#we couldn't even hug because we were both concerned about covid. my family doesn't really do touch so thr last time i got to hug someone

[silverandebony]

.

[leam1983]

On Bonds

Walter figured he'd treat me in a few ways, tonight. First was my learning that Sarah had taken the night off to go hang out with some friends of hers, followed by the fact that we were stopping home to freshen ourselves. Out of the office and into Walter's car, and we head for a little Tapas bar, down on Saint-Denis. Walt stuffs his face with Portuguese finger foods while maintaining an easygoing countenance that makes it almost seem like he wasn't looking for an excuse to pig out on chorizo - but mostly, he brought me out of the office to talk. And we know the place.

This is one of the Gay Quarter's unofficial offshoots, and we spot our fellow same-sex attracted all around us. The air feels charged with that kind of energy you feel in public places when you're stuck with people trying to score at the expense of everything else. The collective libido is running high, and my heading out to take a piss exposes me to two couples who, to some minor degree, couldn't quite wait until they got home. When I come back, Walter's easygoing countenance surprises me. I lean in as I sit back down.

"Isn't it sort of weird?" I ask. "I haven't been open about myself for that long, and I somehow know most of everyone here isn't really looking to touch base or build something."

Walter nods as he pops another chunk of sausage in his mouth. "Listen to them," he cautions. "Younger gays go on overdrive when they're looking for a hookup. Energy levels spike, traits get exxagerated - everyone wants to look as eager as they can be. Nobody here wants to go home alone, tonight. There's an element of neurosis to it - beer goggles plus desperation."

I smirk. "Did I ever come on too strong like that?"

His shoulders shake. "No. That's what I liked about you. I could sense it on you just like you sensed it on me, you were more concerned with appearing professional. I might fit some fetishes of yours, you didn't let yourself judge me on their merit."

Memories briefly make my eyes drift to the left. "Do you remember our first elevator ride together? My cane hit on the doors' railing and I tipped forward. You leaned in and caught me," I say, my eyes locking back with his. "If it hadn't been for my contact taking me on a walkthrough, I would've hugged you right then and there, probably."

Confusion blooms, and then fades as it's replaced with a smile. "Yeah, I remember!" he says, pointing at me with a plain biscotti. "I thought you were cute, in a deer under headlights sort of way. I also thought that bulge had just been a stress boner..."

I blush as he laughs again. "Yeah - not just stress. Add to that the fact that the boss thought you'd be a shoo-in to give me the first chunk of my orientation."

He laughs again, reaching to clutch my hand. "I'm so sorry, honey," he says in French, although I can tell he doesn't mean a word of it. He's not sorry - not when this, and so many other things over the next four or so years would bring us together.

I remember our first hug, two years ago. COVID-19 hits the office, spirits are crushed right out of the Holidays. I skip a beat, freak out, assume that my landing on welfare until the office undocks us all and calls us back in is a personal failure. I probably got misty-eyed, probably choked - but the initial supportive hand on my shoulder turned into a hug, and the first of a few promises.

We held containment for our friends and family and broke it for each other. Our age gap is just big enough for a few excuses to work, handily enough. The first time I called Walt Dad in front of a cop made something flare up in him, the poor guy hiding his tumescence behind taut knees and a closed felt overcoat.

We try to just talk. We try to touch base, probe the sound as it were, because we're both old-fashioned and are almost ashamed of our respective attraction. Eventually, however, the hormones win out. I'm made privy to Walter's habit of wearing suits and neckties even on weekends. We wear out the same sheets, eat the same toast... Once the hormones get their way and are evacuated, it's a lot easier to probe this thing and to be sure we're mutually serious.

It turns out, we are. Walter's looking for a serious same-sex partner after almost writing off Gen X's gays entirely, and I'm looking for someone who could strip my impostor syndrome with a metal scraper and tear it apart in a meat grinder. We love each other intensely. Warts and all.

The horndogs leave and we vacate the premises. It's only once we head out of the driveway that I notice his old 1976 Adidas sports bag. "What'd you bring over?" I ask. He shrugs.

"Basic toiletries and a pair of pajamas."

The words feel light, but I can grasp just how heavy with meaning they are. He's leaving a few things in my bottom-most drawers.

The thing with Walter is that he's always perceived himself as unlovable. Past his prime, dumpy, with an apneic tendency and the kind of history on the dating circuit that limits itself to initial explorations several decades ago - and to me. That's led to him not making a huge deal out of anything, him not assuming people could or would give him his desired outcome. Then I come in. For a while, he was the one who recognized my potential. Then, with seniority and experience kicking in, I spot his. Things are built upon.

Tonight, a bunch of strangers entered another stranger's apartment or condo and had fantastic sex, I'm sure. What's making him unclasp and loosen as he sits down, what's allowing him to welcome me isn't just lust, however - I can feel it.

A small chunk of the night is given up as Walt and I sweat like marathoners, and he snorts, moans and calls out my name in my pillow. Later, I'll think of all the salacious terms our LGBTQ friends have for the things we've done, and for how hollow they all sound.

This wasn't about kink. It wasn't about any sort of playfulness and you couldn't integrate it in a drinking game. Walter's final sobbing intake of air wasn't a marker of libidinous intent - it was a prayer.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," I say. Something in my words strikes at Walter's usual countenance, and he cracks. Pulling me closer, he starts by choking out sobs and then lets go entirely. He bawls, like nobody's ever comforted him before.

"I was so afraid," he eventually manages. "So afraid I'd be alone forever!"

I clasp both his hands in mine. "Before Sarah and you, so was I, Walt. You're pushing sixty and you've only just met someone. I'm pushing forty and I needed you to realize I truly and honestly was bi!"

I push into him. "I am never leaving your side, Walter C. George. Ever."

Eventually, we've said everything. Done everything. We've cried, kissed, shouted irrational promises at one another, and we've tasted each other. Walt has decades of denied lovemaking threatening to blow the proverbial dam over the next few days. For now, though, all that's left is exhaustion in its most exquisite form. The pajamas come out, Walt is so relaxed even while still wakeful that he snores through his nose while changing, his soft palate discreetly joining in. We opt for the bed, and I'm soon leaning against his gray silk and marveling at how he manages to snore while reading a book...

I look up, study his bunched-up chin, his goatee. His posture isn't doing his airways any favor, and he knows it.

"You know some people get their jaws surgically broken or have their uvula shortened to get that fixed, right?" I say, teasing him. He yawns and sets the book aside.

"But you'd miss it," he says. "I'd miss it, even: the alleged unflappability, the stories of quasi-British phlegm when I was just bored over water cooler talk and forgot to keep my jaw at the right angle - the perfect complement for someone of my tastes, really."

He tapped his belly. "Doesn't help that my honest and impractical opinion is that being an aging fat fuck looks better on me than the slimmer alternative. My idea of exercise is riding the Metro to the South Shore just to pick up croissants for breakfast. I don't do complex workout regimes, either. Not a masochist."

I chuckled. "Your idea of workouts probably involves turning one of the hydraulics in a gym into a makeshift bed."

Walt spares an eyebrow waggle after yawning again. "Not a bad idea, kiddo - Nautilus Plus should include a Naps package. Maybe I'd have kept my membership, then."

All I know is I'm glad I still get to be someone's kiddo, if only in spirit.