Lower Than the Heartbysr71plt©
"I can understand you wanting to get away to complete the problem scenes in the second act, but to such a remote place? Do they even have cell service in—what did you say its name was—Oyster, Virginia? It sounds like a dump. Or a pile of rubbish. I have visions of an oyster shell pile on a deserted scrub beach. Everything washed out in soft, weak pastels; everything all used up before you got there. How can you find inspiration in such a place?"
Trust a man of the theater to think in terms of the set, Trent mused.
"It very well might be a dump, Gerhardt, but the 'deserted' idea is the enticing one. My cousin said I was welcome to stay in his Eastern Shore cottage, but he didn't promise much more than electricity and an indoor toilet. I was led to believe that made it a luxury property, though."
"Are you fleeing me, Trent?" The older man sounded pained. He was breathing heavily.
Trent had let him put an arm around him on the sofa and come in close. He'd even let the stage director unbutton his shirt and run his hand in and lay it on his chest. They had kissed once. They had kissed and done a bit of fondling before—they were hands-on and dramatic theater people—but Trent was afraid it possible that the man thought Trent would let him fuck him tonight. He had implied the hope in suggesting that they meet at Gerhardt's 3rd street, Southwest, contemporary townhouse within walking distance of where they both worked, at Washington D.C.'s professional theater, the Arena Stage. Gerhardt Von Hultz was a permanent company stage director there, and Trent Colson was this season's playwright in residence. He had been picked up in the Young Playwrights program at the age of twenty-four, which was the youngest one could be.
Truth be told, Trent had implied it might happen by agreeing to come to Gerhardt's compact, two-story, two-bedroom, townhouse that was worth a mint because of its location.
"No, I'm not fleeing you," Trent lied. "This second act is a real bear to work out. I just can't do the recasting here. My hotel room is just too noisy—and the space they've given me at the theater is too quiet, except when rehearsals are on, and then it's too chaotic. Two weeks. That's all I need; that should do it. Uh, Gerhardt, no please."
He pushed the hand away that had covered his basket.
"Please let me bed you," Gerhardt said with almost a whine. They were weeks past Trent not understanding what Gerhardt wanted. His hand moved back inside Trent's shirt and cupped a pec. "I know you like older men, and you said you found me attractive. And it's been so long for you. I would think you were ready to explode. It's just a matter of release—for both of us. Artists need regular release."
No it wasn't just a matter of release, Trent thought. When he had thought that could be what it was was when he signaled that maybe he was ready. That had changed when he'd arrived here this evening, though. The symbols of Dietrich's expectations going beyond a mere sexual release had changed that.
He looked down at the coffee table. The man was sweet. He'd had flowers and a box of candy and even a schmaltzy Valentine's Day card waiting for Trent when he arrived. But when he had seen those, that's when Trent knew not only that this meeting was just a ploy—that it also was an expression of hope for more than Trent ever could give again. It was a bad ploy. Taking this anywhere close to romance—to the beginning of love—was exactly the worst way to approach Trent under the circumstances.
"Yes, I find you attractive, Gerhardt, and I like you very much. But I probably shouldn't have said anything that day. I was in my cups and vulnerable. It was a bad day."
"Anniversaries of a lover's death are always bad days, Trent. But Kevin was older than I am, and you can't just stop having sex because your lover has passed. You are young and handsome and delectably built. This is the theater. We live for the moment in the theater. We fuck. It gives us inspiration. In fact it very well may be what would give you inspiration to clean up act two. I could fuck you to creativity. You'll love the feel of my cock inside you."
Always the dramatic and flamboyant one, Trent thought. Nothing subtle about theater folks.
"Gerhardt . . ." Trent didn't even know what he was going to say next, because Gerhardt had turned his face to his and they were kissing. Gerhardt was kissing more than Trent was. And his hand went back to Trent's basket. This time Trent let it remain there.
But he had no intention of letting the stage director fuck him tonight. The making out was pleasant. It had been so long since he'd gone even this far. He was angry at Kevin for dying on him so early. It was true that he gravitated to older men and it was also true that Gerhardt Von Hultz was a handsome man of great charisma. He was tall, at least six and a half feet, and trim but with good muscle tone and an energy level that had him bouncing all over the theater.
He had fucked nearly every young man in the theater company, and they all had spoken of his unusual length and vigor and stamina and how well he took care of the men he took to bed.
There was every reason for Trent to let him seduce him, and he realized that he should give the memory of Kevin up. No, not give it up, honor what Kevin had told him as he was being wheeled into the operation he didn't leave alive—that if he didn't make it through, he wanted Trent to get right back on the wagon. But . . .
"It's because of the cancer, isn't it?"
"It's because I've had cancer. And because of how Kevin left you. I can see it in your face when I mention it. I'm in remission, Trent. I've told you how I feel about you. I've told you I'll stop sleeping around. You don't have to go to the Eastern Shore. I can make this townhouse quiet. You can work right here."
"I can work when you're not fucking me," Trent couldn't resist saying. "I've been told you are insatiable."
"Stop torturing me, Trent. And, dammit, stop torturing and denying yourself too. Let me take you upstairs."
He pulled Trent into him again and aggressively took Trent's lips with his. He greedily fed on Trent's mouth and Trent slowly opened to him. Gerhardt began working on Trent's belt buckle.
"No, Gerhardt," Trent said, pulling his mouth away and grabbing the hand Gerhardt had on his belt buckle. "Maybe someday but I'm not ready now. We'll see how your remission goes. I . . . I just don't think I can lose another man I care about."
"So, you do care about me."
"Of course I do. You're brilliant and wonderful to work with, and I love spending time with you. My creative juices feed on your vision and energy. And, yes, you are sexually desirable; I've never indicated you weren't."
"You care about me and you're no innocent. You're very young, yes, but Kevin was fucking you for four years. He told me you weren't the least bit shy. As he was . . . leaving us . . . he as good as said the two of us would be good together. He wanted us to be together. And you want me. I can feel you want me."
Somehow Gerhardt had gotten him unzipped and was holding his cock through the material of his briefs. Trent couldn't deny that he was going hard. And he couldn't deny to himself that he wanted to let Gerhardt make love to him. It had been a year, and Gerhardt was quite correct that he hadn't been shy about sex with Kevin. Kevin had seduced him when he was nineteen, and Trent regretted nothing in what had happened. He enjoyed being fucked.
He . . . just . . . couldn't give in to it. Gerhardt was dealing with cancer. Trent didn't think his heart could take another loss.
"Let me take you upstairs," Gerhardt whispered again.
"I just . . . can't," Trent murmured.
"Then let me make love to you here."
"Gerhardt . . ."
"Give me something. Let me masturbate you. You want attention. We both know that. You say you care. Give me something. And let me give you relief. It could be just what you need to get past the writing block."
Trent was so tired of fighting it. He let his body relax and moved his hand off Gerhardt's, a signal given and understood that he was giving up—at least this far.
They moved back into a kiss, which was warmer on Trent's part this time and the young man moaned as Gerhardt expertly freed his cock, wrapped a hand around it, and started to gently stroke it.
Coming out of the kiss, Gerhardt whispered, "You like that, baby?"
"Yes, yes. God, yes," Trent murmured. "It's been so long. Ohhh."
Gerhardt had leaned over and taken a nipple in his mouth. Trent moaned softly and his body relaxed further.
After a few minutes Gerhardt's mouth started working its way down Trent's sternum and onto his belly.
"Gerhardt, no . . . please . . . not tonight," Trent whispered.
But Gerhardt had already lowered his lips over Trent's cock and slid half way down the hard shaft. Then up again and down a bit further. Up and down. Then up and a hard suck on the bulb. Trent just laid there, whimpering and groaning. Gerhardt laced fingers through Trent's balls and rolled and pulled on them, being rewarded with a deep groan.
"Oh, God you are so good," Trent whispered. "But we . . . I . . . can't . . ."
It had indeed been so long that within ten minutes Trent came up into Gerhardt's throat.
Gerhardt moved their bodies so that Trent was stretched out on the couch below him. He pushed Trent's right leg so that his body fit into Trent's, pelvis to pelvis. He somehow had opened his own trousers and pulled out his cock, which Trent felt run up under his perineum, toward his butt cleavage. The men at the theater had been right. He was built long.
During this process, though, Gerhardt had taken Trent's lips into his again. They were exchanging more than saliva. They were exchanging Trent's cum too. Trent moaned. Kevin had done this too. Trent had never been squeamish about this sort of exchange; he had found it intimate and sexy.
Gerhardt released Trent's lips, as his arm went under Trent's thigh and lifted his leg and, in the process rolled Trent's butt up. His bulb was nearly at Trent's hole. And then it was resting there, waiting for Trent to open to him. Trent felt his channel opening. Hungry for it. Wanting the thrust.
"I'm going to love you good and deep, baby," Gerhardt growled, suddenly appearing stronger than before, reaching down with his other arm for Trent's other leg in preparation for raising that too and putting him in position to hole his cock.
Trent became animated then, though, and using all the strength he could, he pushed Gerhardt up to a sitting position, slipped out from underneath him, and bounded off the sofa. He moved out into the room, out of reach of the other man. Seeking safety of distance.
Gerhardt took the philosophical route. He leaned back in the sofa and stretched both arms along the back of it. His cock was still exposed and erect and he made sure that Trent could see it and get the measure of just how long it was. Trent indeed had his eyes focused on it.
"Come here. Sit on it. I know you want me inside you. I love you. I think you can love me too. I know I can take care of your needs. You want a daddy. You went with Kevin because that was what you wanted. I can be that for you."
Love. The word was such a shock to Trent. And the effect on his struggle for decision was the opposite of what Gerhardt hoped for. Trent groaned. He fumbled with getting his cock folded away again, his trousers cinched up, and his shirt rebuttoned. He knew he shouldn't have let this go this far. He had to break away. He had a deadline on the scene rewrites and all of this was driving him crazy.
He just could not hook up with another older man with illness issues. He just could not.
"I'll leave contact information with Zelda, Gerhardt. But, please, don't even think of asking her for them. I'll tell her not to give the information to you. This is your play. The script has to be ready for you in two weeks. You've got to give me those two weeks. This here . . . this . . . just complicates matters."
"And then you'll come back to me and move in here and let me take you to bed and make love to you?"
That damned "love" word again. "I didn't say that, Gerhardt."
"Look, it's still hard for you. I can take care of your frustrations. And I'm told it's unusually big and that I'm unusually good with it. You became accustomed to being well cared for. It's a perfect arrangement, you and me. You need to be fucked regularly. Kevin told me that."
"Good-bye, Gerhardt. I'll see you again in two weeks." Trent was standing at the door, trembling. If he was writing this as a play, would he just walk out the door, or would he go back to the sofa and let Gerhardt make love to him, regardless of the circumstances? If he was a romantic, he knew how his play would end. But he wasn't a romantic. He had been. But that had died with Kevin.
"At least take the roses and candy with you."
The tension flowed out of Trent. Gerhardt had blinked first. He didn't have to make the decision. "I don't think either flowers or candy would go well on an Eastern Shore beach, Gerhardt. Give them to Zelda for me, will you? I don't think I'll even appear at the theater tomorrow. I'll call her on the last-minute details."
"Can't resist me, can you?" Gerhardt said jovially. "When you return we'll start up right where we left off."
"No, I don't think we will, Gerhardt. I don't want to be a tease. And I don't want to lead you on for something that just isn't going to happen." He turned the knob on the door then and pushed his way out into the night.
Gerhardt held there for a moment. The bravado smile on his face slowly slipping off. Then he muttered a "Fuck it," slowly rose off the sofa and walked up the stairs to his solitary bed. Trent was the one he wanted—the one he was in love with. But life was short. If not Trent, he would have to settle for something less. Love was one thing; not dipping your cock regularly was an entirely different, much more unacceptable matter. Whatever happened, though, he did not want to die alone—or celibate.
* * * *
"I don't know how you can take it out at that beach house of your cousin's," The sheriff said. "Much too quiet. Even the wave noise is muted out there, with the current patterns breaking the waves on the other side of the rocks out in the water there. You're lucky it's unseasonably warm, though. The heating is none too good in any of these beach houses."
"It's just that sort of quiet I came down here to find, Amos," Trent answered. "The beach cottage is basic, but I like its simplicity. There's nothing complicated there. I can think. And we're being blessed by unusually warm weather, apparently. Maggie at the counter over there tells me that these are late spring temperatures. Too cold to go into the ocean but warm enough to sunbathe."
"I wouldn't count on the warm weather holding through your time here, and you'd be brave to sunbathe," the sheriff said in a slow, southern drawl, "but more power to you if you try it. If you do, let me know and I'll come out to watch."
Trent was sitting with the county sheriff, Amos Stallings, in Oyster's only café. Just about everything in Oyster was an "only"—and they were lucky to have what they did have. There couldn't have been more than two hundred residents—permanent residents; there were some folks from further inland with weekend cottages on the beaches—for twenty miles in each direction. Oyster was close to Cape Charles near the southern tip of Virginia's Eastern Shore. If the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel hadn't been put in fifty years earlier, the folks in Oyster would be as remote as folks anywhere in the States could be.
It was this remoteness that Trent had been seeking. It was helping his playwrighting. It wasn't doing a damn thing for his sexual frustration, though—not that he'd admit that he was sexually frustrated. When he was being realistic, though, his thoughts went back to that last barb from Gerhardt—that Kevin had told Gerhardt that Trent needed to be fucked regularly. Trent had to admit that his relationship with Kevin had been a daddy one—Kevin seducing him and then keeping him happy with the cock.
Trent wasn't as oblivious to how needy he looked and felt as he'd like, though. Even the sheriff was looking good to him now, a week after he'd fled Washington, D.C., and Gerhardt Von Hultz. But he shouldn't have thought "even" concerning the sheriff. The man was damn hot for those who liked their men mature but still well conditioned. The perfect image of a state trooper. Tall, heavily muscled but slim waisted and hipped. Solid as a rock. Strong jawed handsome. Walking tall and with confidence; owning the place.
Trent's cousin, Carson, had given him the advice to establish himself with the locals as fast as he could and then they'd fit him right in. He'd found that to be true and no one had been friendlier than Sheriff Stallings. This was the third time in five days they'd met for lunch, and the sheriff seemed genuinely interested in the work of a playwright down here in his little slice of the world. Trent had even been invited to his home because his wife was trying to be a writer and Trent said he'd gladly talk to her about that. And he did so, as their two preteen girls sat in the living room texting their friends, taking side glances at him, and giggling to each other.
Stallings was tall and muscular. Probably pushing forty-five, but he stood straight in his uniform of form-fitting brown shirt and black trousers with a brown cloth strip down each side. His heavy Oxfords were a spit-polished black. He naturally had a buzz cut for a hair style, but the hair was still a dark auburn and also curled out of the neckline of his shirt and covered his muscular forearms. He was a handsome devil, with a rugged face and square jaw. Trent had no doubt he demanded respect and not a small amount of admiration at the gym where he worked out. There was no question that he worked out in a gym regularly.
It disturbed Trent a bit that he was so sexually charged when he was down here in this beach community alone. It could just be that there were so few people about and none as arousing as the sheriff.
But looking out of the café's front window and across to the large green in the center of the town's main collection of commercial buildings, Trent saw that that wasn't true. Someone even more instantly alluring than the sheriff was out there trying to get an impromptu football game going. The guy was much the same age as the sheriff; he was surrounded by a bunch of boisterous younger guys. Trent was surprised that so many young men had shown up for the scratch game, but then he realized that, this being a Saturday afternoon and particularly warm for late February, this was probably an event they came out for whenever possible—probably one these young men looked forward to throughout the week.
The man who caught his attention was probably the organizer of the games. He wasn't tall and he was on the stocky side, but not fat—just solidly built and heavily muscled. He was deeply tanned and was another one who went for the buzz cut hairstyle. But on him, Trent could tell that there was gray at the temples. He didn't look any older than the sheriff was, however. When Trent had first seen him walking past the café window toward the green, he was in shorts and had a white T-shirt on, but he was already in the process of pulling the T over his head. By the time he got to the green, he was shirtless. His skin was hairless and his musculature was plated like the shape of Roman armor. He was one sharply cut specimen. Both he and some of the other young men were wearing heavy hiking boots when they arrived at the green, but they all were barefoot while they played. Trent thought that they seemed to make their men tough down here in this isolated beach community. Tough and well built.