Clothed, Shirt, Smoking, Street, Hustling, Santa Monica
DAVID 286
It was a beautiful time to be stuck in traffic. Actually, "stuck" may be too negative a word. It was just slow going along Santa Monica Boulevard as we nine to fivers slowly made our way home. We were treated to a brilliant sunset, the kind that causes the clouds to turn pink and then purple, and the kind that, for a few minutes, turns everything a radiant orange. We were also treated to the occasional Southern California beach boy...tall, lithe, tanned young men with straw colored hair, making their way from the beach. If you saw any of them on this section of Santa Monica, you could be sure that they were barely making ends meet, and could not even afford a bus ride, and so they trudged on home carrying their surf boards while wearing nothing but jams and sandals. They were beautiful young men...flat stomachs, ridged with muscle, and sinewy biceps and shoulders. I always told myself that one day I would park the car somewhere and get out and just watch them, taking in their beauty as though I was walking in an art gallery. That was the fantasy that I would someday fulfill, but I was lying to myself. I think one of the reasons people don't strive for something they want very badly is because if they fail, it's all over. There's no more hope. No more dreams. There's no more "someday I'm going to...". If you don't try at all, the dream that you can't afford to lose is still alive.
It's kind of a crooked philosophy, but I recognized myself in it. In my fantasy, I would strike up a conversation with one of these young, tanned, blond, lifeguards or surfers, or beach bums, and he would see in my eyes my craving for him, and my shyness, and I would see in his eyes and hear in his voice an invitation. I'd invite him to dinner somewhere, and then we would go back to my place. And the next morning, I could tell myself that I'd finally done it; that I'd deftly sweet talked a gorgeous young guy into sharing my company,, took him home, and went wild with him. Of course, there was nothing really stopping me from doing it now, except fear and shyness. I told myself that maybe one day I would see a man so beautiful, that disarming words would flow out of me like a babbling brook. The Zen-like irony of it wasn't lost on me. Was I charming them, or was I charming myself? Someday. I kept telling myself that. Someday. Little did I know that the day was today, and that the hour had arrived.
I don't remember how I saw him at first. I think it was just his size that registered subconsciously on my brain. I remember vaguely thinking that it was such a strange place...the corner....right up against a lamp post...to put a huge statue. But he wasn't made of stone.
The light turned green. I had to drive on. But I looked again, and the giant was real. My heart froze in my chest as I passed him and crossed the intersection. I could not possibly have seen what I thought I'd seen. I looked in my side mirror and my rear view mirror and only saw that he wasn't a hallucination. I felt an overpowering need to see him again, to verify that someone like that could exist. "What for?" I asked myself. It didn't matter. I needed no reason. If I didn't turn back, I would go mad...sitting at home at night wondering who he was, wondering where he lived, wondering if he was on that corner right now. Or every day on the drive home, scanning the streets instead of looking at the traffic in front of me.
I turned my signal on to turn right at the next corner, but when I got there I was met with a sign that said ONE WAY. I panicked. Traffic stopped. I would have to wait until the next green light to turn into the next street. I felt a tightening in my chest and an oppressive stretching of time. It seemed forever until I would be able to turn, and then I would still have to drive back. I bit my lip and rocked back and forth in my seat. It hurt. It hurt to wait.
I don't know how I waited, but I finally found myself heading back along the side street. I was just about to turn the corner and then realized that it would be better to go one block further and come back along Santa Monica Boulevard. I merged with traffic easily and up ahead I could see the back of an impossible figure. He wore a white shirt and black slacks. That was all I could see at this distance. But my eyes, and those of everyone else I'm sure, were riveted on the size of this man. I saw him lift his arm to his head, as though he was putting something in his mouth, and that's about when I realized that I had lost complete control. I was like an addict in need of only one thing, and that fix was the chance to fix my eyes on him. There was no car parked at the corner, so I pulled in, right next to him, grateful for my good fortune, until I saw the yellow curb. I didn't care. I parked, put the brake on and turned off the ignition.
He was a giant. A vision. A giant. A giant. He wasn't just tall. He wasn't just big. He was beyond tall. He was beyond big. He was beyond masculine...beyond handsome. There was no more room to be bigger or handsomer. He was bigger than any NFL lineman, more handsome than the hero drawn by any artist who fancied himself able to realize fantastical manliness.
He had black, black hair, parted on the side and swept back except for one lock that had broken loose to rest on his forehead. It was neat and conservative, the suave, dashing look of a businessman. And like a businessman, he wore a white, long-sleeved dress shirt, and black slacks. But the shirt was completely unbuttoned, and it was spread wide open, revealing a body unlike anything I'd ever seen or dared to imagine. He didn't have the body of the proverbial Greek god...he had the body the gods would envy. Huge muscles. Impossibly wide shoulders and arms as big as a man's thighs. His slacks hugged high, round buttocks and tree trunk thighs, and the front of his crotch pushed out hard against the fabric to produce a bulge that grabbed you by the head and pulled your gaze down. Like opened drapes, the unbuttoned shirt hung at the sides of a massive chest covered with a shameless display of dense, black hair. It was definitely not what you'd call downy, and it too fought for your gaze. His face looked like it had been roughly hewn out of granite; he had a jutting, sharp jaw and a straight, angular nose. And beneath what looked like a perpetually scowling brow, were two brilliant points of light blue.
Tall, dark, and handsome to an exponential degree.
A dump truck full of brazen, unapologetic masculinity. In that moment, I forgot the slim young blonds and their surfboards. They had become like penny candy. or supermarket beer. But he was not only a brutally large serving of man, he was the distillation of it, a huge vat of it, something, not to sip, but to wallow in. I leaned over onto the passenger seat and called out. "Hey! How ya doin'?"
His head turned on the column of muscle that was his neck and he looked down at me without batting an eye, without registering any emotion at all. He looked down his nose at my car, not with an air of snobbery, but with a quick assessment of the situation. After a few seconds, he said, "All right. N'you?"
"Oh I'm fine," I said. "Hey, listen. I know you hear this all the time, but I just gotta say.....wow!"
He cracked a smile, and then an instant later that stony visage returned. "Thanks."
"You are the biggest man I have ever seen!"
He said nothing, but he turned to look at me again, and a sly little smile crossed his face.
"Looks like we're going to have a beautiful night," I said.
He looked up. He shrugged. "We'll see," he said.
"Man," I said. "Sure will be glad when it cools down though, huh? This heat is really something."
"It's all right," he muttered.
I dared to look away from his face, and my gaze fell to that massively muscled chest. I cleared my throat. "Can't blame you for uh, keeping cool, or trying to. I think---" and at that moment there was the screech of brakes and then a glassy crash. I turned to see two cars in the middle of the intersection. I cringed, until I saw the two drivers emerge unscathed. Amazingly, as they approached each other, they stole glances...at him.
"One," he said.
I turned back to him. "What?"
"One," he said again. "Accident. My record's twelve in one night."
I laughed. "I've never known anybody who could really stop traffic, or cause an accident."
"Not my fault," he growled, but in that defensive snarl, there was a mischievous smile. He raised a cigarette to his mouth and took a drag. He threw his head to his right and expelled the smoke.
"Hey, you know...." I offered. "That smoking's not good for you."
He turned his head slowly towards me and watched me for a few seconds. There was the quick raising of eyebrows and a microscopic smile. "Do I look sickly to you?"
"Oh no sirreee bob! I...you are really something."
"Thanks."
"You waitin' for somebody?"
Again, he paused for a second before replying. And then, "Sort of."
"None of my business, but it's kind of an odd place to wait."
"You're right." Another drag on the cigarette.
"If you want....uh...you're welcome to wait in here with--"
"No," he said. "I meant you're right. It's none of your business."
"Oh. I-I'm sorry."
He turned his head to scrutinize me again. "That don't mean you can't ask."
"Oh! Well...just curious. I mean, can I give you a lift anywhere?"
"Maybe." He looked down at his impeccably polished shoes, and then, his head still down, he turned to me. "What are you doing here? Couldn't find a parking space?"
I had to think fast. "Oh. Oh. Oh that's a perfectly...perfectly reasonable question. To ask of me. You see....my car overheats. It's getting pretty bad. I'm taking it in Wednesday. It'll be fine. Just needs to cool off."
He didn't answer. He was watching the two drivers watching him. He smirked. "Looks like that one car's got its face up the other car's ass."
I turned to look, and my brain unraveled. For a split second, I pictured myself sinking my teeth into those powerful buttocks, spreading those thighs, licking everywhere....everywhere. I closed my eyes and fought to clear my mind.
"It's a bitch when you get all hot," he said.
"What?"
"I said it's a bitch when you get all hot. Your car."
"Oh!"
"I think you did the right thing to stop though." His voice was a deep baritone, a tiger-like growl.
"Uh...me too."
"Course...that's a loading zone. Cops might come and make you move."
"Yeah, well. I'll chance it."
"Did ya check your fluids?" he said with a wry smile. "Need any more?"
My breathing was getting faster. "Uh...I, uh...I checked them this morning."
"Good."
It had begun well on my part. I hadn't stammered or stalled until now. Suddenly, I didn't know what to say. But I just couldn't leave. Looking at him was like a drug. Again, he took a puff on his cigarette, and I caught him giving me a sideways glance. "Say," I began. "So...I told you why I'm here. You gonna tell me why you're here?"
"Nope."
"Oh," I said, feeling I'd crossed a line. "Okay."
That wry smiled returned. Without turning to me, he said, "I'm waitin' for a table."
"A table?"
"Yeah." He pointed with his chin to the restaurant across the street.
"Ohhhh! I see."
He just stared off into the traffic.
"You meeting somebody?"
I couldn't tell if he was smiling. "Maybe," he said.
"God," I said. "You are just amazing. I bet the girls just go wild over you."
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
"Sometimes. Some do. Some won't admit it. Some don't."
I took a deep breath. "Bet some of the guys go crazy over you too, huh?"
He turned to look at me, and I thought I'd just blown it. Adrenalin rushed through my veins and I struggled to find the words for an apology. We locked gazes for a few awkward seconds, and it was he who spoke first, but not before a brief return of that microscopic smile.
"Sometimes," he said.
"I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I offended you."
"You didn't offend me."
I could feel my heart pounding...in my chest, in my ears, in my breath. I didn't know what to say next. I'd already mentioned the warm, night air. I'd already told him that he was an amazing sight. I'd already lied about why I was parked next to him. I cleared my throat. "So uh...I'm surprised you don't have people asking for your autograph or something."
"I don't give autographs."
"Oh, I see. Still, I'm surprised there's not a crowd around you. Asking you questions and the like."
"That's 'cause I'm talkin' to you."
"Huh?"
"There's about twenty people lookin' at me right now. 'Bout half of them want to come up, but they won't. 'Cause I'm talkin' to you."
I looked around. I saw a few people across the street from me and across the street from him, trying to be casual in their staring. I saw a couple of young women craning their necks from behind an SUV. I saw people seated at the window tables of the restaurant glancing again and again and again. The more I looked, the more I saw.
He dropped his cigarette butt on the sidewalk and brought his heel down on it. "See," he began, "most people just kind of circle. Nobody wants to make the first move. Usually. But it's funny. As soon as someone starts talkin' to me, the others suddenly find their nerve and they hover and wait, all nervous, like I'm gonna git away, and they wait 'till I'm "free" again And then...nobody wants to make the first move. Again.."
I suddenly realized the prized position I was in. I was at the head of the line. But so as to seem gracious, and to feign control of myself, I said,
"Oh. Well, I hope I'm not scaring anyone--"
"It's a free country," he said. "Ain't no law keeping anybody from coming up to me."
And then he did the most mind-boggling thing. He pushed himself free of his lean against the lamp post, stood upright, extended his massive arms to his side, and stretched long and hard, as though waking from a long nap. Now I could see clear as day that the slacks were not draping, but curving around that rump, and the inescapable fact that the jutting front of those trousers housed a beast of a cock. He arched his back as he stretched, and those massive, hairy pecs were thrust out and displayed for all to see. The last rays of the setting sun highlighted the cobblestone-like muscles of his abdomen. He topped the show off with a quick flex of the arms, as if to get the kinks out of his elbows, and in that moment I saw what I'd suspected, what I'd dreamed of; the voluminous columns of cloth around his arms were not loose. They barely contained his arms.
When he casually flexed, the fabric filled, wrinkled at the joints, and at the same time stretched to the breaking point.
Car brakes.
Smash
"Two," he said.
"Jesus!" I exclaimed.
"Not my fault," he said, defensively.
I was in fact amused, but I pretended to be more than I really was. In the back of my mind, I considered his clothing to be more of a costume, but now the fact dawned on me that, costume or no, it was nothing that could ever be bought in a store, even a store for big and tall men. Even heaped with muscle, I realized that there was something about him that drew the eye. He didn't have the long legs and arms of a basketball player, although he was as tall as one. So where would he buy his clothes? In looking at his shirt, I noticed the blinding whiteness of it, the French cuffs, and the gold cufflinks that sported the tiniest sparkle of diamond. "Say, " I said. "That's a beautiful shirt. I'm envious."
"You want to be my shirt?"
Oh God, yes! I thought. "Oh. Ha ha. I-I meant, uh, it's obviously tailor made. Where did you get it?"
He tilted his head up, and I saw a wonderful profile of that granite jaw and chin. He scowled, deep in thought, and then finally: "Italy."
"Can you even button it?"
This time there was no smile. "Yeah I can button it!" He grabbed the fabric at his waist and began.
"No! I'm sorry!"
He stopped.
"That was stupid," I said. "God, that was stupid. I just realized how that sounded. I wasn't making fun of you. Or the shirt. It...it just...fits you to a T. It...it's beautiful. I'm envious. I wish I had one."
He gave no response.
"Can I ask what it's made of?"
"Cotton," he muttered. "From Egypt. Some special weave they do in Italy that makes it smooth and stretchy."
"It looks like silk," I said.
"Yeah. I guess."
"And the slacks...they fit really well."
"Noticed, huh?"
"Yeah." I gave a little chuckle. "Italy?"
"No. England." There was a slow turn of the head towards me. That ghost of a smile was there again. "I need extra room, as you can see."
"Yeah," I said, sounding like I was drunk, because I felt like I was drunk. My eyes had zeroed in on his crotch and the heavy equipment protruding and straining the fabric, barely contained. I shifted my gaze to his buttocks. I felt myself gasp and immediately lowered my eyes to regard his thighs, those crushing thighs. I could see that the fabric was very thin from the way it draped, from the detail revealed between his legs, and the subtle ripple of muscles on his thighs. My gaze was drawn back to his crotch. I purposely turned my gaze to his butt so as not to seem too fascinated with his cock, and then I moved back to his thighs for the same reason. And that's how it went for a few seconds, around and around from crotch to butt to thighs and over again in an effort to seem just mildly interested when in fact I could not take my eyes away from him.
He shifted his body slowly, and turned to face me. Now I had the entirety of him lit well by the lamp post. My mouth fell open. What was hidden in shadow and profile before was now apparent. I was struck dumb at the shadows his shoulders and pecs and abdominal muscles made. I was dazzled be the taper of his body, from yard wide shoulders and a flaring back to a little waist. He leaned back against the lamp post, and my gaze was again drawn to his crotch. Two suspicions were confirmed as I saw how tight those slacks were above the knee: that the fabric was thin, and that he couldn't have been wearing anything underneath them, for in addition to the testicles of a bull outlined in the black sheen of his pants, the sex meat of a horse ran down one thigh. There was no "extra room" for it. Covered but visible, outrageous but conservatively dressed, it was like a teasing flag; blatant, but not meant to be acknowledged by owner or viewer. I couldn't take my eyes from it. My mouth began to water.. On their own, my hands began to dream of holding the thickness of it, the weight of it, the heat of it. The skin of my face joined in, dreaming of his powerful erection rubbing against my cheek. My cock began to swell.
"You wanna feel it?"
My breath stopped in my open mouth. I think my heart stopped for a second. I felt totally revealed. I was embarrassed beyond belief. Yes I wanted to feel it. I wanted to do so much more to it too. "F-f-feel it?" I asked, incredulous.
"My shirt," he said. He grabbed the placket, right beneath his chest.
My heart was doing flip flops in my chest. "Oh! Ha ha!" The breath rushed back into me. I melted back into the car seat, not realizing how rigid I'd gone. I felt my face flush, and I dreaded what was coming next: his asking me what I'd thought he'd meant. But that didn't happen.
He stood there, waiting, holding his open shirt, with a wicked smile on his face.
"S-s-s-sure!" I stammered.
He sauntered to my car, the pure mass of him a wonder to behold. I held my breath. He was smiling at me, and just as I had earlier fallen into a dizzy spiral looking at his butt and crotch and thighs, I now was enthralled with his brilliant blue eyes, his sparkling white teeth, his jaw, his hair, his five o'clock shadow, his neck...everything. Again, I held my breath. I could feel the sweat on my palms as he stopped, his hips right in front of my face. He sank down to one knee, as though genuflecting, and suddenly that massive, hairy chest and that beautiful, manly face were almost within reach.
"Go ahead," he said. He looked down at his chest. "Feel it."
I extended my right arm. My hand trembled. It was mutinous. I told myself to touch his collar, but my arm went straight for his chest. My fingers grazed him just below his collarbone, and then I deftly moved my hand and held his shirt just below his collar. I could sense him watching me. I was too flustered to enjoy the shirt. I barely saw his shirt. My eyes were just about as wide as they would go. I turned my head slightly in the hopes that he would think that I was examining his shirt, but my eyeballs were glued to the biggest, thickest chest I'd ever seen. I almost lost control. I let go of his shirt and the word "Please!" burst from me. I held my hand open, just a half inch from his chest. I could feel his chest hair touching my palm. I was horrified at my near complete lack of control. I was one step away from dissolving into a whimpering, begging fool. My eyes took in the thick, dark chest hair and the large, luscious nipples. I wanted to bury my face in his cleavage. I wanted to fill my hands with chest. I wanted to rub my face all over his pecs.
He didn't flinch at my outburst. In fact, he smiled. "What's wrong?" he asked.
I wanted to suck those nipples. I wanted to stroke that chest for hours. I wanted him to grab my head with his huge paws and move my head slowly back and forth over it. His nipples were like beacons. I wanted to hold them. I wondered if he'd moan.
"Nothing," I whispered. "N-nothing's wrong." I couldn't take my eyes off his nipples. I wanted to bite them.
"Go ahead," he said. "Take a closer look. I can tell you like 'em."
"What?"
"The buttons." He looked down and held out the front of his shirt.
A delicate flash of color shook me from my daze, and I fixed my eyes on the buttons of his shirt. "Oh. W-what are they?" I asked. "They're not...opals...are they?"
"Aw, no,'" he replied. "They're mother of pearl. Pretty subtle though, huh?" He winked.
"Yeah," I said. "Subtle."
"I don't like to be too...conspicuous."
"No," I said.
"That was a joke."
"Huh? Oh!" I laughed. I struggled so hard to focus my thoughts. "You're right. The fabric's kind of silky. It's so white!"
"I've been told that pure white goes well with my coloring."
"It does." I rubbed the fabric between my thumb and fingers, but it was only so that the back of my fingers could touch him. Without warning, he stood, his hips framed by the car window. I could have touched the front of his pants.
"It might be a good time for you to make your move," he said.
I had to admit it to myself. I would not be leaving without asking him to come home with me, and what really frightened me was that I could not think of an amount of money that would deter me. I had to have him. I had to. He was like a drug. I had to have him. I would have to make my move eventually, because I had to have him. I wondered if he meant that I could signal my intentions and wants with a movement of my arm. I couldn't make out the massive cock straining at the fabric in front of me because his back was to the light post and the shadows in the car were too deep. But I could make my move. I could reach up and pet his thigh. I could stroke that long bulge snaking down his pant leg. I could shove my hand between those thighs and keep it there until the heat from his groin seeped into my fingers.
"I said it might be a good time for you to make your move," he said again. "The cops are here."
"What?"
He stepped away. "Cops are here."
I couldn't see his face, but he was facing the street.
"You might want to move your car."
I still didn't comprehend what he had said, until a flashing red light whirled along the building behind him. I turned to see a police car pull up behind the two cars entangled in the intersection. I turned back to him. He was leaning against the lamp post again.
"Still hot?" he asked, with a smile.
"Huh?"
He almost laughed. "Your car. Still hot?"
"Oh! Yes. A little. A little." I closed my eyes, mortified because I'd answered without even looking at the dashboard.
"I don't think they'll come over," he said. "If they do, just tell them you're waiting to uh, pick somebody up."
"I-I will." I was shaking inside. Pick somebody up. Oh God. I was exactly where I did not want to be; stammering, sweating, and on the verge of begging. "Aren't you afraid that they'll come over here and ask what you're doing?" I said.
"Should I be?"
"Well," I shrugged. "You standing there with your shirt open like that...people might think you're selling something."
"Is that so."
"Just thinking out loud."
He said nothing.
"So uh...how long you gonna wait for your table?"
He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a single cigarette. His shirt and pants fit him like a tight glove. There was no way he had keys or a lighter, or a pack of cigarettes hiding in those pant pockets. "You got a light?" he asked.
I pulled the cigarette lighter from my dashboard and held it out to him. Again, he stepped up to the car and let the car window frame his hips. A moment later, his huge hand entered my car, holding the cigarette lighter between thumb and forefinger. "Thanks," he said. He resumed his position by the lamp post.
"I guess I'll wait as long as I have to."
"What are you going to order?" I asked.
He smiled. He took a long draw on his cigarette and let the smoke waft slowly from him. Then he looked at me and said, "Depends what I'm offered."
My confidence was gone, but I couldn't leave. He was too beautiful to leave. As I sat there and watched him, I thought to myself that he was just too beautiful to be standing there on a street corner. I mean, this was Los Angeles, the land of the beautiful people. A man like him should have an agent...of some kind. People with horrendous amounts of money would line up for his services, and here he was standing on street corner. But I looked at those clothes, and the mirror like finish of those shoes, and the diamond cuff links, and thought that he most definitely didn't seem to be hurting for money.
"So," I began, "You mind if I ask you what you do for a living? Office environment, right? Executive by the look of your clothes, I'd say."
"No. I don't mind if you ask."
I sighed, defeated. The tone of his voice told me that I could ask, but he wouldn't tell.
"Bet I can tell what you do, though," he said.
"Oh really. You sound pretty sure of yourself."
"How many tries do I git?"
That's when the southern drawl stood out strong and clear, a quality I'd sensed but wasn't quite able to pin down, a quality that made the sleek executive look crash against the cowboy growl of his voice. "Five," I said. "And if you don't guess right, you have to answer a question."
"What's the question?"
"Oh no. That's a surprise. I get to--"
"I don't like surprises."
"Ok. Well then...if you don't guess, can I ask you some questions until I hit one you don't like?"
"Deal."
"Okay," I said. "Shoot."
He seemed to be eyeing my car more than me. I smiled. I drive a 2004 Acura TL. A nice car, but one within reach of almost anyone. Not a rich man's car. Not a poor man's car. I sensed that that's what he was searching for, a clue from the make and model of my car. Finally, he said:
"You a lawyer?"
I shook my head.
He looked at the car again, briefly, and then stared down at the sidewalk. After a few moments, he looked up at me. "You a doctor?"
"No," I said.
This time he took longer. He puffed on is cigarette, and then: "You a teacher?"
I shook my head. "No."
He leaned against the light post fully, resting his head against the metal, and gazed up at the sky. His eyes sparkled. I could have just sat there and looked at him all night. He smiled, and then said: "You an architect?"
Now it was I who smiled. "No."
But suddenly his smile faded. He took no time to ponder. He looked me dead in the eye and said: "You a cop?"
And then my smile faded. Calmly, I answered, "No." With an even tone and the utmost earnestness, I said, "I'm not a cop."
"Aw, shoot," he said.
"My turn" I said. He had a way of looking dangerous, like you were a bug in his way, and the sense of power that emanated from him was intoxicating. I found myself caught between fantasies, fantasies of having him descend on me, and fantasies of me making that mountain of muscle purr and moan. "Okay," I said. "Where ya from?"
He chuckled. "Game over," he said.
"What?"
"You said 'till you asked a question I didn't like. That was it."
"Aww," I moaned. "That's not fair." I felt more than a bit cheated, but I surmised that if I became a nag, the game would really be over.
"Okay," I said. "A deal's a deal. I'm a man of my word." He just stared at me. I just smiled. I don't know if I saw a look of surprise on that handsome face, but whatever it was, it was darling, almost little boy-like. "Besides, I enjoy talking to you." It's funny how silence can have so many overtones. There was nothing haughty or bored in this lull. He didn't know what to do.
"I'm from........Burbank."
"You know what I mean."
"Where do you think I'm from?" he asked.
"Hmm," I began. I sighed and screwed my face in concentration. "I'm gonna say......Oklahoma."
He gave a little laugh. "Well, you're close." Now he wore a disarming smile. He looked so much younger when he wasn't scowling. Those flinty eyes became big "baby blues". He was positively angelic. "I grew up in Texas," he said.
"Oh. Texas. I should have known. They grow 'em big in Texas."
"Got that right."
"You ride horses?" I asked.
"I ride a lot of things," he said.
I was wearing myself out. My nerves were on edge. I told myself that I should just give up, be thankful that I got close to him, and got to talk to him. I should just go home. But I couldn't bring myself to leave. Part of me was content with the possibility that talking with him was all I would ever do. Part of me felt as though I was looking through the store window of Tiffany's, at some exquisite, once in a lifetime gem that I could never afford. Oh, how I ached. That's how I felt; like a commoner asking how much the 100 karat diamond in the window was.
I looked at him.
His eyes were like blue diamonds. His hair was like black velvet. His body was like a classical sculpture in a museum. He belonged at Tiffany's.
My heart sank. My heart slowed. I sighed. I didn't want to just leave abruptly, so I threw out another question. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
"Nope."
"Really?"
He said nothing.
"Um.....boyfriend?"
He took a drag on his cigarette, expelled the smoke, and then tapped the ashes onto the ground. I felt so foolish. This pause was meant for him to tease, for him to taunt, for him to laugh at me silently. Finally, he said: "Nope."
I nodded. "I see." I hung my head, and resigned myself to the fact I would never have him. "Uh, one last question. It's not prying or anything.
I just hope you'll answer."
"Shoot."
"May I treat you to dinner?"
He turned to look at me.
"I thought maybe we could go across the street and see if your table was ready, or if it's not, we could go someplace else. And...you...you don't have to pay me back. In any way. I just really enjoyed the chance to meet you and....see you....and talk to you."
He smiled that sardonic grin. "I don't know. I've got a big appetite. And expensive tastes."
I returned his grin with a half smile, and a meek, fatalistic tone. Companionship was for sale too, and I was out of my league. "I understand."
He puffed on his cigarette.
"Well," I began, "I'd better be going now." I started to shift back into my seat. I bent lower to see him clearly one more time. "I really want to thank you for the opportunity. I wish you all the best. I hope you find what you're waiting for." And with that, I leaned back upright in my seat and turned the key.
"Wait!" he said.
I turned to see him striding towards the car.
"I think I did!"
"What?" I asked.
"I think I did find what I was looking for."
"You did? What's that?"
His big hands gripped the window frame of the passenger seat. He squatted so that his face was level with mine. He was so big. A giant. But suddenly a shy giant. He averted his gaze and lowered his head. "Did you really mean it?"
"Mean what?"
"About...about goin' out to dinner. And that's all?"
"Yes," I said. "Unless you'd like to do something afterwards. Whatever you'd like."
"Well, uh...." He sighed. "We could maybe get an ice cream and uh, walk on the beach?"
I was shocked. But I smiled. "I'd love to."
He was nervous. That's when I realized that his cigarette was gone. He'd abandoned it on the sidewalk.
"I uh....."
"Can I ask you one last question?"
"Ok."
"What were you waiting for?"
He sighed again. "Well, uh........remember what you said about me looking like I was selling something?"
"Yes."
"Well, I...........am. I mean...I do, but..."
"Yes?"
"Look, don't think I'm bein' stuck up or nothin', ok? But uh....well...I-I can pretty much take my pick of....you know, prospective buyers. And I can, you know...name my price."
I nodded.
"But...I just...I just wish that for once...they didn't act like they...."
He took a long time to think. I didn't know if he couldn't put his feelings into words, or if he did indeed have the words but was too ashamed to say them. I finally said: "You can tell me."
His voice was quiet. "Just 'cause they buy my time...it don't mean that they buy me. I think...I think they feel that they're so rich, you know...rules don't apply...that they don't have to have respect for me, and manners...well, nobody can buy the right to laugh at me, or to make me feel bad, or treat me like I don't get hurt."
I wanted to lay my hand on his.
"That's what I was looking for," he said. "A nice guy."
"But you acted all--"
"Well that's-that's what they go for. That's how they act with me. But you were nice."
I smiled.
"Say, did you really mean that thing about taking me to dinner? And then, you know, afterwards?"
"I'm a man of my word," I said. And even in the shadows I could see those white teeth grinning. "And afterwards, I'll take you home. Or give you cab fare."
"Oh," he began. "Do you think...do you think I could go home with you for the night?"
I didn't know what to say. You'd think I'd jump at the offer, but things were still a little unclear. "Go home? With me?"
"Yeah," he said. "Unless--"
"I'd love for you to come home with me, but....all I can give you is dinner."
"Oh no," he said, his voice trembling. "It's...you...it's a lot more than that. You don't understand what it means for someone like me. To be given something freely."
Now I put my hand on his.
"And in return, I'd give you anything you want. I'd love to give anything...to a nice man."
"Really? You don't have to."
"I know. But I'd bet everything I have that the touch of a nice man...is different."
We both smiled at each other, and I discovered a new kind of longing. A great calmness. A warmth that went down to the bone, and to the heart. "How's Italian sound? I know this place that makes the best Chicken Marsala, and they give you a little glass of Marsala wine with dessert."
"I love Italian!"
"I don't even know your name!"
"David!"
I leaned over and opened the car door for him. "Get in," I said with a smile.
2006