dontravis.com blog post #618
The Singaporeans are back, and they pushed up the reading count of last week’s “Habitat” considerably, but not many comments. Hope you (and they) enjoy my story this week. A Two-Parter.
FUN AND GAMES
The doorbell rings, and my heart takes a leap. It’s Dario Beloit. He called earlier to ask if he could come over. Dario’s a living dream. Five-eleven, one-seventy-five, broad shoulders and narrow hips, great calves, abs, pecs, and just about everything else… including equipment.
I open the door, and my heart palpitates. It’s Dario, all right, in a thin, see-through T-shirt and walking shorts that could pass for underwear. He’s holding a small gym bag.
Once inside, he shakes my hand like a proper gentleman, which morphs into an abrazo, that manly hug Latin men give men. Then he holds me at arms’ length and melts me with a grin. Dario has a generous mouth with bright teeth that can flash a smile seen for miles. Then he speaks in that throaty growl that never fails to raise chill bumps on my back.
“Hello, Mack. You’re looking good today.”
“And so are you, my handsome friend. Coke, coffee, or beer?”
“Think I’ll go for Coke today.”
“Can or glass?”
“Right out of the can.”
“Okay, park it while I get a couple of cold ones.
I return to find him sitting on the sofa, left leg halfway on the cushion, the right flat on the floor. Sexy as hell.
I hand him a red and white can. “Here you go.”
We talk for a while about our individual paths through life. Dario’s a grad school student at the U pursuing a Masters in Sociology. To what end, I haven’t figured out yet. Not sure he’s even reasoned that matter through. I’m out of school and in my first year with a local architectural firm. To what end? Well, I haven’t figure that out either.
I met Dario at a neighborhood bar a year back when one of his friends knew one of my friends, and four of us ended up at the same table. To see Mario is to want to get to know him. He’s that kind of guy. Handsome as hell with the blackest hair I’ve ever seen—not the glistening kind that reflects sunlight back at you, but the kind that absorbs light. He has irises that match his hair, black and mysterious. I can’t tell where the irises end and pupils begin. Never known a black-eyed guy before.
We had a great time that night, and have relived it in conversations ever since, including today. He reminds me of the time he came back from the men’s room with soaked britches and insisted some guy spilled a beer on him. We yoo-hooed that idea –claiming he’d peed himself—until he grabbed the back of my head and forced me down to take a whiff of his groin. Yep, beer.
Why he took a liking to me in particular out of the group, I’ll never know, but I was flattered when he did. We met one-on-one at the bar several times and played around at picking up girls, but it never happened. Wasn’t sure why, because once Dario smiled at one of them, she’d practically lay down for him right on the table. Even so we went home together most of the time. Occasionally, one or the other of us would break an unwritten rule and meander off with someone from the distaff side. But not often.
Maybe six months after we met, I got the shock of my life. We were at his place and had gone through about a six-pack each when he leaned against me on the couch and started confiding pretty personal things. His left hand rested on my right thigh, and I found it hard to concentrate on his words. When the hand went to wandering, I didn’t even try.
I’d been with a guy before, like back in school. Didn’t everyone experiment? But here was the greatest hunk I’d ever seen showing interest in me. That night will remain with me for the rest of my life… even if I emulate Methuselah. We didn’t go out after that so much but still kept in touch. Mostly ended up it his place or mine for a brew and a game of chess or at the tennis court where he usually wore me out enough to take the set.
Now, he spears me with those fascinating eyes. What’s new in your life?” Meaning, of course, anyone new?
“Not a soul. Haven’t had time,
“Sounds like an old man’s excuse. Getting old already?”
“Me? I’m in the prime of life. I can prove it, if you want me to.”
“Take your word for it.”
Finished with his cola, he leans back on the couch and rests his hands on his thighs. Deliberate or not, it emphasizes what’s between them. I lick my lips and move over beside him on the couch. He brushes my hand away when I rest it on his leg. I go back again.
He pushes me away. “Hey, man, watch it.”
“If you’re not interested, why’re you dressed in a shirt that shows off every muscle in your torso and those little shorts that don’t hide much?”
“Just dressing casually. No an invitation to grope me.”
I put a hand on his chest, excited by the tension I feel beneath my palm.
He makes to rise. “Look, Mack. Maybe I oughta go.”
“Uh-uh,” I say, pressing that hand harder on his chest. “You come here dressed like that, you gonna play or pay.”
I grope him. He closes his legs, trapping my hand. “Hey! I said no.”
“Mighta said it, but you didn’t mean it.”
I reach for him aggressively; he falls back on the couch with me on top of him. His eyes go wide. “Mack, what’re you doing?”
“What you want me to.”
What in the world’s going on? Doesn’t matter if a guy’s got with you before, if he says no, that means no. Does Mack understand that? What do you think? We’ll get to the bottom of this next week.
Stay safe and stay strong.
Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!
A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:
My personal links:
See you next Thursday.