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The laptop screen cast a glow in the darkened room. Clifford read the last few lines of the story, then leaned back in his chair sighing with pleasure. On an impulse, he sat forward and clicked on the author's name at the bottom of the story, biting his lip as a blank email message window appeared on the computer screen. He thought a moment and began to type. * * * From: Clifford Grayson Subject: Your story Date: October 8, 2005 To: Wesley Atkins Hey Wesley, I am moved beyond words by your most recent story. I'm sitting in a room that is now dark. It was early afternoon when I began reading, and until a moment ago, I had failed to notice the passage of time. It would be wonderful if life imitated your art, and those in relationships could more often be said to be living the proverbial happily ever after. <sigh> Ah well, we can dream. - Clifford * * * Clifford pressed the 'send' button and rocked back in his office chair with his hands behind his head, staring into the darkened room. 'Why do I torture myself by reading these stories? I'm bothered by both the happy endings as well as the sad.' He shook his head, ruefully, admitting to himself that endings, whether they be happy or sad, were not likely . . . for him. Beulah, his sadly overweight cat, roused herself from her accustomed lounging spot on his desk and did her best to daintily step onto his lap. She curled into a comfortable position and began to purr as he absently stroked her fur, not paying attention to her companion's sad grin. 'Life goes on, doesn't it, girl? Day in and day out, we both do the same thing. Nothing ever changes. I work, come home to my cat, wander around the house for a bit, tidying things that don't need tidying, then I eat dinner and return to the computer to read gay fiction, vicariously living someone else's life.' He closed the lid of his laptop, plunging the room into total darkness. He sighed and closed his eyes. "What a life." Beulah licked his hand, causing him to grin. "We're partners aren't we, girl?" She turned a reflective gaze on him and settled back to accept his preoccupied attention. An hour later Beulah twitched, in the throes of a dream, causing Clifford to wake with a start. Beulah jumped from his lap, stretched, and after a jaw breaking yawn, went in search of her food bowl. Clifford caught sight of her retreating back and fluffy tail as she rounded the corner and passed through a small patch of moonlight. He looked around the dark room, absently running his fingers from side to side on one arm of his chair. 'Why am I so disturbed by Wesley's story,' he asked himself. 'Probably because I can't imagine myself being carefree like his characters.' He heaved a sigh. 'I should be accustomed to being alone by now. I mean, hell, I'm sixty-two years old. If love was going to come into my life, it would have found me by now.' He glanced at his closed laptop, wondering if he should check his email, then snorted. 'Who would be sending me email?' Nevertheless, he opened the lid of his laptop and its attendant pool of light. At a touch, the program began to download his email. He watched with disgust as the mail scrolled onto his screen. 'Junk, junk, junk.' One after another, the messages arrived, offering a fast, sure way, to increase his breast size, reduce his waist size, or increase his cock size. If that sure-fire method to give you a ten inch dick didn't work, there were messages offering drugs that would, without a doubt, give you a steel-hard erection that would make your girl friend, wife, mistress, lover, boyfriend, next door neighbor, (choose one . . . or more), scream with delight. He punched the delete key one last time, prepared to close down the machine and go to bed. Some perverse reason kept him in front of the machine as the messages continued to arrive and he hit the delete key in an almost automatic response. 'Why am I even looking at the email,' he wondered. 'It's all the same.' He paused a moment and squinted at the screen, his finger poised to hit the delete button once again. 'This one doesn't look like junk.' "Life can imitate art," the subject line read. His eyes brightened. The message was from Wesley, the author of the story he had finished reading, earlier in the evening. "Hey Cliff," the message began. He paused a moment and frowned. 'No one calls me Cliff,' he thought, mildly irritated at the familiar tone. 'The name is Clifford, Mr. . . . Ah well, maybe he's just a kid and doesn't know any better.' Clifford returned to the email. "You're wrong," the message continued. "Life can imitate my stories. One has to be open to the possibilities. They present themselves at the most unexpected times. Look for them, Cliff. There is no reason to be lonely." 'Humph,' he snorted. 'What does he know? He's probably twenty-five years old. He's not had time to be lonely. Give him another thirty-five or forty years and we'll see if he's singing the same tune.' Clifford returned to the email message. "Tell me about yourself, Cliff. I like to know something about the guys reading my stories. Since you're so quiet at the moment, I'll go first." Clifford grinned, intrigued with Wesley's sense of humor. "Let's see. Where to begin? My name is Wesley. You already know that. <grin> I'm fifty-seven." Clifford's eyebrows rose. "I'm an artist, though not one of those long-haired kids who have just graduated from some university and think they're the universe's gift to art. You know the type? They walk around with their nose in the ozone layer. No wonder they're a little weird. <grin> Me, I'm a 'normal' artist. Don't laugh. There are two of us in the world . . . me and another guy who happens to live in Tibet, I think. You're lucky you met me. The guy in Tibet doesn't have a computer. He swears he will get one only when broadband comes to his mountain top. "In what I call my spare time, I write. Gotta keep those creative juices flowing you know. Hmm. Maybe the juices flowing allusion wasn't the best choice considering the type of writing I do. Oh well, there's nothing wrong with the juices I'm hoping my stories cause to flow, squirt, shoot . . . whatever. In fact, I make every attempt to sample some of those juices whenever the opportunity arises. (Another unfortunate choice of words . . .arises.) Yeah, juices . . . yum. Mine or someone else's, juice is juice, as far as I'm concerned. Don't laugh at my disjointed message, Cliff. I write stories, not email. Bear with me, here. You're the first guy who has ever written to me. (Nah, not really.) "Like I said, I'm fifty-seven . . . but I still have all my hair, and my teeth. In fact, I can still get into the pants I wore forty years ago. I don't wear them though, since yellow bellbottoms somehow seem incongruous on a man of my age. Hmm. I must admit, it is unusual for me to act my age, though yellow bellbottoms are pushing things, even for me. I do wear glasses on occasion, though I have been known to slip them into my pocket whenever vanity gets the best of me. Otherwise, I use them only when I need to see something. "Oh yeah, I am still 'fully functional' as that robot-guy on 'Star Trek' once said. Hey, Cliff, I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Hehehe . . . I'll prove to you just how functional I am. Hey, I'm not a dirty old man . . . really. I just like sex. You must, too. Otherwise, why would you be reading my stories? Hmm? "You wouldn't happen to be a romantic would you, Cliff . . . you know the type? Walks along a beach holding hands and stuff like that? That's my fantasy. Most guys I've met just want to jump in the sack and play. Don't misunderstand. I love playing, but I also would like something more. Did I tell you, I've got a beach right outside my door. (Actually, it's about a block away, but I'm taking poetic license. Hey, I'm a writer. I can do stuff that 'normal' guys can't.) "Anyhow, Cliff. I'm glad you enjoyed my most recent story. Remember to take a chance. Life doesn't have to imitate art. It can be better than art. Take my word for it. I'm an artist I know these things. <happy laugh> "It's late. I'd better get to bed. My pillow is calling, telling me it needs to be hugged. "Take care, Cliff. I hope to hear from you again. "Your friend, Wesley" * * * Clifford sat back in his chair and smiled to himself. 'He said he's my friend.' Clifford felt a warm glow suffuse him. 'It has been years since someone said they were my friend.' He quickly amended his thought. 'It has been years since I've allowed someone to call me a friend. Wesley didn't ask, he just assumed.' Clifford read the email message a second time, then a third. Each time his smile grew. 'What a wonderful person Wesley must be,' he thought to himself. 'I wonder why he has to hug his pillow. Doesn't he have a person to hug?' Clifford's imagination was stimulated and he closed his eyes, imagining what it would be like to hold Wesley close and feel his naked body pressed against his own. He cupped his growing erection and squeezed, as, mentally, Wesley rested his body on top of Clifford's. He could almost feel the weight, and the touch of Wesley's tongue demanding entry to his mouth. Clifford licked his lips. He blinked, and looked mildly embarrassed. 'What am I doing?' He sat forward, forcing himself to remove his hands from his crotch. 'I'm acting like a teenager in heat. Act your age, Grayson! I've never even met this man and I'm imagining having sex with him.' Clifford shut down his computer, checked on Beulah's food bowl, then headed for his bedroom, stripping out of his clothes and tossing them on a chair. He stopped a moment and looked down at his large bed, wondering what it would be like to sleep with another man . . . on a permanent basis. The light of the full moon coming through his bedroom window cast his shadow across the bed. He could almost see Wesley lying on his back with his arms held out, inviting him into an embrace. He paused a moment then abandoned himself to the vision and crawled onto the bed. The pale light played across his back, lightly-haired butt cheeks and long legs, as he embraced a pillow and buried his face in its softness. His erection was demanding attention. In his mind, Wesley was beneath him, begging to be penetrated. In one slow motion Clifford rolled onto his stomach. He spread his legs slightly and used his knees to help him thrust his erection against the bedclothes, almost as if he was sliding into his partner. He imagined he could feel the heat of Wesley's anus as it engulfed his erection. It was so hot and tight. With each stroke, he could almost feel the slickness of the lube he had smeared over Wesley's hole. He groaned and sucked on his forefinger, the same finger he had used a moment earlier to tease Wesley's prostate. He thrust harder, recalling the feeling of the swollen prostate and how Wes' erection jumped in anticipation each time he rubbed across it with his finger. He could sense it now, rubbing against his erection as he stretched Wes' anus wide to accept his erection. The feeling of his low hanging testicles brushing against the sheet became Wesley's fingers teasing him, urging him to move faster, to probe deeper, and to push harder. He had never had a lover as responsive as the person he saw himself with. They weren't just having sex, they were joining with one another in a way he had never experienced with anyone else. Was it his imagination, or could he hear his partner's moans, begging him to fill his hole with his cum. Wes' mouth found his and their tongues joined at the same moment he felt Wes' cock explode between them. As his partner's orgasm overtook him, his sphincter tightened around Clifford's cock and he could hold back no longer. He thrust forward one more time and felt his cock pulse as it released shot after shot of sperm, filling his lover's hole. He sought out Wes' mouth . . . but somehow . . . the vision had vanished. Still, he could almost hear Wesley's faint laughter, telling him that reality could imitate one's imagination. Clifford sighed and pulled a pillow into a tight embrace. He was dimly aware of the wet sheets beneath his stomach, and his slowly softening penis, which was still covered with sperm, as he sank into sleep. His dreams were troubling. He saw himself as a loner, a person who was pleased to be self-sufficient. He saw lost opportunities to become close to another man. He had never before been haunted by the decisions of his past. Tonight, they filled his dreams. He knew some of those decisions had prevented him from forming a close relationship, but they had seemed right at the time. Tonight, those lost opportunities were back to taunt him. He tossed and turned, each of the men he'd rejected, calling to him through the years, telling him how happy they were and asking why he was still alone. They laughed at his loneliness. Finally, he fell into a brief time of uninterrupted sleep, only to be awakened in his dreams by the sound of his father, taunting him for being a failure. Only it wasn't his father. When he looked closely, he saw it was him. His dream-self leaned close and sneered, until all he could see were laughing eyes and a cruel mouth. "You are afraid, Clifford. Afraid of giving up control, of laughing. You're afraid of the pain loving someone might cause . . . and of allowing someone to see how much you need to be loved. You are afraid of failure, and of what people might think." The dream-Clifford laughed and its eyes flashed with derision. "You are a coward Clifford. A coward." The voice was joined by a chorus of might-have-been lovers, all laughing at him. Clifford tossed and turned, catching himself in the bed sheets as he tried to escape the laughter. Someone grabbed him! They wouldn't let go. They were laughing louder, continuing to call him a coward. More of the men from his past reached out to grab at him. He could feel their fingers on his bare skin. "No!" He shouted, and struggled to sit up in bed. The sheets grabbed at him like the hands in his dream. "I'm not a coward," he shouted to the darkened room. "I'm not." He flopped back, exhausted, and feeling very lonely. "I'm not a coward," he whimpered, covering his eyes with his hands. "Am I?" He thought for a moment, then finally managed to sit up, looking around the room for some trace of the men who had been taunting him. "Am I?" His shout caused Beulah to charge out of the room. He was only half-aware of her abrupt departure. The room was silent, but somehow the silence was more damning than the laughter of a few minutes earlier. * * * From: Clifford Grayson Subject: Your story Date: October 9, 2005 To: Wesley Atkins Hi Wesley, Your email from yesterday caused me to do a lot of thinking. Hmm. It would seem it's a little late in the game to undergo such a thorough self-examination, but hey, better late than never is the saying. I say "late," because I'm sixty-two years old and have spent my life taking pride in my own self-sufficiency. Your stories, and later your email, caused me to reevaluate my choices, and I now realize I've isolated myself from those around me. It is amazing how a single email can change one's life. So, I am left wondering what to do. You don't happen to have a story up your sleeve which would provide some answers to my questions, do you? <sigh> I thought not. I'm a pretty hard nut to crack. I'm set in my ways so much so that until last night, I never even contemplated a change. Now that I've contemplated it, I find I'm terrified and unable to think of where I should begin. You've got a nutso here, Wesley. If I were you, I'd bail. But, if you decide to tempt fate, read on. Like I said a moment ago, I am sixty-two. I'm no model material, but I think I look pretty good. I've got all my hair too, though it is grey. And all my teeth, if you don't count the one crown that was caused by chasing Beulah down the hallway in the middle of the night and running into the corner of the wall. To this day, I am convinced Beulah somehow rearranged the walls of the house so I would be caught unaware. She escaped without a scratch. I had a black eye and a damaged tooth from the ordeal. Beulah is not my wife (God forbid), or a maid, or a frisky girlfriend. She is my cat who is currently sitting on my desk watching me type. I'm sure if I were to say something scandalous about her, she would pounce on my keyboard and sit on the backspace key looking at me with a self-satisfied smirk. I'm wondering how in the world I ever chose to name her Beulah. Enough of my cat. Back to me. I'm taller than average, and slimmer than average. Everything else is pretty much average . . . well, pretty much. You mentioned your fantasy is composed of a beach and holding hands. Sounds fun. Since you mention holding hands, I assume you're not talking about beach volleyball. If volleyball, or any other beach sporting event crosses your mind, count me out. Since my unfortunate encounter with a wall, I guard my teeth . . . and my eyes . . . very closely. Maybe I should invest in a crash helmet. Have you ever had to explain to your co-workers that your cat gave you a black eye? It was not easy, and what made it worse was that I knew Beulah was sitting at home preening and feeling exceedingly pleased with herself. Well, Wesley. I've enjoyed our little visits, actually more than I enjoy your stories, and that is saying something. I look forward both to your next email and your next story. All the best, Your friend, Cliff. * * * During the next few days, Clifford returned to his usual routine, modified only by a hurried trip to his home office to download any email the moment he came in the door each evening. The nightmares of a few nights before seemed to have disappeared, to be replaced by erotic dreams, each one featuring Wesley, a man he had never met but couldn't stop thinking about. In his dreams, Wesley would welcome him home with a smile, a hug and a kiss. They would spend their free time together, laughing, holding one another whenever they wished. Many evenings would be spent learning about one another's body, lying naked while the winter winds howled outside. The sex was wonderful, never mind that it was only in his mind. Wesley was an attentive yet demanding lover. Clifford would fall into an exhausted sleep each night, hugging a pillow and pretending it was a man he might never meet. Clifford spent his days in a dream world, thinking of himself living a future he could never have contemplated only a few days earlier. He had never been a dour man, only quiet. Now, he was smiling and chatting with workers, all of whom wondered what had happened to cause the change. Clifford knew, but he didn't know what to do about it. A couple times, when there had been no email from Wesley, Clifford had chided himself for a fool. 'What am I to him, he thought, idly petting Beulah. 'What is he to me?' He glanced at his computer screen and saw more email arriving, and was once again disappointed. 'What does he mean to me?' Clifford closed his eyes and sighed. 'I see him as a chance at happiness.' He compressed his lips. 'There, I said it. I admit it.' He stood and walked across his home office and stood looking out on the bleak winter landscape. 'Without ever having met Wesley, I . . . like . . . him.' Clifford leaned his forehead against the cold window. 'I like him . . . a lot.' Beulah was circling his feet, begging to be fed. He reached down and scratched her head but refused to follow as she headed out of the room toward her food bowl. He grinned when she returned and gave him her version of the evil eye. "Just a moment, girl. I have to check my email once more, then I'll feed you." She sat down to wait, and Clifford walked to his desk and sat just as another batch of mail arrived. 'He hasn't forgotten about me,' was his first thought as he clicked on the message. * * * From: Wesley Atkins Subject: Remember me? Date: October 16, 2005 To: Clifford Grayson Hey Cliff, I like you! I'm sure Beulah and I would get along famously. Did I ever tell you I've got very good night vision. (Don't tell Beulah. It'll be our secret. In fact, don't let her see this email. One never knows. She may be able to read.) On the next occasion any night time chasing needs to be done, I'll take over. She can't escape me. <evil laugh> I've begun work on a new story. You might want to take a look . . . since you're such a fan. That's what I've been doing for the last couple days, and is the reason I've not returned your email more promptly. I'm normally very responsive when given the proper stimulation, both email and . . . otherwise. Right now I'm thinking about your taller than average and more slender than average build and your not-so-average . . . everything else, and find I'm responding very well to the images I've conjured up. I've attached a pic of yours truly, so if you are tempted to do any 'imagining,' you won't have to wrack your brain. BTW. I'm the very handsome guy in the center, the one with the great looking calves and hairy chest. Those other guys are my brothers. (The adult guys, not the child-guys. They are my nephews. This is a guy picture. All the ladies stood on the other side of the camera and quibbled over how to work it.) <long suffering sigh> (I'm sorry. That wasn't really necessary, but I am positive my brothers chose their mates on looks alone. There isn't the equivalent of a full brain between all of 'em.) Looking at my brother's smooth bodies, I'm thinking that either they shave, or we had different fathers. Hmm. Let's see, how does one delicately ask one's mother something like that? You're smart. You tell me! My pillow is calling for its nightly hug. Too bad there's not someone here to do a little hugging with. I'm pretty tired of this pillow. G'night, Cliff. Read my story. Hug hug, Wes PS. The beach is calling. Would you like to take a walk?
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