The Mix of Us Read online

  The Mix of Us

  By R.W. Clinger

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 R.W. Clinger

  ISBN 9781634865807

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  The Mix of Us

  By R.W. Clinger

  Low Hollow

  Population: 1,765

  Low Hollow was a small suburb of Erie, Pennsylvania, and sat next to Lake Erie. Surrounding sister towns included Templeton, West End, and Candmore. Those who didn’t live in Low Hollow avoided the town, calling it mysterious and dangerous. Most thought the hollow haunted by Iroquois Indians. Others stayed away because of its heavy snows, rainfall, and lack of sunlight. Locals whispered tales of trolls living underground, magical fairies, and seeing white unicorns on hot summer nights.

  Although small in size, Low Hollow made an impact on northeastern Pennsylvania because of its strangeness. In 1952, two men (gossiping in town labeled them as secret boyfriends) in their early twenties went hiking through the deepest parts of the hollow, a place simply called The Meadow. The lovers mysteriously disappeared and were never seen again. After seven long and rainy days of a manhunt, Officer Harold Simmons declared the two men dead.

  The Low Hollow Tribune called it, “…something powerful in our town that none of us understood and never will…”

  * * * *

  “You’re never going to marry me, are you, Steve?”

  Steve Quaver watched a relaxing Giovanni Tartini on the sofa, reading again, semi-lost among words, paragraphs, and chapters. He read whenever he had the spare time, enjoying tales of life, here and beyond. Anything he could get his hands on, really.

  Steve bent over him, kissing Giovanni’s forehead before passing into another room of their Tudor, dusting again. Always dusting. The chore calmed Steve down and maintained his anxiety, particularly when the marriage topic was brought up again. Good therapy during an ugly situation like discussing the holy matrimony of two men, a life-long commitment. It was a lot for Steve to handle, too much, both mentally and physically. It wasn’t as if he didn’t love Gio or want to spend the rest of his life with the man. Bottom line: Steve just didn’t feel that it was necessary to get married. No way. Unable to match the act with his character.

  “I know you have commitment issues. You’re afraid of marrying me.” Gio closed the seven-hundred-page, hardback novel and place it on his firm chest. Then he laid on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling, probably concentrating on the swirls of white and a plane of nothingness. “You don’t understand why we need a piece of paper to prove our love. I love you. You love me. We’re dynamic soul mates created by the universe. You think that’s enough. I get it, Steve. But we both know I want more. And you should want more, too, even if I can’t convince you otherwise.”

  Steve stood over Gio again. “Because you’ve always wanted to go through the process and get a marriage license. Because you’ve fought for the equal right to marry for decades, ever since you were in your twenties. Because your uncle was at Stonewall, met Harvey Milk, and died of AIDS in the late eighties during the Reagan years. Enough said.”

  “I’m sorry you feel this way.” Gio stared up into Steve’s eyes, as if lost there.

  Steve knew exactly what Gio was thinking, believing that the man was his soul mate: at thirty-eight, Gio was still excited to spend his days with Steve, thought Steve attractive. Giovanni’s true soul mate. His lover. His best friend. His violinist. Someone who Gio could have these uncomfortable and taunting conversations with, which sometimes drove both of them a pinch mad, Steve guessed, but they always struggled through them, surviving, breathing.

  “You won’t marry me, Steve. I know that about you. You’re not going to sleep around behind my back. You’re not going to have an affair with a younger man in his twenties who looks like Thor or the other Hemsworth brothers, or a studly jock who plays professional soccer and fucks like a porn star in his too-tight uniform. You just really don’t feel there’s a need to be married. I know that. You know that. You can’t see how a license can prove my love for you. Plus, I know your parents never got married. They’ve been together for over forty years now. Hippies, which I respect. The first liberals in your family. Your mom’s totally against it, like you. So, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? I suppose not.”

  It’s upsetting, Steve thought.

  Gio often suggested having (and wanting) a Sunday marriage ceremony with just a few guests; one of those lovely and small luncheon events at The Lou or Low Hollow Park. It somewhat irritated Steve. If only Steve could talk the man into not bringing the topic up again. Why couldn’t Giovanni see that Steve just wanted to be lovers for the next three…maybe four decades instead of having the state government legally recognize them as husbands? It’s not that Steve was against marriage. On the contrary, he was all for it. Honestly, he just didn’t feel as if it were personally for him, an act he could live without.

  Steve knew he couldn’t go back in time and change who he had fallen in love with, even if he wouldn’t marry Gio. Father Time didn’t allow such actions. So, either he had to suck up his predicament and accept Gio’s harping about marrying him, or move on.

  Steve said while continuing to dust, “Let’s agree to disagree at this time about the topic. What do you say?”

  “Agreed. I’ll bring it up again in a few months to discuss.”

  Or a day, or a week, Steve thought, knowing Gio well enough to admit such a fact, even if it didn’t happen yet.

  Adorable Gio winked up from the sofa. Damn him for being so cute, charming, and the perfect guy. Doubly damn him.

  Steve couldn’t help himself and smiled at his Italian husband, adoring him more now than when they met seven years before at one of Steve’s violin concerts. Giovanni’s dark Mediterranean skin, almost-black eyes, and thick buzz cut had turned him on again and again, every time Steve had taken the slightest glance at the man. And Gio’s body was still a temple of muscle since he worked out at Meat’s Gym at least four times a week: solidly ripped with a hulking and hairy chest, veins along his pumped neck, and a flat stomach rippled with perfectly constructed abs that had taken a dozen or more years to construct. Steve had a happy life with the music teacher, as his husband or not. A perfect life between the two of them. He couldn’t ask for a better lover, even when he shared an uncomfortable Sunday chat about marriage.

  “Someday you’ll marry me. Just not now. I’ll give you time.”

  Steve said nothing in return, continuing to dust the living room, swinging his feather tool to and fro over knickknacks, books,
and other whatnots that had meaning in their lives, stories of their couplehood and love for the last six years. Developments of their relationship. Memorabilia of two men spending one life together. The mix of their belongings that not only symbolized their heartfelt tenderness for each other, but also their individualism.

  Gio added, “Just don’t marry someone else before the topic comes up for discussion again.”

  “I promise,” Steve said matter-of-factly. He chuckled and turned away from his dusting.

  Steve watching Gio pick up his massive book again, flip to the middle, and start reading.

  * * * *

  Steve’s Alice in Wonderland moment happened the following Monday morning. Gio was making the drive to Buffalo for a music convention, exclusive for high school music teachers in the tristate area, which left Steve alone in their Tudor at 17 Tone Street. Steve spent the morning with two cups of coffee, his violin for a few hours of practice, and a cold and snowy February day ahead of him. He had fallen in love with the violin at the very young age of ten and turned into a professional violinist at age twenty-two, a graduate of Julliard in New York City. Steve wasn’t a millionaire by any means, nor did he have world fame, but he was happy and content with the product of his skills.

  Dust. Dusting. More dusting. Still dusting. He could hear Gio from the day before.

  You won’t marry me, Steve. I know that about you.

  Of course, he wanted to spend the rest of his mortal life with Gio. Never did he look at another man his age, wanting to kiss, hug, or fuck the guy. And never did he crave the romance with anyone else he had (conditionally?) had with Gio. Honestly, he always felt a strong something for Gio since the first time they had met. And that same feeling—a blend of chemical reactions that caused Steve to become aroused by the man—had a strong way of still being present and active within his heart and mind, even today. Those tumbled feelings were always there: at cocktail parties or other social events like fund-raisers for music scholarships they attended together; during walks in Low Hollow Park; at the movies on a Sunday afternoon; during the book club they attended once a month to discuss Barbara Kingsolver, Joyce Carol Oates, or Amy Tan novels; and so many more fun-filled activities when they were among other men their age, or younger. He couldn’t marry, never. He wouldn’t. How could he after being unhitched for so long?

  The previous day’s uncomfortable conversation with Gio became unleashed inside the folds of Steve’s mind, tumbling there, unfolding, spreading out like a table cloth, and covering his real thoughts; a tempestuous and agonizing memory that caused his stomach to turn, unable to leave him.

  Steve resorted to more dusting, using his favorite feather duster, the one with the rubber handle and faux peacock feathers that Gio purchased for him in Toronto two summers before. Dusting relaxed him, taking him elsewhere, far away from the world’s bitter realties and the thought of marriage. The act numbed him; cheap therapy.

  Steve neared the walnut coffee table Gio sometimes built five-hundred-piece puzzles on during passionate, but angry, snowstorms. The table had been purchased at a secondhand store on Mill Avenue in downtown Low Hollow. The place had a strange name, like Vintage Things Accepted or something similar. Harry Mander, one of Steve’s former high school blowjob buddies, owned and operated the establishment. Gio didn’t know Steve had given Harry numerous blowjobs in high school. If he did, Gio would probably stop shopping there as a regular.

  Steve could still hear Harry’s grunting and long moans from those evenings when they were eighteen: usually quick oral fixes for Harry in the kid’s Mustang, mostly because his girlfriend wouldn’t suck him off, give him a pleasurable hand job, or let him slip his pre-twenties dick inside her. Honestly, Steve had good times with Harry and his dick. The best times of Steve’s high school years. Now, Steve couldn’t help from thinking of Harry every time he looked at the coffee table, flashbacking to Marlow High School, horny as hell, bending over Harry, and giving the young man exactly what he wanted…desired in a time of selfish need. Open-mouthed. Hungry. Always having the taste of salt and sweat on the roof of his mouth in Harry’s presence.

  Frankly, the coffee table had to go because of the blowjobs. Steve was pretty sure Harry would take it back, refunding a portion of their cash. If he were going to be the best husband to Gio in their shared future, he couldn’t have the piece of furniture around, reminding him of Harry’s uncut and seven-inch dick inside the back of his throat, rubbing against his esophagus. Bliss of a pre-eighteen-year-old boy. Sexual madness. Naughty memories of a time when Gio hadn’t been present in his life.

  Dust. Dusting. More dusting. Still dusting. Another end table next to the sofa. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with crumpled and battered Robert Riley paperbacks that had been read a few times. Steve’s heart raced, and his head buzzed as he dusted, swinging the feathers to and fro like a fairy in a Disney movie. Lots of dusting. And lots of dust.

  Fuck. He couldn’t get marriage out of his head, which bothered the piss out of him. Sonofabitch. Shaky. Upset, feeling dizzy, he began losing oxygen. Something happened within his body that caused him to feel drunk, light-headed. His heart thumped, thumped, thumped chaotically within his chest. His temperature rose a half degree, and perspiration covered his forehead.

  “Fuck,” escaped his throat as…as…

  It was another panic attack. Typical in his life. An almost everyday occurrence these days. Damn, why didn’t he take his anxiety medicine? Dr. Marie Reinold would be pissed if she knew he wasn’t listening to her, following her instructions regarding his attacks.

  Steve mumbled to himself, “Should have, could have, would have, I guess.” Then he stepped forward, felt as if he were suffocating, dying, something, and tripped over his own feet. Crashing. That’s the feeling that swept over him. Crashing and having no control of himself. None.

  Honestly, he didn’t feel any pain as his left temple cracked against the corner of the coffee table. The blackout he suffered happened at light speed. An obnoxious grunt escaped his lips, but he didn’t hear the sound, couldn’t actually. Rather, his vision turned black, empty, and his mind started to float…float…float…

  * * * *

  The Meadow

  Stephen Jason Quaver opened his eyes, yawned, and stared up and into the midsummer night’s yellow-gold glow. The area above him looked like the underside of a willow tree, umbrella-shaped with spaghetti-like branches and leaves hanging down. He blinked a few times, heard squirrels clicking noisily somewhere nearby, and felt a smooth and soft wind lick his left cheek. Beyond the rounded shape of the tree smiled a silver-blue moon that, to him, felt welcoming. No longer did he suffer from his panic attack. Now he was calm and collected. He smelled daisies and jasmine. Somewhere to his left was the serene sound of a brook and its tumbling water over sandstone rocks.

  He slowly sat up and realized he was naked, except for an ivy-colored loincloth at his center. A light breeze found its way between his slightly spread legs and gently tickled his hairy balls and inner thighs. Faint, lute sounds caused him to turn his view to the right. A sugary-coated meadow opened beyond the willow’s stringy and hanging branches. Mossy stumps, clumps of surrounding trees, and a variety of vibrant-colored orchids decorated the half acre of open and candle-illuminated space.

  Fireflies and multi-colored butterflies flew in all directions: spinning, gliding, floating. The continuous and melodic lute sounds filled the meadow, becoming louder. Silver moonlight sprinkled into the area, illuminating the exuberant and floral pinks, purples, blues, and whites. When Steve stood, the frisky wind licked his chest and swirled around his hard nipples, abdominals, and navel.

  He stepped into the green and sparkling-shimmering meadow and whispered, “I’m not in Low Hollow anymore, Toto.”

  His mind raced to munchkins, flying monkeys, and wicked witches. Truth told, he was a huge fan of Dorothy, ruby slippers, and lollipops. Who wasn’t, right? No one he knew.

  A narrow, ivy-bordered pathway led fr
om the willow tree across the radiant meadow. To the right of the pathway, approximately forty feet away, also dressed in nothing more than an ivy-shaded loincloth, Gio snoozed on his right side, somewhat curled in a lima-bean shape.

  “He always did like his naps.”

  Gio woke, sat up, yawned, looked in his direction, and stood. “Steve, I’ve been waiting for you. Always late to the party, aren’t you?”

  “Late…toooo…the…parteee.” Soft and melodic echoes rose within the meadow from three different but soothing voices.

  The singsong tune drew Steve’s view to the far right. There, among falling and waving ivy vines that lined a background of thick oak trees, were three, semi-hidden men in their twenties; obvious muses in that strange, unknown, and unfamiliar place. The bare-chested, choral trio of young men was beautiful. Each Paris or NYC model look-alike had lanky arms, a thin face, long jaws, and pale skin. All three were blond, with blue eyes and pearl-white smiles; stunning angels that looked as if they had stepped out of heaven, temporarily visiting and residing in Steve’s dreamy mind.

  Gio stretched, yawning. His muscular and Thor-like arms reached into the dark heavens. Dark patches of hair decorated his pits; a total aphrodisiac for Steve. Every line and dent on Gio’s athletic and beefy chest was severely accentuated. The thin and short spirals of dark hair that covered his torso somewhat sparkled in the evening’s summertime light. His nipples were hard and pinkish. The loincloth at his center shifted southward against his tight and cut skin. Steve enjoyed a view of Gio’s pubic triangle, just the top area, a sliver or line of black hair.

  Both of us look younger, more alive, Steve thought. He couldn’t help himself and said, “We look good in these loincloths. Is it Halloween?”

  A chuckle escaped Gio as he shook his head. “You hit your head on our coffee table. You’re dreaming.”

  The muses sang, “Dreeee…ming.”

  Steve heard a lute being played in the meadow. Three B-notes softly reverberated off the oak, maple, birch, and many other trees. He slowly swung his head from left to right in search of the musician but couldn’t find the person. His attention steered back to his lover.