The Midnight Man

Excerpt

The Midnight Man
Kevin Klehr © 2021
All Rights Reserved

Stanley gazed into the fridge as he waited for his partner, Francesco, and their conquest for the night to stop smooching at the front door and come inside.

He checked for eggs and milk. He was thankful there were chives in a container so breakfast for their guest could be a tad more exotic. But he’d have to go easy on the toast as there were only three slices of sourdough left, and he didn’t want to open the boring old multigrain.

He closed his eyes to recall the night. Their plaything was licking his lips with just the right amount of tongue when he propositioned Francesco at the nightclub. He hadn’t even noticed Stanley.

But if the couple didn’t respond to the young man’s request, he’d move on to the next potentials and Stanley and Francesco would have to choose between those altered by alcohol or happy pills. And Stanley knew those sins outstayed their welcome like bad wallpaper. Fortunately, tonight’s pickup was only slightly wired.

Francesco stumbled in the living room, trying to make martinis. Their boy was giggling like a pre-schooler who’d heard a limerick. But the disco laden images of earlier that night were still haunting Stanley.

Francesco’s workmate, Graham, had joined them with his partner, Tony. Stanley recalled the look Tony gave them when they said goodnight. As if their hookup, who wrapped his arms around Stanley and Francesco, was the victim in some lost midlife scenario reminiscent of anxious porn. Yet Graham and Tony were only ten years older than Stanley and Francesco’s toy for the night. Surely Tony would be more open-minded.

“Dinky, the martinis are ready.”

Stanley frowned at hearing his nickname. It was his curtain call to re-enter this flawed three-character play.

“Elijah can’t believe you’re fifty soon,” Francesco said, handing Stan his cocktail.

“You look so good.” The lad gazed wide-eyed for more time than naturally required. “Your hair’s thinning a little, but I know guys half your age who are seriously bald.”

“See, Dinky. Even Elijah thinks you’re handsome for your age.”

“Thank you,” Stanley mumbled. He sat on the edge of the armrest of the large sofa.

Elijah sat with his legs stretched out, enjoying the comfort of their recliner as if it was his own. He grinned at Francesco like a patient kid waiting too long for dessert.

“I hope you like scrambled eggs,” Stanley said.

“Say what?” Elijah snickered.

“You said you were staying for breakfast,” Stan replied. “You said so on the ride home.”

“Oh no.” Elijah looked horrified, as if dessert were cancelled. “You’re taking me out for breakfast.”

“He wants to be paraded,” said Francesco.

“Like a gold medal.” Stanley tried his best not to roll his eyes.

“So, what made you choose us tonight?” Francesco asked.

“You’re an established couple,” Elijah replied. “You know your shit. And you’ve dealt with your shit. Older men are so much more fun.” He turned to Stanley. “Most times I go out, I pick up an older couple.”

Stanley couldn’t help thinking how rehearsed Elijah sounded. “Has that strategy always worked?”

“Of course.”

“Really?”

Elijah stared blankly at Stanley. “Yeah, except when one guy is more uptight than the other.”

“I think we should get down to business.” Francesco laughed. “We’re all here for the same thing.”

“Of course.” Elijah didn’t break eye contact with Stanley.

“Absolutely,” Stanley replied.

“Can I talk to you for a moment, Dinky?”

Francesco strolled past Stanley, who reluctantly followed him into their bedroom.

“Think of it as an early birthday gift. A way to recapture your youth.”

“Franky, I don’t trust him.”

“We’re having sex with him. We’re not signing a business contract with him.”

“He has attitude.”

“He’s on drugs. And you know the drugs today. They’re not chill pills like in our day. Please, Dinky, do this for me.”

“Why do you want this so badly?”

Francesco exhaled and sat on the edge of the bed. “Dinky, it’s a bit of fun, for goodness’ sake. Don’t overthink it. Joke with the guy. I’m sure you and Joel will have a good time.”

“Elijah.”

“What?”

“His name is Elijah. You said his name ten minutes ago when you told me he can’t believe I’m nearly fifty.”

“Where did I get Joel from?”

“He was last week’s guy. You remember. Intense, but nice.”

“Oh yeah. He lived with his mother. Some tragic story about his father leaving.”

“That’s the one. He had a bent dick. It was like sucking a banana sideways.”

Francesco chuckled. “His knob kept grazing against my back teeth. How I didn’t scratch him I’ll never know. It’s probably an occupational hazard.”

Stanley smirked.

“There, Dinky. That’s better. You light up when you smile. Elijah hasn’t seen that side of you tonight. You’ll win him over. You’ll see.” Francesco stood. “What’s on your mind?”

Stanley didn’t answer. The stark tree, his favourite outside the bedroom window, took his attention. He’d study it like an ink blot test, seeing what its knots and patterns reminded him of, whenever he couldn’t express himself. Or, whenever he knew expressing himself was a waste of time with Francesco.

“You’re thinking about something you’re not telling me.”

“It’s okay. It’s nothing.”

Francesco reached for the top drawer next to his bed. Inside a small ornamental tin was his dope stash. Next to it were his papers. He rolled a joint.

“Dinky, he’s here now, waiting for us. Let’s have fun.”

Francesco was about to light the joint, but Stanley shook his head. Instead, he raised his martini and Stanley reluctantly clinked his glass. Elijah sauntered in, naked.

“This is my ice breaker,” the lad said. “When my hookups leave me alone for too long, I…”

Elijah sank into their antique armchair and spread out so the couple could scrutinise his masculinity. It was already at half-mast. Francesco offered a puff, but Elijah waved it away. Stanley took it and drew on it anxiously like a prisoner facing a firing squad.

He passed the joint to Francesco, but he handed it back, believing Stan needed it more than he did. Another puff reduced Stan’s angst.

“Why don’t you take your clothes off?” Elijah asked.

Francesco loosened his belt and unzipped his jeans. He could smell youth in front of him, and in that mystical deodorised scent, he felt the stirrings of his own younger self. He took a swig of his martini and placed it on their teak drawers. This was foremost, his preferred drug of denial.

Stanley stood next to the chair, steadily undoing the buttons on the striped shirt that hung over his waist. Then he stopped.

Elijah played with his own nipple. You want me, and you’re not in control!

Francesco willingly reached for the lad’s other nipple.

Stanley watched, gradually moving behind the chair. Why am I here? The joint was still smouldering, so he took another hit. Many unresolved feelings accompanied the smoke into his lungs. Shame. Despair. Loneliness. The last was the hardest to digest. It sailed deeper than his breath. He closed his eyes.

“Earn it,” Francesco growled at Elijah.

A boyish grunt followed a manly groan. This pattern seesawed until one could not be distinguished from the other. A lad learning from his elder how to moan like an adult.

A hand reached for Stanley, unzipping him, and in his daze he moved forward. A mouth was tasting him below. But Stan stayed distant in his mind. His troubled emotions had to be kept at bay. He numbed himself of all the things he’d left unsaid as he let the lad pleasure him. Tears of sorrow were passed off as tears of delight.

Stan pictured a bathtub. Bubbles floated, bursting on the tiles. Francesco was with him, younger, kissing Stanley amid the foam. A playful ruffle of hair. A finger tracing its way to Stan’s toes. A gentle caress to Stanley’s rosy tip.

His stomach churned. This was the first signal of the end of this ordeal. His detached manhood whirled on a parallel plain. Soon he’d be streaming what was expected of him—an action pure and direct.

White lines christened Elijah. His chest claimed evidence of another man’s satisfaction.

Francesco peered at his partner. One hand still clutched their guest while the other hand brought the last drop of his martini to his lips. With a poker face he declared, “Happy premature birthday, Stan.”