Martin’s a road warrior today; second installment of “Me and Shea” …

Hi, friends and readers:

I have a loved one who lives in an ALF (assisted living). It’s located about 70 miles east of here, and every ten days or so, I’ll drive over for a visit. We usually go out to lunch, maybe sit and chat afterward.

The drive over there is pretty miserable. I must drive through downtown Tampa, then drive on I-4, an insane highway where people drive like maniacs. But, I know it’s important that I pay these visits. So, in about an hour, I’ll hit the road with my iPod playing on the Element’s sound system, and a travel cup full of coffee. With any luck, I won’t hit any traffic jams.

Is everyone enjoying my story, Me and Shea? Here’s the second installment:

* * * *

Copyright Martin Delacroix, 2009

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I drove home from work, shortly after Shea moved in, and I spied a dinette — a wooden table and four matching chairs — sitting by a condominium’s trash bin. Thinking of Shea and his lack of furniture, I stopped and placed the items in the bed of my truck.

At home, Shea’s van rested on his driveway. When I knocked on his door he hollered, “Come in.” Inside, I found him seated on a yoga mat in the lotus position, hands resting upon his knees. He was naked and I couldn’t resist glancing at his groin. His cock was uncut, his ball sac shaved, and he’d trimmed his pubic hair to a patch no larger than two postage stamps.

Tearing my eyes from his genitals, I explained about the dinette, producing a hundred-watt smile on Shea’s face.

“Alex, thanks so much. Let me get dressed and I’ll unload the stuff.”

His buttocks were round like melons; they jiggled as he walked to his bedroom. The flesh between his hips and knees, normally covered by his surf trunks, was hairless and white as cream. My cock stirred in my undershorts and my mouth felt like it was full of sawdust.

I should explain: During my junior year of high school a boy named Griffin, a classmate, became my lover. It began on a camping trip and lasted nearly six months, intensifying as it progressed. The sex was so good it almost hurt. Lying together in bed one afternoon, we declared our love for each other, promising we’d never separate. We even exchanged jewelry items. I gave Griffin a signet ring with my initials on it, and he gave me a gold chain I wore about my neck. We made plans to attend the university together, to share a dorm room. All of this occurred in secret. Nobody knew but us.

Toward the school year’s end, Griffin’s father was transferred by his employer to Seattle, some three thousand miles from Florida. When Griffin’s family moved, our affair ended and I felt like somebody had cut out my heart and fed it to a dog. My school grades plunged along with my appetite. I lost weight and developed a rash on my face. When I wasn’t at school, I stayed in my bedroom with the door closed, weeping at times, pining for Griffin till my stomach hurt.

I became so depressed I sliced my wrists with a box cutter; I nearly bled to death in our garage, earning myself a two-week stay in a psychiatric facility. My parents and a therapist tried to determine the source of my sorrow; they asked endless questions, but I wouldn’t tell them about Griffin and me. After a while, they quit probing and left me alone.

While in the hospital, I promised myself I’d never love another guy; my loss of Griffin had been too painful. Thereafter, I dated girls off and on, playing the part of a straight man. I even married, as I’d told Shea, but it didn’t last long. After the divorce, I admitted to myself I could not love a woman, not romantically, and at age twenty-one I swore an oath of abstinence. I would live a solitary existence.

Now, as Shea emerged from his bedroom, wearing only boardshorts, I glanced at the dark line of hair descending from his navel and into his waistband. I tried to memorize the way he’d looked moments before — the bulge of his genitals and the curve of his ass. He entered the living room, brushing Rasta braids from his face with his fingers, and I smelled his body odor, something like a blend of shoe polish and cocoa butter.

I told myself, Don’t look at him, Alex. Don’t.

But I looked anyway.

* * * *

Okay, friends, that’s the second installment. Do you like my characters, Shea and Alex? Can you picture the duplex they share?

Have a nice Saturday, everyone.

 

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