A Sign from Heaven Above
Ryan Field
Copyright
©
Ryan Field 2012
Published by Ryan Field
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and characters are fictitious in
every regard. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.
ISBN-
9781301670680
Copyright©2012 Ryan Field
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A
Sign from Heaven Above
By
Ryan Field
A Sign from Heaven Above
This all happened on a Saturday afternoon in early March, one of those prematurely
hot days that felt more like June. Ricky had just finished working out with weights and he
was only wearing baggy shorts, black running shoes, and a cowboy hat. He‟d gone riding
earlier that morning at a ranch in Chatsworth and still had a lot of energy left to spare.
So he went out front to trim the round boxwood at the end of his driveway. He was
carrying pruning sheers and a large, green plastic bag. Since he‟d moved to California he‟d
become as fanatical about perfectly sculpted shrubs as he was about his defined, muscular
body and his horses.
While he stood on the curb examining the bush to make sure he wouldn‟t trim too
much off the top, he frowned and stepped back. Should he simply trim the new growth and
leave it at that, he wondered, or shape it into one of those cones that reminded him of a
chicken croquette? The surrounding yews could be altered and shaped into square boxes to
offer contrast. He was ready for a change; anything would suffice. Those soft, round yews at
the end of the property had always reminded him of the fuzzy, matted buttons on a bad clown
suit.
Then a new silver Jaguar convertible pulled halfway into the driveway next door. An
attractive young man jumped out of the car and left the door wide open. He was Ricky‟s
neighbor, but Ricky hadn‟t met him yet. The guy crossed the wide green lawn at a brisk pace;
it looked as though he couldn‟t decide on whether to jog or walk. His fists were clenched and
his arms bent at the elbows. He wore tight, low-rise jeans with a zipper that couldn‟t have
been more than three inches long and a snug T-shirt the color of the ocean on a rainy day.
Ricky could see that he was an amateur weight-lifter: the long, thin muscles on his forearms
made this evident. But they were not outrageous and they didn‟t bulge like Ricky‟s arms.
“Your rear end is drooping,” the guy said.
Ricky jerked sideways. “Huh?”
The guy pointed to the rusty old pick-up truck in Ricky‟s driveway and said, “The
back of your truck needs some serious work, man.”
“I‟ve been meaning to get to that,” Ricky said, with a hint of relief. He‟d bought the
old pick-up on an impulse, with the intention of restoring it. It was in perfect running
condition and he liked driving it out to Chatsworth when he went riding. He had a brand new
Mercedes in the garage but he felt awkward driving that to the ranch.
The guy crossed to where Ricky was standing and said, “Would you be willing to
take on another gardening job, cowboy?” His tone went deep in a forced, aggressive way. It
sounded more like an order than a question, as if he was trying to appear more important than
he really was.
Ricky smiled and turned. He‟d forgotten he was wearing the cowboy hat in an
attempt to shield his face from the hot sun. He looked to see if anyone was standing in back
of him. And when he realized the guy was calling him cowboy, he smiled and said, “Ah well,
that all depends.” He rested the pruning sheers against the boxwood and positioned his hands
on his hips. He wanted to start off on the right foot with his neighbor; it wasn‟t easy meeting
new people in Los Angeles.
“Or would you be willing to work on a temporary basis until I find someone else?”
His face was red and his fists still clenched.
“No, I guess I have my hands full right now,” Ricky told him. “But thanks, man.”
The guy pulled a roll of new one hundred dollar bills from his front pocket. (How
he‟d managed to shove it into those tight jeans was anybody‟s guess.) Ricky bent down to
pick up the pruning sheers and the young guy waved the wad of bills right under his nose.
“There‟s plenty more where this came from, muscle boy,” he said.
Ricky could have been offended because the guy had mistaken him for a gardener,
except that when he turned and saw the guy was probably ten years his junior and very
attractive, he had a change of heart. And he couldn‟t get offended about being called cowboy,
not even in jest. He‟d moved to the West Coast so he could spend more time with horses.
And no one had given him this kind of attention in years.
So he smiled again. The guy‟s short, light brown hair spiked up above his forehead;
his large brown eyes made him appear aggressive and alert. His shoulders tapered down to a
small waist: a perfect V that led to a small tight butt. And now he was smiling at Ricky,
holding the cash in the palm of his left hand as though offering a secret bribe.
“Look…,” Ricky said, trying not to laugh. He figured he‟d better explain he wasn‟t a
professional gardener…or a real cowboy…before this silliness continued.
But the guy interrupted him. “I have plenty of cash,” he said. Then he started to
bounce on the balls of his feet in an impatient way.
“But I‟m not the gardener, man,” Ricky said. He set the pruning shears down. “I just
do this because I enjoy it; like therapy,” he said. “And it‟s a great work out for my forearms.”
He raised his arms in the air and showed the guy two thick muscles. Then he stepped back
because the guy leaned forward, as if ready to stuff the money into the pockets of his short
pants.
“I don‟t understand,” the guy said. He stared at Ricky‟s rippled stomach and pressed
his lips together.
Ricky put his hands on his hips again and smiled. But just as he was about to explain
to the guy he was actually his new neighbor, another car pulled into the young guy‟s
driveway and parked behind the silver Jag. It was one of those big SUVs, or SRVs…black
and shiny, with music blasting so loudly you could hear the drums beating with the windows
closed.
“Hey, buddy,” Ricky‟s neighbor said. He leaned forward and spoke in a stage
whisper. “Could you do me a big favor, dude?”
Ricky shrugged his shoulders. “I guess so.” He could smell his neighbor‟s spicy,
woody cologne.
“This guy I met a couple of months ago just pulled up in my driveway, and he‟s not
too stable. He‟s been calling me even though I told him I‟m not interested…the stalker type,
you know. I never even told him where I live, yet he knows anyway. Could you pretend
you‟re my boyfriend? This could be the perfect way to get rid of him for good?”
“Ah well,” Ricky said. He thought it was peculiar that the guy would just naturally
assume he was gay; most people didn‟t. He thought it was even more peculiar that anyone
would assume he knew what it was like to be stalked by someone.
But he didn‟t want to disappoint his new neighbor. So without even bothering to see
what the other guy in the black car looked like, Ricky carelessly jumped right back into the
middle of his old bar-hopping days of romantic game-playing and trickery. He smiled so
wide you could see all his teeth. “I‟ll get rid of him for you!” he said, as he squared his
shoulders. Then Ricky slipped his palm onto the small of his neighbor‟s back and pulled him
up against his hip. “Here he comes; get ready,” Ricky whispered from the side of his mouth.
His heart was beating faster now; his pants were getting tighter.
“This is good,” the neighbor said. “A big muscle guy like you will scare him off for
good.” Then he leaned into Ricky‟s naked chest, placed his palm on the small of Ricky‟s
back and began laughing for no reason. “You‟re kidding me, man,” the young guy said,
speaking louder than he normally would have, “I don‟t care if you get a little sweat on my t-
shirt.” He smiled and pressed his soft cheek against one of Ricky‟s sweaty chest muscles.
The alleged “stalker” had crossed the lawn by then and was headed directly toward
them, but at a closer glance he looked more like a cover model for GQ magazine then a
stalker. He wore a tight white T-shit over faded jeans. His raven black hair had been cut in an
expensive longer style that purposely looked as though it hadn‟t been cut in months. And his
face was chiseled and strong. One bicep bulged and popped when he lifted his arm to rub his
jaw. “Hey Grayson,” he said, with a slight accent.
Ricky smiled. Evidently his new neighbor‟s name was Grayson.
Grayson rubbed Ricky‟s back and said, “Carlos. I didn‟t see you pull up, buddy.”
Then Grayson looked at Ricky and said, “You‟ve been working out here too long.” He acted
as though all this were perfectly ordinary, and then he placed his other palm over Ricky‟s left
nipple. “You promised me you‟d stop working as soon as I got home so we could take our
nap together.” The boxwood and yews Ricky had been trimming were on the edge of both
properties; you couldn‟t tell who owned them unless you lived there.
Though Ricky had always believed it best to keep neighbors in the wave and nod
category, it occurred to him he liked the way this new neighbor felt against his body. The
calm hand pressed against his chest felt naughty and dangerous. His fingers were strong and
sure. Grayson was all man, and Ricky had to concentrate on not getting an erection. He was
already semi-hard and he didn‟t want to pitch that vulgar proverbial tent right there on the
lawn, heaven forbid.
“Oh yes, our nap,” Ricky said, speaking with a low mumble. “I‟d almost forgotten
about that.” He never took naps, but it didn‟t sound like a bad idea…to get this cute guy into
bed so that he could see what was beneath those tight jeans. He wouldn‟t have minded
cuddling with him all afternoon.
“Carlos,” Grayson said, “I‟d like you to meet my boyfriend…”
When it finally seemed to hit Grayson that he didn‟t know Ricky‟s name yet, he
stopped talking. He lowered his hand, rested it on Ricky‟s ass and began to squeeze. At first,
Ricky thought he was getting a little too aggressive. There was a moment of silence until
Ricky got the hint, and then he shouted, “Ah, I‟m Ricky. Nice to meet you, Carlos.”
Carlos frowned, but extended his right hand to shake Ricky‟s. “It‟s nice to meet you.”
His lips remained pinched, and he couldn‟t look either of them in the eye. Clearly, Carlos
realized he‟d made a huge mistake by dropping by unannounced and wasn‟t sure how to back
out now.
“What can we do for you, Carlos?” Ricky asked. He‟d been taken off guard with
Grayson‟s aggressive hand. Now he was feeling him up right there on the front lawn in broad
daylight. Ricky hadn‟t expected anything like this to happen when he went out to prune the
shrubs that day.
“I just, ah, stopped by to say hello,” Carlos said, taking a step backwards. His hands
were now in his pockets and his shoulders slightly hunched. “But I can see that you guys are
busy so I‟ll be moving on.”
The way he‟d said “moving on” came out lighthearted and unfussy, as though he
were stopping by on his way to the supermarket, but Ricky suspected he really meant that he
was moving on with his life and they wouldn‟t see him again.
Ricky and Grayson stood there smiling politely, waiting for him to leave. Then
Grayson slipped his hand down the back of Ricky‟s shorts; his middle finger inched down
the crack of Ricky‟s ass on purpose.
Well.
Carlos raised his arm halfway up, in a hapless gesture, and turned and walked back
toward the black car. They both stood there waving until the car was out of the driveway and
rolling down the street. Grayson didn‟t remove his hand; he continued to explore Ricky‟s ass
with his finger as though he‟d lost something down there.
“I think he got the hint,” Ricky said. Grayson was still fingering him and he wasn‟t
sure what to do about it.
“He saw me put my hand down your pants,” Grayson said, removing his hand from
Ricky‟s pants. “That‟s when he finally got the hint.”
Ricky shook his head and smiled. “You‟re not shy, are you?” Actually, Ricky was
flattered. But he didn‟t want to admit it.
“Can‟t help it; I like ass and I like muscle boys,” Grayson said. “And the softer and
smoother the ass is, the more I like it.” Then he stepped back and folded his arms across his
chest. He stared at Ricky‟s body and bit his bottom lip. “Damn, with a body like that you
must work out eight hours a day.”
Ricky laughed and placed both hands into his pockets. “I work out a lot, but not that
much,” he said. “I spend a lot of time riding.” Getting his ass felt up in broad daylight wasn‟t
something that normally happened to him, but it occurred to him that while he was
pretending to be Grayson‟s new boyfriend a light, wonderful feeling had begun to rise from
his toes to the top of his head. He stared at Grayson‟s torso and said, “Your body looks pretty
decent, too. Do you work out?”
Grayson shrugged and tilted his head sideways. “I try, but my body is nothing like
yours, man. I wish I could get my chest to pop like that.” Then he changed the subject and
said, “I just hope Carlos got the hint and will leave me alone. I told him that I wasn‟t
interested in starting a relationship, and he simply wouldn‟t let it sink in. „Let‟s just get
together and talk,‟ he‟d say, and I‟d say, „I‟m really busy these days, maybe some other
time.‟ It was like he needed a house to fall on him. Oh, I know, he‟s gorgeous to look at and
all that. Big dick, too. But the sex was terrible; just awful! He‟s a top guy, and I‟m a top, too.
We weren‟t sure where to put our dicks the one time we were together.”
Ricky‟s eyebrows went down this time. He rubbed his jaw and smiled. “Oh, that can
be awkward,” he said, resting his fist against his chin. But he didn‟t have a clue, and had
never given the matter much thought. Up until recently, he‟d been in a monogamous
relationship for years: his entire adult life. How could he have known about the challenges
two top guys faced in bed?
Then a carload of teenage boys sped down the street in a dark gray older model BMW
that had low, ultra-shiny wheels. When they saw Ricky‟s body, they honked and raised their
thumbs. An ancient faded bumper sticker on the rear window read, “Nine Inch Nails.”
Grayson ignored them. “I believe in telling the truth right up front, when it comes to
being a top or a bottom,” he said. “He should have told me. I told him. That one night Carlos
and I were together I kept trying to turn Carlos around on the bed to bend him over, and he
kept trying to turn me around to bend me over. We were both really horny, too. I can tell you,
it was one frustrating night that ultimately ended with mutual jerk off. I like to be in control.”
Then he shrugged his shoulders to let Ricky know this wasn‟t an apology.
“Ah, I see,” Ricky said. By then his head was cocked to the right and he was still
rubbing his chin. How in the world, he wondered, would a person respond to something like
that?
“So, if you aren‟t a gardener, why are you out here pruning bushes, looking like a
cowboy from a porn film, creating a dangerous distraction for drivers?” Grayson asked. He
sent Ricky‟s chest another long, seductive glance.
“I live here,” Ricky said, defensively. “I‟m your neighbor.” He smiled and extended
his right hand. “I‟m Ricky Reynolds, and I gather you are Grayson, ah…”
Grayson lowered his brow and shook Ricky‟s hand. “You don‟t know who I am?”
“Should I?” He felt his face flush.
Grayson laughed. “I‟m Grayson Smithers. I‟m the host of Deal of a Lifetime. As my
annoying assistant would say, „Jebus Crisp, everyone knows who I am.‟ God, I hate when
people say cute things like Jebus Crisp instead of Jesus H. Christ. In fact, I hate anything too
fucking cute. I hate the word heck just as much. If you‟re going to curse, then I say you
should fucking curse the right way.”
Deal of a Lifetime was only the number one prime time game show on television, but
Grayson didn‟t mention that at the time. He also failed to mention that he had been struggling
in show business for ten years just to make ends meet, and Deal of a Lifetime had placed him
on the A-list overnight that year. That first day Ricky met him, his huge success was the only
thing he seemed shy about.
Ricky smiled and thought for a moment. There was something familiar about
Grayson, as though he‟d briefly met him somewhere before. But it certainly wasn‟t from
television. Ricky wrote PG rated historical romance novels for a living; pop culture didn‟t
interest him in the least. His former partner, Max, used to joke that Ricky was the only gay
man on earth who hated to watch The Oscars. “I don‟t watch much TV,” Ricky said. “But I‟ll
look for your show now that you‟ve mentioned it. And I agree about the cursing. I‟ve never
heard anyone say Jebus Crisp, but I get annoyed when people say heck instead of hell. I‟m
like, who are you fooling?”
Grayson scratched his crotch. It was a natural masculine gesture; not forced and he
wasn‟t flirting that time. “And I don‟t read much, dude. But I‟ll check you out on Amazon.”
Ricky pressed his palm to his stomach and laughed. “Well, at least we‟re not two
tops,” he said. And then he realized he‟d said too much too soon. So to cover his mistake he
began to explain why he‟d moved from New York to the West Coast. “I wish I could say I
got tired of the New York winters and wanted a warmer climate, but the truth is that my
partner died two years ago and life hasn‟t been the same since. I‟d envisioned living on a
ranch, maybe Chatsworth, because I spend a lot of time with my horses. But when they
showed me this house I fell in love with the Hollywood Hills.”
“I haven‟t lived here long either,” Grayson said. “I‟m sorry about your partner. I
thought you were just one of those transient muscle guys who do landscape work part time to
get a new surf board, while hoping to get into show business. It‟s hard to find someone good
these days, a muscular guy or a landscaper.”
Ricky smiled again. He had a feeling this slick guy knew how to hand out false
compliments, but not in a bad way. Buying a surf board had never even occurred to him. His
only hobby was riding horses. It was something he‟d always wanted to do and had finally
decided to do after Max had died to fill all those lonely hours…like buying and restoring an
old pick-up truck. Becoming an urban cowboy had been the therapy he‟d needed to join the
world again. And yet, at the same time, it hadn‟t done as much for him as he‟d hoped it
would. No matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to fill the void that Max had left
behind.
Grayson must have assumed Ricky was younger than he looked, and Ricky didn‟t
bother to explain at that moment he‟d just turned forty years old in November. He worked
hard to maintain his thirty-two inch waist by eating right and lifting weights. He worked out
at least four times a week to keep his body buff and cut. Standing there with no shirt anyone
could see the rips and lines on his abdomen, and so far his wavy brown hair didn‟t have a
strand of gray.
“I‟ve got to go park my car,” Grayson said, scratching his crotch again. “But it was
nice meeting you, and I had fun playing with your ass, cowboy.” He raised the same finger
that he‟d shoved between Ricky‟s ass-crack and kissed it.
Ricky felt a rush of embarrassment. He smiled and looked down at his black running
shoes. “It was nice meeting you, too.” He wished he‟d had a sly comeback; he‟d never been
clever that way unless he was writing. But he was curious about something. “How did you
know I was gay? If I wasn‟t you might have gotten a punch in the jaw.”
Grayson shrugged. “A good guess?”
“I see.”
Grayson put his hands in his pockets and slowly loped back toward the driveway. His
legs were slightly bowed; his shoulders rocked when he walked. There was nothing perfect
about him, and yet the way the back of his jeans stretched with his hands in his pockets
nearly caused Ricky to lose his breath. Grayson had the ideal body for a potential weight
lifter. He could have been huge if he‟d worked harder at it. His muscles were short and tight;
there wasn‟t an ounce of fat anywhere. Ricky realized he wanted to get to know him better,
so he leaned forward and shouted, “Are you busy later tonight?”
Grayson stopped short and turned around. For a moment he seemed to have
misplaced his voice. “Actually, no, I‟m not. I‟m working in my home office, but after that
I‟m home alone tonight with nothing to do.”
“Would you like to come over for dinner?” Ricky asked. The minute he uttered the
words he was sorry he‟d asked. After all, why on earth would a hot young guy like Grayson
want to have dinner with a forty year old man? “Just dinner, you know, with a neighbor,”
Ricky added, as though he wanted Grayson to understand he wasn‟t like Carlos-the-stalker.
“Sounds good, man. What time?” Grayson asked.
“Eight is good,” said Ricky. He could have said seven, but he thought fast and
decided on eight instead. You never knew about these things. If it turned out they had
nothing to say to each other, dinner at eight would mean only about two hours of torture.
Dinner at seven could last forever.
When he was gone, Ricky stared down at the bush and decided to prune on another
day. He retrieved the sheers and the plastic bag and walked up the brick front walk, toward
the broad, white house that had at one time belonged to a famous television star. Though
tame now by Hollywood standards, the house was so large he sometimes wondered if he‟d
ever be able to fill it with the energy and life it deserved. If Max, his late partner, had still
been alive that wouldn‟t have been a problem. He‟d always thought of Max as one of those
wind up toys. Twist the key on his back and he‟d flit and flitter around, banging into walls
and furniture, until his momentum ran down. Oh, how he missed the way Max could work a
room during a party. Ricky‟s life had been silent for too long.
He‟d met Max, who was twenty years his senior, when he was only eighteen years
old. A boy, really, that had never lived anywhere but with his mother and father on a farm in
Amish country. They‟d met at a small bar in Greenwich Village during Ricky‟s freshman
year at Columbia while Ricky had been struggling to make ends meet. Max had leaned into
him in the dark bar and asked, “So, do you like to fuck or knit?” His voice was low and
wrecked by then (too many cigarettes and vodka stingers). Ricky had hesitated for a moment,
glanced down, and said, “Depends on the weather.” To which Max had replied, “I like that,
kid.” You either understood Max‟s offhanded, aggressive sense of humor immediately, or
you never would; Ricky got it at once. He was the most politically incorrect person Ricky
had ever known. And for the next twenty years, Ricky didn‟t stop laughing.
Max had turned sixty the year he‟d died; Ricky had assumed they would have at least
another twenty years together. But he‟d been so wrong.
*****
Later that afternoon, Ricky drove over to Champs Elysee Gourmet Food Market to
buy groceries for the dinner with Grayson, wishing he‟d never bothered to invite him in the
first place. This was the first time he‟d entertained anyone since Max had died, let alone his
first date with a man. Though for years he‟d been organizing and preparing formal dinners
for as many as fourteen in New York, this one simple dinner with Grayson made his hands
shake while he stuffed mixed baby greens into the plastic bag in the produce aisle. There
were so many things he didn‟t know about Grayson. Was he allergic to shell fish? Did he
have one of those deadly peanut allergies that seemed to be going around lately? So Ricky
decided to keep it all simple: a small salad with light vinaigrette, three inch thick filet
medallions, and pencil thin, baby asparagus. He had second thoughts about serving potatoes
that night; Grayson didn‟t look like the type who ate carbs. Even still, a small pot de crème
for dessert certainly couldn‟t hurt.
Three hours later, there was a knock on the front door at ten minutes to eight.
Grayson held a bottle of wine. He was wearing a loose white shirt and tight faded jeans.
“Am I too early?” he asked.
“No c‟mon in,” Ricky said. He felt both uncomfortable and sexy wearing black jeans
and a tight, white T-shirt. He knew Grayson was staring at his chest muscles again.
When Grayson crossed through the entrance, Ricky led him through a front hall with
black marble floors, chocolate brown walls and bright white trim. Grayson‟s eyes wandered
quickly, peeking into the formal living room with white leather sofas and soft gray marble
floors, checking out the dining room with the long glass table and a massive rock crystal
chandelier suspended from a coffered ceiling.
“How long have you been here?” Grayson asked. He had the front part of his white
shirt tucked into his belt and the back half hanging out in that trendy way the young guys
were dressing lately. “I‟d have thought you‟d lived here all your life from the way things are
set up.”
Ricky stared down at the floor and thought for a moment. Grayson should have
known this; he lived right next door. “Just a few months,” he said. “There wasn‟t much to do,
really, other than set up house. The previous owners had just finished a complete renovation.
That‟s one of the other reasons I bought the house. I hate disorder and I didn‟t want to do any
renovations. I like to live in a place for a while, and get the feel of it, before I make changes.”
“You certainly have things all organized in such a short amount of time,” Grayson
said. “It‟s all so perfect. Fuck me, dude. I‟m still living out of boxes, and I‟ve been over there
for a lot longer than you‟ve been here.”
Ricky led him through a light, modern kitchen, to a large great room where Italian
music flowed from one of those new iPod things he had just barely learned to use. The music
was for Grayson. Ricky wasn‟t much of a music fan (Max had always dealt with the music
for dinner parties on an old stereo system…with vinyl records). He liked to be with his own
thoughts, mostly. But if it turned out that he and Grayson had nothing to talk about, he
figured listening music was better than complete silence.
He had considered entertaining Grayson in the formal living room, but it seemed too
stuffy in there, and he wanted Grayson to feel at ease. The great room was his favorite room.
There was soft, brown leather furniture, a creamy marble fireplace, an oak armoire with
chicken wire on the doors, and floor to ceiling bookcases. On the hearth, he had a life sized
porcelain leopard, with a proud, regal expression. Though a lot of the things in the rest of the
house were brand new, most of the possessions in the great room had come from his former
life with Max. Actually, the great room was almost a carbon copy of what his living room
had looked like in New York.
“This is a nice room; not as fussy as the rest of the house,” Grayson said, and then
realized he‟d made a mistake. “I mean, everything else seems so sterile…oh, fuck…”
“I understand what you mean,” Ricky said, “And I agree with you; I don‟t know if I
can change, but I understand and accept my faults. I like perfection.”
Grayson smiled, but he still looked as if he was afraid to touch anything. His hands
were glued to his sides as though he were ready to sink into the Persian rug and disappear.
“What can I get you to drink?” Ricky asked. He turned away and crossed to the other
side of the room.
“Vodka,” Grayson said. “Or whatever you‟re having. I‟m not hard to please.”
The bar was a grand antique French cabinet with small, intricate wooden inlays, a
white marble top, and bronze trim. While Ricky prepared two vodka martinis, Grayson
walked toward the bookshelves. “Did you write all these books?” He obviously couldn‟t
help noticing that Ricky‟s name was on some of the covers.
“Not all,” Ricky said, “only about thirty or so.” Ricky had always been modest about
what he did for a living; he hated talking about his work. He was a genre author, not a
mainstream author. And the only people who knew his work were people who read genre
fiction.
“I have to confess,” Grayson said, “I googled you this afternoon.”
Ricky laughed. But he also realized he probably should have googled the name
Grayson Smithers to see what kind of television show he hosted. There had been a time when
it would have been considered an insult to check out someone‟s background like that, but
these days it was an insult not to do it.
He handed Grayson a drink and they both sat down on opposite ends of the brown
leather sofa. Grayson drank fast, talking about his life and how for the first time after so
many years he was making decent money in show business. He‟d been working at it since he
was twenty years old; ten years to be exact. And all the rejection he‟d taken, on top of all the
heartache he‟d endured, had finally paid off. “But I have to warn you,” he said, as Ricky
handed him a second drink, “I‟m not publicly out of the closet. I don‟t deny I‟m gay; I just
don‟t say anything. And I‟m always on guard with the press and the tabloids because they are
always waiting for me to slip up. I just don‟t think it‟s anyone‟s business.”
Ricky didn‟t comment. In the publishing world, no one ever seemed to care whether
or not he was gay. But he knew and understood what Grayson was talking about. Max had
come from a generation that didn‟t understand the concept of coming out of the closet any
more than setting the DVR to record or not rinsing the dishes before stacking the dishwasher.
More than once Max would moan and say, “I don‟t fucking get it; why should I come out of
the closet? I never thought I was in the closet and I don‟t see any reason to advertise the fact
that I‟m gay. What‟s done is done. And there should be no need to explain it to anyone.”
By nine o‟clock, Grayson was on his third drink. They‟d established a comfortable
conversation by then that revolved around the edges of their past lives and loves. When
Ricky mentioned that he‟d been born in an Amish community in the Midwest and they‟d
shunned him when they‟d discovered he was gay, Grayson gaped at him as if he didn‟t
believe him at first. His jaw dropped and he actually said, “Horse and buggy Amish?
Homemade quilt Amish?”
“I‟m serious,” Ricky said. “That‟s why I love horses so much. I grew up with them. I
left when I was a teenager, moved to New York, and worked my way through college in the
beginning. I don‟t know how I did it. I guess I had a lot more courage when I was younger. If
I hadn‟t met Max and fallen in love with him I might not have been able to graduate. He put
me through college and he changed my life.” He decided it was too soon to get into how he‟d
been shunned by the Amish.
“You must miss him,” Grayson said.
“Every single day of my life.” He glanced up at the ceiling and took a quick breath.
Grayson seemed to sense the conversation was becoming too serious, so he told
Ricky a funny story about an audition he‟d once had for a TV show about mimes. They had a
lot to laugh about, too, which is why Ricky veered away from his Amish background the
minute Grayson started telling his story. He would talk about all that later if he got to know
Grayson better. It hadn‟t been part of his life for so long he rarely talked about it anymore,
and yet it was always there looming in the darkest corners of his mind.
Grayson said he had always been too career oriented to settle down with one person,
“But I‟ve had my fair share of flings,” he added with a naughty smile. He said he believed
(not even considering how egotistical it might sound) he was a rare commodity in the world
of gay men: a complete top, without reservation, who wouldn‟t even consider lifting his legs
in the air. Ricky didn‟t reply in detail, but said this: “I once heard someone say, „Put your
finger in your ear, and then roll it around gently. Now, which feels better, the finger or the
ear?‟ Well, for me it would be the ear.”
Grayson‟s eyes became brighter; he ran his palm through his soft brown hair and his
leg started to twitch. “Can I put my finger in your ear and see what happens?”
Ricky smiled. “I should get dinner going.” He was still getting used to the idea of
having sex with other men. When he‟d been with Max, he‟d been monogamous by choice.
And since Max had died he‟d only had the safest sex with a few guys. In other words, no
penetration at all.
Grayson slid toward him on the sofa and said, “Oh hell, we‟re enjoying ourselves
right now, we can eat in a while. Fuck the food.” Then he placed his palm on Ricky‟s thigh
and leaned over to kiss him on the lips. At the exact moment Grayson did this, one of Max‟s
old show songs, Getting to Know You, came on and Ricky‟s eyes opened wider. He‟d hired a
tech guy to put a lot Max‟s old music on the iPod (he had no idea how these things were
done). Ricky must have mixed up the music; he was still learning how to use the new system
and he thought he‟d set it for the romantic Italian music.
“Are you going to feel me up again?” Ricky asked, joking. He wasn‟t very good at
this. He saw the erection in Grayson‟s pants; it was pointed up and popped forward. He
wanted to reach down between Grayson‟s legs and grab it. But he hesitated.
“Oh, you can bet on it, cowboy,” Grayson said. His voice remained deep and low. He
put his drink on the coffee table, lifted his arms, and wrapped them around Ricky‟s
shoulders. “You are the hottest, sweetest guy I‟ve met in a long time and I‟m going to get
into your pants if it‟s the last thing I do.”
Ricky jumped up from the sofa. He felt flustered; he hadn‟t expected Grayson to be
so forward so soon. “I‟m not used to this. I was in a monogamous relationship for twenty
years. I‟m just not sure.” He wasn‟t sure if he wanted to do anything sexual; even with Max
dead, somehow this felt like cheating. If only he had a sign of some sort; something from
Max that gave him permission to be with Grayson. Though he wasn‟t sure he believed in
heaven, he liked to think that if there was a heaven Max was up there looking down on him
all the time.
Grayson sat back and smiled, as if he didn‟t want to push Ricky too hard. “How did
your partner actually die? Was it a long illness?”
“Max had a massive heart attack. We‟d just purchased a new summer house on Fire
Island that month. The night he died we‟d celebrated buying the new house with a few close
friends. I was in my room sleeping…”
“You had separate rooms?” Grayson asked. His head jerked back as if Ricky had
offended him.
“Max was older, you have to understand; sex wasn‟t a big part of our relationship by
then.” He sighed. The old show song ended and romantic Italian music began to play again.
“We still had sex, but not as often as in the beginning of our relationship.” Max had been a
top, too. And the sex they‟d shared had always been good. But Ricky didn‟t want to go into
personal details with a man whom he still considered a virtual stranger.
Grayson folded his arms and smiled. There was an eager, sinister expression on his
face, like a dirty old pirate who‟s ready to lift the skirt of the town virgin. “Okay, so what
happened to Max?”
Ricky shrugged. “I woke up the next morning and found Max sitting on the sofa in
the library stiff as a board, holding a cigarette; his flesh was stone cold. I knew he was dead. I
knew the minute I saw him there. Evidently, he‟d awakened sometime during the night,
which he did often, and went into the library to watch TV. He‟d died instantly, right there on
the sofa. I sat across from him, staring in shock, for an hour before I could even lift the
telephone for help.”
“That must have been very traumatic,” Grayson said.
“The worst day of my life,” Ricky said. “And then, of course, the day I buried him,
which seemed so final.”
Grayson patted the sofa. “Come here, Ricky.”
Ricky walked toward him and sat down.
“Look, I have a confession to make; please don‟t get mad,” Grayson said. “I knew
you weren‟t the gardener this afternoon. I only said that because I wasn‟t sure how to
introduce myself without looking like an idiot. So I concocted that whole story. To be honest,
I‟ve been checking you out since the day you moved in, wondering what your story was. And
today, when you were outside without your shirt on, wearing the cowboy hat, I couldn‟t resist
anymore. But guys like you never seem interested in me.”
Ricky‟s eyes bulged. He was interested in everything about Grayson. “What about
Carlos? Was that planned too?”
“Oh no,” Grayson said, laughing, “That just happened at the right time. He was
hounding me, and I did want to get rid of him. Actually, I couldn‟t have planned that better.
Plus, it gave me an opportunity to actually get into your pants, so to speak.”
Ricky smiled. “Oh, you do have a one track mind.” But he wasn‟t insulted. After all
those years with an older man, he was ready for a young guy like Grayson. But it was more
than that. Grayson made him laugh without thinking about laughing, and that had nothing to
do with his age.
“Oh yeah,” Grayson said, “And now that I know you‟re a bottom you know what I‟m
thinking about constantly.” He then reached between Ricky‟s legs, ran his hand up under the
leather cushion and grabbed a handful of ass. Ricky jumped up again and quickly smoothed
out his jeans. He didn‟t mean to jump off the sofa. It had been a reflex.
Grayson stood and walked toward him. There was a determined look in his eyes. He
walked up to Ricky, placed his hand on the small of Ricky‟s back, and then slid it down the
back of his jeans. Ricky jerked, but he didn‟t back off that time. Grayson leaned forward,
grabbed a handful of ass again, and whispered, “Look, I really like you. I mean it. But I am
not the type to play games; it‟s just how I am. I believe there are two kinds of people in this
world…those who like to knit and those who like to fuck…I like to fuck.”
Ricky glanced up at the ceiling and smiled. He breathed inwardly and arched his
back, making it easier for Grayson to slide a finger into his ass. His knees felt weak and his
hands shaky, but he didn‟t hesitate this time. Though Grayson‟s eagerness to have sex so
soon frightened him, Ricky knew he‟d finally received the sign from above he‟d been
wanting. No one else had ever used that offensive, ridiculous expression but Max.
“What about dinner?” Ricky asked, while Grayson began to unzip his jeans.
“Fuck dinner,” Grayson said, pushing him down on the sofa again. He was smaller
than Ricky, but he wasn‟t weaker. “There will be plenty of time to eat; right now I‟m hungry
for some hot ass, cowboy.”
Ricky leaned back on the sofa and spread his legs. He threw his arms back over his
head and said, “Do you have a condom?” He was hoping this was more than just sex. He
liked Grayson. In the same respect he was willing to settle for just sex if that‟s all it turned
out to be. But it would have to be safe sex.
Grayson reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small, green package. He
ripped it open with his teeth and said, “I have a pocket full of condoms, in extra-large, and
they‟re all pre-lubed.” Then he placed the condom on the coffee table and pulled off his shirt.
Ricky noticed Grayson had the chest of a real man who didn‟t have to work hard at it.
His chest muscles were naturally defined and his upper body firm and lean, and he had a thin
line of brown hair that ran from his chest down to his crotch.
While Ricky opened his legs wider, Grayson moved closer to the sofa, opened his
own pants, and pulled down the zipper. A thick, uncut penis appeared and Ricky‟s eyes went
down to get a better look at it. He‟d never been with an uncircumcised man. He lowered his
legs and leaned forward to reach down and hold it. He wrapped his hand around the shaft and
licked the head with the tip of his tongue. The foreskin tasted salty and it felt softer than he‟d
imagined foreskin would be. For a man who had been sucking the same dick for twenty
years, this alone was a novelty.
“Do you mind if I talk dirty?” Grayson asked. “I like to be honest up front about what
I like. I think it‟s important.”
Ricky licked the tip again and said, “No. I don‟t mind.” Max had never talked dirty
during sex, but he‟d talked dirty everywhere else. They‟d been kicked out of restaurants
because of Max‟s foul language.
Grayson‟s eyes rolled back and he pressed the head of his cock to Ricky‟s lips. “Wrap
your lips around the head and suck on it,” Grayson said. “I want to feel those hot fucking lips
on my big, uncut cock.” He knew his dick was big; he seemed proud of it.
Ricky smiled. Evidently, Grayson liked to give orders and Ricky didn‟t mind
following them. So Ricky opened his mouth, pushed the foreskin back with his tongue, and
wrapped his lips around the head. He closed his eyes and sucked on just the head; Grayson
moaned, in a deep, soft voice, “Suck my cock head, yeah man, suck that big, fat dick head for
me.”
A few minutes later, Grayson pulled back and said, “Take off your clothes.” Then he
stepped away from the sofa and removed the rest of his clothes.
While Ricky removed his pants, he found it hard to believe he was doing all this with
the next door neighbor he‟d just met. This wasn‟t like him, which made it even more
exciting. Admittedly, he almost laughed aloud out of sheer nervousness when Grayson talked
dirty. That kind of vulgar bedroom talk was so foreign to him he had to control the urge to
laugh in Grayson‟s face. The one thing that kept him from doing this was the fact that he
genuinely liked Grayson. He could fall in love with this guy, and fall hard. He‟d learned by
then, through years of experience with Max, that no marriage or relationship is perfect.
He watched Grayson strip. Grayson kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks fast.
When he dropped his pants and stepped out of them, he wasn‟t wearing underwear. His
thighs were solid and his legs were covered with a thin layer of brown hair. His dick and his
balls were hairless; he‟d shaved them. The small patch of hair above his cock had been
shaped into a neat little triangle that Ricky couldn‟t wait to touch.
When they were both naked, Grayson stood in front of the sofa again. Ricky got up
on his knees on the cushions and reached for Grayson‟s dick with one hand and set the other
on Grayson‟s thigh. This time he opened his mouth as much as he could and slipped the
entire eight inch shaft to the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and lifted his hands, palms
up, without even realizing he did this. He didn‟t feel like laughing anymore. He hadn‟t done
this to another man in so long it almost felt as if he were having a religious experience. He
took a deep breath through his nostrils and sighed with such absolute pleasure his eyelids
fluttered.
Grayson placed his palms on the back of Ricky‟s head and said, “That‟s it, baby, suck
that fucking cock for me with that hot mouth. Rub that hot fucking tongue all over my dick,
baby. Get it all wet and ready for me to fuck your brains out.”
The dirtier Grayson talked, the harder Ricky became. Ricky lapped and licked; he
sucked and swallowed in exaggerated ways he‟d never done before, not even with Max.
When he pressed his tongue against Grayson‟s shaft, he sighed aloud and hesitated for a
moment. Before he knew it, his head started to move back and forth. And while he sucked,
his cheeks indented so much those awful suction noises he swore he‟d never make came out
of his mouth. He moaned with cock in his mouth when he rubbed Grayson‟s flat abdomen;
he slurped and made louder, sloppier suction noises when he pressed his fingers up against
Grayson‟s naturally defined loin muscles. By the time he could taste the pre-come, he was
ready to take the entire load.
But Grayson pulled the top of his head and said, “You want me to fuck you now,
muscle boy? You want some big dick up your ass now, you dirty little cowboy?”
Ricky glanced up and nodded yes. His eyes pleaded for it; his lips were red and
swollen from sucking. He hadn‟t been fucked with a real cock…dildos don‟t count…in so
long he‟d almost given up all hope of ever getting it again.
“Tell me what you want,” Grayson said. He caressed his face gently and laughed.
“Don‟t be shy, not with me, not ever. I‟ll take care of you and give you what you want. And
not just for now. I really like you, man. And I never say that to anyone.”
Ricky hesitated for a moment, and then said, “I want you to fuck me. God yes. I want
you to bend me over, open me up, and fucking bang me into the next fucking room.” The
words came rushing from his mouth as if they‟d been pent up there forever. “Then I want you
to bend me over on the floor, and shove your big thick cock into my tight, fucking hole.” He
felt a rush of excitement and realized for the first time how cathartic dirty talk could be with
the right person…with a person he knew he could trust.
Grayson smiled and ran his palm across Ricky‟s cheek again so that Ricky would
know he wasn‟t being mean or offensive. Then he asked, “Are you my slutty cowboy?”
Ricky looked into his eyes and said, “Yes, I‟m your fucking slut. Fuck me with that
big, thick dick.” He spoke louder this time, with less hesitation.
“You like my big dick?”
“I love your big dick.”
Then Grayson bent down to kiss him. He shoved his tongue into Ricky‟s mouth and
held the back of his head. After that, he yanked Ricky‟s neck and said, “Get down on the
floor. I‟m going to breed that fucking muscle boy hole until you can‟t walk, cowboy slut.”
Ricky went down on the floor on all fours. He pressed his palms against the
expensive rug and spread his legs. Then he looked up at Grayson‟s hairy legs. He stuck his
tongue out and licked them while Grayson slid a condom over his erection.
Grayson smiled. “Yeah, that‟s hot,” he said. “Lick my feet now, slut.”
It was as if Grayson could read his mind. Ricky didn‟t have a foot fetish, but he went
down anyway and licked each foot, from the tips of Grayson‟s toes to his heels.
A minute later, Grayson went behind him and dropped down on his knees. He pressed
the tip of his dick to Ricky‟s hole and worked the head in slowly. When Grayson was ready
to mount him, Ricky‟s head went back and his ass went up higher. He shouted, “Fuck me
now. Go deep, man.”
Grayson slapped his ass. “Are you my fucking slut, bitch?”
“Yes,” Ricky shouted. “I‟m your fucking slut. Fuck me like a slut, man. Open me up
and fuck me hard with that hot fucking cock.”
With one thrust, Grayson shoved his cock to the bottom of Ricky‟s hole. His balls
slapped against the Ricky‟s ass and he said, “You‟re so fucking tight, muscle boy. I like to
fuck a tight, come dump like this.” Then he slapped Ricky‟s ass again and asked, “Are you
my fucking come dump?”
This was the first time Ricky had ever heard the expression come dump. It didn‟t take
long for him to figure it out. “Ah yes,” he said. The intrusion hurt at first; Grayson was so
large. But when the initial pain subsided, Ricky started to pant and beg for more. “I‟m you‟re
fucking come dump, man. Please fuck me with that big dick. Yeah, dump your fucking come
inside me, man.” Though he would have laughed at being a come dump hours earlier, he had
to admit he didn‟t feel like laughing much now. It even made the condom less annoying
when he discovered he could fantasize about getting fucked raw even though he knew he
couldn‟t actually do it.
Then Grayson started to move his hips. He began with a steady pounding and worked
his way up to an ass slamming that was so intense Ricky‟s toes curled and he pressed the side
of his face against the rug. His heart raced; his own climax moved toward the edge. Then
Grayson‟s hips moved faster and his dick slid all the way in and out of Ricky‟s hole. When
he slapped Ricky‟s ass with both hands, he never broke his rhythm. And when he was finally
ready to come, he shouted, “I‟m close, muscle boy. I‟m gonna blow my fucking load any
minute. It‟s a big fucking load, too. I haven‟t jacked off in a fucking week, man.”
Ricky reached for his own dick and said, “Come inside me, man. I‟m ready, too.”
This fantasy of being fucked raw overwhelmed him more than he thought it would.
They both came together. Grayson stopped moving, held Ricky‟s hips, and said,
“Fuck, yeah.” Then Grayson pushed Ricky forward and pinned him to the floor. His dick
remained in Ricky‟s body and he moved his hips slowly.
Grayson rested most his weight on Ricky‟s back. His body felt strong but not heavy;
his dick was still reaching for the bottom of Ricky‟s hole and his hairy legs rubbed against
the back of Ricky‟s smooth legs. At one point, Ricky reached back and caressed Grayson‟s
side.
Grayson kissed his shoulder and said, “That was fucking hot, man. You have a great
ass, and I‟m surprised at how good you are.”
Ricky tightened the lips of his anus and clamped down on Grayson‟s dick. He wanted
to hold it inside his body as long as he could. “Why are you surprised?” Ricky asked.
Grayson kissed the back of his neck and said, “You seemed kind of uptight and
prissy, is all. I had a feeling you weren‟t into sex all that much. I had you pegged as the
emotional type, who wanted more talk than action. I didn‟t think you‟d open your legs and go
for the dirty talk so soon. But now that I know you like dick so much I can‟t wait to fuck you
again.” He leaned forward and whispered in a low voice, “Slut boy.”
Ricky stretched out his legs and took a deep breath. He smiled and said, “I usually am
uptight. And to be honest, it‟s the first time I‟ve ever really talked dirty with anyone. But it‟s
different with you. I don‟t feel awkward about anything. It‟s a weird feeling.” He wanted to
say it felt as if someone had popped the cork from the champagne bottle, but didn‟t want to
sound lame with a bad cliché.
Grayson squeezed his ass and laughed. “That‟s good, because after we eat something
I‟m gonna lift those hot cowboy legs and fuck you on your back like a real slut.”
Ricky closed his eyes and smiled. “Will you talk dirty again?” He laughed. “I kind of
liked it and I don‟t care how terrible that sounds. I like you, too.”
“Will you put on the cowboy hat?”
“Fuck yes,” Ricky said.