Sugaring Ben Page 7

  “Damn, that doesn’t sound like it was fun.”

  “Actually, my story has some irony to it. The following year, we were camping together near Cook Forest, and he decided to fuck me a few times. It was a great time. Young love, or what I thought was love at the time. Tenner ended up liking guys over girls, probably because the guys put out.”

  “I guess we all have stories like that, don’t we?”

  “We should,” I replied. “It’s what makes us better men.”

  “Weathered men.”

  I chuckled. “Yes. Weathered. Nicely said.”

  * * * *

  An hour later, city lights welcomed us. A rainbow of colors illuminated the night and reflected off the three icy rivers: Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio. Route 28 led to Veterans Bridge, and then to Sixth Street in downtown Pittsburgh. Snow blew down the one-way streets of the city, billowing in circles, similar to tornadoes. The temperature on the dashboard read thirty-one degrees. More snow planned on falling by dawn, but the city wouldn’t become handicapped. Skyscrapers reached to the heavens, and snow blew their steel structures, whipping in chaotic circles.

  “There’s fewer people than I thought there would be on the streets,” Ben said to my right.

  “The snow keeps them inside.”

  “I’m sure they’re hibernating until spring.”

  “Maybe so.”

  I drove the Tacoma down Forest Street, near what was known as the Point, a connection of the three rivers, and legally parked between a fire hydrant and, coincidentally, a Fusion.

  After I turned the ignition off, Ben leaned over the seat and said, “You get a kiss for getting us here.”

  His kisses were something to talk about: mind-numbing, jolting, without any inhibitions whatsoever. They could have caused earthquakes from their power, rocking my world to and fro, and causing me to want more from him. Honestly, I couldn’t think of him not kissing me, enjoying his mouth against mine, and sealing us together. Nothing felt as wonderful and heart-thudding. I wanted to stay in the Tacoma’s cab like that forever. Just the two of us. Men kissing. Or whatever the world wanted to label us.

  When I finally pulled out and away from his kiss, I asked, “Are you ready to go inside? The bed-and-breakfast awaits us.”

  He agreed and snagged our three bags, which included mine. I escorted him into Riverside, heated by his kiss, temporarily shielded from winter and the city’s swirling snow.

  * * * *

  Dan and Bob’s Riverside Bed-and-Breakfast could have easily been rated a four-star business with superb hospitality, enchanting Victorian-decorated rooms, and a killer view of the three rivers from our third-floor room. The freshly married couple, newlyweds for the last five months since it was now legal in the state of Pennsylvania for two men to marry, loved their abode and their guests.

  Plump, balding, and glowing with red cheeks from the cold weather, our hosts shook our hands and provided us with caring and warm smiles. Dan, the taller of the two, escorted us up to our room on the third floor, which consisted of a private bathroom and one bed.

  “It’s a queen,” he said over his left shoulder, leading us afoot. “I hope you two men don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  Ben said behind me, climbing the stairs in tow, “A queen for queens.”

  Once we were inside the small room at the top of the stairs, and at the top of the house, Ben placed our bags on the bed, which squeaked under their weight.

  Dan made some heavy duty eye contact with Ben and asked, “Are you, by any chance, the Ben Cutter from Sugaring Ben?”

  Ben provided me with a look that asked, Should I lie to him or tell him the truth? How much privacy do we want this weekend?

  I winked at Ben, which told him, Tell him the truth. Why not? What do we have to lose?

  Ben nodded. “I am that Ben Cutter.”

  Dan grinned, excited, and clapped his hands together. “I knew you were Sugaring Ben. And may I say that you’re much more handsome in person than on TV.”

  Ben said, “Thank you.”

  Seconds passed, and Bob, probably hearing our conversation from the second floor, called up to his husband, “Dan, sweetheart, we have another guest coming in an hour. Can you please help me down here with their room?”

  “A pleasure.” Dan continued to grin, fell into Ben, collected a chest-to-chest hug, and eventually vanished down the stairs and to his husband’s side, giggling.

  * * * *

  “We should go downstairs and have a glass of wine with our hosts,” Ben said, folding back the comforter on the bed, preparing for a short night of sleep. It was already after eleven o’clock, and he yawned, maybe preferring some sleep and dreams over a nightcap.

  “Aren’t you afraid of being questioned by your fan base down there?”

  He laughed. “I’m pretty sure Dan and his husband are harmless.”

  “Yes. But how will they act if they have too much to drink with a world-renowned pastry chef?”

  “This is their business, and I think they’ll carry themselves as professional men usually do in my presence.”

  I stripped down to a bright yellow pair of boxer briefs and climbed on the bed. “Tell you what,” I told him, crossing my ankles, and arms over my chest. “Keep your clothes on. Go down and get a bottle of white from your boyfriend, and come back up. We can then have a drink together and cuddle.”

  He came to the side of the bed, leaned over me, brushed fingertips over one of my pecs, and said, “Let’s skip the wine and get right to the cuddling. What do you say?”

  I agreed with him, patted the empty spot on the bed next to me, and implored, “Come and get me.”

  Ben listened.

  * * * *

  We cuddled, but didn’t make love. Our boxers stayed on, and we held each other, sometimes sharing kisses. A winter wind rocked the city, howling down Forest Street. And there, under a sheet and comforter within the bed-and-breakfast, Ben kissed the top of my head.

  “I just want to say thanks for bringing me with you this weekend. I’ve traveled around the world without anyone at my side. This is different for me, and I’m excited about what we are going to get ourselves into and spending some quality time together.”

  “Do me one favor.”

  “I’m good at favors.” He reached between my legs.

  “Not that kind of favor. At least not right now.”

  He laughed. “What favor then?”

  I turned my head to face his, fell into his green eyes, which were dark and barely illuminated, and said, “Don’t let me fall for you.”

  He kissed me, held me tight to him, and admitted, “I’m sorry, Sandford Oliver. I can’t promise you that won’t happen, and vice versa, of course.”

  “You’re hopeless.” I kissed the area beneath one of his pecs.

  “Hopeless and fun. A few people think I can bake some things, too.”

  Between kisses to his chest, I teased, “Just a few people. Not too many.”

  He laughed, called me a choice name that was vulgar, and eventually fell asleep with me in his arms, close to his chest, where I could hear his heart beat throughout the windy night.

  * * * *

  Friday.

  Sun bled into my eyes, welcoming a new day to the bed-and-breakfast, the hosts, our third-floor room, Ben, and me. Coconut-flavored pancakes and honey sausage circulated throughout Riverside, telling me that one of our hosts was cooking breakfast.

  At my side, all sweaty and bare-chested, Ben woke. He positioned himself on his back, rubbed fists into both eye sockets, and asked, “Where’s the man of my dreams?”

  I didn’t know how to respond to his question and decided to tickle his furry red chest.

  He laughed, pulled away from me, and fell off the bed, rolling to the floor. I was pretty sure our hosts could hear the thump downstairs, wondering what two men were doing together on the third floor.

  “Are you okay down there?” I called out to Ben.

  He popped his head up like a groundhog, shifted his eyes left, then right, and leaped onto the bed, straddling me.

  All in play, I was tickled, licked, kissed, lightly bitten, and my boxers were removed, tossed over his right shoulder. Then he started something with my body that could have easily been considered naughty, and I became caught in his lust, drawn to him in a sexual action until we both came and turned breathless.

  Chapter 13: Wassamere College

  Two other guests were staying at Riverside whom we met at breakfast. Finn Haggart drove in from Buffalo, New York, for business. Ben and I learned that the stout man with the handlebar mustache was the father of twin boys and the husband to Clarissa Baine, a paperback mystery writer who specialized in cozies. Finn declared himself a lawyer and used pretentious legal words and terms over breakfast that both Ben and I thought amusingly ridiculous.

  The other guest was a bleached-blond young woman with peg-like appendages, Christie; a last name wasn’t shared. Christie looked like Caitlyn Jenner without the wrinkles around her mouth. Her story of being in the city entailed a reunion with her biological father. At forty-five, the mother of three and faithful wife of twenty years, Christie had finally learned who her real father was and intended to meet him that afternoon at a restaurant at Station Square.

  Christie claimed she was nervous, but said, “It can’t be any more painful than childbirth.”

  Dan and Bob flew around the table, showcasing gleeful smiles and much energy. Coffee cups were always being filled, freshly cut fruit was replenished in a communal bowl that sat in the center of the table, and French toast appeared in abundance. Ben must have been hungry because he wolfed his first plate of food down, requesting a second helping of the treat. Christie nibbled o
n a dry piece of toast and consumed two cups of coffee. The lawyer, whom I tried to ignore because he kept bragging about his law firm, successful wife, and three homes, ate half of the food on his plate, leaving the remaining amount to be thrown away.

  Again, Ben Cutter was called out. This time by Christie, who said, “You’re famous, aren’t you?”

  The two were sitting across from each other at the rectangular-shaped table, and Ben replied, “I try not to be.”

  Dan bubbled over to discuss Ben’s celebrityhood and spouted, “Yes, Christie, we are in the company of a superstar.”

  “Maybe a super baker, but not a star,” Ben said.

  Dan served more French toast and added, “Oh, trust me…you’re a star, Benjamin Cutter. Men, wives, and bakers abound adore you. We’re so fortunate at this table to have breakfast with you this morning.”

  Ben didn’t leave me out of the conversation, made eye contact with me, and blinked.

  Then Christie wanted an autograph, as well as Dan. But Finn, far too arrogant to care about anything or anyone but himself and his law firm, couldn’t have given a damn about Ben and his fame.

  * * * *

  Breakfast had ended, and Ben escorted me up to our room. Once there, he took me in his arms, kissed me, and pulled away.

  “That was an interesting meal,” he said.

  “Definitely different than what I’m used to.”

  “No doubt.”

  We talked about Christie and her father, and Mr. Stuffy and his law firm.

  Then Ben asked, “Can I come to Wassamere College with you and listen to your lecture?”

  “It’s so boring. Dull stuff for kids who want to be journalists, with a mix of weather jargon. Trust me, you’d be bored out of your mind.”

  “Honestly, I don’t really care what it is. I just want to be with you.”

  “So be it,” I said, thrilled with the idea, his company, and just being with him, too.

  * * * *

  We left Riverside and walked the four city blocks through the snow, side by side. Because Ben was bundled in a wool coat with half his face covered, he wasn’t recognized. Strangers didn’t stop him on the middle of the sidewalk and ask for his autograph or a cellphone photograph. Instead, for the time being, he was all mine, just the way I had wanted it to be.

  The biting wind slapped against our faces, stinging our cheeks. Ben didn’t complain, enjoying winter. Through the snowfall, thick and large flakes that could have caused many vehicles to have accidents on the roads, or pedestrians to become blinded, unable to see their ways, Ben told me that he liked to bake and eat apricots.

  “They warm me up on cold and snowy days like this.”

  “Who needs apricots when you have me?” I asked him. “I’m not just a pretty face and know how to keep a man warm.”

  “I might have to take you up on that when we get back to Riverside.”

  “I’m in if you’re in.”

  We reached Wassamere College in less than a half hour. The granite buildings, six in all, were shaped like cubes and showcased very few windows. Three of the buildings were used for student housing. The other three were classrooms. Ben said they looked like ice cubes because a thin sheet of ice covered the block-like structures.

  He asked, “What’s the school’s mascot?”

  “The Polar Bears,” I said.

  “How appropriate.”

  * * * *

  One of the six buildings was called Franklin Hall, named after Ben Franklin, who had spent quite some time in Pittsburgh in his early twenties. The hall had seven floors. The first floor housed an auditorium where lectures were held. Coffee and Danishes were being served just outside the auditorium’s double doors in the lobby area.

  When Ben went for a cup of java (black, no cream or sugar), he was rushed by two women and a man. The women were professors at the college, and the man a student. Of course, the three realized who the ginger was, snapped photos of him with their phones, asked for pictures with him, and autographs. And before either of us realized it, three more upperclassmen fans huddled around him, behaving the same way as the first three.

  Ben called over two of his fans at me, “Go in without me. Part of this is my job. Let me stay out here and fend off the mob.”

  Satisfied with his decision, reciting specific lines of my lecture inside my head, I left him to his own devices, escaped inside the auditorium, and spent the next ninety minutes without him at my side.

  * * * *

  My lecture detailed climatology, meteorology, and other fields of atmospheric sciences. I discussed elements that affected the weather, global warming, being green, and human and animal struggles due to humidity. My audience encompassed an age group from eighteen to sixty (Wassamere did not practice ageism in recruiting its students) and consisted of over two hundred people, which was a high number and unexpected.

  There were questions to me from the group, which followed my lecture. Truth told, I didn’t prepare to answer questions, but what the hell? What did I have to lose? Wassamere College was paying WRDR quite the sum of money for my appearance, and I had to do both the students and professors of the college well.

  * * * *

  Following my pony show, I was thanked by the Dean of Sciences and other members of Wassamere, none of which could believe that I had driven through the snowstorm outside to attend the function. Then I found Ben exactly where I had left him with his surrounding fans, near the coffee and Danish station, signing autographs and posing for pics that would end up on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have moved through the group of fans that hovered around him, but I couldn’t help it. I gave the star a kiss on his cheek. Wassamere was a liberal arts school with one of the best arts departments in all of Pittsburgh, understanding and accepting of homosexuality.

  Toying with him, I acted like one of his fans, held out my cellphone to him, and asked like an excited teenager, “Ben, will you take a selfie with me? Please…oh, please.”

  He laughed at me, stood beside me, placed his head against my head, held my camera in front of our faces, and snapped off a shot. When finished, he tugged me at his side and pulled me away, saving me from his fans like the Prince Charming that he was. Somehow, someway, he rescued us from the gathered mob. Before I knew it, we were outside the hall, frozen in the cold wind, on campus and unfamiliar.

  Chapter 14: Friday Evening

  We had the city all to ourselves; every part of it: Southside, SoHo, Uptown, Station Square, Marshall Square. And what a fun and exciting city it was. We spent Friday afternoon at the Andy Warhol Museum and took a short tour through Heinz Field where the Steelers played football and concerts were performed by Taylor Swift, Luke Bryan, and Jimmy Buffet. After those two events, we were starving and had dinner at an upscale restaurant on Liberty Avenue called Disco, which served a house drink with the same name; a mix of vodka, blueberry juice, lemon, lime, and Seven-Up.

  The dinner at Disco turned into a minor fiasco because people everywhere had recognized Ben from Sugaring Ben, his cookware, and the covers of his many cookbooks. Our meal was interrupted four times by gawkers and his fans. Even the four-star chef at the restaurant, Paulo Churnio, introduced himself to Ben and explained that he was honored to have Ben in his restaurant.

  Paulo was so excited about having the superstar pastry chef in his establishment and told the both of us, “I couldn’t possibly think of you paying for a meal at Disco.”

  Again, pictures were snapped of Ben and Paulo together, a china plate was autographed by Ben, and Paulo ended up being the happiest man on the planet with bragging rights for the next decade or more.

  After dinner, we took a clipper ride on Queenie, a seventy-eight-foot-long charter boat built from a tugboat and barge. Queenie had two decks and a mezzanine. The sightseeing tour cost each of us twenty-one dollars, which Ben picked the tab up for. Downtown became illuminated at twilight, showcasing its silver-blue-purple skyscrapers, assortment of colorful bridges, the city’s two inclines that climbed Mt. Washington, and all three rivers. I snuggled against Ben as Queenie floated down the Ohio River, turned around, and then up the Monongahela River. The wind was cold, but, fortunately, it had stopped snowing.

  Tucked next to him, I said, “This town is beautiful.”