He Said My Name (A Sequel)
He Spoke My Name
This story serves as a continuation to the one I published in September 2017 titled "Say My Name" which, astonishingly, I've moved past. However, after reading my work, joeoggie questioned me on the matter. "Why can't the story have a happy ending?" I replied, "[A]nime of the characters are 18, hence, there was no way for them to have a happy ending." Yet, these words got me thinking. I devised a path to an HEA for this tale. I hope you enjoy it and, as always, I cherish your opinions.
I found myself in Chicago once more in 2002. Following the horrific events of 9/11, I was no longer at ease in the high-rise where I worked or resided. At 38, I had quickly become an equity partner and a prominent attorney specialized in high-stakes cases, consequently, my firm was more than accommodating to my relocation request.
I worked around the clock, hence, I snagged an apartment as close to First National Plaza as possible. Although I considered settling in Lincoln Park, I refused to waste precious time on trains and buses. To put it mildly, I was a workaholic, and my commitment to my job surpassed the norm.
As I pondered on Lincoln Park, I considered Timothy's presence in my mind. That summer in 1992, we connected on a deep, passionate level. He was mere 18 while I was 28, and our time was limited. We found each other intoxicating, both falling at an inappropriate pace.
Subconsciously, I understood the risks and dangers we were navigating. Yet, it was impossible for me to restrain myself. He was like a drug, and I was the addict.
During the ten years that followed, I avoided romantic relationships. Instead, I satisfied my desires through a series of one-night stands or through acquaintances from bathhouses, online platforms, and secluded rooms. Emotionally, I fervently wanted to steer clear of the vulnerability that came with another relationship. Recalling the heartache of our break-up left my chest hollow.
My credo was simple: "Good friends and casual sex."
Despite my inclination for casual encounters, I cultivated deep friendships. I was, without a doubt, a fine friend. Caring, supportive, and loving, I always made time for my buddies, even with my hectic schedule.
That, however, did not prevent my sexual escapades. Most likely, I possessed one of the most proficient pensises. My ability to ignite pleasure in others earned me numerous call-backs and subsequent hookups.
Looking back, I discovered that I had been secretly yearning for Timothy. I had resisted the temptation to reach out to him, fearing how he would respond. If happy with someone else, I would have experienced an immeasurable sense of loss, much like the emotional devastation I experienced when we parted. And if not, another wave of agony would engulf me.
Although I acknowledged my gay identity, I toyed with Roe, a friend I developed while recovering from my disastrous relationship. We shared our feelings and supported each other as we drifted into a short-lived romance. Before the days in Reno came to an end, we understood that our romantic endeavors could not persist. Just like Timothy and I, we knew our time was up.
As my thoughts wandered to my past, I toyed briefly with the idea of contacting Timothy. Not necessarily for reconciliation, but to confirm his well-being after all these years. But, I hesitated, unwilling to inflict pain and discomfort. If her found solace with someone else, I would feel a familiar heartbreak. If he did not, I'd feel an all-consuming void.
In retrospect, I believed I made the correct choice. He was my primary concern.
On a whim, I passed by my old "Laverne and Shirley" apartment in Lincoln Park on a Sunday afternoon, September 15th. My heart skipped a beat as memories of my time with him flooded my mind. I hesitated briefly before ringing the bell. However, as I had done years before, I turned, waiting for the jingle of someone answering. She was not home.
After that moment of unexpected nostalgia, I decided to check if Cafe Ba Ba Reeba was still operating. Feeling like a day of admittedly excessive drinking was due, I arrived at the cafe, ordering a pitcher of sangria and tapas. It was only 3 p.m., but I reckoned it was an appropriate time for solitary drunkenness in a cafe.
Much like the perfect Chicago day, this day followed suit. The sun was shining but the temperature was delightful, hovering in the low 70s. The light breeze provided a gentle caress.
The sidewalks buzzed with people. Folks from Chicago know how to seize an opportune day and make the most of it. Runners, families, elderly couples, everyone was enjoying the sunshine and taking a stroll, shopping, or appreciating the pleasant weather while it lasted.
I may not understand the concept of patience, but I understand the urgency of getting things done. I'm not one to loiter or find pleasure in idleness. I'd much rather have somewhere to be and a purpose to my actions.
So, that sunny Sunday, as I was weaving through the busy sidewalk, I wasn't feeling particularly nice. The people in front and behind me were slowing me down, and impatience started to eat away at me. As I was about to snap, I noticed something in the window of a passing shop that stopped me in my tracks. The painting hanging there was the same one on the wall across from my bed. It was a gift from Timothy, a replica of another painting he had done - his eyes, which I had thought to be full of rage, were actually filled with lust.
I was struck by this realization and stood there, momentarily frozen, despite the bustling crowd around me. Irritation was replaced by nostalgia and reminiscence. I wasn't there anymore, but in a parallel moment in time. I took note of the scene around me - paintings lined up on the walls, some of which were similar to what I'd seen in the previous decade, but more mature and with a more experienced eye.
I reached for the door handle of the shop, only to find it locked. Maybe I needed to clear my mind, a refocusing effort.
"Open on Sundays, 7-11 p.m." The display on the door read. It was still hours away from opening.
I continued walking to Cafe Ba Ba Reeba, and I settled for a pitcher of sangria and a plate of tapas. As I savored my drink, I couldn't help but look at my watch, just like I'd done so many years ago, anxiously waiting for Timothy's footsteps. I gotoblethumbs:30:accept:Ibecame:increasingly:drunk,feeling the rhythm of a time that had since passed.
By 7 p.m., I was back at the gallery. I couldn't find Timothy anywhere, but it was his showcase, so he had to be there, doing what he does best: selling his work and chatting with the paying customers. He must have done so in his usual charismatic manner, which cruelly reminded me of our last encounter.
As I started to lose hope, I felt a hand on my right shoulder. It was a familiar touch, one that would have made my body react in countless ways, one that could only belong to one person. The sound of his voice whispered in my ear, "Well, look who it is... Marco, Marco, Marco." My body tensed and my heart raced.
"Michael, Michael, Michael," I mentally muttered, struggling to talk. I turned my head and was taken away by his gentle, beaming smile. It was him, the same eager and irresistible guy, now with sandier hair and wiser blue eyes. Tears streamed down my face, but I still couldn't speak.
With his arms around me, he leaned his chin on my head and said, "Michael, Michael, Michael."
"It's not a ghost," I managed to sneak out. "It's me, flesh and blood." He took another look at me, the disbelief evident in his voice. "I saw you from across the room and thought you were a ghost."
"Great to hear," he commented. "I see so many spirits these days... Stand back, let me have a proper look at you." I stepped aside.
I wasn't like the person I used to be. I worked a lot, so my muscles had relaxed, and I had developed some plumpness around my middle that I hated, but I wasn't motivated enough to do anything about it.
"Looking good," he fibbed. "Time has been kind to you," he fibbed again.
I returned the favor, observing him closely. Time really had been kind to him. The puppy had become an adult dog with a firm body and maintained his attractiveness, just as predicted ten years ago.
"Look," he said, gesturing with his hand. "I'm on duty," using the air quotes as he spoke. "Can you stay until after the exhibition finishes? Please. We need to catch up. I feel like I'm in Oz."
"I have to be at my workplace early," I expressed. I liked being at my desk by 7.
"You don't have to do that," he refuted. "You're choosing to arrive early. Tonight, you should choose to join me."
We had exchanged refusals only once, the night he cooked for me. Even then, it wasn't for very long.
"Alright," I agreed. "I'll be back at 11. I'll need to have a quick nap beforehand."
"Promise me?" he inquired.
"I promise."
I hugged him, took a cab back to my flat, showered, and napped on the couch. My alarm jolted me awake at 10:30. I was bewildered, thinking it was morning and time to shower, shave, and put on my work clothes. When I looked at the clock, I was baffled, realizing I had promised to meet Timothy at the gallery.
I hastily rinsed the sleep from my eyes, slipped on my favorite jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, tousled my hair, and gargled a cup of Listerine before swallowing it. After one last look in the mirror, I went to get into an elevator and then a car and then a door and then a dimly lit gallery.
"I'm back here," he boomed from behind the office door in the back.
As I approached, he exited the office. His smile was expansive, his stride graceful, and his hand reached for mine. "Come," he said, guiding me along with his hand. "Let's turn off the lights, lock up, and then walk back to mine."
As we walked, he insisted on holding my hand, his much larger hand engulfing mine.
"So," he said. "Recount for me, Michael, how did you find yourself in my gallery tonight, almost seven years since you last saw me?" I shared the story, leaving out the part about the pitcher of sangria.
The walk back to his flat felt nostalgic, and suddenly I realized where we were headed. "You're still living in the brownstone?" I inquired, questioning whether he still lived with his parents.
"Yes, I live in your old apartment," he revealed, pouring two substantial glasses of red wine and indicating the plush sofa.
I settled on one end, and he sat on the other. "I can't believe you're actually here," he exclaimed. "I seriously thought I'd never see you again, that you'd just be a thought that I occasionally considered."
"The same goes for me," I said. "We're here together, a decade later, in the same apartment."
He placed his glass down and leaned over, softly kissing me. "It's really you," he stated, sitting back and picking up his glass.
"It's your turn," I said. "Narrate your story of the last ten years to me.... Fill me in."
"It's not an ideal story," he disclosed. "After college, I went to the Royal College of Art in London. While I was in London, I wasn't good to the men. I went through them frantically and tirelessly. After school, I relocated to Brooklyn and began painting. My mother fell ill. Pancreatic cancer. I returned upstairs and assisted my father in her care. She passed away. My father mourned deeply. He passed away less than a year later, from a broken heart."
"Oh my God, Timothy, I am sincerely sorry for you."
"Well, that's how it is. As I said, I see too many ghosts these days. That's why I dwell down here. The Brownstone is haunted by them."
As we chatted, our hands entwined on the back of the couch.
He seemed to have more to share than I did. He told me about his successful art business. The gallery was all his own, and he was quite popular in the community, especially among those who appreciated art. He aspired to be recognized not just locally, but eventually back in London, where he had studied.
"There are many ghosts in London," he mentioned. "Including my younger self."
"What do you mean?" I inquired.
"I'll explain later," he said, getting up to refill our beverages, even though it was already past 1 pm.
"Do you wish to stay?" he asked, returning my empty glass to me.
Yes, that was a bold move, I thought. Then, I recalled how he used to be so forward as a teenager.
"Timothy," I said. "I have something to tell you. I regret not taking you to Reno with me. I think about how selfish I could have been, not worrying about how that move would affect you and your future. It's my biggest regret."
"It shouldn't be," he responded. "I was 18. I was on the verge of becoming a snooty, temperamental teenager. I'd have driven you bonkers, creating drama every minute, being shrewd. I know. I lived through it. It was horrible, and I was the one causing it. It's great that we avoided this. Now, we're here, and there's no animosity between us, we just have pleasant memories to reflect upon."
I was feeling amorous. "And," I said, lifting my glass to his, "pleasant events to enjoy."
"Maybe," he replied, clinking his glass against mine.
"Maybe?" I wondered.
"There's more to follow," he said, gulping down his drink.
"If there's more in store," I stated, "then bring it on. I felt like today was a bolt from the blue. I discovered you. You touched me, and that same fire sparked. Then, you whispered in my ear, and my body tingled. And now, we're back in our old environment, a chance to realize these intense encounters."
"Michael," he said. "As I said, I didn't behave in London. I'm... HIV positive."
It felt like a blow to the stomach. His diagnosis, his mother, his father - it had to be a lot for someone to bear. My eyes filled with tears due to empathy, not pity.
When he began to speak, I stopped him with a hand signal. "I don't ever wish to hear that again," I urged. "You're not damaged. When your mother became ill, she wasn't damaged. Nobody battling an ailment is damaged. Most definitely not you."
I hugged him tightly through my tears. "My dearest, cherished boy," I whispered to him. "You're flawless." I embraced him passionately. "You're not broken..."
He too was crying. "When I learned about my condition," he said. "All I could recall was what you had informed me - to exercise caution. And then I didn't. And then this..."
I kissed him heartily, as if we were reuniting after many years.
As we shed our garments, we relived time. He was 18, and I was 28, and everything that happened in between disappeared like mist.
I stretched out on the bed and re-explored his body, discovering new chest hair, a brand-new nipple ring, and a close-shaven pubic area.
"Hold on," he said, when I was about to take him into my mouth. He flipped around, got a condom, and placed it on.
"This isn't essential," I claimed.
"Better safe than sorry," he countered.
"We can use it later," I countered. "But, we'll go to a clinic together and receive actual information about the dos and don'ts, not the misinformation the authorities peddle."
I gave him oral pleasure. He was bigger than I recalled. I loathed that I couldn't taste him. He had always tasted divine, like the aroma of spring.
I also hated that I could feel him climax but couldn't taste his jizz. For me, there was no point in blowing a dick if you didn't consume the gift. It was like baking a cake but then refusing to eat it.
After cleaning up and discarding the condom, I re-explored his body. This time, I skipped his penis and lavished attention on his balls before thrusting his knees up and tasting his derriere as if my existence depended on it.
I don't remember heroin him with a condom on, but in my enraptured haze of pleasure, I found myself safely inside him, sweat oozing off my body as I thrust into him repeatedly.
"Oh, Marco," he cried out.
"Oh, Michael," I responded.
Last night, while in a deep sleep, I awoke to discover myself naked, with Timothy's head resting on my shoulder. He held my dick and testicles in his left hand. I can't remember if I had climaxed, pulled out, or cleaned myself before falling asleep. I must have passed out after cumming.
Upon waking again, it was close to ten in the morning. I panicked initially, then realizing Timothy was about to rouse, didn't care.
I discreetly approached the kitchen and informed my secretary that I wouldn't be coming to work that day or possibly the next. This was hands down the boldest move I'd made professionally in a while.
I rejoined Timothy in bed. "Do you have to go to work?" he inquired.
"No," I responded.
"For real?"
"Yes. I've already left you once. I don't want to leave you again."
Timothy looked at me skeptically. "That was bullshit," he remarked, laughing.
"I know," I agreed. "It sounded good in my thoughts but not in my words."
"Regarding 'in my mouth,'" Timothy suggested, slipping down between my legs and taking me into his mouth.
Although Timothy acted out in London, he also learned a lot. He serviced my penis as if he'd never done it before. I'm not sure how long he was down there, but it felt like an eternity. It was similar to being on an elevator, ascending to the sixth floor, then back down. Rising to the seventh floor, then back down. Traveling to the eighth floor, so close to the penthouse, then back down. Finally, out entirely, his tongue and mouth moving from my testicles to my anus, then back to my balls, and then once more, back into my mouth. I begged him to reach the tenth floor as I couldn't bear it any longer.
"Oh my God, Michael," I begged, unable to handle it. "You need to let me finish. I can't take it anymore."
I observed that he was focusing intently on my eyes, just like he used to when we talked. He smiled while maintaining his oral manipulation of my erection and slid it down his throat until my entire body jerked and I released the most potent load I could into his gullet.
"Oh my God," I voiced when Timothy had finished and once more nestled next to me, his head on my shoulder, and his left hand back on my (now hypersensitive) dick and testicles. "That was incredible."
"Thank you," he said, turning his head and kissing me. His delectable, succulent lips were as irresistible as ever.
"Are you completely fine with my status?" he queried.
Admittedly, I was unsure how I'd react if that day ever occurred. I knew how I should respond, but I'd never truly known how I would.
With Timothy, it was instinctive. He was simply an individual with an illness, nothing more or less.
I wanted him to understand how perfectly alright I was. "I'm absolutely fine," I revealed. "I want you to have intercourse with me."
"Really?"
"Really."
Although Timothy hadn't ever penetrated me, he had claimed to have fucked others.
He stretched and dilated me before placing himself inside. I'd been on the receiving end many times, but I hadn't genuinely enjoyed it. It was something I could do, but not something I desired doing. I never obtained the pleasure others did from it.
Yet, with Timothy fucking me, it was mesmerizing. No sooner had he plunged completely inside and started to move his hips, I uttered, "Holy shit," astonished by the newfound intensity.
"Is it good?" he inquired.
"Yes," I answered. "It's truly magnificent."
"It's about to improve," he taunted.
And it did. I'm not sure how, but he sent me into a frenzy, prompting me to cry out, "Fuck me, Michael, fuck me...."
It was as if nuclear fusion was happening behind my testicles. My entire body twitched as that energy ball rose, shot through my penis, and exited through my urethra.
"Oh Marco," he vocalized, witnessing my climax and coupling it with his own.
Upon attempting to withdraw, I entreated, "No. Please, just stay there."
"I can't," he said. "We can't have semen leak inside of you."
I whimpered audibly when he withdrew. I felt empty.
The following day and the subsequent day followed a steady pattern of sex, sleep, and sustenance. We were in love. We had been since that memorable summer. It had been dormant, but dormancy isn't absence.
I returned to work on Wednesday. We moved into the Brownstone on Saturday. We pondered residing in the basement apartment, given the fond memories associated with it. However, we eventually decided we craved and required additional space.
Timothy insisted we undergo a spiritualist cleansing ritual at the Brownstone prior to relocating. I found the practice silly, but the Brownstone wasn't mine. So, she crystalled and saged and accomplished whatever other spiritualist activities to purify.
I'm not a ghostbuster, she replied when Timothy inquired about specters. "Some ghosts do us good, keeping us safe as we sleep."
I wasn't entirely convinced about ghosts either. However, the notion of security during sleep appealed to me.
Timothy insisted we christen the Brownstone as soon as possible. As we went ahead, I blew Timothy's covered penis while he sat on a crate marked "kitchen" (we hadn't reached the clinic yet). Once he was done, he sucked mine while I sat on the same crate. He persuaded me to return to the elevator, teasing me all the way up. Eventually, I climaxed like a character in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory."
After unpacking (there was very little) and eating, we ventured into making love for the first time in our new bedroom. "I prefer to ride," Timothy remarked, wrapping me and then climbing down, his knees on the bed, his hands on my shoulders.
Goodness, he was right. He bounced, faced different directions and bounced some more, followed by a final switch where he mounted me like Johnny Manziel would ride Ethan Manor. I was impressed by his energy and resilience. When we finished, I couldn't recall if I had come, withdrawn, or cleaned up.
I informed Timothy about my memory lapse, and he began chuckling. "You were yelling Mike while I yelled Mark and then you thrust into me hard enough for me to feel your balls filling and emptying and you shouted 'Holy shit' before going limp. I pissed, too, just from you screwing me."
"I was making love to you, not screwing you," I maintained.
"Whatever you want to believe," he said. "But when I'm being screwed, I know what's happening, and that was screwing: raw, animalistic, sex."
He had a point. For the second time, he had allowed me to screw him senseless, with me being the senseless one.
A decade has passed since we moved into the Brownstone. I no longer practice law. It was too stressful, and it left little time for Timothy, Knute (the Labrador I named after Knute Rockne), Vincent (the Labrador he named after Vincent Van Gogh), and our children, Ella and Louie.
Timothy's endowment funded the property, meaning neither of us had to work (a privilege indeed). Yet, Timothy continued with his painting, while I managed the gallery, his exhibitions, and his career. He's now recognized nationally for his artwork, though not yet famous. I believe he will be, especially when I look at the painting I encountered 20 years ago, which is in our bedroom and has his note to me attached to it, with my response also taped on.
While we wait for Timothy's fame, we manage our lives happily, with Timothy managing his illness and myself managing the family. I often wonder about the day ten years ago when I strolled through Lincoln Park and wondered if Cafe Ba Ba Reeba was still operational.
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