy work.

"My only longer term relationship was with my trainer, when I was twenty, and we were both too freaked about my dad or coach walking in on us, so even that was more a series of quickies than anything else." Somehow it was easier to tell Andy his experiences when he couldn't see his face. He didn't want proof that Andy probably found him pretty pathetic.

Andy kissed the crown of his head, and tugged lightly on his hair. "Let's go to bed," he said. "I want you to fuck me."

Paul opened his eyes in surprise, and met Andy's in the mirror. They stared at each other for a little, then Andy repeated "Let's go to bed," and Paul followed him, his chest full with things he wasn't sure he wanted to admit even to himself, let alone to Andy.

---o-O-o---

Unlike Paul, there wasn't a lot Andy hadn't done sexually, so long as it didn't involve two specific bodily functions. As far as he could tell, his childhood and teen years had been a lot less structured and supervised than Paul's, and once he'd been outed, he hadn't had much to worry about, as long as remained minimally discreet. The one thing he hadn't done, was get his feelings involved. Not that he'd avoided it -- even though living in Greece and only once-removed from the political limelight, setting up a happy home with someone wasn't without challenges -- but it just hadn't happened. He'd had fun with most, and been fond of a few, but goodbyes had always been pretty easy and painless, whether they came after a couple of hours or a couple of months.

And so, until Paul, Andy hadn't really understood that sex could be more than fun, or getting his rocks off. He pushed his face into the pillow, trying to keep quiet, because he was afraid he'd start sobbing otherwise, and the worst part was that he had no idea why, because he wasn't the least bit sad. He arched his hips up to take Paul deeper, and Paul tightened his grasp on Andy's shoulders, kissed his nape and pushed back. He nudged against Andy's prostate, just the right pressure and rhythm, and Andy knew he was going to cum again, which had to be some sort of record for him. He wished he could see Paul's face, his eyes, but he was also glad that Paul couldn't see him. He squeezed his face deeper into the pillow, Paul's body a sweet weight on his back.

"Andy," Paul whispered over and over again. "Andy. Andy." One of Paul's hands burrowed under the pillow to find Andy's and lace their fingers together. "Andy."

Andy tightened his fingers around Paul's, and pushed his hips up again, wanting more friction, more contact, more everything. He could tell Paul was nearing his own orgasm, and he flexed his hole, trying to lock Paul in.

"Andy!" Paul repeated, a rough cry now, and he pressed harder into Andy, his thrusts wild and right on the edge of pain, pulling Andy over with him.

After they both stilled, Andy turned his head to the side, so that he could breathe. A slight breeze from the ceiling fan cooled his face.

"Oh, honey eyes," Andy groaned, and Paul, still lying on top of Andy, laughed a little and kissed Andy's cheek.

"Good?" Paul asked, and Andy thought of telling him he needed more practice again, but found he couldn't change moods that quickly.

"So good," he said instead. "The best I've ever had."

"Yeah," Paul agreed lowly after what felt like a long, long while, and slid off Andy to lie on his stomach next to him. 

Andy rolled off the wet spot and, still wanting the contact with Paul's skin, reached across to run his fingers down Paul's back, following the dip of his spine to the small patch of fine hairs at its base. Paul squirmed a little.

"Tickles," he objected sleepily, and Andy spread his palm in a firmer caress.

"Hey, Paul?"

"Hmmm?"

"This coming out thing of yours. I'm not just part of it, am I? I mean, you're not suddenly going to vanish without a word, when you've done what you've come to Greece to do, are you?"

"No." 

He didn't sound too sure, but Andy would take what he could get.

"Good. And if there's anything you need, like advice or for me to talk to someone on your behalf, you'll tell me, right?"

"God, no," Paul retorted sharply, sounding scandalized.

"Good. Because you should know, I'm no good at that shit. But I want to help, if I can." Andy squeezed his eyes shut, and wondered why the things he wanted to say to Paul always sounded so much better in his head than out loud.

"Hey, Andy?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up and go to sleep, okay?"

"Okay," Andy said, greatly relieved, and stroked Paul's back once more in gratitude for his understanding.

"But thanks. And if you ever need anything, it goes both ways. You know?" Paul said awkwardly.

"Okay."

"Are you laughing?" Paul asked suspiciously, but he was starting to chuckle, as well.

It took them a long while to settle down after that, because one kept on setting the other off. And by the time they fell quiet, Andy had developed a powerful yearning to blow Paul, and it turned into another late night. He'd probably need to hit the snooze button at least three times tomorrow, Andy reflected sleepily, as he burrowed more closely against Paul's side. Four, if Paul snored again.



Sweet Spot Ch. 04



Paul learned several things about Andy during their virtual Delfi weekend. 

Some stuff Andy volunteered: He'd played basketball in college. His first car had been a convertible VW Golf GTI, and he'd once gotten nearly arrested for, as he put it, "drive-by mooning." He spent a lot of time creating play lists that he then never listened to, because afterward he was never quite in the mood for what he'd prepared, and that was more frustrating than simply putting his entire music file on random play. He liked photography, especially landscapes. He was allergic to kiwis.

Other things Paul figured out through observation: Andy was obsessive about neatness (something Paul heartily approved of). He didn't cook, but religiously watched any show Gordon Ramsay appeared in (and maintained this had nothing to do with Ramsay himself. Or his muscular forearms.) He really was a pill until he'd had his second cup of coffee, and it was best to let him be until then. He was a little too fond of 70s disco, if the amount of it on his iPod was anything to go by.

Due to tennis and, later, business travel, Paul had never developed many close friendships. He'd always thought of himself as a self-sufficient loner and he'd been sure that more than a few hours in the company of anybody other than his family – hell, even of his family – would make him antsy and desperate for solitude. And yet on Sunday afternoon, despite having been with Andy constantly since Friday evening, he found himself depressed by the looming prospect of returning to his apartment.

"You look like you could use a nap. Come share the hammock with me," Andy invited, once they'd finished cleaning up after a very late lunch. They were both in the bathing trunks they'd spent the entire weekend in, and Andy's skin, a little sunburned, gleamed with the SPF50+ suntan lotion he'd been slathering himself with.

Paul let Andy climb into the hammock first, and then awkwardly followed, praying he wouldn't dump them both onto the ground. He found himself lying half on top of Andy, his shoulder tucked in Andy's armpit and his head on Andy's chest. A cool breeze was blowing and they were in the shade of a pine tree, but he still started perspiring within minutes, especially where his and Andy's skins were touching.

"It's still pretty hot out here," he mumbled, smoothing his palm over Andy's warm stomach.

"Is that a complaint?"

Paul burrowed deeper into Andy's side and Andy obligingly hugged him closer. "Nah. Just an observation."

He lay peacefully, eyes closed, listening to the cicadas and the droning of a plane flying high overhead, his nose full of the coconut scent of Andy's suntan lotion, occasionally caressing Andy's belly and hip. At some point he may have even drifted off a bit, and when he returned to full awareness, he wasn't sure if he'd drooled on Andy's chest or if it was only sweat. He moved his cheek to rest on a slightly dryer spot.

"Are you awake?" he whispered.

"Uh huh."

"I have to get going pretty soon. I need to get my stuff organized for tomorrow, clean my apartment a little."

Andy had hung one leg off the edge of the hammock and had been swinging them gently, and now he stopped, probably expecting Paul to climb out, but Paul wasn't quite ready yet; he lay there, counting slowly in his head, thinking that he'd get up when he reached fifty.

"If I say something, do you promise not to laugh?" Andy asked just as Paul had reached eighty three.

"No," Paul answered, already grinning in anticipation of whatever Andy was about to disclose.

Andy took a deep breath, his chest expanding under Paul's cheek.

"I think I've fallen for you."

Paul felt like someone had sucker-punched him in the gut, robbing him of his breath and leaving him struggling to understand what had just happened. "Oh," he said finally, his voice faint.

"Are you laughing?" Andy asked gruffly.

"No," Paul whispered. He swallowed hard and tried to put some order to his thoughts, but they wouldn't settle on one thing long enough. He wasn't even sure if the adrenaline rush that was making him slightly nauseous was due to excitement or terror. 

There might have been things about himself that Paul didn't like and was slow in changing, but at least he didn't hide from them. He knew that somewhere along the way he'd developed a massive crush on Andy, and he was mostly okay with it, determined to enjoy it as long as it lasted. But the fact that Andy reciprocated the crush, that he actually admitted it out loud, somehow made his own feelings seem inadequate, maybe even false. Andy had just upped the ante considerably, and Paul didn't know whether or how he was supposed to react.

"Hey," Andy said, tugging on Paul's hair in what was by now a familiar gesture. "I can feel your heart pounding. Relax. There's no reason to panic."

"No, I know," Paul lied.

"I just wanted you to know. So that you don't wonder if I seem weird."

"Weird?"

He felt Andy shrug.

"Like if I were to invite you to stay here, or come back for your breaks, or use my laundry room, if you want. So that you'd know why I'm doing it, that it's for my benefit and that you shouldn't feel obligated or anything."

"Oh."

"I should have kept my mouth shut," Andy said resignedly. "My age, I should know better."

For the life of him, Paul couldn't think of anything to say. But he didn't like hearing Andy despondent, either. Andy was too impulsive, that was the problem; he laid himself wide open to getting hurt. And that was an epiphany, that Andy could get hurt, because until that point he'd seemed damned near invincible.

"No. It's good you told me," he said stoutly. "Because I think I'm falling for you, too, and I wouldn't want to be the only one acting weird."

Andy tugged his hair harder, and Paul raised his head, so that they could look each other in the eye.

"Weird?" Andy asked, his lips pulling up at the corners.

"Yeah. Like if I drop by unannounced to do emergency laundry but only have one shirt with me. Or if I come over for a healthy snack."

"And why would coming over for a healthy snack be weird?" Andy asked, sounding affronted, as if his fridge were full of yoghurt and fruit, instead of beer, juice, evaporated milk for his coffee, and a tub of margarine that had expired two years ago and that Paul was afraid to even touch.

Paul reached up and kissed him hard, and Andy immediately responded, his fingers tightening in Paul's hair, his tongue thrusting into Paul's mouth. He still tasted of the ouzo they'd been drinking earlier, and Paul moaned and squirmed higher on Andy's chest, so that he could deepen the kiss. The hammock swung alarmingly and they jerked apart.

"Dammit," Andy grumbled, and started shoving at Paul's shoulders. "Up, up. Get up."

"I am up!"

"And stop with the double entendres already." 

Andy pushed with his foot, so that the hammock tipped and dumped them both, more or less standing, on the lawn.

"You're not going anywhere until I've crushed you one more time," Andy declared, hurrying inside the house and towards the bedroom, dragging an unresisting Paul along behind him.

For all the previous urgency, once they were naked on the bed, things slowed down. Paul was too aware that after they were done, his Delfi weekend would be over; the experience of lying with Andy's solid weight slightly squashing him changed from sexual heat into something bittersweet to be savored. For his part, Andy now seemed happy to let Paul take the lead, and braced himself on his forearms, staring down at Paul and occasionally dipping his head to kiss him slowly, but otherwise simply waiting.

Paul cupped Andy's head in his palms and smoothed Andy's ash blond eyebrows with his thumbs, then pulled him down for another kiss, and then another; Andy responded hungrily, his mouth opening wide for Paul's tongue. Paul eventually grew frustrated with his limited range of movement, and, their lips still locked together, he rolled them both over, so that Andy was now beneath him.

He knew Andy's body better now. He knew the exact spot right beneath Andy's left ear, that, if lightly bitten and licked, made Andy writhe and grind against him, so he went there first, and had to strain to keep Andy from bucking him off. He knew that Andy was pretty indifferent to having his pink nipples played with, but that any attention to his armpits drove him wild, and he went there next, trapping Andy's wrists above his head so that he had full access to the sparse blond tufts and tender skin. He nuzzled at the salty skin, lapped at it, dizzy with the combined smells of clorine and coconut and Andy's fresh sweat, and Andy's biceps bulged as he tried to lower his arms, but Paul held him fast.

"Ah, Jesus, honey eyes, what you do to me," Andy moaned, his hips rocking and his cock a hard rod sliding damply against Paul's lower belly.

Paul also knew that Andy liked being teased with feather light touches and scratches high up on his inner thighs, that his foreskin would retract slightly and precum would start beading at his slit, that if Paul played with him enough, Andy would cum just from that, and he briefly debated continuing his trip down Andy's body, but he wanted other things more, so he kept his hands wrapped around Andy's wrists and moved back up to kiss his mouth.

"Fuck me, Paul," Andy whispered, and then, when Paul ignored him, repeated it more insistently. "Fuck me!"

Paul reached for the lube and the condoms, and lifted up, so that he was kneeling upright and sitting back on his heels, Andy's legs between his. After the usual brief struggle, he managed to rip open the small foil packet and pull the condom out.

"I was thinking the other way around," Paul said.

"Yeah, that'll work, too," Andy responded dazedly, and, hands still above his head, watched with heavy-lidded eyes, as Paul prepared him.

Paul couldn't help hissing in pain as he slowly lowered himself onto Andy's dick. He'd bottomed more in the past two days than he had in the previous two years, so he was sore, and Andy felt bigger from this angle, too. He held still for a couple of seconds, willing his tense muscles to relax.

"All right?" Andy asked. His big warm palms cupped Paul's ass and gently kneaded it.

"Yeah. You just take a little getting used to," Paul joked.

He sank further down, until Andy's hands were trapped between their bodies. He rested his own hands on Andy's shoulders, and began a slow movement, trying to draw out the pleasure for both of them. Andy slid his hands up to Paul's hips, so that Paul could take him deeper, and they both moaned.

"This just keeps on getting better," Andy mumbled and Paul bent over and kissed him, because Andy said the things that Paul wanted to but couldn't. 

He shut his eyes and rode Andy's cock, losing himself in the act between them, in the escalating pleasure that made it harder and harder for him to draw breath, in the whisper of accompanying pain, in the primal need to spill his seed. Andy grunted a curse and arched his hips up, and Paul slammed against them, driving him back down into the bed, and spurted wet ribbons onto Andy's chest.

"Oh, fuck!" Andy yelled, as he violently arched upward once more, and he would have dislodged Paul, if he hadn't also been gripping his hips so tightly. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He finally sank limply back onto the bed. "Oh, Jesus," he said weakly. "You broke me."

Paul raised himself gingerly off Andy's dick and collapsed on the bed by his side. As the orgasm induced endorphins slowly receded, he became more aware of his sore hole and tired quadriceps and realized that there was no way in hell he wanted to try and ride his bike back home. He also realized that he didn't care if he never went home, as long as he could lie next to Andy for just a while longer.

---o-O-o---

The main problem with being an adult was that one was occasionally obliged to act like one, Andy mused, as he drove Paul home. This meant that he wasn't allowed to sulk that their time together was up and that Paul couldn't stay over Sunday night, as well. At least, he now held Paul's bike hostage, since they couldn't fit it into Andy's Audi S5 Convertible.

Once they reached Paul's apartment building, Andy wheedled an invitation inside, but after fruitlessly circling the narrow streets for ten minutes in search of a parking spot, he was rapidly losing hope he'd be able to capitalize on it.

"I can't believe the only parking garage in this area closes for the weekend," he grumbled for the umpteenth time, aware that he was starting to get on Paul's nerves, yet unable to shut himself up.

He braked hopefully when he saw a car pulling away from the curb, but even if he'd been a parallel parking expert, which he wasn't, he couldn't have fit the Audi in the space the Smart had just vacated. He swore between his teeth, and drove on.

"Andy. Give it up. Just drop me off."

Paul sounded tired and exasperated, so Andy did as he was told, and then they couldn't even kiss each other goodbye, because of the group of young men loitering just down the block. Andy drove back home in a dark mood, hung up his and Paul's damp trunks that had been left lying on the bedroom floor, drank two beers, while watching an inane film on TV, and then went to bed. He twisted and turned for a good two hours, reliving the weekend, hopeful and excited about the future, frustrated that he had to wait for it and, above all, nervous, because there were no guarantees in life.

The next morning started out considerably better, when he woke up to the door bell, and realized that it was Paul, back for his bike. He rushed to the door and flung it open. Paul was in his tennis clothes, bag slung over one shoulder, and Andy took a brief moment to silently apologize for all the times he'd railed against the Tennis Club's old-fashioned rules that still prohibited colored clothes on the courts, because Paul with his dark hair and tanned skin just looked so damned sexy in white.

"Hey, you!" Paul grinned.

Andy grabbed him and dragged him into the house, and, mindful of his morning breath, settled for hugging him hard. "Hey, you! I didn't expect you this early."

Paul dropped his bag onto the floor.

"I found myself missing your surly early morning mood, so I thought I'd come share a cup of coffee with you, before heading out again."

"Oh!" Andy grinned happily. "Well, if you want to start the coffee, I'll go grab a shower and get myself into the appropriate state of mind."

He still had a silly smile on his face when he returned to the kitchen. Paul turned from the coffee machine and gaped at him.

"What?" Andy asked uncomfortably after withstanding a few seconds of intense scrutiny.

"I... I've never seen you in a suit before," Paul stammered.

"Yeah, so?"

Paul blushed a fiery red. "Nothing," he mumbled. "Forget it."

"No, really. What?"

"It's just... Well, I've got this site bookmarked."

"Yeah?"

"Men at Play dot com."

Jesus, it was like pulling teeth. "Yeah, and?"

"It's about guys in suits."

"Guys in suits," Andy repeated blankly.

"Argh! Porn, Andy! Porn featuring guys in suits. And, you know, taking those suits off."

Andy burst out laughing. "You're kidding me!"

"No." Paul's blush hadn't subsided.

"So, this makes you horny?" Andy asked, skimming his fingertips from the knot of his tie down over his belt buckle to the fly of his light gray linen trousers.

Paul's eyes had followed the path of Andy's fingers and were now glued to his crotch. Andy let his hand drop away, giving Paul a full view of his rising interest, and Paul licked his lips.

"We could call in sick," Andy suggested.

And that's where the spell broke, because Paul suddenly shook his head violently. "No way! No way! I have to go in!"

"What's the big deal? Aren't you allowed to be sick?" Andy frowned.

"Of course I am. It's just after what happened Thursday, and then Friday Maras wasn't there, and I need to be in today," Paul rambled.

"Paul, I have no clue what you're talking about. 'After what happened Thursday'? Why, what happened?"

Paul folded his arms against his chest and squared his jaw.

"Nothing. Just work stuff."

"What work stuff?" Andy tried to think back. He'd shown Paul the pool on Thursday night. He'd seemed tired, which wasn't surprising after a full day, but not particularly upset about anything.

"It's no big deal, Andy," Paul flared. "Stop nagging."

"I wasn't aware one question constitutes nagging," Andy snapped back, his own temper rising out of nowhere. "But fine, I get it. None of my business. Forget I asked."

He poured himself some coffee, stirred in milk and sugar so vigorously that liquid sloshed over the edge of his mug onto the counter, and strode angrily to his office, where he'd left his iPad charging on his desk. He was scrolling through the morning news and not taking much in, when he became aware of Paul leaning against the door jamb. He glared at him, then went back to pretending to read. 

"Ah, now there's the morning Andy I know," Paul said, gentle amusement in his voice.

Andy ignored him and Paul sighed.

"Come on, Andy, don't be like that. I'm sorry I yelled, okay?"

"Okay," Andy muttered ungraciously. "I'm sorry I yelled back."

"It was more of a low growl than a yell."

Andy tried not to react, because he wasn't too sure that not being able to stay angry at Paul was a good thing, but his lips twitched. He decided a change of subject was called for.

"Says here that Cape Fear is playing at Cine Filothei tonight. The original one, with Gregory Peck and Robert Mitchum. Feel like going?"

"I've packed for an overnight stay," Paul revealed hesitantly.

"Did you?" Andy asked softly, warmth spreading through him. "That's good. You should also think of leaving some stuff here. You know, less to carry back and forth."

Paul smiled.

"Hey, honey eyes. Come over here."

Paul approached slowly, and Andy pulled him onto his lap and kissed him thoroughly.

"I can give you a key to the house, if you want. You can hang out here, maybe take a dip in the pool, rather than staying at the Club during your down time or having to bike all the way home and then back again."

"Thanks, Andy. I might just do that. You're sure?"

Andy reached over into his desk drawer for his spare house key, and handed it to Paul, who slipped it into his pocket and kissed him sweetly by way of thanks.

"What time do you think you'll be home?" Paul asked.

"Around six, six thirty."

Paul gave Andy a last kiss, and stood up. "I have to go. Don't take off the suit until I get here."

"When will that be?" Andy called after him.

"I should be here a bit after you. Wait for me!"

The door slammed shut seconds later.

After that, Andy expected the day to drag by, but, thanks to a couple of emergencies and a resulting argument about who was to blame with his cousin, it was six fifteen before he knew it, and he still had a twenty minute drive back home. He tried to reach Paul on his cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail, so he left a message that he was on his way. For once, all the traffic lights were mercifully on his side, and he pulled into his garage at six forty exactly. He straightened his tie, patted down his cowlick, and walked into the house.

Paul's bike was in the entrance and his bag on the floor next to it, but Paul was nowhere to be found. Andy checked the whole house and then the back garden, and finally located him, still in his tennis clothes, lying in the hammock, one arm covering his eyes.

"Hey, you," Andy said softly, thinking Paul might be asleep.

Paul lowered his arm and Andy saw that his eyes were bloodshot.

"Paul? What's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, honey eyes. Let's not go through this again."




Sweet Spot Ch. 04



Paul sighed. "It's all just fucked up, you know? I shouldn't care. I should just tell them all to fuck off, if they don't like it."

Andy loosened his tie and sat on the grass, his arms loosely wrapped around his legs.

"They found out about you?"

"Yeah. Well, I told this one guy myself, and the news kind of spread from there."

"And what? Maras is giving you a hard time?" Andy probed. He'd end his membership if that was the case. Hell, he'd insist his whole family pull out.

"No. Well, he tried to, but I think I handled that. The problem is that some of the parents heard, and I lost some of my private pupils. As for the rest, I don't know if they've actually decided to stick with me, or if they just haven't heard about me yet."

Paul lay staring up at the sky and Andy wanted to reach for him, but he'd come to understand that Paul didn't really like being held or touched, when he was unhappy about something.

"The thing is, I was just barely breaking even before. And I doubt I'll be able to find new pupils before September, and that's assuming they don't hear about me or don't have a problem with me."

"You're talking two months," Andy said carefully. "It's not so long. There's nothing you can do to manage until then?"

Paul turned his head and looked at him over the edge of the hammock, his expression completely defeated.

"Not really. I could go back home, I guess. Stay with my parents in Bridgewater. Things won't be much worse there. At least, I can't imagine how they could be."

"Let me float you a loan," Andy said, knowing that Paul would refuse, yet unable not to propose the obvious solution. "Just until September. Or you could just come stay here. At least you wouldn't have to pay rent."

Paul went back to gazing up at the sky. "I've got this little Czech kid I'm coaching. He's really something. Just a real instinct for the game, for his opponent, for where the ball's gonna go. Great timing, too. And he works hard." He paused, and Andy thought he was done, but then he continued: "As far as I know, he's still with me. Of course, it might take his mother a while to hear the gossip, seeing as how she doesn't speak Greek."

Andy remained silent. He'd said his piece, and he could only hope that Paul would see his way to accepting either one of his offers, or maybe even both of them.

---o-O-o---

Paul wished he could think. Even more, he wished he could get off the fucking roller coaster his life had become over the past week. 

He hadn't told Andy that almost every single one of his private classes had quit on him. He'd get paid for today's classes, because there was a 24-hour cancellation notice, but going forward he only had four of twelve pupils left, and of those only two were certain, because their mother had told him firmly that she didn't care what his orientation was, so long as she got her three hours of peace and quiet per week. Only Libor and Dinesh, a 52-year old Indian executive that Paul coached once a week, remained and they could both go either way. And even if they did stick with him, it accomplished nothing, because even with twelve pupils, he'd barely been hanging on.

The academy still seemed safe, although he knew a couple of the older kids were aware of the rumors, even if they didn't know exactly what they meant. So far, none of the parents had demanded that either their children or he be removed, not that he'd heard of, and he didn't even want to know what Maras had said or promised to keep the peace. The other coaches and staff at the club were keeping their distance, as well; some because they genuinely felt uncomfortable around him, others more probably because they simply couldn't risk losing their jobs in this economy by offending the wrong people.

Lying in Andy's hammock all afternoon, he'd realized there were several fatal flaws in his coming out plan, and could only wonder at how he could have been so stupid. 

Obviously there was the choice of country, which Andy had pointed out the first minute he'd heard why Andy had come to Greece. Then, he'd thought he wouldn't care what strangers thought of him, but he should have known he would. After all, wanting others' approval was what had driven him to practice endless hours, to play with pain and to keep on competing for a full eighteen months after he'd known he'd lost the drive for it. 

And last but not least, he'd seen his family, friends and whole previous life as a cage, which kept him restricted to a certain role, but he'd overlooked how they could also be a safety net. Now, both his job and the roof over his head were at risk, and he had no friends here; well, none except for Andy, and Andy wasn't exactly a friend. If he'd come out in the States, even if everybody he knew had turned against him, even if he'd lost his job – and he doubted his mother would have let his father fire him – he'd still have had his apartment, and a much better chance at finding a new job that actually paid something. Maybe he could have even hooked up with Nate again, for friendship and for creating a circle of gay friends, if for nothing else.

What he had with Andy was good, and it felt right, but the timing was fucked up. Andy seemed pretty laid back and willing to make a number of allowances, but for how long? And besides, once Paul had finally started imagining himself in a relationship, it was as a full and equal partner, who could contribute at least 50% financially, and there was no chance of that now.

Still, Andy's offer was so tempting. Accept the loan, and he could postpone going home, maybe turn the situation around. Stay with Andy, and . . . well, there were just too many benefits to list, and only one downside: that Paul's pride would take an even bigger hit than it had so far. On the other hand, going back to live with his parents in Bridgewater wasn't exactly something to brag about, either.

He turned to look at Andy again. He was resting back on his elbows, his long legs crossed at the ankles, and was gazing at the pool. He seemed serene, like he knew all the answers, like he could handle anything that came along. Paul needed some of that.

"Andy?"

"Hmmm?"

"I don't want the loan. But, if I could terminate my lease and stay here, that would help a lot."

Andy nodded. "Okay, we'll do that. Does your lease have some kind of termination notice?"

Paul was grateful that Andy had moved so matter-of-factly to the logistics. "Yeah, but the landlord can use the deposit, if he wants. At least I won't be spending more cash."

"Any stuff you need to move into storage?"

Paul shook his head. "I just have a futon, some sheets, books, clothes, that sort of thing. The appliances were already there and I didn't want to invest in anything more. After all, this isn't supposed to be a permanent thing. I'd only planned to be here eighteen months, twenty four tops."

Andy's frown was so fleeting, Paul almost missed it.

"Not that you have to put up with me for that long," he added hastily. "If I don't work something out by fall, I'll get out of your hair."

"You'll figure something out," Andy said smoothly and then stood up. "Listen, why don't we go out for a burger or something, and then go to that movie?"

Suddenly it was as if Andy had been replaced by a polite stranger.

"Andy? It's okay to rescind the offer. I mean I appreciate the thought, and that you want to help, but it's too much. I'll figure something else out."

"I don't want to rescind anything," Andy said, his mouth a grim line. "We'll need to get a move on, if we want to make the start of the film. I'll go take a quick shower and change."

"Okay," Paul responded, though he was still puzzled at the sudden chill. He slowly hoisted himself out of the hammock, and followed Andy into the house, but didn't think that a suggestion that they shower together to save time was going to be particularly welcome, so he fished his jeans and a clean shirt out of his bag, and waited for Andy to finish his shower, before taking his own.

---o-O-o---

Andy may have had a brief fantasy, in which Paul showed his gratitude by ripping off Andy's clothes and fucking him into the middle of next week, but he hadn't actually expected it. Then again, he hadn't expected Paul to look like he was being force-fed cod liver oil, like accepting Andy's offer to move in was something he hated and only did because he knew it was good for him, or him to keep on reminding Andy that his stay in Greece was only temporary. That, by extension, they were only temporary.

Despite the inauspicious start, Paul seemed to enjoy cohabitation. After the first ten days, during which he had seemed to ask for permission to do anything from putting something in the fridge to turning on the TV, he had slowly started treating Andy's home like his own. Six weeks later, he was still scrupulous about cleaning up after himself, to the point where Andy, normally tidy himself, started feeling like a slob by comparison, and he'd introduced the novel concept of preparing dinner from scratch rather than ordering in, something which Andy suspected he did more as a form of payback than because he really enjoyed shopping and cooking, but otherwise he seemed to be settling in.

And although Andy had worried that Paul would insist on behaving like a roommate rather than a lover once he moved in, it hadn't come to pass. Andy had helped Paul move his stuff, including the futon, into the guest room and he'd expected he'd need to seduce Paul into his own bed. In fact, he'd been looking forward to it. But then his mom, who, although American of Danish descent, gossiped more than any Greek Andy had ever met, had called right after dinner that first night, and he'd become involved in a long and convoluted conversation about various family members. It was almost eleven by the time he'd managed to hang up and Paul had already left the living room. The guest room door had been closed, and Andy's heart had sunk. He'd dragged himself into his bedroom, only to discover Paul there, already snoring.

A few days later, they'd gotten tested, agreeing that it only made sense, given the living arrangements and that both were prepared to commit to exclusivity as long as they shared a roof and a bed. If Andy sometimes allowed himself to hope for something longer term, he kept it strictly to himself.

Paul was definitely more active than Andy. He woke up early to run or ride his bike, and returned all smiles and damp curls, just as Andy was hitting the snooze button. The first couple of weeks, having a bare-chested, sweaty guy jumping on top of him, offering blow jobs or anything else his heart might desire, had kept Andy sweet. After that, the novelty wore off and he started getting grumpy about it. Paul sometimes ignored his mood and had his wicked way with him, and sometimes deferred to Andy's need for more sleep, and went off to shower and make the coffee.

The only dark cloud was that Paul steadfastly refused any offers Andy made to arrange a weekend away. He was extremely touchy about the subject of money, and insisted on covering his half of all expenses; they'd even had an argument about the electricity bill. So unless Andy wanted to go off alone or with other friends, he was basically stuck in Athens for the duration. He couldn't even convince Paul to come along on a visit to his parents.

"It's no big deal. We go to the beach, swim, hang out, and then go to my parents for a late lunch. They won't ask any difficult questions, if that's what you're worried about," Andy broached the subject again after dinner one Friday night, hoping to catch Paul in a mellower mood.

"Do they know I'm living here?"

Andy hesitated. He hadn't made any announcements, but he'd mentioned Paul often enough that his mother had figured things out, and when she'd asked, Andy hadn't lied.

"Mom knows you're important to me," he evaded.

Paul flushed and went back to wrapping tape around the handle of one of his racquets, a task that seemed to require his full and undivided concentration.

"Would you prefer they think it's casual?" Andy asked.

Paul gnawed on his bottom lip. "It's not, though, is it?" he asked finally, his attention still on his racquet.

Andy wanted to reach over and rip the damn thing out of Paul's hands. "Not for me," he admitted. "Not for quite a while now."

Paul's hands stilled, and he met Andy's eyes, though Andy could tell it took some effort. "Not for me, either."

"So come to Rafina with me, honey eyes. Let my parents meet you, get to know you a little."

Paul took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. "Yeah, okay."

"Tomorrow?" Andy pressed his advantage.

"Tomorrow," Paul confirmed, then bent back over his racquet again.

Later that night, Andy woke to Paul's restless tossing, and he rolled over to take him in his arms. "Can't sleep?"

Paul mumbled something unintelligible.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Andy asked innocently. "I could make you some chamomile tea, if you want."

"Asshole."

"Or I could suck you off, if you ask politely."

"Please, Mr. Giannopoulos, would you suck me off?"

"Why, I'd be happy to, Mr. Pappas."

Andy pushed Paul flat on his back. In the darkness, he couldn't see Paul, and he had to rely on his other senses. Leaning over Paul, he gently traced his long straight nose and his lips, then bent down to trail soft wet kisses and licks along the same path, his fingers leading the way slowly along Paul's jaw to the lobe of his ear, then down his neck to the faintly salty hollow at its base, and on, across hair roughened skin, to one peaked nipple. Paul let out a short, sharp breath, when Andy's teeth lightly nipped at the same nipple, and one of his hands cupped the back of Andy's head, keeping him from moving on for a bit. But Andy's hand was still free, and it moved on, across to Paul's other nipple, which had tightened in sympathy, and then, trailing down ticklish ribs, to the waistband of Paul's briefs, and still further, over the soft cotton covering Paul's swelling dick and then down between his legs, to cup and gently squeeze his balls.

Paul was drawing breath in sharp gasps, and his body writhed in reaction to Andy's caresses. He pushed Andy's head lower, until Andy's nose was pressed against Paul's crotch. Andy inhaled the smell of freshly laundered cotton, and of Paul's underlying musk, and he rubbed his cheek against Paul's thigh, his stubble grazing Paul's skin and eliciting a loud moan.

Paul let go of Andy's head and, arching his hips off the bed, shoved his briefs down to mid-thigh. "Now, Andy," he pleaded, the damp tip of his cock butting against Andy's lips, seeking entrance.

Andy tormented him a while longer, licking the crease of his groin, suckling at his balls and the sensitive spot behind them, before he finally came back up to swallow Paul's dick. He'd twisted around, so that his own erection was rubbing on the sheets, and he now raised himself on his knees, so that he could touch himself. Paul had started fucking his mouth, a little out control as he bumped against the back of Andy's throat, causing him to gag every so often, but Andy didn't mind the discomfort, and he certainly didn't plan on pulling back or stopping. Turned on beyond belief, he beat off at the same rhythm Paul was following, and just as Paul's flavor exploded in his mouth, Andy's own orgasm ripped through his body.

Spent and languorous, he slowly kissed his way back up Paul's body and then collapsed on the mattress next to him, his head on Paul's pillow. Paul threw a relaxed arm around his waist and pulled him closer and they made out for a while, their kisses progressively slower and drowsier, until Andy finally fell asleep in the middle of one.



Sweet Spot Ch. 05



Paul wasn't looking forward to visiting Andy's parents, and no number of toe-curling blow jobs was going to change that, though he didn't discourage Andy from making a repeat effort first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, he couldn't let go of his nervousness.

"The problem is that I've never met anybody's parents before," he explained his predicament aloud, as he lay on his back with his eyes closed, trying to guess where Andy's lips were going to land next. 

The next moment his nuts were in a vise-like grip. He jerked upright and grabbed Andy's wrist, but was careful not to yank too hard, in case Andy didn't let go.

"Jesus, ow! What the hell are you doing?"

"Basically the same thing you just did to me," Andy said calmly, releasing his grip. "Do not mention the word parents when I'm down here. You're lucky I didn't bite you."

Paul sighed and shoved Andy away, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and cupped his throbbing balls soothingly. He twisted around to glare at Andy.

"You just completely ruined the mood."

"Yeah, sure. Blame me," Andy grumbled. He stretched out and folded his arms behind his head. "Anyway, what do you mean, you've never met any parents before? You must have had friends."

"Well, yeah, obviously. But I didn't date or anything, so this is the first time that . . . well, you know." He saw the gleam in Andy's eyes and wished he hadn't made the confession. 

"We can role-play, if you want. I'll pretend to be my dad, and you can ask him for permission to take me out and promise to have me home by midnight. Go ahead," Andy prompted, and then, without waiting, continued in a deeper, heavily accented voice: "So, young man, you want to date my little Andreas?"

"You're a fucking nut."

"To break the ice, you can mention how smart and handsome you think I am," Andy continued undaunted. "And don't fall into the trap of admitting you carry a condom in your wallet, if he mentions safe sex; the correct response is you wouldn't dream of taking advantage of me that way, because you respect me too much."

Paul stood up. "I'm going to go make the coffee," he announced haughtily, and Andy's voice, now a high and trembling falsetto that Paul assumed represented him, followed him out of the bedroom.

"And, Mr. Giannopoulos, I promise not to kiss Andy below the belt, unless he really, really begs me to."

"You're not making me feel any better, you dickhead," Paul yelled, and Andy roared with laughter.

Luckily, it appeared as if the entire population of four and a half million Athenians had decided to get in their cars and drive to Rafina, as well, and Andy was finally distracted from his ever more elaborate role play scenarios in order to curse at at weekend drivers cutting in front of him and jumping traffic lights.

"The public beach will be more crowded than a trolley bus during rush hour," Andy moaned, then honked vigorously at a Cayenne that was trying to force its way onto the main road from a side street.

Paul shrugged. He hadn't managed to to hit the Greek beaches yet, so he was more curious than anything, and prepared to put up with some discomfort.

"How about we go straight to my parents? They live in sort of a compound, and it's got a beach. The public are still allowed access to it, but not that many know it, so we'll have room to spread out."

The butterflies fluttering in Paul's stomach off and on since last night suddenly went crazy.

"What, now? I mean, they're not expecting us this early. They might still be asleep."

"Paul. My mom and dad are both in their seventies. I assure you they've both been up since about six this morning."

Paul wiped his palms against his thighs, and tried to relax the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders. "Yeah, okay," he mumbled.

Andy reached over and laced their fingers together. "It'll be okay, honey eyes. I swear to you. Anyway, they'll probably be nervous, as well. My dad, at least. This is the first time he's met a lover of mine. Well, that he knows of."

Despite himself, Paul grinned. "So how many did he meet?"

"Hundreds. Thousands."

"And I couldn't be one of the ones he doesn't know about?"

Andy just squeezed his fingers and smiled, and the butterflies settled. At least until Andy exited the main road and, after a few more turns, stopped, pulled the hand brake and turned off the engine.

"We're here?" Paul asked, looking up at the semi-detached, two-story house they'd parked in front of. It was nice, but also bland and boring compared to Andy's home.

"Yep. Come on, honey eyes, let's get this over with." 

Andy briskly led the way up the steps to the front door.

"Hey, you're nervous, too!" Paul accused, as he followed behind.

"Nah," Andy responded and rang the door bell. He almost had Paul convinced, until he jabbed at the door bell a second time within seconds of the first, and then firmly stated: "Nothing to be nervous about."

Paul was going to kick his ass when they got home. In the meantime, he pasted a smile on his face and hoped Andy's mom would open the door, because they'd at least met once, however briefly. And so, of course, it had to be Andy's father, who did the honors.

It was immediately obvious, who Andy had gotten his height from. Petros Giannopoulos was perhaps half an inch shorter than Andy, with a full head of white hair and dark brown eyes. He greeted his son in the usual Greek way, with a kiss on both cheeks, and then turned to Paul and extended his hand.

"Welcome, Paul. Please come in." His smile was reserved, but not unfriendly.

For a second Paul was thrown off by the fairly strong English accent; he'd expected Petros to have the heavy Greek accent that Andy had used during his stupid role plays. As he shook Petros' hand, he threw a brief murderous glance at Andy, who grinned back unrepentantly.

"Where's mom?" Andy asked in English, as Petros ushered them in and shut the door behind them.

"She's still down at the beach. We weren't expecting you this early."

As Andy explained the reason for their earlier arrival, Paul took the opportunity to look around. Although clearly a permanent home, the room they were standing in had a light, breezy summer feel to it, and the front balcony looked out on the sea and Evia, across the strait. Through one door, he could see what was obviously Petros' office, with wall-to-wall bookcases and an enormous, old-fashioned desk, covered in untidy piles of paper.

"Would you like something to drink or a snack?"

"Nah, we'll just head on down to the beach for a couple of hours, Dad," Andy said hastily. "No need to change your program, just because we showed up earlier."

"Alright. I'd come with you, but I'm in the middle of drafting a response to that idiot's op-ed in Kathimerini," Petros said, and Andy nodded knowingly, as if he'd spent the morning reading the papers instead of mocking Paul.

"See, I told you. Nothing to be nervous about," Andy told Paul as he led the way down a narrow path covered with white pebbles that wound its way through tall oleander bushes towards the beach.

"You were nervous, too," Paul repeated his earlier accusation and Andy smiled at him, then, after checking around, leaned over and gave him a quick kiss.

"Well, of course," he said. "I want you to like my parents."

"But . . . I thought you were nervous about them liking me."

"No."

And Andy said it in such a matter-of-fact tone of voice, that Paul had to believe him.

They met Andy's mother on her way back to the house. She hugged and kissed Andy, and then reached up to kiss Paul's cheek, and, awkward due to his surprise at her gesture, his own kiss landed on her ear instead of the air next to her cheek, where he'd intended it.

"Sorry," he said, and she waved his apology off.

Andy once again explained the circumstances that had led to their early arrival.

"It's going to be a really simple lunch, Paul; feta and spinach frittata and a salad. It's so hot, I didn't think anybody would want a formal setup. I hope that's okay."

"My mom is the best cook," Andy interjected with obvious pride. "That's why I don't cook. How could I compare?"

"Yeah, that's it," Paul agreed dryly, and Elaine laughed.

"It'll only take twenty minutes to prepare everything, so just come up when you're ready to eat. But Andy, not later than two o'clock, please. You know your father."

"I do indeed," Andy agreed cheerfully and then shoved Paul down the path. "Let's go swim. See you later, mom!"

They ran into Kostas at the beach, and he came over and sat with them for a while. After submitting graciously to his uncle's teasing him about his bright purple board shorts, he asked Paul about tennis, and Paul promised to give him a few pointers, once Kostas returned to Athens in the fall.

"You could get another pupil out of this," Andy commented idly, after Kostas ran off to join his friends again, and Paul shook his head in warning.

"Not a paying one, Andy. Don't even suggest it."

They were back at the house at two on the dot. Andy showed Paul to the guest bathroom, where he rinsed off the salt and changed into shorts and a polo shirt, and by the time he came out, the table on the shaded balcony had already been set. Andy went to quickly shower and change, as well, surreptitiously squeezing Paul's wrist as he brushed by him. 

Paul stood awkwardly for a moment, wondering what he should do, then Elaine bustled out of the kitchen brandishing a bottle of wine and a corkscrew.

"Oh, here you are, Paul. Could you open the wine for me, please? Petros has been sucked in by the media, and I need to go pry him away from his laptop," she added a bit mysteriously.

Elaine and Petros turned out to be warm and generous hosts, and if Petros treated Paul like he was no more than a friend of Andy's, Paul suspected it had more to do with his age and upbringing than the fact that Paul was a man. He'd have probably treated his son's female lover with pretty much the same formality, though he might have laid off a couple of the more colorful epithets he used for certain political opponents. While it was clear that he held strong opinions on a number of subjects, he also laughed at himself when his wife and son teased him about how involved he got with reading and responding to people's comments on various media sites.

"And up until two years ago, he considered the Web a waste of time," Elaine explained to Paul. "Now, if he's not working, he's always on that damn laptop."

"And that proves my point," Petros said. "Think of all the other things I could be doing if I didn't have to answer all those idiotic comments."

"Well, since the comments aren't aimed at you, Dad, you don't actually have to answer them," Andy said, and Paul grinned at the mulish expression on Petros' face, and at how similar Andy's was on frequent occasion.

Petros and Elaine reminded Paul of his own parents, and he wondered how they had felt, when they first found out that Andy was gay, especially given the way it had happened. He couldn't think of any way to bring the subject up, not if he didn't want to explain that he wasn't doing so out of idle curiosity but because he needed to figure out how to tell his own parents in a way that wouldn't hurt them. But as he observed the easy and affectionate relationship between Andy and his parents, even with him present as the obvious reminder of Andy's homosexuality, he felt more optimistic that maybe his own parents could eventually reach the same level of acceptance, no matter how they reacted at first.

Elaine and Petros invited them to stick around for dinner, as well. Andy threw a questioning look at Paul, and Paul shrugged. Although he liked Andy's parents, and the visit had turned out a lot more pleasant than he'd expected, he also wanted Andy to himself.

"Let's play it by ear, okay? I want to show Paul the kite-surfers; I'll give you a call once we decide, if that's not a problem."

Andy drove them to a beach bar, and they drank iced frappé and ate brownies, while watching about twenty or thirty kite-surfers and windsurfers zipping back and forth across the waves. A few of the kite-surfers were really good, jumping high and hanging in the air for what seemed like forever, and Paul laughed in delight.

"Do you kite-surf?" he asked Andy.

"Nah. I used to windsurf a bit, but I never really got into it. Kite-surfing looks like more fun, but I'd probably kill myself if I tried to learn now. Kostas has started lessons, though. Do you want to try?"

Paul really did, but lessons would cost money. "No. I don't want to risk a sprained wrist or something," he lied and Andy nodded.

Once the sun started to set, they decided to go back home rather than return to Andy's parents. Andy called them, and then handed the phone over to Paul. "My mom," he mouthed.

Paul reluctantly accepted the phone and raised it to his ear. "Yes?"

"Paul, I just wanted to say that Petros and I were both very happy to get to know you a bit better. I hope you'll visit us again soon."

Paul felt a weight he hadn't known was there lift from his shoulders.

"Thank you, Elaine. It was great meeting you both, and I hope to see you soon, too." 

He kept his eyes on Andy as he spoke, and Andy nodded approvingly and smiled. When he gave the phone back to Andy, Andy slid his thumb over Paul's inner wrist in a furtive caress. Paul wanted to grab him and kiss him right there.

"Later, honey eyes," Andy murmured, and Paul's heart felt like it was expanding, until it could barely fit in his chest anymore.

---o-O-o---

Andy hadn't lied to Paul when he'd admitted to wanting him to like his parents. He considered himself a cautious optimist; he was happy to believe that things would turn out well, but it was always safer to have a contingency plan in place in case they didn't. So while he sincerely hoped that things would work out for Paul once he came out to his parents, he was almost convinced they wouldn't. Paul wasn't a teenager, or even in his early twenties, and didn't seem prone to exaggeration or unreasonable emotions, and yet he'd created this unnecessarily elaborate, long-term plan that involved his leaving everything behind, simply in order to make an announcement, which, realistically, he could have blurted out at any point, if necessary with the help of a couple of stiff drinks. So Andy couldn't help thinking that deep down Paul knew it was all going to turn to shit with his parents, whether he wanted to admit it or not. And if that turned out to be the case, Andy wanted Paul to have another family to fall back on. God knew his parents weren't perfect, and relations with his dad had been pretty tense for a number of years, but he wouldn't trade them for anything, and he was pretty sure they wouldn't trade him either, no matter how much his mom threatened to do so.

If there was less traffic on the way back home, it was hardly noticeable, but at least the sun had set and Andy was able to open the Audi's hood. Paul sat quietly next to him, eyes hidden by his sunglasses, one arm resting on the door. He looked lost in thought, but he wasn't fidgeting, so Andy hoped he was okay. He reached over to rest his hand on Paul's bare knee, and Paul covered it lightly with his own and smiled at him.

"I liked your parents. And your dad's really conservative, but he's also open-minded, which is pretty unusual."

"I'm not sure conservative is the right word. He just really believes that certain things like fulfilling one's obligations or adhering to one's principles are non-negotiable. On the other hand, he's one of few in his party—and certainly the oldest one—to keep on insisting on universal education and health care, and on higher tax rates to the rich to fund them."

"So he's a crypto-socialist?"

Andy laughed. "Don't let him hear you calling him that."

They drove quietly for a while, Andy so mellow that he actually yielded to the assholes cutting in front of him at traffic lights rather than squeezing them out as he usually did. He thought of a future that consisted of this, of driving home with Paul next to him, of sharing meals, of watching movies and listening to music, of lying in the dark at night, listening to Paul breathe next to him. Well, snore, really, but Andy had figured out that he needed to turn him onto his belly when that happened, and he'd even mostly figured out how to do it without waking Paul up, unless he wanted to.

And he knew that it was all just a rosy-hued fantasy, because the economy was in the crapper, and Paul wouldn't ever accept being supported, and Greece and Andy were only stopgaps on Paul's road to wherever the hell he was trying to get to. Still, he was here now, and Andy wasn't the kind of fool, who refused to enjoy something simply because it might not last or because it didn't come 100% on his terms.

When they reached home, Paul vanished into his room, and Andy turned on the TV. Despite his care not to get sun-burnt, his skin felt tight across his shoulders, and his soft cotton T-shirt prickled, so he pulled it off and stretched out on the couch. He was dozing by the time Paul joined him.

Paul squeezed onto the couch in front of him, his butt nestling into Andy's crotch, and anchored himself firmly by wrapping Andy's arm around his waist. Andy kissed the nape of his neck under his curls, and Paul gave a sort of deep sigh. From the sound, Andy couldn't tell if Paul was content or worried about something.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. It was a nice day."

"We can do it again, anytime we want."

Paul hugged Andy's arm closer to him, but didn't respond. Andy started to fall asleep again, but was feeling too lazy to suggest that they move to the bedroom.

"Andy? Do you ever come to the States? Like on business?"

"Not really. Most of our concerns are purely European. A couple of trips to China now and then." Andy paused, knowing that his next sentence would have some impact, but not what kind. "I don't like to travel much or for long periods of time. Greece is my home."

Paul squirmed around until he was lying flat on his back, and tangled their legs together. Andy cupped his cheek and ran his thumb along his cheekbone. To his amusement, Paul has shaved closely that morning, in preparation of meeting his parents, even though Andy hadn't and had told him that his father wouldn't have either, but this late, he had a dense stubble, and Andy's thumb rasped against it.

"These friends of yours I've met. None of them really live together, do they?"

Paul had met a number of Andy's friends over the past month. A few they'd arranged to meet for dinner or a movie, and a few they'd run into at dance clubs. He ran through a mental list of all the names.

"Spyros and Yannis do. And Christos sort of lives with Panos. They have their own apartments, but Christos is over at Panos' so often that nobody's fooled by it."

"Would you? Live with someone?"

Andy drew back a little, so that he could see Paul's face more clearly, but Paul's profile, handsome though it was, revealed nothing of his thoughts. "I already do."

"I mean permanently."

"I don't know. Maybe. As I've gotten older, I've always assumed that if I did get myself into a relationship like that, then he'd have his own place and we'd probably end up at one or the other more often, depending. It's just the way it's done here. At least with guys my age."

Paul sighed again, and closed his eyes. The TV continued to drone on in the background, and Andy started to watch again, but by now had hopelessly lost the thread.

"We should go to bed."

They drowsily helped each other off with their clothes, but neither seemed to have energy for much more than a sleepy cuddle. Paul pushed himself back into being the little spoon.

"You owe me a blow job tomorrow morning," he said to Andy.




Sweet Spot Ch. 05



Andy reached into Paul's briefs and palmed his cock, squeezing the warm length softly, then combing his fingers through the wiry curls at its base. Paul didn't really react, other than a mumbled "That's nice," so Andy just held him until they both rolled away from each other, looking for a cooler spot on the sheets.

---o-O-o---

Back when Andy was a kid, you could rarely buy chocolate from the corner kiosks in the summer, because they had no fridges to store them in and they melted otherwise. That meant that you only ate chocolate from September through May. During summer, the kiosks would set up ice cream fridges, which were retired again in September. While things had long since changed and most kiosks now had several fridges, for everything from sandwiches and juices to ice cream year round, and while Andy had extended his ice cream consumption to all twelve months of the year, for some reason he still only ate chocolate from September to May. Buying the first chocolate of the season on September 1 was a ritual Andy never missed.

He was sitting at the kitchen table after an early dinner, eating a Kinder Egg and trying to assemble the tiny toy that had been inside, when Paul's cell phone started ringing somewhere in the house. Paul must have been busy and couldn't pick up, because after the ringing stopped, Andy heard the incoming voice mail alert. 

He didn't think much of the incident until after he'd found a place for the toy on the shelves with the rest of his collection, and had wandered into the living room, to find Paul sitting on the couch. Something about his slumped posture and the way he was staring at the phone in his hands sent an icy trickle down Andy's spine.

"What's up?" he asked, dropping on the couch next to Paul.

Paul gave him a blank look, as if he hadn't understood the question. His face had a greenish tinge to it, and he looked sick.

"Paul? What's wrong?"

"My brother George. He left a message," Paul said, his voice cracking.

"What did he say? Is something wrong at home?"

"No. Everybody's fine, as far as I know. But . . ." Paul petered off, and looked at his phone uncertainly, as if expecting it to offer any further necessary clarification.

"But?" Andy prompted.

"He's on his way here."

Andy had a sudden absurd vision of a mustachioed man in a worn suit and a wide, short tie showing up at his doorstep, threatening to gut Andy for compromising his innocent sibling, just like in the old Greek movies of the 60s. Of course, in those movies the sibling had always been a sister, and eventually all misunderstandings were cleared and everybody lived happily ever after.

"Here? You mean here?" he asked inanely.

"Athens. He completed some business in Frankfurt two days earlier than expected, saw a cheap return flight to Athens on the Web and figured he'd surprise me."

"That's nice!" Andy exclaimed a bit too heartily, in order to hide his misgivings. This wasn't going to end well, he just knew it.

"If you say so," Paul responded dryly. 

"So what's the plan here?"

"The plan?"

"When does he arrive? Are you going to go pick him up?"

"Yes, Andy, I'll just ride my bike over to the airport and bring George back on the handlebars. It's only what, a 60-kilometer round trip?" Paul said nastily.

Andy told himself he needed to make allowances for the fact that Paul was probably nervous. Well, tough. He was pretty damned nervous, too.

"That's not what I was suggesting, asshole." He crossed his arms and glared at the blank TV screen.

Paul sighed gustily next to him. "No, I know. It's just that I wasn't expecting this and I'm not sure what to do here. I mean, he's probably on orders from my mom to check out where I live and work and report back to her."

"You could call him and tell him that you'd have loved to see him, but unfortunately you're on vacation on an island. We can pick one that you can only get to by ferry boat," Andy suggested hopefully, though with zero expectations that Paul would agree.

It was a pretty elegant solution, all things considered. Despite the fact that Paul's self-imposed deadline for moving out had come and gone, he had remained silent on future plans. He'd indicated that he had managed to sign on three more pupils, but obviously they weren't enough to cure the financial situation. Andy wasn't sure if Paul had simply not fully realized the passing of time, or, having no alternatives, hoped that Andy himself had forgotten. Either way, Andy wasn't about to ask and set anything in motion.

On the other hand, he seemed a lot more at ease with being out, even if it was at the very discreet level that Greek society allowed anybody that wasn't a hairdresser to the rich and famous. Once or twice he'd commented that he could probably carry off and feel comfortable with this kind of lifestyle in the States, as well. So although Paul may have originally had an 18- to 24-month time line for executing his plan, there was no real reason to stay in Greece much longer, and an overwhelming financial one to leave. And if he took the opportunity of his brother's visit to come out to his family now, then he was as good as on the next plane back home. 

So the obvious strategy was to for Andy to somehow talk Paul into avoiding the meeting completely, and to accomplish that he needed to provide him with a reasonable excuse, that nobody would question. Like a late vacation on a small, quiet island. There were over 200 to pick from.

"The barren line islands. Heck, this time of year there's probably no more than two ferries a week. He'd never be able to get there, to find out that you're not there yourself."

For a second, Andy really thought Paul was going to agree, then he shook his head.

"No. I'm not going to hide from my family. Not anymore."

"You're sure?"

Paul choked out a laugh. "Sure? Of course I'm not sure! But that's the way it's gonna be."

"So when's he arriving?"

Paul looked at his watch. "In two hours. Shit, Andy, what am I going to do?"

"Do you want to take the Audi and go pick him up?"

"And, what? Bring him back here?" Paul was starting to look sick again.

"I don't know, Paul. It's up to you. You could take him to his hotel, if he's booked one, or you could just sit in the car and talk, if you need some neutral ground. Or yes, you could bring him back here. I can clear out if you want. Or I can stay. You tell me. Whatever you want, I'll do it."

Paul got up and started pacing. He stopped, looked at Andy as if getting ready to say something, then shook his head and paced some more. Andy watched him from his perch on the couch for a while, then finally got up and placed himself in Paul's path. Paul looked up at him wordlessly, then placed his hands on Andy's hips and leaned his forehead on Andy's shoulder. Andy wrapped his arms loosely around Paul's shoulders.

"Think of it this way, honey eyes. Come what may, you'll have made the first step. No more living in limbo."

Paul's fingers tightened on Andy's hips, and he nodded against his shoulder.

"I can come with you to the airport, if you want. I'll grab a cab back, so you can be alone with him."

Paul straightened and squared his shoulders. "No. I'll go get him and I'll figure it out from there. Maybe he's booked a hotel already, so it won't be weird if we go straight there." He suddenly wrapped a palm around Andy's neck and pulled his down for a hard kiss. "Thank you, Andy. And . . . don't leave. If I bring George back here, I want him to meet you." After a while he added a little shyly. "I want you to like him."

Andy hadn't forgotten how surprised Paul had been when he'd said he wanted Paul to like his parents, and he thought he understood what Paul was now trying to say. He pulled Paul closer and kissed him back. 

"If he's anything like you, I'm sure I will." 

Which was a big, steaming pile of horseshit, but Paul needed something to take with him.

---o-O--o---

The a/c at the airport must have been on the fritz, because Paul was sweating buckets as he waited for George at Arrivals. The CD/DVD store that had been right next to the gate had closed a while back, so there was nothing else to do but to stare at the arrivals information board. For a while he amused himself trying to guess the nationalities of the arriving travelers, then the opaque glass doors slid open again and George walked through, dragging a small suitcase behind him.

All the Pappas offspring took after their mother: of medium height and overall slender build, with dark brown curly hair and the kind of straight-nosed profile that one saw on ancient Greek statues. Six years older than Paul, George had developed a small gut that stretched his polo shirt, but otherwise remained unchanged from the last time Paul had seen him, a little over six months ago. He smiled at Paul the moment he spotted him, and then caught him in a bear hug.

"Hey, Paulie. You're looking good, little brother! I wasn't sure you'd be here."

Paul hugged him back. "Well, you took a chance, getting on a plane without even having spoken to me. What if I'd been on vacation somewhere far away from Athens?" Which he sincerely wished he had been.

George waved a dismissive hand. "You wrote Mom that you expected September to be busy, because most of your pupils were coming back from summer homes. Besides which, I didn't expect to spend my whole time with you, anyway. I've got a few business associates to look up, and you'll be working anyway, right?"

"Right. So, have you booked a hotel?"

George raised his eyebrows. "Did I need to? I thought I'd just stay with you. Is that a problem?"

"Uh, no. No, not a problem. OK, let's go. I borrowed a friend's car."

He started to walk away, but George grabbed his arm.

"Paulie. You aren't living with a girl or something, are you?"

"Why would you say that?

"Come on, you can tell me! After all, you've been here six months already, and haven't said a word about when you're returning. Is she nice? Will Mom approve? If you don't have room, I can stay at our usual hotel."

Paul wanted to grab the excuse provided with both hands. In fact, he opened his mouth to confirm George's guess, except the words wouldn't come out.

"It's a bit complicated. Come on, I'll tell you in the car."

George waited for him as he paid for the parking and then trailed after him to the car, giving him a short status update on everybody at home, even though Paul knew most of it from his mother's regular e-mails. He whistled when he saw the Audi.

"Not bad! So, the friend that lent this to you, do I get to meet her? Hey, you haven't linked up with some rich, bored, married housewife at the Club, have you? I didn't think that really happened in real life."

He tossed his suitcase into the trunk and climbed into the car. Paul started the engine and carefully backed out of the space. Andy would have his head if he damaged the car.

"Well, it does, but not in my case. And thank you for thinking so highly of my morals, by the way. Plus you know Dad would kill me if I had an affair with a married woman, and then Mom would kill me again."

"Eh. What they don't know, won't hurt them. So, what have you been up to? Tell your big brother everything."

Paul waited until they were on the expressway headed back to the city before answering.

"I've been okay. You know what's going on with the economy here, so it's been kind of tough, but I've been managing."

"I still don't understand what you're doing here, Paulie. I thought you'd left tennis behind for good. And all of a sudden, you give up your job, and studying for your business degree, and you sell your apartment at a loss. And fine, I mean if you're happy here, that's great. But is this what you want to be all your life? A tennis coach?"

"I missed tennis. I didn't realize it until coaching was the only job I could find here, but yeah, I'm okay with being a tennis coach. I didn't hate working for the business, but I like this better. I just need to line up more pupils, and that takes time."

"So, you could do it in the States. I'm sure there are a hell of a lot more opportunities there. Schools, universities, clubs. I bet you'd make more money in one month there than you'll make in twelve here."

Paul didn't even bother arguing with that, because it was true. He'd be independent again. Hell, maybe he'd already taken the hardest step, which was to get away from his family. If he returned to anyplace in the US not close to Bridgewater, or even went to Canada, he'd still be far enough away to do his own thing, but he'd also have returned close enough that his parents would consider it a win on their side. Everybody would be happy.

Except . . . "I am happy here, George."

"What?"

"You said if I'm happy here, that's great. And I am. I'm happy here." He laughed. "I'm happy here," he repeated with a sense of wonder.

George laughed as well, though he clearly didn't see what was so amusing. He slapped Paul on the shoulder. "Okay, I get it. You're happy here. So, who is she? Where and when did you meet?"

"At a dance club, back in June." Paul took a deep breath. "A gay dance club. And his name is Andreas Giannopoulos. Andy. This is his car. I live with him."

George grinned. "Yeah. Very funny. No, seriously, I want to know."

"Seriously."

Out of the corner of his eye, Paul could see George gaping at him. He concentrated determinedly on the road and tried to stop himself from hoping or fearing or even thinking anything.

"Oh, Paulie," George said finally, his voice weak.

Neither spoke until they were approaching the exit Paul needed to take. "Do you want me to take you to the hotel after all?"

George cleared his throat. "No. Can I meet him? This Andy?" His voice was hard, and Paul threw him a quick glance.

"Only if you're not going to make trouble. I . . . George, I know this is a lot to take in, and I know how you feel about gay people, but Andy is important to me."

"I'm not going to make trouble. I just want to meet him. Meet the guy who turned my brother gay."

It was Paul's turn to gape at George. "Are you serious? I didn't catch the gay, George. It's not a cold. I've known I'm gay since I was twenty."

George had the good grace to look sheepish. "Look, don't expect me to be all PC right now. This is a surprise, alright?"

Paul nodded. "Yeah, okay. We should be home in fifteen minutes. You'll meet him then."

George tried not to look impressed by the house or the neighborhood, but Paul could see that he was. He parked at the curb in front of the gate rather than in the garage.

"We're here. Just give me a second, okay?"

George nodded, his mouth set.

Paul jogged up the path and let himself in though the front door. "Andy?"

Andy materialized from the living room. "Hey, I didn't hear the garage door. Are you okay? Where's George?" He grabbed Paul and gave him a rough hug, and Paul hugged him back. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. George is outside. He wants to meet you."

Andy stepped back. "Meet me?"

"Yes. He wants to meet the man, who turned his brother gay."

"Who turned his brother what? Oh, for Pete's sake! He actually said that?" Then he obviously connected the dots. "Wait. You told him already?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"I don't know, Andy. He's still surprised. But I told him, so I'm out." He laughed. "Finally."

"And now he wants to meet me. What do you want me to say?"

Paul hooked his fingers around Andy's belt and tugged him against his body. "Whatever the hell you want to, Andy. I told him I'm happy here and that you're important to me, so I've already covered the basics."

"Are you?" Andy asked in a choked little voice that was very unlike him. "Happy?"

"Yeah. I only really realized it when George asked me. And I also realized that it's because of you."

Andy crushed Paul to him, and he buried his face in Paul's hair. He was breathing a little noisily, and Paul smiled and held him tighter. Finally, he kept on repeating in his head. Finally

---o-O-o---

George looked like a man, who had received a shock, but was manfully struggling to conceal it. He briefly shook Andy's hand, sat down on the armchair Andy gestured towards, then went back to concentrating on his brother.

"Paulie, Pop is never gonna go for this. You know that, right?"

"He might," Paul said. "Maybe not at first, but he might."

Andy wondered if he could now touch Paul to offer comfort or support. He moved a bit closer to him on the couch, so that Paul could feel his shoulder against his own. Paul didn't lean in, but he didn't pull away either.

"And Mom is going to take his side, no matter how much it hurts her. You're gonna tear the family apart, Paulie."

"It's not Paul who's going to tear the family apart," Andy said quietly, and Paul threw him a grateful look.

"Who then? Would you like to take the blame?" George asked harshly.

"If it helps."

George shook his head angrily. "You know what, Andy? You're probably a very nice guy, but just stay out of this. This is about our family. It doesn't concern you."

"Would you say that to Xenia?" Paul asked in a colorless voice.

"Huh? No, of course not. She's my wife."

"So don't say it to Andy, either. If he wants to be involved, it's fine with me. Although I don't know why he'd want to."

Andy took Paul's hand, and held on tightly, in case Paul tried to pull it away, because right now he needed the contact. "I want to," he assured Paul.

"And what, Paul? You're not coming back? You're just going to hide here?"

"I don't know, George! I don't, okay? This is all still pretty new. I guess it's up to all of you if I come back." He looked at Andy. "I'm not hiding. I want to be here."

That still didn't answer the question of whether Paul would leave if his family accepted him. Not that there seemed much chance of that happening, if George was to be believed and judging from Paul's actions all along. And Andy didn't want to make Paul feel like he was fighting battles on two different fronts right now, he really didn't, but . . .

"So if it goes okay with your parents, you're still leaving Greece? You're going back to the States?"

Paul turned towards him, and Andy tried his best to read his answer in his face, but he couldn't. He needed to hear it.

"You want me to stay? I don't have my own home. I'd have to live here."

"You're tidy. I don't mind."

Paul smiled, then turned back to George. "I guess I'm not coming back, after all."

"You're going to break Mom's heart."

"Look, George. I didn't choose this. All my life I've tried to be someone my family can be proud of. Tennis, school, the business. But being gay, that's not something that I can change. I can just hide it or not. And I did hide it, for years. But I just can't anymore. I need to be able to love someone." He slid a quick look towards Andy. "I need someone to love me."

"Oh, Paulie," George said softly after a long while. "Okay. We'll figure this out."

Andy just squeezed Paul's hand, and tried not to give in to his tears in front of the other two men.

---o-O-o---

In the end, George decided to go to the hotel, and it was nearing midnight by the time he left. Paul offered him a ride, but George elected to take a cab.

"I'll come over tomorrow, after tennis academy," Paul promised.

"See you then, little brother."

He shook Andy's hand stiffly, waved once more at Paul, and climbed into the yellow taxi.

"Well, that's done," Paul sighed, as he locked the front door for the night.

"About what you expected?" Andy asked.

"No, not really. I mean I thought that, of my brothers and sister, George would be the toughest, but then again he's also the one that I'm closest to. I was always his baby brother and he tried to take care of me."

"Well, maybe your dad will turn out okay then, too."




Sweet Spot Ch. 05



Paul wondered why Andy was standing way over on the other side of the living room.

"Maybe." He took a step closer, and Andy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Maybe not. George said he'd try to help with the whole family. " He shrugged. "I just realized it's not quite as important to me any more." 

He advanced another couple of steps.

"You suddenly don't care what your parents think?" Andy asked sceptically.

"I care. It's just that my priorities have changed and I care more about other things. You, mainly." 

One more step, and he'd have Andy in his arms.

"This is all pretty sudden."

"No." Paul struggled to find an explanation that made sense for what he felt with such absolute conviction. "It's like drops of water in a bucket. Eventually the bucket overflows, and that's when you really notice it, but it doesn't mean than the bucket wasn't pretty full for a long time. I guess with George here, I sort of overflowed."

Andy's lips twitched and the deep line between his brows smoothed out. "That's very poetic, you silver-tongued devil, you."

Paul took the final step. "Asshole," he said affectionately, as he slid his hands around Andy's waist and smiled up at him. "I'm trying to be serious here."

Andy dipped his head and kissed him. "Okay."

"I want to stay here, with you. I don't want to make any other assumptions or plans, until I find a better income source, but I don't want to leave. I haven't, not for a long time now." Andy was solid in his arms, and he edge a little closer and kissed the hollow of his throat.

"I can live with that," Andy said and nuzzled Paul's hair.

"Can we go to bed now?"

Andy nodded and gestured for Paul to lead the way.

The evenings were cooler than when Paul had stayed with Andy that first night, and they no longer turned on the ceiling fan. An occasional breeze wafted in through the open window, carrying with it the vanilla scent of evening stock. 

"It's been a while since I crushed you, honey eyes, hasn't it?" Andy smiled up at Paul from where he was lying, spread out on the bed.

Paul took his glasses off and set them on the nightstand.

"If by 'a while' you mean the day before yesterday."

He straddled Andy and sat on his stomach. The tip of Andy's cock nudged against his crack, and he reached back to stroke it, the skin velvety soft under Paul's fingertips. Andy raised his knees and braced his feet on the bed, and cradled Paul's hips in his big hands.

"How many times have we made love, do you think?" he asked Paul.

Paul thought about it for a while, still gently stroking Andy. "I don't know. Lots, I guess, but the first time was in that hotel room."

Andy curled his body up, looking for a kiss, and Paul bent down to meet him. He licked Andy's lips, and the slide of Andy's tongue against his made him break out in goose bumps.

Andy fell back on the bed. 

"Right answer, honey eyes," he whispered. "I hadn't thought about it like that, but that's exactly the right answer." 



Sweet Spot Ch. 06



Andy had always found true patience one of the more difficult virtues to attain. He could pretend to be understanding, or logical, or whatever was required of him at any given time, but it was just that: pretense. And at the moment his ability to maintain a calm and unruffled facade was being sorely tested.

"You said you wouldn't leave. Just last night, you said you wouldn't leave."

"I'm not leaving, Andy. I'm just going back to the States with George for a short visit. It's not the sort of thing I can tell my parents by phone, or let George say for me. Don't you see the difference?"

Andy did see the difference, but the problem was that he wasn't so sure it carried much weight or was entirely relevant. And while the whole overflowing bucket speech had rung true—even romantic, in a dorky, Paul sort of way—it still didn't mean that Paul's sudden epiphanies were to be trusted in the long term. What if he had another epiphany when Andy wasn't around to do anything about it?

"But what's the sudden hurry? You still have a year ahead of you to tell them, according to your original plan. Why go now?"

Paul had been pacing, but he came to sit next to Andy on the couch and take his hand. "The first thing my mom is going to do when she sees George is ask him about me. How I am, if I'm eating enough, if my place is decent. She'll even ask him about the curtains on the windows and the tiles in the bathroom. What's he supposed to say, Andy? I can't expect him to lie to her for me."

"He could say that he didn't see you, that you were away from Athens on vacation," Andy mumbled. It sounded even more childish when he said it out loud. But damn it all to hell, he needed more time and that had been a good excuse!

"Even if he wanted to, he can't lie to her. I bet you can't lie to Elaine, either."

"Can, too." No wonder he couldn't get Paul to see reason; he was acting like a five-year-old.

"By omission, maybe. Not outright."

Andy took a deep breath. "Yeah, okay. I just hate the thought of you going through this alone." 

Because what if Paul decided he couldn't disappoint his parents, after all? What if they got him to convince himself that his duty to them was more important than his own happiness or than Andy?

"George will be there to divert some of the flack. And you'll be here for moral support, right?"

"Right," Andy agreed reluctantly, because, short of throwing a temper tantrum, there was little else he could say or do.

Paul squeezed his hand briefly, then let it go and stood up. 

"I need to get to my afternoon classes. I'll let Maras and my pupils know that I'll be away for about a week or ten days on a family emergency. Once I'm back, I'll pack. George couldn't get me on the same flight as him out of Athens, so I'm flying out tomorrow at six in the morning, but we'll be flying together from Frankfurt to JFK. He even used some of his miles to get me bumped up to business with him on the way there."

"Good old George," Andy muttered through his teeth.

He almost let Paul walk out through the front door before jumping up and catching up with him. 

"Tell them you'll be away for a week. Not ten days. A week."

Paul paused in the act of adjusting his bag strap across his shoulder and looked up at Andy. He caught Andy's hand again and knit their fingers together.

"Okay. A week," he agreed quietly, and Andy nodded. "I'll be back, Andy. I swear. There's no need for all this drama."

Andy let out a shaky exhalation. "I've always wanted to be a drama queen, I just never had the opportunity until now, so I had to jump all over it," he joked weakly and Paul grinned.

"I'll see you later, then. Don't fall asleep before I'm back."

He reached up and kissed Andy, then wheeled his bike out the door and through the front gate. Andy watched him leave, then shut the door and leaned against it, banging his forehead lightly against the wood panel in frustration. Sometimes he really wished that twink in the orange T-shirt in S-CAPE had waited around for Andy to ask him to dance, because no matter how much trouble he might have turned out to be, it couldn't have been more than Paul.

---o-O-o---

Given enough time, most people can adjust to any unpleasant situation. Paul wasn't sure if his co-workers and some of his pupils' parents had adjusted to him, or if he'd adjusted to their reactions to him, but things at the Club had reached an even keel. Although the academy didn't run during the school year and classes in the morning had thinned out and consisted mostly of retired men and women trying to stay active, he had a number of younger pupils in the afternoons and evenings, once school hours were over. It helped financially, but was frustrating on a personal level, because with a schedule that forced him to leave the house before Andy had woken up, return when Andy was at work, and then leave again for several more hours just as Andy was getting home, it sometimes felt that they no longer got to spend much time together.

He called George on one of his breaks to confirm that he'd spoken to Andy and that he was set to leave the next day.

"How did he take it?" George asked.

"He understands. But I need you to change my return ticket to a week from now." "What? You're not even going to spend two weekends home? What the hell, man?"

Paul was unwilling to discuss Andy's obvious unhappiness or his own doubts and misgivings regarding the whole exercise, so he fell back on the easy excuse. "I just can't suddenly take that much time from work, George. People are counting on me."

"So are we."

"No. You're just counting on me to do what you want me to do!"

"Paulie!" George exclaimed, and Paul felt ashamed of his outburst. Anyway, they'd beat the subject to death yesterday, and no doubt George would have more to say on the plane. Paul didn't doubt that George was trying to be understanding and supportive, but he also had his own viewpoint and objectives, knew Paul's buttons all too well, and wasn't above pressing them.

"A week, George. If things go well, I can come back with Andy, so that everybody can meet him. And if they don't, then there's not much point to staying longer, is there?"

"You need to give people time, Paul. You need to be there when they need to speak to you."

"Please, just change the tickets, okay, George? Okay?" Paul said a little desperately.

"Fine. Anyway, we can change them back if we need to," George said, and Paul hung up on him and only just stopped himself from hurling his phone to the ground and stomping on it.

He was dead tired by the time his last lesson finished, and he dreaded returning home to sort through his things and pack. More than that, he dreaded facing Andy, who'd been caught wrong-footed that afternoon, but who would by now have mustered a number of arguments as to why Paul shouldn't fly back home.

He entered the house cautiously, half-hoping Andy would already be asleep, but no such luck. The sliding doors to the back garden were open, and the crappy French music Andy listened to when he was depressed floated into the house. He was probably lying in the hammock and moping. To give Andy his due, he was generally upbeat after that all-important second cup of coffee in the morning, but on the rare occasions he fell into a funk, he really worked it.

Sighing, Paul propped up his bike, dropped his bag on the floor and went outside to find Andy exactly as he'd imagined him. He thought of saying something, then simply went over, climbed in on top of Andy and kissed him. Andy tasted of beer and, disconcertingly, of cigarettes.

"You smoke?"

"No, I quit years ago," Andy responded blandly, and Paul decided not to argue the point. He laid his head on Andy's shoulder, closed his eyes, and let his breath and maybe even his heartbeat, synchronize with Andy's. After a while, Andy's arms encircled him and his hands rubbed his back gently, from his nape down to his butt and back up again.

"I wasn't sure what you'd need, but I washed and folded some shirts for you, and I checked in case something in your travel kit needed refilling," Andy said.

"Thank you, Andy."

He felt Andy's lips brush against his hair.

"You'll call me, right?"

"I'll call you," Paul reassured him.

"Okay, then," Andy sighed. "Okay."

"Hey, Andy?"

"Hmmm?"

"Can we please change the music?"

"Only if you're planning on staying out here."

Paul rubbed himself against Andy. "I could stay a while." He slid his hand under Andy's shirt and scratched softy at Andy's sparse treasure trail, and Andy's arms tightened around him in reaction.

"You want to do this out here?" Andy asked.

Paul kissed Andy's throat and nibbled a little at the soft skin there. "Why not?" 

He flattened his palm against Andy's belly and slid his fingers under the waistband of his shorts, his fingertips just grazing Andy's pubic thatch and tickling there. Andy gave a smothered groan and arched up a little, causing the hammock to sway, and they both tensed until it settled again.

"But you have to be very, very still," Paul whispered in Andy's ear, then licked it wetly.

"Fuck!" Andy exclaimed harshly, his hands digging so deep into Paul's back he was probably going to leave finger-shaped bruises. 

"And quiet," Paul admonished and licked Andy's ear once more. "Otherwise I'll have to stop."

He reached down with his other hand to open Andy's waistband and lower the zipper. He tried pushing the underwear out of the way, as well, but the hammock swung again when Andy tried to raise his hips to help him, so he gave up on that. Anyway, the soft cotton had enough give for what Paul wanted to do. He wrapped his fingers around Andy's stiffening length and gave it a couple of sharp tugs, then dug his thumb gently into the moistening slit.

"Shit, shit, shit," Andy cursed below his breath. He spread his legs a little, and Paul adjusted himself, so that he was straddling one hard thigh.

"Nice and slow, Andy," Paul crooned, his thumb circling the head of Andy's cock on every down stroke of his fingers, then gently fucking the slit on the upstroke, over and over again. "Nice. And. Slow."

Andy slid his hands down under Paul's shorts to cup his ass and pull him more tightly against his thigh. He kneaded and squeezed Paul's cheeks and a couple of fingers strayed between them, circling his hole. Despite the cool night breeze, they were both sweating heavily by now, and Andy's smell filled Paul's senses. Every now and then, one or the other would move a bit too abruptly, and they'd freeze, waiting until the hammock steadied again before continuing.

"I'm going to cum, honey eyes," Andy suddenly gasped in warning, his body tense as a board under Paul's, and Paul quickened his stroke and raised his head so that Andy could kiss him. Andy moaned into his mouth as his body started to jerk tightly in the throes of orgasm, and he spurted liquid warmth into Paul's hand. Paul was almost there himself, and he hunched harder against Andy's thigh, then worked himself backward until Andy finally got the message, pressed a dry fingertip into his hole and sent him flying. 

The hammock rocked and creaked in protest, then settled back into a gentle swing as Paul's heartbeat slowed and his breathing evened. Andy had gone back to caressing his back, his palms now sliding easily against Paul's slick skin under his shirt.

"No hammocks in Bridgewater, right?" Andy asked suddenly, his worries clearly not appeased for long.

"No Andies, either," Paul responded, and kissed him again. 

---o-O-o---

Three generations of Pappas family showed up to greet George and Paul at the airport. His nieces and nephews flung themselves exuberantly at Paul, nearly toppling him over, and he laughed and hugged them back, first one at a time, then all five together. His mother eventually managed to squeeze in for her own hug, and his father thumped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, I'm back, too," George grumbled, but didn't get much sympathy, not even from his wife Xenia.

His oldest nephew and niece insisted on riding back to Bridgewater in the car Paul would be in, which offered more distraction as booster seats were transferred to his father's car. Paul had to squeeze in between the two seats for the nearly two-hour trip home, but was nevertheless thankful for the further reprieve little pitchers with big ears offered, as neither of his parents could delve into too much detail about his life in Greece.

His mother laid out a big spread for the entire family when they got home, with all of Paul's favorites. "I wasn't sure what to make, since you probably get all the Greek cooking you want right now," Kate said.

"It's still not your moussaka or cheese pies, Mom," Paul assured her, and dug in with gusto, loading his plate and pointing a fork threateningly at his younger brother John, who was trying to snatch the last zucchini ball.

He'd missed all this. The family meals, his siblings' banter, the kids' voices and sudden body-slam hugs. His stomach coiled painfully at the thought that he was about to give it all up, and he pushed his plate away, his appetite suddenly gone. Even if by some miracle it all went well, even if his parents accepted not only him, but his relationship with Andy, as well, he was taking himself far away. It had been a painful prospect even in theory; now, watching his parents and their loving relationship, it was almost unthinkable. And yet, not to return to Andy seemed immeasurably worse, even though they'd only known one another for six months.

"So, Paul, how are the women in Greece?" John asked. "Do they still know their place?"

"What's that? Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?" John's wife asked, reaching over to cuff him in the back of the head.

"Well, yeah," John agreed, even as he ducked away with the ease of long practice. "I bet they don't beat on their husbands, either."

"And neither do I, at least not nearly enough," Claudia, the token non-Greek in their family muttered darkly.

"So? Tell us everything. In detail," John insisted.

"Ah, I don't think they're much different than they are here," Paul stammered. "More independent, if anything. At least in Athens."

"And are you having better luck?"

"Better luck?"

"S-C-O-R-I-N-G," John spelled out.

"Scoring!" yelled seven-year old Paul triumphantly. "That spells scoring, Daddy. Are you, Uncle Paul? Are you a champion again?"

"Er, ah, not quite." Paul laughed, though he didn't think it was nearly as funny as the rest of the adults seemed to.

Paul's father had remained mostly quiet throughout the meal, observing Paul thoughtfully, but he finally broke his silence.

"You said something in the car I didn't quite understand, Paul. You gave up your apartment? Why? Where are you living now?"

Paul swallowed hard and his eyes flew to George in a plea for support, but George was whispering something to Xenia. She nodded and stood up.

"Hey, kids, what do you say we go outside for a bit, while the grown-ups finish eating and talking about boring stuff?" There was some whining about wanting to stay with Uncle Paul, but after assurances that Uncle Paul would still be around later, she got them all into their jackets and outside. Obviously, somebody had already been told Paul's news.

Milt's eyes had remained on Paul throughout the diversion, and he was frowning. The rest of the family had obviously realized something wasn't quite right, and all, except for George, looked from Milt to Paul and back with puzzled expressions.

"Well, you know about the economy in Greece, Dad," Paul stalled, his mouth completely dry. "It was hard getting enough pupils, at first, so I moved in with a friend."

"A friend. And why didn't you ask us to lend you some money?"

"Because I managed things on my own. I'm thirty-two, Dad. I don't need to write home for money."

"But obviously you do. It's not a shame to need your parents' help, even at thirty-two, Paul."

"No, I know. Can you pass the melitzanosalata, Mom? You really outdid yourself."

"What is a shame, however," Milt continued inexorably, "is not to have any plans or ambition at thirty-two. To run away from your obligations and to freeload off friends, as if you were still a teenager."

"Dad—," George started to say, but Milt held up a hand to silence him.

"Life means taking responsibility for oneself, Paul. It means having goals and working towards them. First you decided to give up tennis, when it got a little too hard for you. Then you decided to give up working for the family and towards your business degree, when those weren't quite the fun and games you were obviously expecting. Now you've failed again, and rather than come home, you're hiding from us."

"Dad!" George attempted to intervene again, but Milt waved him off once more. Paul sat staring at his plate, his cheeks burning, ashamed and angry and too aware of the stunned silence surrounding him. He clenched his fists and swallowed the words he wanted to say, because he knew he'd later regret them.

"Miltiadi," he heard his mother say quietly. "Stop, now. You know Paul's not like that."

"I want to know the reason, Kate!" Milt thumped his hand on the table. "I want to know why he is bumming around in Greece and living off his so-called friends, when he should be here, raising a family and working with his brothers and sister in the business I built for them!"

"Because I'm never gonna raise a family, Dad!" Paul finally burst out. "At least, not the kind you expect me to raise."

"Paulie," George said in a warning voice, still trying to calm things down, but now it was Paul, who waved his efforts away.

"I'm gay, Dad. Okay? I'm one of those homosexuals you're always making fun of and saying are so sick and will burn in hell. That's why I left."

"No, you're not," Kate blurted, then covered her mouth with her hand, as if she had to physically stop herself from saying more.

"Yes," Paul said, more quietly now, because his mom didn't deserve this. "I am."

His father looked stunned, his mouth opening and closing, no words coming out.

"But, Paulie, you'll always be alone," a clearly distraught Kate finally wailed in protest. Paul's sister, who was sitting next to her, patted her back soothingly and glared at Paul.

"No, Mom." He closed his eyes and thought of Andy, and tried to recall the peace he felt when he lay in Andy's arms. "This friend I'm staying with . . . well, I love him. And he loves me. I won't be alone."

"That's disgusting," Milt snapped. "I didn't raise you this way."

Paul didn't bother responding. Instead he looked at John and Claudia, and then at his sister Mary and her husband. John and Claudia were both pretty wide-eyed, though Paul thought he could also discern some sympathy and understanding in their expressions. Mary was still glaring, and Dennis was staring at the front door longingly and obviously wishing himself on the other side of it.

"I won't have you in this house," Milt growled. "I won't have you associating with my grandchildren, you sick—"

"Dad!" George yelled, standing up so suddenly his chair tipped over and fell. "My God, this is Paul you're talking to. Paul!"

"Don't tell me you think it's okay, George! I know you better than that."

"I don't know what I think, Dad," George said, casting a brief apologetic glance at Paul. "But I know my brother, and I know he's a good man and that he tries hard. There's nobody I'd trust my kids with more. Nobody. Not even you."

John murmured something that sounded like agreement.

Milt looked at them all as if they'd taken leave of the senses. "Look. I know Paul is your little brother and you want to love him and think the best of him. But some things are just wrong. They're against God's will, and you cannot accept them."

He turned to Paul. "If you give up on this . . . this madness, you can return. But not before."




Sweet Spot Ch. 06



"You can't cast him out, Dad!" George argued.

"Yes, I can. As he said, he's thirty-two. He makes his own choices, as we all do."

"It's not something I can give up on, Dad," Paul said, though he was looking at Kate, hoping she'd understand. "It's who I am. If you expect me to change before you let me into your house again, it'll never happen. Never."

"Then that's the way it will be," Milt said firmly.

"You'd do that to Mom?" Mary asked harshly, and at first Paul thought the question was directed at Milt. "You can't even fucking pretend for Mom's sake? Honest little Paul, always telling the truth, no matter how much it hurts others. You selfish asshole!"

"Why does the fact that I'm gay hurt anybody? Why does it make any difference to you?"

"It doesn't! Which is why there was no point to your grand announcement. You just wanted to get a rise out of Dad."

"I met Paul's Andy," George suddenly said, and Paul's eyes teared up at the description, and he blinked, trying not to let it show. "Not for very long, but he seems like a nice guy. He's tall, like Dennis, and really blond, and he obviously loves Paul."

"Who cares?" Mary asked again.

"You should. The same way that we all cared that Dennis is a good man and somebody, who would stand by you."

"But it's different."

"No, it's not. I thought it was, too, but Paul made me realize it's not. When I wanted to marry Xenia, I wanted this family to accept her. It was important to me that my family love her as much as I do, but I was prepared to turn my back on every one of you if you didn't." George shrugged. "We share every good piece of news in this family. Mary, you called both Xenia and Claudia at 3:30 in the morning, because that's when you decided to take a pregnancy test and found out you were pregnant with Katie, and couldn't even wait until a decent hour to call. Yet you expect Paul to keep everything in his life, every happiness,, a deep, dark secret?"

"Just from Dad," Mary said defiantly.

"That's bullshit," Milt burst out. "I cannot condone it. I won't."

"Milt," Kate whispered, but Milt shook his head vehemently.

"No, Kate. You know I support and help all my children, but this is wrong. If Paul realizes his mistake, and wants to get well but can't do it alone, I'll do everything in my power to help him. I'll find him the best counsel, the wisest priest. But I can do nothing while he obstinately refuses to even consider that what he is doing is sick."

"I can't change what I am, Dad," Paul made one more effort. "I can't."

"Perhaps not. But we are men, not animals, Paul. That means we don't succumb to all our instincts. We have the mind and willpower to choose how we act. By your actions shall ye be known."

"Well, then." Paul stood up, feeling a little at a loss, now that the moment he'd dreaded for so long was finally upon him. "I guess that's it."

"I guess that's it," Milt agreed heavily.

"Come on, Paul. You're coming home with me." George slung his arm protectively around Paul's shoulders, then turned back to Milt. "You're wrong. You're wrong and you're cruel."

"I don't mean to be cruel," Milt said, but he didn't apologize.

"Uh, bye, Mom." Paul wasn't sure if he should say something about seeing her later. "I'm sorry," he said finally.

Kate came over and hugged him, but neither said nor did anything to keep him there. Not that Paul had expected it. His mother might not have always agreed with his father, she might have sometimes done things behind Milt's back, but she had never, as far as Paul knew, openly defied him. In the Pappas home, Milt's word was law.

He waited numbly by George's car as George transferred his daughter's booster seat back from Milt's car, and Xenia took the other children back inside, then got in next to Kathy and laid his head back on the headrest, so that he was looking up at the gray sky through the back window. He knew Xenia was probably dying to know the details of what had transpired while she was outside with the kids, but she didn't ask and he was too exhausted to volunteer even the bare bones. She'd probably hear it all soon enough from George, anyway.

When they reached George's house, Paul dropped his suitcase in the guest room and then went out to the back porch and sat on the steps. The air had a chilly nip that he'd almost forgotten existed after the spring and summer months in Greece, and he could smell smoke from a grill or fireplace somewhere nearby.

"You okay, Paulie?" he heard George's voice behind him.

"Yeah. I was thinking I'd call Andy, tell him we got here safely, but it's two in the morning there. I should probably wait until tomorrow."

George came to sit next to him. "You really think he's asleep?"

"I don't know," Paul said listlessly. "Even if he's not, I don't know if I want to go over what happened with Dad and Mom."

George gave him a brief, one-armed hug, then stood up again. "Call him, Paul. Whatever the reason you're hesitating for, it's bullshit. Take it from me, your long-married brother. He won't mind, even you wake him. He'll mind a lot more if you don't."

Paul waited until he heard the door click closed behind him, then dialed Andy's number on his phone. His first two attempts didn't go through. He'd dial one more time, and if he failed again, it was some sort of sign, he thought, wrapping one arm tightly around his raised knees and leaning his forehead on them.

"Hey, you!" Andy's voice sounded wide awake and happy.

"Hey, you," Paul choked out around a sudden lump in his throat, and then, just like that, he was crying. He tried to stop, but he couldn't. "I'll . . . I'll call you back," he said tightly.

"No! Just stay on. It's okay, honey eyes. I love you. It's okay."

Andy went on murmuring nonsense in Paul's ear, and finally Paul cried himself out.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to break down on you," he said.

"That's okay. It was your dime, anyway," Andy said, and Paul could picture his quick smile. "Things didn't go well, huh?"

"About how I expected them to. Except that apparently my Dad already had a pretty poor opinion of me, even before." His voice was starting to thicken again, and he had to stop and breathe. "He basically said I quit at everything I ever did. I mean, I always tried so hard, Andy, and I thought he at least respected me for that, but he just laid into me and . . ." He stopped again, because that's what hurt the most, that unexpected attack.

"Ah, Paul. Parents will stay stupid things they don't even believe, if they think it'll help get a point across. We all do. It doesn't mean he meant it."

Paul pressed his forehead harder onto his knees and squeezed the phone to his ear, as if that would somehow bring Andy closer.

"Where are you now?" Andy asked.

"George's house. George was really great. He stood up for me. I'd expected John to be more understanding, because he's less conservative, and he was, I think, but George fought for me. He told my Dad he was cruel." He paused for a minute, then continued. "He called you 'Paul's Andy'."

Andy made a soft, surprised sound. "Did he? He's smarter than I thought, then."

"Yeah."

"Honey eyes, come on home. Unless you think there's any chance of anybody changing their mind, in which case stay as long as you need to, I want you to come back here."

"Nobody's gonna change their mind. I guess I knew what would happen all along. It's just that as long as I stalled, it wouldn't be real."

"Then come home tonight. Tomorrow. On the first flight that'll get you here."

"I'm not sure I can change the ticket around again."

"Forget the damn ticket. Buy a new one if you have to. I'll cover it. Consider it a loan or an early birthday gift or whatever the hell your pride can live with, but let me do this for you."

Paul took a deep breath and surrendered. "Okay. I'll e-mail you the details, the moment I have them."

"Good. That's good, honey eyes. I'll be waiting for them," Andy said gruffly.

---o-O-o---

Andy crushed Paul to him and he didn't care who was watching or what they'd think of it. Paul clung back, his uneven breath loud in Andy's ear.

"Hey, you!" Paul eventually whispered, and Andy squeezed harder for a few seconds, before finally stepping back.

"Hey, you. What took you so long? And where's your suitcase?"

"That's what took me so long. Nobody knows. I had to wait in line and declare the loss. They'll send it on home, if they find it."

"Anything important in it?"

"Well. A few pairs of that underwear you like so much," Paul replied and Andy laughed.

Paul didn't say much in the car. He let Andy hold his hand whenever he wasn't changing gears, and he smiled at Andy's jokes, but he seemed sad, which Andy supposed was natural enough. They'd work through it. 

Once they reached home, Paul went to take a shower and change, while Andy fixed him an omelet and opened a couple of beers.

"Oooh, fancy!" Paul teased, when he came to sit down at the kitchen table. "I should go away more often. Usually you just slap some scrambled eggs in front of me."

"Well, they start out life as omelets, too, so shut up. But yesterday I saw Ramsay do this thing, where he actually folded the omelet, rather than flip it, which really works a lot better for me, as you can tell. And you say I learn nothing from watching cooking shows."

Paul stared at him. "You didn't know you could fold an omelet?"

"How would I? It's not like I stand around, watching people cook. I'm a busy businessman, you know."

"You wanna hear something?" Paul asked after he'd finished his food and pushed the plate aside.

Andy nodded.

"My mom had prepared this feast for me. All my favorite foods, meatless moussaka, kolokythokeftedes, tyropittakia. And I sat down with my family to eat and I thought that even if things went well, I wouldn't be around to see them very often anymore. It was my home, you know, just like this is yours, and it was hard to think of leaving."

Andy waited on tenterhooks, while Paul took a sip of his beer. "I want this to be your home," he finally burst out, because Paul was taking his own sweet time. "Here, with me."

Paul smiled. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. It was hard, but leaving you would be a lot harder. Even if my Dad had accepted me, I'd have come back. I know you don't think so, but I would have."

Andy stared raptly into Paul's eyes and wondered how he'd ever doubted him. "I know," he said finally. "I believe you."

Paul stood up and came over to sit astride Andy's lap. "On the plane, I kept on thinking that I'd tell you the moment I saw you. Then in the car I thought I'd tell you when we got in the house, then when I came out of the shower, but it's scary, you know? And I wanted to wait for the perfect moment, but now I just need to tell you, even if it's not so perfect."

Andy cradled Paul's lean hips in his hands. "Tell me what?"

Paul leaned down and kissed him. "I love you, Andy," he said, and even though Andy already knew it, he felt a burst of happiness, as if he were finding it out for the first time. He assumed he'd most probably always feel the same way, every time Paul told him, no matter how many times he did so.

"I love you, too, honey eyes," he said, and from the smile in those eyes, he thought maybe Paul felt exactly the same way about hearing the words, and he swore he'd say them as frequently as he could for the rest of his life.