MY HANDS SHOOK as I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them off. All around me, men in various stages of undress joked and laughed among the orange metal lockers. Mark seemed to know everyone. He greeted a tall dark man in his late thirties, probably of mixed-race descent, with tan skin, loose close-cropped black curls, wide-set emerald eyes, and a strong roman nose. They discussed the man's medical practice. I checked his left hand for a wedding ring- married. The cute married guy slapped Mark on the shoulder and took a locker a few rows over.
Mark changed out of his suit. I stole a few peeks. Eight years had passed since I had seen him naked, felt his body against mine, tasted his skin, breathed his scent. He pulled loose his tie and slung it over the locker door. The first time we made love, camping in the mountains, filled my mind with memories: the scrunchy, fragrant pine needles; the tight, hard muscles of Mark's chest and stomach; the silky smooth caress of his exploring tongue. I quickly pulled on my shorts and sat on the bench to help hide the erection my thoughts had produced. Mark emptied his pockets onto the top shelf with a metallic clank of car keys, coins, and wallet. I remembered how much I'd loved to carry his keys around before I could drive. I'd acted like they were my car keys, not his; I was the football star, grown up, driving a copper-colored Chevy Camaro. The rush of falling fabric caught my attention as he dropped his suit pants and stepped out of them. A quick glance told me he folded his clothes carefully on a hanger before he completed undressing. His starched shirt came off next and joined his pants on the hanger. Mark stood before me in his black boxer-briefs. That, I had seen before at Ruby's. But then I'd had no interest in him; I had my own man. Now, I was available, and his wife was out of town.
He hooked his thumbs around the waistband of his underwear and pulled them down to his ankles. I had to look, but I didn't want to get caught staring; not like I was fifteen, never touched another boy, wanting to compare. I'd compared and touched a lot since then, but here was my first lover, my older cousin reaching into his locker for shorts. Opportunity began to slip away.
I tied my shoes as if they were the most interesting strings I had ever seen. I shifted my eyes to Mark. He had improved with age; his body thicker than at twenty-two, sturdier and more solid; the distinct definition of muscles under his tanned skin was softened by his thick dark body hair. His cock won the award for most improved member. It snaked to the left as if an erection promised to develop the longer it was exposed to view. Does he know I'm checking him out? Probably. He took his time pulling on his T-shirt, so that I would have a chance to look without getting caught. I took the opening.
He straightened his t-shirt and winked at me. "You doing okay?"
A grin I couldn't control turned into a laugh at the sight of Mark in nothing but a Georgia-Pacific T-shirt with his dick beginning to arch up. "Whoa, baby. I'm great, but put that monster away and let's go lift."
He smiled and scratched his balls, then pulled on his shorts.
AFTER FORTY-FIVE minutes in the weight room, my muscles burned, but I kept up with Mark on every lift. I proved, in a gym-kinda-way, that I was an equal man to him. We returned to the locker room, the dread of showering with him and keeping down an erection in a public place clouding my mind. Old techniques from high school gym class came back: think of math problems, name the state capitals, imagine the cheerleaders in their underwear. To my relief, Mark suggested, "Let's go back to my place and get cleaned up. I don't want to have to put this suit back on after working out."
We grabbed our stuff from the lockers and headed back to his Church Street penthouse. As I followed in my car, my mind kept inventing possible scenarios for the night. Should we start something up again? A few days ago, Mark assured me that he was happily married and didn't consider himself bisexual, let alone gay. What plans did he have for the night? What did I really want from him? Would I be doing this if Daniel hadn't turned out to be such an asshole?
Mark pulled into the parking garage underneath his building, and we parked in the two spaces assigned to his penthouse. Sweat still poured down my face from the workout, or was it in anticipation?
"I'll fire up the grill while you get showered and changed." He pushed the elevator button for his floor. My mind flashed back to the elevator ride with Daniel in the Observer building and how I couldn't stay away from him. I held onto the brass railing until the elevator stopped at the top floor. Our running shoes squeaked across the marble tile to his front door. I had forgotten how grandiose his place was: columned foyer, two-story living room, leather, mahogany, and a skyline view from huge windows. Mark showed me to his bedroom, opening a door to a walk-through closet where he hung his suit, then on to a gray-marbled bathroom with a double-headed shower, whirlpool, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
"You can use my bathroom," Mark offered. "Kathleen's is on the other side. I get a little dizzy when I go in there, with all that pink tile. I'll start the grill in the kitchen."
"Thanks." My awe from the surroundings made me blurt out, "This bathroom and dressing area are almost as big as my entire apartment." What did I expect him to say to that? He smiled and pulled the door shut as he left. I could see what the Harris money and name could buy. Was this what Gladys wanted for her family, wealth, security, prestige? I thought of the tiny, cramped Castro apartment I shared with Emma and Lola the cat, how different it was from this. Did Gladys think I could cause the family to lose this style of living?
I stripped and jumped in the shower, turning on both shower-heads. The shampoo and soap smelled of juniper, sandalwood, and Mark; closing my eyes, I let the steaming water run over me. Dried with a large, fluffy terrycloth towel, I sprayed some of Mark's light, cool-smelling Hugo cologne on my neck, wrists, and stomach. I dressed in khaki shorts and a turquoise Polo shirt.
Pots and pans rattled in the kitchen as I entered and found Mark setting things out for dinner, still in his workout clothes. "You look like you're going to do some major cooking. Want some help?"
He smiled and handed me a bowl with Italian-marinated chicken. "You can grill this while I shower." He pointed toward the stovetop that included a full gas grill. "We're having spinach tortellini and chicken with a pepper and garlic tomato sauce."
My sweet-smelling Hugo-sprayed stomach growled. "Great. What else can I do?"
"Open a bottle of the Chardonnay in the refrigerator. I'll be right back." He left to shower, and I found the wine, popped the cork, poured myself a glass, then placed the chicken on the grill. Since there was no stool nearby, I hopped up on the countertop across from the chicken and watched it sizzle. The workout had left me thirsty for something besides wine, so I drank a couple of glasses of water. I pulled out my cigarettes, but didn't see an ashtray, so I flicked the ashes in the sink. "Two cigarettes," I calculated, "then turn the chicken. That should be enough time." Switching back to the wine, I sipped it and strolled to the stereo. I found a Chris Spheeris CD and turned it down low.
As I finished grilling the chicken, I put a pot of water on for the pasta, and Mark appeared, with wet, combed hair from his shower and dressed in jeans and a half-buttoned crimson silk shirt. He smelled of Hugo cologne too.
"How's dinner coming?" he asked.
"Great," I said as he walked by, and I felt his hand grasp the back of my neck in a firm rub.
He poured himself a glass of wine and leaned against the counter. "So, I want to apologize again about the other night. I shouldn't have been rude to Daniel. He's a friend of yours, and I had no right bringing politics into it."
"Daniel is no friend," I said. "Turns out he was using me to get information about the family." I hated admitting my misjudgment, but it was history now. "Anyway, that's over."
Mark walked over to me and put both his hands on my shoulders in a brotherly grip. "Sorry. Are you doing okay?"
"Mark," I put my hands on his waist so that we were in a semi-embrace, "we only dated for a week. I've had colds that lasted longer."
He smiled and pulled me closer to an official hug; my nose against the nape of his neck, I inhaled his scent, my cheek against his. He pulled away before I did and turned to the stove to work on dinner.
"Well, I'm glad it wasn't serious." He buttered a long loaf of sourdough bread and placed it in the oven. "How's Ruby?"
Not sure if I was ready to change the subject, but following his lead, I answered, "Good. We planted her front flowerbed today. Valerie picked her up for supper at Mantis, then they were going to stay at Val's condo tonight. Kind of a girls' night out."
"Valerie is such an attractive woman," Mark commented, stirring the pasta, "wonder why she never married? Of course, Walterene and Ruby never married either."
"Finding the right man is difficult." I winked at him. "Look at me, twenty-five, single, can't keep a relationship over a week."
"You were just spoiled with your first," he said matter-of-factly, still stirring the pot-and me.
My mind numbed. What do I say to that? "I," stammered out of me, "I believe you're right." Why not take the opening? "Not many men can compare to Mark Harris."
A chuckle escaped him as he turned to me. "And don't you forget that."
"But, you're married, and the shining son of a soon-to-be US Senator," I teased.
He only smiled in response. Pouring more wine, he asked, "Do you think Valerie might be a lesbian?"
"What?" I was a little shocked, not that being a lesbian wouldn't be an improvement to a woman's life, but I really had never thought of my sister's sexuality. "I don't think so. No, she would have told me. She likes men, I guess she has sex with them, but she's happy on her own. Probably from growing up during the Women's Lib thing in the seventies, she knows she doesn't need a man to make her complete. I often wonder if Gladys would have married Dad if Grandpa Ernest hadn't pushed it."
Mark rubbed his chin. "Ruby and Walterene didn't follow Grandpa Ernest's edicts."
"No, they were rebels."
"Okay, dinner is almost ready," he announced and began draining the pasta. I set the large mahogany table so that we sat at one corner and could see the setting sun's last shimmer. One candle flickered above the rose flower arrangement, and I left the lights low.
We ate as if starved and opened another bottle of Chardonnay. The talk, laughter, food, and wine lasted for well over an hour, "an orgy of the senses" to use one of Emma's phrases. We left the pots, pans, and dishes in the sink and settled on the leather couch facing the lights of Charlotte 's skyline.
"This reminds me of when your parents would leave town," I said, our feet on the coffee table, sitting close, shoulder resting against shoulder.
"Yeah," Mark agreed, "Margaret married, Mike moved out, hot summer nights on the patio, smoking pot, drinking beer while Mom and Dad vacationed in Europe." He sat up and looked at me. "God, that was great: the freedom, no responsibility, no job, no wife." Settling back into position, he sighed, "Will I ever have that again?"
"Retirement, maybe, in thirty-five years," I suggested.
"But your life isn't like this."
"No," I said, "like I mentioned, my apartment is the size of your dressing area and bathroom, and I share that with an anorexic model and a neurotic cat. It's all in what's important to you."
He sighed again and repositioned himself facing me. His right hand stroked my hair. "You staying the night?"
"If that's what you want." I tried to play it cool as I wiped my sweaty palms on my shorts.
Leaning over, he brushed my lips with his, letting his tongue slide over my bottom lip to my chin, where he nibbled gently. My heart raced, my breath held without realizing it. His hands pulled me down on the sofa with him on top; strong hands caressing my shoulders, arms, and chest. Exploring hands pulling at my shirt and fumbling with my zipper.
Searing heat ignited a wash of hormones that buckled my body.
My brain checked out, leaving my desire in control of my actions. Shirts with buttons flying, jeans and khakis kicked across the floor freed us for sensory overload. I couldn't get my hands to all the places I wanted. I couldn't press my body against his hard enough, wanting to melt into him, to become part of him, to ride his waves. No words were exchanged, only grunts and groans of pleasure.
He pulled away from our twisting tangle to lead me to the bedroom, where we explored, moaned, kissed, laughed, wrestled, and spent ourselves. I drifted off against his warm chest, rising and falling in the rhythm of deep sleep.
I WOKE WITHOUT Mark at my side, but stretching in a cat yawn, I replayed the night in my mind. Excitement rose again under the linen sheets, then it occurred to me that these were Kathleen's sheets, her book left on the nightstand, her and Mark's wedding picture on the wall. Tuck her, I don't want to think.
I found Mark in his shower and slipped in with him. The water streamed down his taut body. I took the soap and glided it over his chest.
"You'll make me late for work," he warned.
"Don't go." The soap rounded his waist and traveled up his back.
"I have to go. People are depending on me."
I pushed him back under the showerhead to rinse off the lather; the water cascaded over his face.
He sputtered, "Drowning me won't help."
The steam rose as I turned up the hot water and leaned against the cool tile, pulling him to me.
He was late for work.