Sugaring ben, p.8
Sugaring Ben, page 8
“There’s a place we can get a drink at after this. What do you say?”
“What’s it called?”
“The Lucky Lounge. We’ll feel comfortable there.”
* * * *
Three floors comprised The Lucky Lounge. Karaoke could be performed at an open mic on the first floor. The second floor sparkled with dancing go-go boys. And the third floor contained six private rooms where guests could get their rocks off with paid help, creating an assortment of performed and twisted love stories.
Ben and I were greeted by staring men of various ages and races, none of which recognized him, which was a surprise for me, since he had been questioned by numerous and curious fans about his identity and success all day long.
We curled up to a table that overlooked the stage on the second floor. A waiter, some nineteen-year-old Thor-lookalike with a muscled stomach and too much makeup, took our drink orders. Ben decided on a dry martini with two olives, and I went with my norm, a Long Island iced tea. Thereafter, I looked around and saw twelve tables. Some were filled with karaoke observers, and others were empty. Burgundy carpet spread throughout the entire room, blending with the royal blue walls. A spotlight shined on a handsome, green-eyed singer who performed Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe.”
We spent the next two hours at The Lucky Lounge, enjoying the karaoke. I tried to coax Ben to request a song to perform, something by The Doors, but he refused. It didn’t stop me from requesting a vintage Tiffany song, making a fool out of myself.
I decided after my hellacious performance that you could like someone even when they’re a little drunk and silly. Ben proved that to me and called me a superstar when I sat down at the table across from him.
He said, “I didn’t know you had karaoke in your blood. It was a nice surprise.”
I had other surprises to fill his world, if he decided to stick around after our weekend together in the city. We, as a couple, could have turned into something more, like boyfriendhood or marriage. Who knew?
* * * *
Near ten-thirty and very little snow falling from the sky, we left The Lucky Lounge.
We started walking back to the bed-and-breakfast when Ben, tucked against my side, said, “There’s an all-night coffee bar I know about in this city. Would you like to have a coffee and dessert with me?”
“Of course. What’s it called? And where is it?”
“Three blocks from here. One of my pastry friends owns the place. It’s called Appétit Nuit.”
“Appetite Night. I like that name.”
“My friend’s last name is Night. David Night.”
I had never heard of his friend, or the coffee shop, but was interested in trying the place out. Truth told, Ben could have taken me anywhere on the planet, and I would have enjoyed the location, event, and his company.
* * * *
Appétit Nuit screamed French décor. Art deco peacocks and Aix en Provence landscape tapestries decorated the walls. There were twenty Louis VIV glass-topped tables and Toulon French Rococo side chairs. Les Filles Joyeuses Neoclassical pedestal urns created a narrow pathway to the restrooms, passing the kitchen. Telamon floor lamps accentuated the place in moderate reds and yellows. Soothing came to mind when seated at one of the tables. A surreal calm settled over the establishment, even when we discussed our coffee and dessert orders with our waitperson, Camille.
The menu had every imaginable type of delicious coffee drink from around the world, but Appétit Nuit was better known for its French desserts. Desserts included Tarte Tatin, Clafoutis, Paris-Brest, Kouign Amman, and many others, all of which Ben detailed for me. Camille recommended the Madagascar medium blend coffee and Far Breton, a raisin cake, claiming it her favorite pairing. After much deliberation, I decided on French roast pressed coffee and chocolate profiteroles, while Ben chose a vanilla religieuse.
* * * *
After our exciting day together, we ended up back at the bed-and-breakfast. The other guests had checked out, and Dan and Bob were already in bed. Ben led me to the third floor and our private room that overlooked the three rivers. He undressed me, kissed me passionately, and processed his sexual hunger for me, leaving me exhausted at his side, romantically charged.
I don’t remember falling asleep in his arms or dreaming. But I do recall feeling safe with him, under his weekend care, and sharing my heart with his, opening my feelings for him, and believing that he really did have no faults. Frankly, Ben carried the label of a saint, someone with much integrity, and I wanted to be just like him, or at least against him.
Chapter 15: A Hard Catch
Saturday.
Kat and the rest of my personal friends knew that I didn’t believe in falling in love at first sight. I thought it a ridiculous concept and tawdry. No one in their right mind could spend less than two weeks together and fall helplessly and romantically in love with another human being. Life didn’t work that way in my opinion. Love occurred over years; a minimum of five, I construed. How could a guy look another guy in the eyes and know—this is the right man—about love, just after a few minutes? Events of such human nature were next to impossible.
Love was a mysterious thing, though. Awkward. Enchanting. Dismal. I was pretty sure it could happen when I least expected it. Yes, I admitted to myself, that I was looking for it. What man wouldn’t in my situation? Companionship was a liking in almost everyone’s life, at least those who were considered mentally stable and capable of carrying out relationships and rationale description, although love was sometimes not based on rationale.
I proudly considered myself a part of that wanting and needing group of gay men and women. Love was necessary in my life, a means of growing as a human being. Love felt genuinely real when it happened, and it was the truth behind the mortal soul. To think that it didn’t occur with first glances, introductory hellos, or after just a few dates came across as emotionally pompous and thoughtless. I could be both on rare occasions, but not in Ben Cutter’s presence. Never. Not once. And I didn’t really know why. Maybe because I had fallen in love with him and didn’t admit it to myself.
As of Saturday afternoon with Ben in the city, I couldn’t be in love with the man. Of course, I admired him, thought him extraordinary company, an easy conversationalist, witty, and charming, but that didn’t mean that I was in love with him. Of course, he was famous, had a humungous pocket book, and exceeded in the handsome department, but I was still not in love with him. Rather, we were sexually involved friends who were just getting to know each other, learning the ins and outs of our lives, and the ups and downs. If love just happened to occur that weekend, I wouldn’t have pushed it away, tapping if off. On the contrary, I would have embraced it with open arms and fallen under its spells, whatever those hexes entailed.
* * * *
We visited the Carnegie Museum, the History Center, and spent two hours at the Riverston Casino, next to the Ohio River. We ate at an Asian-American restaurant called Mai Noodle that specialized in Thai food, took a chilly walk through Vick Park, and toured the Cathedral of Education near Pitt University. For two days, we enveloped Pittsburgh. And when we were not on the city’s streets, enjoying its storefronts and entertaining establishments, Ben and I coupled within the third-floor room of the bed-and-breakfast and enjoyed each other’s company, mostly with our clothes off and our bodies compressed together.
* * * *
Sunday.
The St. Patrick’s Day parade ended up being everything we thought it would be that morning. Bands. Fire trucks. Leprechauns. Inflatable ale mugs that hung twenty feet above the streets of downtown Pittsburgh. There were thematic floats, inflatable pots of gold, politicians rode in convertibles, rainbows, and confetti. Women and men of all kinds were drunk on the parade’s sidelines. Bars were open in the city, and everyone within a foot radius carried red Solo cups filled with beer. The city police ignored them, respecting the celebration and Irish partiers.
We had breakfast at a diner: eggs, sausage, pancakes, and orange juice. Then we took a walk along the Allegheny River on the North Side. Never had I felt so comfortable next to a man, enjoying conversation with him, his time, and everything about him. Love could have been occurring right before my eyes, but I really didn’t recognize it as such. Life was like that sometimes, wasn’t it? I guessed so.
Later that afternoon, we drove north again, returning to Radar. Snow fell from the heavens and created a five-hour drive as opposed to three. Swirling wind and a whiteout during most of the return trip became a nightmare. At one point, I pulled the pickup off the interstate, parked in a rest area parking lot, and made out with Ben, just to pass the time.
Following a string of heavy-duty kisses and Ben performing a dick-spurting blowjob on me, we returned to the interstate. I continued driving north, homeward bound.
Not even eight minutes after oral sex cleanup with napkins and hand wipes, Ben asked, “What happens now between us?”
“What do you mean?” I had both hands on the steering wheel, carefully driving through the plummeting snow.
“Us. The you and me. What happens now? I mean, you have to admit that we’ve become very close in the last few days. I was just wondering what’s next. Where do we go from here?”
What is next? Dating? Boyfriendhood? Moving in together? An engagement? Marriage. Buying a house together? Adopting children?
Flustered, overwhelmed by my own thoughts, I replied, “I really don’t know.”
“Well,” he sighed, sounding somewhat pissed at me. “Can I see you again? Can we have another date? Can I maybe spend the night with you?”
“Sure. Yeah. All the above. I just want to take it slow. This is a good thing we’ve started, and I don’t want to fuck it up. You’re a hard catch and totally out of my league. I’m not really sure what to do from here on.”
He reached for my right thigh, gave it a gentle squeeze, and said, “I’m pushy.”
“A little.”
“But I like you, Sand. Maybe too much. It’s hard for me to slow things down and take a deep breath. I’m the type of guy who gets what he wants, and you just happen to be what I want.”
I chuckled. “You need to raise your bar. I’m just a weatherman with a saltbox house and a view of the lake.”
He squeezed my leg again. “Maybe that’s what I want, Sand.”
Maybe.
Maybe.
* * * *
He spent the evening and night with me. We had dinner together (endive salads, baked pork chops, and mashed red potatoes), and he whipped us up some crème brûlée for dessert. We downed two bottles of white wine and listened to some jazz while talking the evening away. Topics included Georgia O’Keefe paintings, the roaring twenties and Zelda Fitzgerald, and terrorists in the Middle East. Then, close to midnight, we ended up naked together inside my bedroom, and enjoyed an hour of sex, missionary style, face to face, until we became spent, sweaty, and exhausted. Thereafter, we fell asleep in each other’s arms and snored the night away, until dawn, returning to our busy lives.
Who knew our comfortable world together would fall apart in a matter of hours?
Chapter 16: Kat and Flaws
Ben and I fell back into our lives. He flew to Miami for business, and I stayed behind in Radar, forecasting the weather to locals. Honestly, I sort of felt glum because we were apart. But we had to be apart because we were both professionals. He had his multimillion dollar business to run, and I had to share with the tristate area (Ohio, New York, and Pennsylvania) what the barometric pressure was, if a cold front was going to stick around for the rest of March, and when the next sunny day had intentions of gracing Radar and surrounding communities with some valuable warmth.
Upon my return to WRDR, I had learned from Natalie Barker, my immediate supervisor at the television station, that she had already heard from Wassamere College. The school was very pleased with my lecture, which they thought professional, interactive, and quite interesting. Natalie told me that I was welcome back to the facility anytime I wanted. She thanked me for representing WRDR and gave me a positive review, chalking up the experience as beneficial for the school, WRDR, and the both of us.
An hour later, Kat found her way to WRDR and my office, helped herself to a seat across from me at my desk, and said, “I want to hear all the scathing details about your extended weekend with the pastry chef.”
I provided her with a cup of coffee and exactly what she had come for. Every happening about every moment spent with Ben. Tales poured out of me of my weekend with the stud. I sounded like a drama queen on a reality show, spilling my guts about my city romance with Ben.
“How did the weekend end?” she asked, alert and consuming every word I had to say, digesting it without any judgment.
“We got back to Radar around six o’clock last evening. He spent the night with me at the saltbox, and we made love most of the night.”
“That doesn’t sound boring.”
“Some people might call it that.”
“So where do you two stand now? Are you dating, boyfriends, or lovers? Will you be getting married? Will I be your maid-of-honor?”
I rolled my eyes and told her, “We’re none of the above. We just had a good time together. Not everyone has to rise to the occasion of gaining a label after a romantic weekend together.”
“But most people do,” she admitted.
I shook my head. “You’re delusional. It doesn’t always work that way.”
Perhaps disappointed with my comment, she rolled her eyes back at me and retaliated with, “Sometimes I don’t understand you, Sandford.”
“No one does, I guess.”
“You have this man who drops into your lap, and you spend an entire weekend with him. Now you act like nothing happened between the two of you.”
“Yes. And?” I raised my eyebrows, feeling her out, and tried to understand what she was attempting to tell me.
“You don’t even seem to give a shit about him.”
“That’s not true, Kat. We had a really good time together. Our conversations were interesting, we were never bored with each other, and, to tell you the truth, I gave him plenty of attention for all the right reasons, which I will go into graphic detail if you insist.”
She waved a finger at me. “I don’t want to hear about your love games, although I don’t have anything against two adult men having sex. Forget that.”
I sipped my coffee.
She sipped her coffee.
A thick quiet hung between us in my office.
Silence. Crickets. Quiet.
We stared at each other for a minute…two minutes…almost three minutes, until I asked, “How well do you think you know Ben Cutter?”
“Fairly well. Why?” She sounded curt and to the point, obviously annoyed with me.
“Because I want to know what Ben’s flaws are? How is he not Prince Charming or the wrong man? Tell me. I demand to know.”
She made a humpf sound, pointed at me, and shook her head. “So you can’t handle that he’s pretty perfect, right?”
“I can’t. That’s why we’re having this conversation right now. Everyone has flaws, but I can’t figure out what his just happen to be.”
“What if he doesn’t have any flaws?”
I shook my head. “That’s impossible. He’s not Gandhi or Mother Theresa. The guy has at least one flaw, or he would have the title of saint or immortal god.”
“This is one of your flaws, Sand. Right here and right now. You’re always looking for the bad in people. It’s why you have very few friends and no boyfriend. You’re a negative Nancy. You’re a downer. Why do you think everyone has to have a flaw? Why are you being so cautious when you possibly have full access to the man of your dreams? I know a lot about Ben Cutter and think he’s perfect for you, no matter what the details of his life before you mean. You’re being a cad about this. You’re being stupid. And you’re pissing me off.” She pushed her coffee to the center of my desk, stood, and added, “Maybe you should look in the mirror and take a good glance at yourself and analyze who you are, Sand. You’re not perfect, even if you want to be. You’ll never be. And Ben isn’t perfect either.”
“You’re missing my point, Kat.” I raised my voice but didn’t mean to. “Tell me what are Ben’s flaws, or flaw…whatever.”
She huffed at me, irritated. “You’re being ridiculous. Stop knocking a good thing. Quit looking for the bad in Ben Cutter and enjoy what you have.”
“You’re being unhelpful. Before I go any further with this guy, I want to know more about him. If he’s your friend, you know him in and out, including his flaws. And if you’re my friend, which you are, you can tell me what I want to know.”
“Some people don’t have flaws, Sand!” she barked at me, shaking her head. “Why aren’t you getting that?”
“Bullshit!”
I realized our conversation and her visit had ended because of my outburst. She stood, huffed, and turned away from me.
Once at my office door, she quickly spun around and hissed at me with contempt in her tone. “Grow up, Sandford. You’re obviously not ready for a relationship with a man. Stop being a boy and start being a man.”
I stared at her back as she walked out of my office. Anger boiled within me, and I wanted to scream something derogatory at her, just to get the final word. Instead, I played well-behaved, and slumped in my seat.
She’s wrong. I’m a man, and I’m ready for a relationship. She has to be wrong. Ben has to have a flaw. He has to. Every man does.
Chapter 17: Hays Golden (III)
My twin, Hart, was a fuckhead. We were identical except for the fact that he was born before me by one minute and three seconds. We were the same otherwise: hair, eyes, height, weight, and likenesses. Everything about us screamed a reflection of the other brother when looking at each other. It was said that when we were in utero, my umbilical cord wrapped itself around his neck and slowly started to strangle him. In truth, it probably didn’t occur on its own because I was proud to take on the role as Hart’s killer. Two doctors worked together on the cord and Hart’s neck, preventing me from prenatal murder. Some days in my adulthood, I wished the doctors hadn’t saved him because we fought about everything after birth. Life was a battle, and we were its key warriors against each other.
