Cute guy with ripped abs and freckled shoulders; third installment of “Who Shall I Tell?” …

Hi, friends and readers:

Isn’t the guy in tis morning’s photo post cute? I like his freckled shoulders and washboard belly, his long fingers and the expression on his face. It’s a unique photo, I think. Do you like it?

I’m back from my two-mile walk on the beach. It’s sunny outside, but chilly and breezy; I had to bundle up. Today’s going to be a “get crap done” day. I’m having a trailer hitch installed on the Element. Then I’ll buy a bike rack, and  we can haul our bikes around Florida when we travel. While the hitch is getting installed, we’ll run errands and have a nice lunch somewhere. My boyfriend has the day off, so we’ll be together all day. Yippee!

Here’s the third installment of Who Shall I Tell? As always, it comes with a caveat:

This story is not for the squeamish, nor for those under eighteen years of age. It contains graphic descriptions of a sexual encounter between two males. It also contains elements of BDSM. If this sort of material offends you, don’t read Who Shall I Tell?  

* * * *

Copyright 2009 Martin Delacroix

In a Miami hotel room, Jake and Adam worked in silence. Jake sat at a Formica desk; he pecked on a portable typewriter with a pencil stuck sideways between his lips. Adam sat with his back to the headboard of his queen-sized bed, his legs outstretched, law books and legal pads surrounding him. A wall unit air conditioner stirred the drapes.

It was Saturday afternoon, two days after their meeting with Diedre. Both men wore basketball shorts and high-top sneakers. Jake wore a t-shirt with the sleeves hacked off, displaying his biceps and shoulder muscles, while Adam was shirtless. They had taken a three-mile run an hour before and the room smelled of their sweat. Business suits, shirts, neckties, and polished dress shoes occupied a closet.

By agreement, Jake and Adam had divided up responsibilities in preparing the Florida Southeast lawsuit. Adam would perform research. Then he’d write a brief to support their case. Jake would draft documents to be filed with the U. S. District Court in Miami: a Complaint, a Motion for Temporary Injunction, and a proposed Order blocking the dean’s Notice to Vacate.

“Great way to spend a weekend, eh?” Adam had grumbled during their jog.

Now, a knock sounded and Jake looked at Adam.

“That must be our boy,” Jake said.

Their visitor was Robert Bosch, Diedre’s son, who would serve as plaintiff in the Florida Southeast lawsuit. Slender and half a head shorter than Jake or Adam, he looked just like the portrait in Diedre’s office. He was fair-skinned, with dark wavy hair that grew over  the tops of his ears. His eyes were cornflower blue; they sparkled when he smiled and shook Jake’s hand. He had a turned-up nose like Diedre’s and his voice was a scratchy tenor.

The boy stepped to Adam and the two shook hands. Jake wondered what Robert would say if he knew Adam was screwing Diedre.

Robert sat on the room’s second bed, setting his car keys on the night stand and facing Adam. He wore khaki shorts, an open-neck shirt, and tennis shoes. A pair of sunglasses perched atop his head.

Jake stole a glance at the boy’s crotch and Jake’s cock tingled when he saw the outline of Robert’s cock, snaking down one leg of the boy’s shorts.

“I’ve never been in court before,” Robert told them.  “What’ll happen?”

“In this type case,” Jake said, “there’s no jury, just a judge. We’ll ask for a pre-trial hearing on a temporary injunction. You’ll have to testify, to acquaint the judge with the basic facts.”

Robert nodded, licking his lips. He shoved his hands between his knees and stared at the carpet.

“It’s nothing to be frightened of,” Jake said.

Robert raised his chin and looked at Adam, then Jake. “I’m not ashamed of being gay — I’m out to my friends — but I’m guessing this’ll be in the papers?”

“Probably,” Jake said.

Robert puckered one side of his face and shook his head. “My dad’ll shit.”

Jake and Adam exchanged glances.

“Look,” Adam said, “if you’re uncomfortable with this–”

Robert shook his head. “I’m president of GALA. It’s something I need to do.”

Jake looked at Adam. “Why don’t I interview Robert someplace else, so your work’s not disturbed?”

Minutes later, Jake and Robert occupied a windowless conference room adjacent to the hotel’s lobby, seated across from each other at a table with a dozen swivel chairs. Overhead, fluorescent fixtures hummed. Robert sipped from a soda can while Jake asked him questions, taking notes on a legal pad. When had GALA been organized? What was GALA’s mission? How many members?

Jake was impressed by Robert’s calm demeanor, by his measured responses. The boy had a gift for words and, like his mother, he expressed himself clearly. But Jake found it hard to look Robert in the eye. The kid’s blase attitude toward homosexuality both amazed and unsettled Jake.

Jake thought, He doesn’t give a crap if someone disapproves of him. Where does he find the courage? Sweat beaded on Jake’s upper lip and his hand sometimes shook as he scribbled. Might Robert discern Jake’s sexual orientation? If so, would the boy tell his mother?

After forty-five minutes, Robert said, “Can I ask you a question?”

Jake looked up from his legal pad and raised his eyebrows.

“Did you volunteer for this, or did my mom make you get involved?”

Jake dropped his gaze for a moment, then he looked at Robert. “A little of both, I guess. Why?”

Robert leaned backward in his chair; his gaze bore into Jake’s. “You seem skittish about something. Is it me?”

Jake felt blood rush to his cheeks. He glanced at a framed poster on the wall behind Robert, his pulse accelerating. Was his discomfort so obvious? He drew a breath and let it out. Calm down, McGovern.

Robert narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “You are nervous, aren’t you?”

Jake thought, Look at me: I’ve got five years on this kid; I’m bigger and stronger than him, but he’s the tough guy in this room. He’s out there fighting while I’m hiding in the closet.

“What is it?” Robert asked. “What’s wrong?”

Jake’s pulse raced. He felt dampness in his armpits when he returned his gaze to Robert. Go on, McGovern, don’t be a chickenshit. Tell him.

Jake opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the conference room door opened and a bellhop entered, pushing a cart with a coffee urn atop it. An aproned woman followed with a tray of coffee mugs.

“Something going on?” Jake asked.

The bellhop checked his wristwatch and nodded. “Staff meeting here in ten minutes. Sorry.”

Jake swung his gaze to Robert. The boy’s head was tilted to one side and his face bore a puzzled expression.

Jake thought, You’re a fool, McGovern, a reckless idiot. You don’t even know this kid, but you almost told him you like men.

Jake rose, feeling a sense of relief.

“Come on,” he told Robert. “We’re done for today.”

* * * *

That’s all for this morning, readers. Enjoy your Thursday.



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