"Alex Forrest"

Remakes are now the norm. Do overs. Redo’s. Some of them don’t need to happen, but they happen anyway. I’ve been rehearsing for a remake of Fatal Attraction, retitled Obsessive Attraction for 2011. Glenn Close gracefully handed the role of Alex Forrest to me, but there’s a problem. I’ve been living in the character’s skin outside of rehearsal. I’ve been having a hard time separating fantasy from reality.

††††

There comes a time when you have to look back and see yourself; learn from your actions.

I have to see my past and learn from it. Those aren’t just words. I mean them. I really have to learn from my mistakes. I have to move beyond the regret of my actions into the growth of changing them by realizing what I’m doing when I’m doing it. Different outcomes are possible. I just have to make the effort.

Let me tell you a story. I fell hard for someone who didn't fall for me. He's a good guy, but not the right guy for me. I became obsessed with him. Sometimes the obsession didn't affect me negatively and other times it became a debilitating existence with a whiff of desperation.

My connection to Ms. Forrest ends at the obsession. Her obsession was fuel enough for her to push further down an emotional, impulsive path of self-mutilation. I isolated myself and drank. I listened to sad music. I took sleeping pills and slept. What I didn’t realize was that I was making him uncomfortable. Things weren’t normal anymore. I knew it, but I didn’t know he knew it. I play like I’m not that transparent, but I am that transparent.

I recently wrote about changing my pattern by staying friends with someone after realizing he didn't want me the way I wanted him. (Wow, he didn’t want me the way I wanted him. Wish I had paid attention to my own story. I would have begun to heal sooner.) Well, here's another pattern: I change my true self to fit what I think the other person will like.

I realize that means the person will be falling for a fabricated individual and that our relationship stands no chance of surviving. I don't know why I do it except that I must think I'm not good enough or desirable enough as I am. What bullshit!

There comes a time when you have to believe that you are good enough.

I'm scared to be my truest self for fear that whoever he is, (a) he will run away when I say my first off-color comment in the middle of some story, (b) he’ll be unimpressed with my hair one day, (c) he won’t like my sense of style, (d) I’ll be too effeminate for him. Blah, blah, blah, fear, blah, the list could go on, blah.

Well guess what? I'm off-color and I like it. I like my sense of style. I like my choices in music and television programs. I like my hair (most of the time). I can be a big girl sometimes, but I’m also a guy. I don’t walk around with my wrist limped out in front of me. I may not be the butchest man on the bar stool, but I am a man. I don't need to compromise who I am and what I want in order to make myself more appealing to a guy that doesn't want me anyway! When am I going to learn that lesson? I know relationships have to be based in truth so why am I altering myself? I realize that if the guy is truly attracted to me and wants to get to know me, all of my “stuff” will be part of my charm, not a deterrent.

I don't need to go out, and stay out, later than I normally would in order to impress someone. I take responsibility for my life and require of myself the utmost in being responsible. So what if I want to go to bed at 11 pm? I’m not a stay-up-until-the-wee-hours kind of guy. That doesn’t mean I can’t throw caution to the wind sometimes because I can; I just don’t want to throw it to impress when the impressing gets me nothing but a lonely cab ride home.

Expectations are a bitch, too. I’ve been told they only lead to disappointment. I can say, with some degree of knowledge that is the truth.

I went to parties I didn't want to attend because this person asked me and I saw it as an opportunity to hang out with him. Hindsight: he was just being nice. I was misreading. Yeah, maybe he genuinely wanted my company as a friend, but boy did I see those invitations as openings.

I bought music I knew he liked thinking it would impress him and give us something to talk about. Hindsight: thankfully I liked the music, but it was a dumb move on my part nonetheless. Music holds memories; emotions connected to time and place. When I buy a song or album because of someone else, that memory is eternally connected to it. Most of that music I can now listen to, loving it because I love it, not because he loves it. The memory is now more of a vapor of smoke than a thick cloud I can’t get through. Why do I do it to myself?

I've acted more stupid lately than I care to really admit! Checking my pattern: the frequency is nothing but white noise. This isn't the first time I've acted this stupid and probably won’t be the last. Hopefully, I will detect my behavior sooner next time.

Honestly, I'm embarrassed and I feel foolish!

I write stories. Stories that I sit at my desk and make up – people, places and instances that I create in my brain and transfer to typed word through my fingers. It's not such a leap to believe that I would create fantasies in my head about a real person that I like. I'm aware when fantasy and reality collide and fizzle in front of me. I usually keep the spark of hope alive though and think that if I try again maybe the fantasy and the reality will ignite. Pattern detected.

No bunnies were harmed during this experience.

Spiralling

I'm spiraling. The orange glow at the end of my cigarette is becoming more and more frequent, the swirl of alcohol and rocks a daily occurrence. Popping the top off of that beer that’s waiting for me at home is something that I look forward to. It's because of him! The Taylor Swift song “Haunted” makes more sense to me now than ever – “He would try to take away my pain, and he just might make me smile, but the whole time I’m wishing he was you instead.”

I feel lonely. I feel alone. I have begun to wonder who would miss me if I were gone. I don't mean gone from New York City; I mean literally gone. I'm not going to jump in front of a bus or anything so don't freak out. There are no prescription pain meds or illegal substances in my house. These are words with no real sincerity behind them, but they pass through my mind. The sleeping pill container in my bedroom is less full than it used to be though.

I feel like the writers who script my life abandoned me. I’ve been left to improvise the storylines they laid out before they left. I don’t like improvisation. I like having more control than that – knowing what happens next. That inability to relinquish control has always been my problem.

I find myself desperately seeking a connection. I often wonder if pushing it away for so long means that now that I truly want it, it won’t come. Did connection finally give on me? “Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor” as Cinderella states in Into The Woods. Have I missed all of my opportunities by scoffing in the face of anyone who wanted me?

I’ve begun to freak out in situations where freaking out has no point. I’m playing out both sides of the conversation in my head without any true facts. I’ve been sad one minute and giddily happy the next. I have erased phone numbers and asked for them back. I have deleted others with no care for reconnecting. Some of these actions I’m truly sorry for and others I couldn’t care less about.

There are songs that I keep coming back to over and over that seem to sum up my life and situation right now. In particular there are two Lady Antebellum songs that hit me in the heart as if there was a bull’s-eye hovering over it, beckoning the heartbreak arrows to fill me with their sting. The titles, “Wanted You More” and “As You Turn Away” already speak to the pain I’m feeling, but the pain is more fully expressed in the beautiful, heartbreaking lyrics of each song. Where’s my royalty check?






I keep putting myself in situations where the outcome is disappointment. I keep hoping for a different result each time, but it’s always the same. The interesting part is that I always keep this little spark of hope that this time it will be different, this time there will be a positive payoff for trying. The question I keep asking is why I keep putting myself through it? Why do I send an email or text thinking this time the response will be quicker or something that I want it to be? It hasn’t been that in months. It’s always the same. I feel like an afterthought. I wish I was important to someone – to him – but I’m not.

What is it inside of us that makes us keep up the masochistic machinations that cause so much emotional upset? What bothers me the most is that I’m angrier at myself than I am with him. I am the one with hopes. I am the one with the fantasies. I am the one with the expectations. I am the one with the desires. He can’t and won’t fulfill any thing that I’m looking or wishing for.

Lady Antebellum song lyrics sum up my present: sometimes “I wish I was cold as stone,” then again, “I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all.” I guess, “I love this pain just a little too much.”

Return to Winthrop St. - Part 2

3 days later

Kinlin,

How are you settling in to college life in Delaware? Are the dorms at Elmhurst U cool or challenging? Have you met anybody cool enough to be friends with yet?

California is pretty awesome I must say. The weather is better than I could have expected. It’s really nice during the day and gets a little chilly at night. You know how I like to wear a sweatshirt with shorts so it’s right up my alley.

I’m sure you’ve seen that I’ve sent you a couple of texts. You haven’t responded. I figure you’re busy. It’s okay. I just wanna talk to you.

Write back when you can. Oh, forgot to ask, how are your classes so far? Anything too crazy?

Atwood.

P.S. I’m rushing Delta Sigma Phi

There was no response to the email and still no response to the text messages. Atwood had a difficult time dealing with his feelings. He was never more grateful for the distraction of a new city and a new life with classes, homework, and pledge party mixers to keep his mind occupied. 

It was the alone time that was the worst. His mind would wonder down strange fantasy passageways with Kinlin standing next to him. They would be laughing and talking and sometimes holding hands. He didn’t know where the feelings were coming from. How could he have feelings for Kinlin? He had always looked at him merely as a friend. He was his go to person when anything exciting or traumatic happened.

In these high-glossed, multi-colored, heightened-reality fantasies he and Kinlin sometimes kissed again and sometimes had sex. He had to shake his head to clear it of those thoughts. He didn’t understand why they were there. He had never to his knowledge had feelings for Kinlin before. Why was he now somehow all consumed by Kinlin’s image?

One month into the fall term of his freshman year at UCLA he awoke with his heart pounding. He had been dreaming of Kinlin. They were in a bungalow on some deserted island. They were alone. They were naked, wrapped in each other’s arms. There was hardly any space to be found between them. The bungalow had no doors; only sheer curtains to block the view should some outsider try to peek inside. Those curtains were billowing in the warmest, yet coolest, breeze Atwood had ever felt. 

In the dream he whispered, “I want you” into Kinlin’s ear. As time has no chronology or linear respect in dreams, the next thing he knew he was being spooned by Kinlin and was feeling the pressure of Kinlin inside of him. It wasn’t as painful as he thought it would be. If fact it felt better than he could ever have anticipated. He felt himself pushing back against Kinlin, driven by desire. The pleasure was intense. So much so that he couldn’t hold on any longer. The breathing and movement between the two of them was gaining speed and Kinlin could sense Atwood’s desire for release. He reached around and took hold of Atwood in his most excited and vulnerable state and Atwood couldn’t control the guttural sound that erupted from inside of him as he lost his grasp on all that was real around him. He shuddered hard against Kinlin’s body. 

It was at that moment that his racing heart had awakened him. It was the most intense dream he had ever had and the first wet dream he’d had in at least a year. He was covered with his own semen.

“What the…” Atwood said aloud as he looked at the mess on his body. “A bungalow?” he then said realizing he’d never been inside one.

More than anything else he was confused. He lay there taking deep breaths in an attempt to slow his racing heart and calm himself down. His phone buzzed on the table next to his bed. The first thought through his mind was that maybe it was Kinlin.

What was happening to him? He was dreaming about sex with Kinlin. More than even sex—intimacy. He was thinking that his buzzing phone might be communication from Kinlin.  He wanted to—had to—shake these feelings free from his mind and body. 

He grabbed his phone and saw that it was nothing more than an email reminder of a study group meeting for the next night.

He got out of bed and grabbed a towel to clean himself up. He stumbled down the hall to use the bathroom. Clean and empty he fell back into bed. Sleep proved an elusive visitor for the rest of that night. He just lay there lost in the images of the dream. 

Finally after six weeks Atwood’s email inbox showed a response from Kinlin.

Atwood,

Sorry it’s taken me so long to respond to you. Things here in Delaware are great. I’m enjoying college life very much. I have a really cool roommate. His name is Jack. He’s from New York. He came for a visit with his boyfriend over the summer and decided to stay and go to school here. Yes, he’s gay. He’s really cool. I know, I already said that, but it’s true. His boyfriend, Henry, is nice too. Sometimes we hang out on the weekends. Henry’s family owns a big department store here so they have a gigantic house. Well, his grandmother has a gigantic house. It’s fun to hang out there.

I’ve been really busy with school and stuff. I’m pledging the Kappa Sigma fraternity. I didn’t really know if I wanted to join a fraternity or not, but it’s pretty cool. There are lots of parties at the house. Not crazy parties like you might see in the movies, but parties nonetheless. I’ve hooked up with a couple of girls already. High-five!! Surprised to hear you’re pledging Delta Sig.

My classes are okay. The only one I really enjoy is Introduction to Marketing. The rest is just math and English and the shit we already did for four years of high school. 

Okay man, I’ve gotta head out to a mixer with the Alpha Gamma Delta sorority tonight so I’ll talk to you later.

Take care,
Kinlin

“Take care?” Atwood said to himself. He had been so excited to see the email from Kinlin, but so disappointed upon reading it. He didn’t know what he had expected from it, but certainly not what he got. He wanted Kinlin to ask how he was doing. He wanted a sense that Kinlin missed him or thought about him during the day. None of that was present in the email. Kinlin was just being Kinlin. Sharing his two random hookups proved that he had no feelings for Atwood at all. Sensitivity was not his strong suit.

Atwood felt a little sick. Had he been nothing more than a random hookup himself? A conquest? He had to distract himself. He wanted to write back immediately and confront Kinlin, but he couldn’t let himself do it. He knew he needed to calm down, take a breath and think before he wrote.

He decided the best thing he could do was hit the campus gym. The treadmill and his iPod would be his best distraction. Running and sweating would allow him to clear his head of all thoughts Kinlin and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. What he needed to do was walk away from the situation. He had to figure out a way to stop obsessing over Kinlin and to focus on himself and the new life he could create in California.

Over the next two weeks Atwood studied and went to the frat house and tried to focus on anything other than Kinlin. He enjoyed his fraternity brothers. They gave him a sense of camaraderie and family while everything familiar was across the country on the other coast.

One evening at the frat house he got caught up in a drinking game and found himself more than buzzed, but less than stinking drunk. He was in a place where nothing mattered and his cares seemed to have left his body. He found himself upstairs in one of his frat brothers’ bedrooms, the light of the computer beckoning, calling him to it like a bug drawn to the purple light of a bug zapper. 

He sat down and accessed his email account and reread the letter from Kinlin. He wasn’t as disappointed in it this time. What he felt was the desire to be honest with Kinlin. 

Dear Kinlin,

I’m so glad you wrote back. You seem to be having a good time. I’m glad you like your roommate. That is important. 

I miss you. I was hoping that your letter might tell me you missed me too, but it didn’t
We never talked about what happened between us, Kinlin. We spent the night together. A night different than any we’d spent together before. I still don’t understand why it happened. Are you gay? I might be. I don’t know. I haven’t had another experience like that with any one else, but I also haven’t slept with a girl. I never thought I was gay, but I enjoyed what we did so much that I’m now confused.

I think about you every day, Kinlin. Do you think about me? I think I love you. I don’t mean that I’m in love with you, but I think my love for you is deeper than just friendship. Is that weird?

Do your regret what happened? I wish you would talk to me.

Atwood

He pressed “send” before he could talk himself out of it. He didn’t even proofread the letter. He had said the things that had been gnawing at his insides and waking him with anxiety. All that was left was to wait for a response. Thankfully, his buzz was still there and he wouldn’t have to worry about that tonight.

When he woke the next morning there was more than a headache waiting for him. Kinlin had responded. Atwood was excited to see an email from Kinlin in his inbox, but then he remembered that he had sent an email the previous night while intoxicated. His stomach lurched. He wanted to vomit.

“Shit,” he said out loud to himself. 

A,

Part of me regrets what happened between us, but the other part (possibly the biggest part) is happy it happened. Maybe we both should have been adult enough to not do what we did. I know I started it. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you. I was just curious. I used you to kill that curiosity. I don’t think that I’m gay. As I said in my previous letter I’ve hooked up with a couple of girls since I’ve been here. 

You really think you might be gay? You know I think you’re a cool guy. I would love to hear about your feelings. I have to run now though. Class calls.

K

P.S. I do think about you every day.

“I do think about you every day” kept running through Atwood’s mind. Whenever his mind seemed clear of all thoughts, that line in Kinlin’s letter would run through it like the crawl at the bottom of CNN; impossible to ignore. 

All Atwood wanted was to see Kinlin’s face—a text or phone call would be just as good; the cherry on top of an already decadent sundae. 

He shook his head as if to free it of its thoughts and images. He was more miles away from Kinlin than he knew. There was no chance of seeing him. He could call, but he wanted Kinlin to be the one to call. He had to put all thoughts of Kinlin and his kiss—his body—out of his mind. He wanted to rid himself of his feelings. He couldn’t fathom owning up to them. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to be gay; he couldn’t imagine it. He needed to find a girl to hang out with and see if things changed.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Return to Winthrop St. - Part 1

The Ryland Monument stood in the center of town the most phallic of symbols—two hundred seventeen feet tall, slender and straight up. It was built as a memorial to the nearly 100 people who lost their lives when a fire ravaged the town of Ryland, Massachusetts in the early 1900's.

Kinlin Grové and Atwood Ross had grown up with the monument as part of their everyday lives. When they got old enough to recognize its phallic glory, nothing could stop the plethora of penis jokes that came out of their mouths in reference to it. 

On this late afternoon in August, they had climbed to the top and hidden in a small storage closet waiting for the doors to close for the day. The Ryland Monument closed to all visitors at dusk. The sun was beginning to set and those who had accepted the challenge of climbing each stair to the top had finally begun to trickle downward.

Hiding inside the closet had proven to be more difficult than either of them had anticipated. They tried to whisper to each other, but just trying was enough to start the laughter. Like a mudslide, laughter was hard to contain once it had started. They were in such a cramped space that every movement or sound caused eye-popping looks of fear from each of them. The looks then started the laughter all over again. They had never been more relieved than when the lights of the observation platform had been clicked off. They opened the door and breathed freely without worrying about every noise they made.

Kinlin and Atwood had been best friends since they could remember. They were neighbors on Winthrop Street. Their parents were second generation Rylanders. That made them third generation inhabitants of the small Massachusetts town they called home. They had been a stones throw from each other their whole lives—across the street, three houses apart. 

They had attended everything from Bible school at the local church to high school together, with bar-b-ques and dances thrown in for a mix of food and color. They had taken their first drink on the same night in the old garage beside Kinlin’s parents house. They had double dated to the senior prom and bragged to each other about how far they each got with their respective dates. Kinlin had managed to snag his date’s panties while Atwood boasted of under-the-bra action.

Tonight was an important night for both of them. It was their last night in Ryland together before their lives changed. They were leaving for college the next day. It was the first time that the two friends would find themselves in different cities, and parts of the country, in 18 years of life. As a final hoorah they had decided to stow away in the top of the Ryland Monument and spend the night. It was risky, but they knew whether caught or not, it would make a good story to tell their kids one day.

They stood on the observation deck as the sun was setting over the water that bordered the south end of Ryland. The red streak reflected in the water was something they had each seen more times than they could count. It felt different tonight though. The thought of leaving had made it seem more important than ever—like they might never see it again. It was unspoken, but the body language in each of them as they refused to tear their eyes from the water spoke volumes about the pride they felt to be from Ryland and how much they would miss being there. Being guys, they didn’t often speak of their affection for each other either, but each in his heart knew he would miss his friend more than he thought possible.

“I’m going to really miss this place,” said Kinlin without breaking his gaze from the now blood-colored water in front of him.

“Me too,” responded Atwood in kind. “But we’ll always be able to come back home.”

“I know,” Kinlin shrugged. “It just won’t be the same. We won’t live here anymore. We’ll be visitors.”

“We’ll always be from here, Kinlin,” said Atwood. “Nobody can take that away from us.” He broke his gaze from the water to look at Kinlin. “Hell, maybe we’ll even move back here after college.”

“I doubt it,” responded Kinlin. “I want something bigger than Ryland. Don’t you?”

Atwood turned back to face the water. He turned his head from side to side, pausing left before turning it right. One could almost see the ends of town from the top of the tower.

“I think about it sometimes. I’m not going to make any plans right now though. I’m just going to see where life takes me.” Kinlin had turned to look at Atwood, who met his gaze and smiled.

Kinlin turned back to look at the last bit of the red ball of sun before it sank below the water. “I’m nervous about tomorrow.”

“I am too,” said Atwood, “but we don’t have to worry about tomorrow tonight.” He turned in the direction of the storage closet and went to get their duffle bags. 

He threw Kinlin’s at him then walked over to join him and put his own bag down. He unzipped it and pulled out a blanket and his pillow. He had a deck of playing cards, a book, and a bottle of wine. Thankfully his family had several corkscrews, so his taking one wouldn’t be missed.

Kinlin laughed when Atwood pulled out the bottle of wine. It was Chianti. Although they weren’t legally supposed to be drinking, their parents allowed them the occasional glass of wine at holiday parties and other gatherings that were supervised. Kinlin had taken a liking to the sour cherry and tobacco taste of Chianti. He had introduced Atwood to it and Atwood in turn had taken a liking to it as well. It was the most appropriate beverage for the two of them on this particular night.

With the cork strewn to the side and the blanket laid out between them they were sharing the bottle without glasses in the glow of pillar candles Kinlin had brought from home. The smell of vanilla and cinnamon filled the sea air as they played their third game of slapjack. As Atwood flipped over the Jack of Clubs it was the fifth time the two of them had slapped the Jack at the same time. Atwood’s hand was on the bottom. He won the pile. It seemed to him that Kinlin’s hand lingered on top of his a little longer than necessary, but he thought maybe the wine had slowed time and he wasn’t thinking clearly.

The air had certainly turned cooler as the breeze blew through the windowless openings of the monument’s observation deck. Up that high the wind off of the water made their blankets necessary. With the bottle of wine finished their bodies had the warmth of an alcohol induced buzz. They were groggy and tired. As much as they didn’t want to fall asleep they couldn’t resist the spell of the Chianti.

In the middle of the night Atwood awoke to the feeling of something touching his hand. As he pushed himself toward consciousness through the drowsiness of wine motivated sleep he realized that it was another hand touching his own. It didn’t feel random; it felt deliberate. He turned his head slightly and saw that Kinlin was spooning him. In his haze he thought Kinlin was probably cold and therefore using the heat of their bodies to stay warm. Then he realized that Kinlin’s eyes were open. Atwood fully turned his head and looked into Kinlin’s eyes. Kinlin kissed him—a small kiss—then pulled his face away, almost shocked at himself, gauging Atwood’s reaction. 

Atwood didn’t react in a way either good or bad. He didn’t move. There was no flinch. There was no recoil. He stayed still staring at Kinlin. Kinlin moved to kiss him again. Atwood moved his head back this time and stared into Kinlin’s eyes with confusion on his face. Kinlin smiled. Atwood wanted to ask what was going on, but couldn’t find the words. Kinlin moved closer. Atwood closed his eyes and felt Kinlin’s lips on his own. He felt Kinlin’s tongue parting his lips. He allowed it to happen. He was confused at his own enjoyment of the kiss. He mind was racing. He couldn’t believe it was happening. The hand that had been rubbing his own was now rubbing the front of his jeans in a stroking, up and down. Atwood felt himself growing beneath the stroke. Their kissing became deeper and more intense. Kinlin bit Atwood’s bottom lip as he began to pull out of the kiss, but without fully disconnecting he plunged his tongue back into Atwood’s waiting mouth. The probing hand was now inside Atwood’s jeans.

Kinlin rolled Atwood onto his back. Atwood not only felt Kinlin’s body on top of him, he felt Kinlin’s erection that was touching his own through the denim of their jeans.

Their tongues continued to probe each other’s mouths as their bodies began to thrust.

Atwood pulled away. He held Kinlin’s face in his hands. He looked into Kinlin’s eyes. Kinlin smiled at him again then leaned down and gave him a simple kiss.

“What are we doing?” Atwood asked.

“Making out,” responded Kinlin. “Are you okay with that?”

“Um…. I guess?” Atwood responded with the inflection of a question in his voice but the look of longing on his face.

“Then shut up and kiss me.”

Atwood let go with full abandon at that moment. He pulled Kinlin’s face to his and placed his mouth over Kinlin’s own. Suddenly all questions and fear had vanished. He was there, fully present, in the moment. Whether it was the wine or the cold that had started it, no one was stopping it.

Their hands were wandering over each other’s bodies. It was new territory for both of them. Kinlin had already had his hands down Atwood’s jeans, but touching wasn’t enough for Atwood. He wanted to see Kinlin’s cock. He wanted to see his own hand on it. He unbuttoned Kinlin’s jeans and began to unzip them. There was a moment’s hesitation in their kissing, but then the passion and power started anew and Kinlin moaned as Atwood set him free.

Their bodies were entwined in arms, blankets and jeans. There was hair pulling and neck biting. There was grasping and gasping. It was hot. Hot from the wine, hot from the body heat, hot from the situation. They were mad from lust and passion for each other. 

Atwood flipped the dynamic when he rolled them over finding himself on top of Kinlin. He looked him in the eyes as he pushed himself downward, kissing Kinlin’s chest then stomach, a happy trail pointing him toward what he was trembling to touch. Kinlin’s moan was more real and more intense now than from Atwood’s initial touch. 

As Atwood took Kinlin into his mouth, the moan was a call to wake for anyone within earshot; a horn sounding forth the arrival of ecstasy unlike anything felt before. It didn’t take long for Kinlin to release his burning desire. He pushed Atwood’s head away from his cock and took hold of it himself, his orgasm bursting intensely onto his stomach and chest. 

Atwood rubbed his hand in the remains on Kinlin’s stomach and then grabbed his own throbbing cock. He too was so turned on that it took no time for his seed to join that already discarded on Kinlin’s stomach.

Panting yet exuberant, Atwood collapsed onto Kinlin. He felt Kinlin’s arms enfold him. They began to kiss again. This time the kissing was more intimate and gentle. Kinlin’s hand caressed Atwood’s back. 

Atwood rolled off of Kinlin. They untangled the blankets. Without pulling up their jeans or replacing their shirts, they covered their bodies with the blankets. Atwood found himself in a tight, spooned embrace by Kinlin. He heard Kinlin’s breathing slow as he himself drifted off to sleep. 

The next morning Atwood woke to the cold emptiness of being alone. He rolled over to see Kinlin standing and peering out toward the water. Disappointment ran through his head as he saw that Kinlin had already gotten dressed. The memory of the previous night should have been filled with confusion, but it wasn’t. It made his heart race in a good way, an exciting way. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had hoped for a daytime glance at Kinlin without his jeans.

“Damn, I really need to piss,” Atwood said as he stood up and pulled up his underwear and jeans. Kinlin jumped as Atwood’s words had startled him.

“I used the Chianti bottle,” Kinlin said, without turning.

“Good idea. Thanks.”

Atwood relieved himself, the sound of liquid hitting liquid the only thing breaking the silence of the morning and the silence between them.

“It’s early. We should head down so we can get home.” Kinlin had waited to hear the sound of Atwood’s zipper before turning around to start gathering his things and packing them back into his duffle bag.

Atwood realized at that moment that they were not going talk about what they had done. He made a choice to act as casual as possible. Kinlin seemed tense. He felt certain they would talk about it when the time was right. He could wait. Patience didn’t come easy for him, but his friendship with Kinlin did.

They made a sweeping gaze around their makeshift camp to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything. Atwood tried to catch Kinlin’s eye, but Kinlin seemed determined to avoid just such a moment. With duffels packed and zipped they made their way down the many flights of stairs to the bottom of the monument. No one spoke. Down flight after flight Atwood fought the words trying to burst forth from his mouth.

Ryland was such a small town that there wasn’t much crime and therefore no need of an alarm system on the doors to the monument. They were locked from the outside, but had breakaway bars on the inside. 

Kinlin slowly opened the door and did a quick search for the guard who patrolled the grounds. No one was in sight. They exited the monument, throwing the urine filled Chianti bottle into the nearest trashcan, then quickly made their way to Bradford Street. 

They walked home in near silence. Atwood wanted nothing more than to talk to Kinlin about last night—or anything. 

Kinlin just wanted to get home and shower. He couldn’t process his thoughts. He focused on the fact that he was leaving later that day. He would process then.

As they reached Winthrop Street, Atwood’s house was the one they came to first. He turned to face Kinlin who was now looking him dead in the eyes. Atwood sensed that he wanted to say something, but didn’t push him. Kinlin smiled. Atwood made to hug him and Kinlin welcomed the embrace. It lasted longer than one might think two 18-year old men hugging would last. It was Atwood who broke the embrace. He smiled at Kinlin then watched him as he walked toward his house.

“Hey!” said Atwood. Kinlin stopped and turned back toward him. “Enjoy Delaware.”

“Enjoy California,” said Kinlin, turning to continue his walk home.

“See you at Christmas,” said Atwood, unable to stop watching before Kinlin walked through his front door.

Kinlin waved then shut the door.

©2011 Michael Rohrer

Liberation on Shankpainter

As I stood on the deck overlooking the street in front of me I realized that I felt a freedom I hadn’t felt in a long time. I was free to do anything I wanted to do. I made a drink at 10am or noon or 5pm; whatever time I wanted. There was no one to judge me but me and I was too lubricated to care. I could smoke as many cigarettes as I wanted and I did. It didn’t matter what anyone said or thought. I made the choice to do as I pleased and lived my life; that’s the simple truth.

There comes a time when one has to stop worrying about what people think. What your friends and family want for you has to take a back seat to what you want even if what you want might be a mistake. You have to make choices. Sometimes what is thought to be a mistake doesn’t end up being one. But what if it does? I hate failure, but I hear we only learn from our mistakes. Maybe I should start looking at mistakes as growth opportunities instead of failures.

There comes a time when one has to stop carrying what their family members think. Life is too short and your life has to be your own. I’m just now learning that. In fact, I’m completely frustrated by it. I feel like I’ve wasted a lot of time needing the approval of my family and friends and being a people pleaser. I should be paying more attention to what I want and pleasing myself. I’m the only one who can truly benefit anyway.

I can’t live my life for my family. I can’t live my life for my friends. I have to live my life for me. It’s my life anyway, right? If that is the truth then other people’s judgments, questions and concerns have to be taken with a grain of salt. What other people feel is exactly that: what they feel. That doesn’t mean that I have to have those feelings. Sometimes we have to hear and then discard what others opinionate to us.

Life has to be lived. Risk is scary, but without risk I never would have moved to New York or quit my longest held job to get a better one. Risk leads to progress. I don’t take many risks, but in hindsight it is only by taking risks that I have made progress in my life.

Living my life for me, taking new risks….in progress.

Irene: A Timeline Via Facebook Status Updates

Friday, 3:01pm - so if we have to ride out Irene at New World Stages can we at least have the bar open for the employees? Can the adults please drink?

Friday, 4:56pm - pre-hurricaning at Diwine in Astoria! Stop on by!

Friday, 5.39pm - I went old school...Escape by Calvin Klein (take that Irene)

Saturday, 9:48am - "Rock You Like Hurricane" station playing on Pandora!

Saturday, 10:16am - after "Rock You Like A Hurricane" Pandora chose "Livin' On A Prayer" followed by "Thunderstruck"! Interesting, appropriate and perfect for this day!

Saturday, 11:09am - it's raining in Astoria...unfortunately it's not MEN!

Saturday, 11:52am - people in my Trade Fair are fighting! Ain't nothing but the bullshit!

Saturday, 12:18pm - Hurricane provisions: chips, pretzels, apples, peanut butter, bread, pork and beans, Stella and Ginger Ale to mix with my Jameson! Here we go!

Saturday, 1:02pm - it's pouring outside, might as well pour myself a drink inside!

Saturday, 5:51pm - Ana Lucia - dead, Libby - dead, Michael - wounded, Ben - escaped. Things just got real ya'll!

Saturday, 7:28pm - me and Stella Artois are having a simple little sit-down on the sofa!

Saturday, 9:23pm - Irene Ryan was an American actress best known for playing "Granny" on The Beverly Hillbillies.

Saturday, 9:28pm - Irene Dunne was an American film actress and singer of the 1930s and 1940s. Dunne was nominated five times for the Academy Award for Best Actress. She was named to the International Best Dressed List Hall of Fame in 1958.

Saturday, 9:49pm - Irene, Irene, Irene, Ireeene. I’m beggin' of you please don't flood my land. Irene, Irene, Irene, Ireeene. Please don't flood it just because you can!

Saturday, 10:43pm - Season 2 has ended, Season 3 is starting. It's off to the cages!

Sunday, 12:40am - hope the Cyclone and Wonder Wheel ride out the 'cane intact!

Sunday, 5:09am - well, I managed to sleep a couple of hours! spent the past two watching OLTL! too keyed up I guess!

Sunday, 6:06am - on Sunday morning @ 6am you'll find Looney Tunes on Cartoon Network! Trust me, I'm watching!

Sunday, 9:47am - Awake! Coffee! Window's open! Listening to the rain and wind! It's almost over, but she ain't left yet!

Sunday, 11:03am - Hey Astoria peeps and New World peeps, hope ya'll are all okay! It's brunch time!!

Sunday, 12:41pm - it's official...I'm off to brunch!

Sunday, 1:30pm - this bloody mary is so spicy, but oh so good!

Sunday, 3:51pm - the wind is crazy right now! fierce! strong! a little scary!

Sunday, 5:16pm - Eew, Paolo and Nicki just arrived on the scene!

Me, Myself and I(rene)

There is a sense of dread that comes with anticipation. It can be the dread of the belt as you await you father arriving home from work to punish you for something your mother is going to tell him you did that day. It is the dread of opening the last gift under the Christmas tree and knowing beforehand that it is not the two-toned denim jacket you wanted more than anything else. It is the dread of sitting and waiting for hurricane Irene to hit with all of her powerful, Mother Nature winds and rain while you hope the power stays on and there's water to drink and flush your toilet.

On Friday, New Yorkers learned that the MTA would begin shutting down mass transit at noon on Saturday. That's a major shut down for a city of 8 million people, most of who rely on mass transit to get anywhere. As the news broke, word quickly spread that Broadway had cancelled all performances for the weekend. I don't work on Broadway, but I do work in a major theatre complex in midtown Manhattan and we too cancelled all performances. The shuttering of the subway system prompted the cancellations. People either wouldn't be able to get to the theatre or might not be able to get home once they got there. Every precaution that could be taken by our Governor and Mayor was being taken.

I was already enjoying a day off on Friday and now I was going to have the weekend off as well. What's a boy to do? Well, I got in touch with some friends and whiled away most of the late afternoon through dusk to early evening outside at the wine bar, Diwine, in Astoria. I enjoyed many beers and lots of laughter. Food was ordered as necessary and the conversation flowed as easily as the booze; that’s what New Yorkers do. We prepare for pending disaster by hanging out with our friends and daring whatever it is to interrupt our festivities.

Via facebook countless status updates reflected the party nature of my friends. People stocked up on wine, beer, vodka and Jameson. The recipe for “Hurricanes” floated around. Bars offered special "Hurricane" drink discounts. The 1919 musical Irene (revived on Broadway in 1973 with Debbie Reynolds) hadn’t been as talked about in years as it was on Friday as Hurricane Irene approached NYC.

As Saturday morning arrived and I didn't have to go to work, the wonder of how to spend my day occupied the top spot in my mind. I didn't really have that much food in the house and I didn't have a flashlight or extra jugs of water. I was sort of walking around in a daze. I didn't know how to truly prepare for something when I had no idea how bad it might or might not be. I created a Pandora radio station called "Rock Me Like A Hurricane" based on the song of the same title by the Scorpions. Soon 80's hair bands were filling my apartment with rock and roll and my facebook status updates were reflecting my pleasure. Eventually I made my way to the Trade Fair.

It was packed as I had anticipated it would be. I stocked up on chips and pretzels, cans of pork & beans, apples and of course more beer. I bought three prayer candles. Not because they were prayer candles, but because they were the ones that burn for 12 - 24 hours. There were no flashlights to be had. Not at the Trade Fair, the Rite Aid or the Duane Reade. People had already panicked and that shit was gone. If I could have gotten it over-nighted I guess I could have ordered it on Amazon, but the candles are what I chose. Nothing like a little prayer to go with the light that takes away the darkness. As for the water, I washed every pitcher, decanter and large vase that I owned and filled them full of water from my Brita pitcher. I just didn't want to spend money on water when I had plenty of water-storing options at my house.

I also filled every pan that I owned with water should I need it for anything. Maybe the funniest thing I did was filling my largest trashcan with water. I had been told to fill my tub with water so that I could use it to fill my toilet and flush should we lose water. Everyone knows I’m regular so having water on hand to flush was one step I couldn’t pass up. I chose the trashcan instead of the tub. I’m unique in that way. Sometimes I go with the flow and sometimes I like to walk into the traffic.

As I sat at home on Saturday, I found myself completely unmotivated. I'm so used to being at work that I literally wished I were at work. As 12:30 pm rolled around I sat down on the sofa to watch The Young and the Restless. I used to watch it all the time, but gave it up more than a year ago. For shits and giggles, and out of boredom, I decided to visit Genoa City while I ate breakfast. That's right, breakfast at 12:30pm. Anyway, I turned the television channel to CBS and was not greeted with Y&R. That's because it was Saturday. Having a weekend off was throwing me for a loop. One of my Diwine comrades the night before had told me to live in the moment and just enjoy the time. I was trying, but I was frustrated. Thankfully, HBO was running a couple of Bugs Bunny cartoon movies back to back. That occupied 3 hours of the afternoon.

It continued to rain off and on throughout the day. The sky was gray. Irene was coming and there was nothing to do but wait for her dramatic, over-the-top arrival.

I watched The Weather Channel for a while, but the gloom and doom, fear-mongering media trying to prepare us for the impending deluge of rain and winds that were approaching did nothing but suffocate me in a fear bubble. I had to turn it off. I had to placate my mind with Lost. My husband and wife landlord team had started to raise their voices at each other above me, a light rain was falling outside and the wind was gently blowing the leaves. As much as I wanted Irene to be past us I was thankful that the real drama was still (landlord yelling aside) on disc 6 of season 2 of Lost.

It was 7:45 pm when I paused Lost and changed my facebook profile picture to a more recent/accurate shot of Irene. At 7:48 pm I stepped into my bedroom to peer out the window. The rain changed from steady to downpour in about 30 seconds. A few cars passed by and a couple of people with umbrellas. To look at it from inside the dry, safety of my room it looked like nothing more than a regular rainfall that had drenched NYC last week.

9pm. The leaves on the tree across the street from my house were now being more than gently blown. There was no force behind the rain, but the wind had changed. I began alternating between the season 2 finale of Lost and The Weather Channel. Irene was getting closer to home. She really wasn't supposed to hit with all of her force until Sunday morning, but she had already caused over a million people to be without power as she soaked the east coast with her splash and trickle. I won't lie; I was nervous. Anticipatory anxiety is the worst.

When Lost season 2 had ended I debated whether to read, open another beer, watch The Weather Channel or pop in Lost season 3. I popped Lost into the DVD player, made a quick check of the weather outside my window then turned on TWC. Nothing like a check of the weather on TWC to confirm that Irene was still on her way and to see how much devastation she had caused at the prom already. Oh wait, that's Carrie. I couldn't resist stepping outside my apartment and into the foyer of my building. From the time I looked out the window of my bedroom to the moment I got into the foyer the rain had begun to downpour again. I stood at the front door and watched the pelting rain bounce off of the sidewalks and roads.

I wanted to stay awake and hear Irene make her grand entrance into our city, but I was tired. I had already decided to spend the night on my sofa in the living room. There's only one window and it faces the alley between my building and the house next door. I turned off the air conditioner in preparation of high winds and the possible power outage. I rejoined Harry Potter in his quest to find Sirius Black as the rain fell heavy on the air conditioner; the front of the storm had made its way into our area. The worst was supposedly yet to come. All I wanted to do was sleep. I was reminded of long trips as a child. Mom always said sleeping would make the time fly. The difference this time was sleeping was going to take me right to the main event. Irene's major performance was scheduled to hit us the next morning. The center of the storm looked on track to hover over the City. That was something to look forward to with the morning coffee, right?

Sleep proved not to be a lengthy visitor. I slept for a couple of hours until a dream that had nothing to do with Irene jolted me awake. I then heard something fall outside. It was no use. My curiosity made me get up from my sofa and make my way to the window in my bedroom and watch the rain. I stayed awake for at least another two hours. I had slept for two and then was awake for two. One Life To Live on Soapnet helped me pass the time during those two hours. I talked to a friend (who laughed at me about OLTL) and watched the end of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on HBO then watched Looney Tunes on Cartoon Network as the sun began to lighten the 6 am sky. Well, as much as Irene’s gray clouds would allow it to lighten. Finally I fell back to sleep, but only for another couple of hours – two-and-a-half at the most.

My groggy, irritable self got up from the sofa and put the water on to boil for coffee. What else was there to do? I was bored. I won't lie. I didn't want to be bored, but I couldn't help it. I had spent the entire previous day at home anticipating the hurricane. I just wanted something to do, somewhere to go. The rain was over. The day was overcast, but somehow beautiful. There was a breeze blowing, but nothing gale force. Then a plan formed. Two of my Astoria friends started communicating via facebook about having brunch. I was all over that. I'm a homosexual. We know how to do brunch. Waiting out Irene seemed to be all about what you were drinking while you stayed locked inside your house. With Irene's wrath past the City it seemed perfectly normal to gather at brunch for a mimosa or bloody mary and talk about how you spent the evening.

Just before 4 pm I heard the wind. It was the sound I had been expecting all the previous night. The tail winds from Irene were still present. I not only heard them, I saw them blowing the leaves of the tree across the street, swirling the clouds in the sky. My curtains were blowing as the open windows in my apartment created a cross breeze. I watched the power lines outside my apartment swaying. This was the moment that I realized that even though we had made it through everything Irene had dumped on us, we still had to get through these winds.

Irene blew through town like a party girl. She hung out long enough to get the party started and then stayed past her prime. New Yorkers know how to weather a storm be it a blizzard or a hurricane. By the time her party was in full swing, Irene had been downgraded from a Category 1 hurricane to a tropical storm. That didn't change the power of her rain or winds. Facebook statuses were a way of keeping connected to friends across town or in another borough. We're resilient and we bounce back. We gathered and drank and watched DVD's. We filled our tubs with water and we stocked our cabinets with canned goods. We then stood in Irene's winds and waved goodbye as she left our City stirred not shaken.