The next time we saw Ellie he was wearing — of all things! — a suit and tie! I didnt know he even owned a tie, let alone one made of imported Italian silk, and, as it turned out, he didnt. This and the suit was yet another present from Frank. They'd gone to the opera the night before — not because Frank thought Ellie would actually enjoy it, but because Frank had had this long-standing fantasy of making it with someone in one of the partierre boxes, and Ellie — overly smitten Ellie — agreed. They left right after the sex. Ellie didnt remember too much about the opera itself, save that it was a lot of non-stop singing by people who, in his considered opinion, had missed far too few meals and far too many days at the gym.
Frank, on the other hand, was proving more and more inventive with each passing day. It was almost like he knew exactly what Elliot wanted: every wet-dream fantasy, every you-put-your-left-foot-there-while-I-put-my-right-hand-there sexual position, all of it flowing copiously from this wealthy, walking sex machine named Frank.
Of course, there was the nagging little issue of affection, which, for now, seemed to be traveling down a one-way street in Frank's direction, without much in the way of oncoming traffic. Yes, Frank was generous, but Ellie was falling hard and fast for a man who clearly liked his fully poseable body far more than Ellie himself. However, as we told ourselves, Elliot was having a blast, so who were we to say anything? After all, who hasnt cruised that hunky sales clerk at Home Depot and wished he could be everything we wanted, when though all he really was, was just an interesting package? Nothing wrong with that. Despite the fact that I have a rock-solid relationship, I'm as guilty as the next guy of window shopping. Like everyone else whose formative years as a gay man involved porno loops from Nova or Colt, I've done my share of fantasizing about the cable repairman or the pizza delivery boy or that especially hot cop who walks the foot patrol along our street.
Hell, even as a couple, Doc and I are far from immune from fantasy. We'd be a pair of bored and feisty cowhands trapped in a bunkhouse out on an isolated ranch on a Friday night. Or I'd drive my Jeep on the 401, only to find myself pulled over by this blond motorcycle cop who has his own particular method of dealing with speeders. Or Doc would come home and find this half-naked plumber, respendent in cut offs and work boots, working on the pipes in the kitchen. Or, for a moment of real danger, we'd go to the baths — together, but signing in about five minutes apart — and then relentlessly cruise each other in the halls, even as we pointedly palmed off the advances of anyone else who came near. They were, of course, mindless games we played with each other on those nights we felt like being someone else for a change.
But see, they're only games for us, exercises in mindless erotic fun. For other people, though, the games become so important that, in the end, there has to be a winner...
... and a loser.
To be continued...