Travelling Home Ch. 02

Chapter 2: London

The first time I try to call David, about two weeks after the conference, my call is forwarded to his voicemail. It's a standard recorded message, not his voice, and even at the best of times I sound like a moron when I leave a message, so I hang up.

It takes me three days to make a second attempt. I should be reviewing the monthly figures and preparing management reports. Instead I'm drafting speeches on sticky notes, so that I'll be prepared for either him or his voicemail. The task is made more difficult because I have no idea what I want to say. I have no idea what I want, period.

It's his voicemail.

"Uhmmm, David. Hi. It's Jordan. You know... from Stockholm. Uh, almost three weeks ago... Anyway, I just thought I'd call, you know, see what's up. Uhm. Well. Anyway. Call me, if you get a chance."

I hang up and bang the receiver against my forehead. Moron. Moron, moron, moron. Why didn't I just stick to the goddamned script? What's so difficult about, Hi David, it's Jordan. Just thought I'd call. Here's my number, in case you want to call me back. Not award-winning stuff, but oh, so much better than what I actually did say. Plus, I didn't leave my number, which means that the fucking ball is still in my fucking court, because I called him from the office phone, which blocks caller ID.

The third time, I call him from home, from my own mobile, so that, if I go off-script again, he'll at least have my number. The sticky note is on the kitchen counter in front of me, and there's not much that can go wrong, if I just stay on track. I've even rehearsed to achieve the right tone, casual, but not indifferent. I'm forty-six years old, and throughout the span of my career, I've calmly and confidently faced regulators, auditors, even a truly scary Ukrainian border officer, who was convinced my extra hard drive was some sort of bomb. I came out to my parents in a face to face discussion right after I graduated from college, as opposed to Benny, who got drunk on his twentieth birthday and left them a long and rambling message on their answering machine, from which his mother gathered that he liked a guy named Dick.

I can do this.

"David Hamvas."

I nearly drop the phone at the sound of his voice. Fuck. I was expecting voicemail again.

"Uh, hi."

"Hi." His tone is cautious, a little questioning.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose.

"It's Jordan. You know, from—"

"Jordan!" he interrupts me in the middle of making a fool of myself yet again, his tone warm. "How are you?"

"Good. Good. And you?" I nearly bark at him.

"Fine. Just got home a while ago."

"From where? And where's home?" Yep, just your average interrogation, posing as small talk.

"From Sydney. And Frankfurt, these days, at least."

The advances in telecommunications are a wonderful thing. David sounds like he's in the next room. I remember calling my parents from Dartmouth and the tinny echo on the line that made normal conversation almost impossible; you knew you were calling long distance back then and you respected it, saved it for special occasions, like births or deaths or to beg your parents for extra money. I suddenly long fervently for those good old days.

"What were you doing in Sydney?" I think my voice sounds a little more natural now.

"I'm glad you called again," he says, ignoring my question. "I thought you might not, and I didn't have your number. I don't even know your last name, so I have no way of finding you."

"It's Petersen. Jordan Petersen." I lean my elbows on the counter and press the phone harder against my ear. He really does sound glad to hear from me, and something that had a tight grip inside my chest loosens a little.

"Jordan Petersen?" he repeats after a pause, and his voice sounds a little strange. "Is that a common name in America?"

"Well, I'm sure there are a bunch of us kicking around, male and female. So yeah, I guess. Maybe."

"I knew a Jordan in grade school, and I'm pretty sure his last name was Petersen. Or maybe Peterson."

No. Fucking. Way.

"It would have been the early 70's," David blithely continues. "My father worked for First National City Bank, that's Citibank now, in Athens."

"David Ives," I say, pronouncing David the English way.

His laugh is a little choked. "Yeah. Wow. Small world, huh?"

"I thought you'd be bigger," I say inanely, because his different last name would have been the obvious thing to question.

He laughs again, more freely now.

"I guess I peaked early. By seventh grade everybody caught up with me, and by eighth about a third of the guys were taller than me."

"That must have been difficult for you," I say, the waspish tone of my voice surprising me.

"Difficult? Not really, why?"

"Losing the size advantage?"

"Huh?"

My encounters with David were among the defining events of my childhood, and he doesn't even remember them. Jesus, get a grip, Petersen. It's almost forty years later, for Chrissake. What the hell does it matter?

He laughs again, filling the silence. "Jordie Petersen," he says, in that fond, sickly sweet tone people use when they reminisce about their childhood. "What a little oddball you were."

"No, I wasn't," I spit out, unable to help myself. "I was shy, and I was more Greek than American, so I didn't fit in like the rest of you. That's all."

He says nothing for a while, then his voice is gentle. "I'm sorry," he says, but I don't know if he's apologizing for now or then, and I'm embarrassed at my outburst.

"No, I'm sorry. It was a long time ago, and you're right, I probably was an oddball. All kids are, one way or another."

He grunts noncommittally.

"Why did you change your name?" I need to shift the focus from eight-year old Jordie.

"I didn't really. Hamvas is my middle name, my mother's maiden name. When my dad passed away, my mom moved to Hungary and having a Hungarian name was easier. I didn't stand out as much."

"But... we heard you dad passed away when you were in Athens. That's why you left."

"That's right."

"But that was in 1974. Who moved to any Eastern Bloc country in 1974?"

"Evidently, my mother and I."

"Did you speak Hungarian?"

"No. Neither did my mother, or at least not that well. Her parents were Hungarian, but they left before World War Two, when she was only about three years old or so. To this day, I don't know what she was thinking of."

Sounds like there are some things from his childhood that he hasn't left behind either.

"People sometimes get homesick," I say slowly, aware that I don't know him well enough – I don't know him at all – to be able to say something that might make him feel better, but wanting to do so, nevertheless. "I imagine it must have been even harder back then than it is now. It's a lot easier to go home these days, to stay in touch."

"Is it?" he asks, sounding unconvinced.

I think of myself, who meticulously avoids any ties, and I think of David, whose son doesn't speak to him. Can you even have a home, if somebody else doesn't call it that, as well, if you don't share it?

"I don't know," I finally admit.

I hear him take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

"I'll be in London next Friday," he tells me.

"That's nice."

"Is it?" he asks again, but this time I'm surer of my answer.

"Of course. London's fun. Even the museums are fun. And at night you can go to the West End."

"Wanna come see 'Mamma Mia' with me?" he asks, a teasing note to his voice.

"Hell, no. Abba? Christ. No thanks."

He laughs.

"How about 'We Will Rock You'?"

"I had a crush on Freddy Mercury," I admit.

"Didn't every gay boy?"

"And on Roger Daltrey. That chest."

I love his laughter.

"And on David Bowie."

"Yeah? Which period?"

"Ziggy Stardust," I lie, embarrassed to admit that I first listened to Bowie in the 80's and didn't even know he'd been around long before that.

"What about actors?" he asks me.

"You first."

"Hmmm. Alain Delon."

"God, yeah."

"And Gary Cooper."

"Gregory Peck."

"Jimmy Stewart?"

I make a gagging sound.

"Admit it. Secretly, you like 'It's a Wonderful Life'," he teases, and I laugh.

"I really, really, don't. But if it's on TV, I have to watch it. It's like slowing down when you drive by an accident."

"So how about it?"

"How about what?"

"London, next weekend. You and me."

"David..."

One of the things I like to tell myself is that I live this way, without roots or attachments, so that I can do whatever I want, so that I'm accountable to nobody. There's nothing to stop me from booking a spur of the moment ticket to London. And I want to see David again. Underneath it all, though, I know that this thing, this whatever-it-is, has the potential to upset my entire equilibrium, everything I've achieved over the years.

"I want to see you again, Jordie," he murmurs, and for some reason I break out in goose bumps.

"Okay. I'll try."

"Don't just try."

"O-kay," I repeat testily, my irritation fading a split second when he repeats the word with a sigh of satisfaction, maybe even of relief.

We've arranged to meet at Paddington station, at the top of the escalators leading to the Underground. As I get off the Heathrow Express and walk along the platform, hitching my duffel bag more firmly onto my shoulder, I have an absurd moment of fear that he won't be there, or worse, that I suddenly won't recognize him. It's been over a month now since I last saw him. Maybe I don't remember his face correctly, his blue-gray eyes, the way his hair hangs over his forehead.

But he's there, smiling broadly, and looking handsome in a T-shirt that lies flat against the lean muscles of his chest, loose-fitting button-fly jeans and sneakers.

"Hi," he says, and he gives me a brief hug and kisses my cheek.

I barely suppress the instinct to look around and check that nobody sees us. It's not that I'm in the closet; it's just that meeting a lover for the weekend makes me feel young and nervous. I've only done this a handful of times before, and even then it was more along the lines of a weekend in the Hamptons with a bunch of other friends, as well, or never making it back to my own apartment until Sunday afternoon after a Friday night date went especially well. Pre-planned, just two of us? Never.

"Let's drop off your stuff at the hotel, and then we can figure out what we want to do. I got tickets for the Queen show tomorrow night, but that's the only firm plan so far."

I sit next to him on the tube, our shoulders and thighs pressed together, my duffel bag in my lap and half across his. I inhale deeply, almost giddy with a sudden sense of happiness, and I lean my weight against him. A quick sideways glance tells me he's smiling.

"I wasn't sure if you have a favorite neighborhood or hotel, so I just extended the stay in the hotel the company booked me into. It's right across from Regent's Park. But we can move, if you want to," he assures me.

"No, that's fine. We can go running in the Park. That'll be nice."

"I didn't know you ran," he says, sounding pleased. "It's the only exercise I get, and I'm sort of obsessive about it. I've got a streak going."

"A streak?"

"Mmm. Unless I have an early flight, I try to run every morning, even if it's only for twenty minutes. Today was day 742."

"That's more than two years."

"Yep."

"Don't you ever get sick?"

"Not that sick."

"What would happen if you missed a day? Would you start over?"

"I have started over. Twice. Last time I got to 483, then I was in Milan during a heat wave, and I knew running would be a crazy idea."

I don't remember by SAT or GMAT scores. I don't exactly remember my best times when I was running track, or what my cholesterol level is. For an accountant, I have a remarkably bad memory for numbers. I don't know whether to be impressed or a little scared of this facet of David.

"I'd cheat," I tell him.

"You'd only be lying to yourself," he says with amusement.

I shrug. I don't have a problem lying to myself occasionally. Like that I'm optimistic that David and I have complimentary personalities that can mesh, even when the sexual attraction burns out. It's better than admitting that right now I doubt we'll even make it through the weekend once we fuck each other's brains out.

After the door closes behind us, we start to do the slamming against the walls, strewing our clothes on the way to bed thing. I know I said sex doesn't really happen that way, and I'm just as surprised as anybody to discover that it does. I've barely dropped my duffel onto the floor and looked around the room, when David cannons into me, his mouth ramming against mine, shoving me against the wall. I taste blood; either he or I, maybe both of us, will have a fat lip tomorrow.

"Oh, hey," I say, trying to slow things down, if unbuttoning his fly can be considered that. I shove his jeans down his hips, and he toes his sneakers off and then steps out of his jeans, grinding against me all the while.

"Jordie," he says breathlessly into my mouth, his fingers clenching painfully at my hair. He licks my gums, the roof of my mouth, my tongue, and he gasps harshly when I shove my hand into his briefs and find his cock, hard and already dripping.

I push him across the narrow entrance way, so that now his back is against the wall, and I drop to my knees, holding his hips in place. His fingers are still tangled in my hair, and he tries to pull my head forward onto him.

"Let go of my head, David," I tell him, and he looks down at me, his eyes dazed.

"What?"

"Let go of my head," I repeat, and he lets go instantly, his fingertips trembling as they trace my ears and temples and jaw, then drop away completely.

I reward him by pulling down his underwear and nuzzling into the crease of his hip, inhaling his musky scent.

"Please," he says harshly. His hands hover around my head again, but he doesn't touch me. "Please, please."

I take him in my mouth, moaning at his taste. For a second I wonder how long it's been, a couple of years at least, since I've sucked someone off, but it doesn't matter, because even if my last time had been yesterday, it wouldn't have been David in my mouth, and now it is. His hips try to jerk forward, and I hold him in place, moving slowly up and down his cock, taking him in as deep as I can and swallowing. I feel his fingers flutter against the top of my head and I freeze momentarily, and he says "please" again, and I let him hold my head, even though it scares me, but he doesn't push or try to force me in any way, and after a while I almost forget, and just concentrate on him, my mouth full of him and of his taste.

"Jordie, I'm—" he says, and he's hands are tightening on my hair again, but he's trying to pull me away, not push me down, so it's okay and I ignore his warning. Just like last time, he barely makes a sound when he comes; his seed spurts into my mouth, salty and bitter, and I moan again.

He bends over me and cradles my head, kissing the top of it, as I press my lips into his belly and run my fingers through his pubic hair and trace his balls.

"I want you to fuck me," he whispers, clawing at my polo shirt, trying to free it from my waistband and pull it over my head. I raise my arms to help him, and then he pulls me up and pushes me towards the bed, shoving me until I'm flat on my back and he's crawling over me, his tongue licking up from the waistband of my jeans, dipping into my belly button, then further up, to circle one nipple. He bites it lightly and I cry out, and he looks at me, his eyes blazing.

"Do you like that?" he whispers hotly, and instead of answering, I arch into his mouth, and catch hold of his hand and bring it up to my other nipple. Still looking at me, he pinches carefully, and I cry out again.

"Oh, Jordie," he says huskily, then he rests his weight against me and kisses me, his hands continuing to pay attention to my nipples. I run my palms down his bare back, cupping his ass, feeling along the crease and he does that little stutter inhalation I thought was so sexy the first time we were together.

"I need to get my jeans off," I tell him, speaking into his mouth, the curve of his shoulder, his ear, as he constantly moves against me. "I need to get a condom on, and I need to get inside you."

He sits up, his ass on my thighs, his cock once again stiff and swollen between us, his chest moving like he's just finished a hard run. He unbuttons my jeans, then knee-walks backward, pulling them off. He slips both hands under the legs of my boxers, and I feel his fingers on my testicles and I shudder.

"These are so old-fashioned," he smiles, and I hope he means the underwear and not my balls.

"So am I."

His thumbs move back, rubbing against the perineum, and it's starting to drive me crazy.

"I need more," I tell him, and after giving me just barely enough and ignoring my whimpering and begging for what seems like forever, he finally nods, stands up and goes to the bathroom. God, his ass is sweet, not a bubble butt, which I've never really liked, but not flat either, just lean and muscular and... sweet. He returns with condoms and a lube and tosses them next to me.

"How do you want it?" I ask him, as he stretches out onto the bed next to me.

"I like riding," he says, almost shyly, and I nod. When you're bottoming, being on top gives you more control than any other position.

I shove off my old-fashioned boxers, and then sit up, pulling at his leg so that he straddles me again, wrapping my arms around his waist and kissing his collarbone. He shoves the lube into my hands, and bends down to kiss me, gasping a little as he feels my slick fingers move down his crease and towards his hole. At first he clenches and raises himself a little, flinching away from me, then he relaxes and pushes himself down onto my hand, exhaling as he goes.

"Okay?" I ask him, loving the way he arches his body, his eyes at half-mast and his teeth gnawing at his lower lip, the way his muscles clench on my finger.

"Oh, yeah," he whispers, and then gasps when I press a second finger into him and find his prostate. "Yes." He hunches over and buries his face into my neck. "Yes."

I have to leave him for a while, so that I can put the condom on, and then he starts to sink down onto me, surrounding me, his fingers gripping my shoulders so tightly I'm sure there'll be bruises there tomorrow.

"Yes," he whispers again, when his butt is resting against my open thighs.

I jerk my hips a little into his tight heat, but I can't really move like this, sitting up and with his full weight on my thighs, so I lie back pulling me with him, until he's lying on top of me, and I can brace my feet and rock up into him. He grunts every time I slam my hips up, pushing back against me in the same rhythm, and I start trying to concentrate on something else, anything beyond him and this bed and this room, like general ledger account numbers, because I'm going to come, and it's way, way too soon.

He lifts himself a little, so that he can see my face, and he traces my lips and my jaw with his fingers.

"So good," he whispers. "Jordie, so good."

Jesus, the way he says my name. I grip his hips and push him down as I strain up against him, into him.

"I'm hungry," I declare, as he lies spooned against my back. We never made it out of our room for dinner last night or breakfast this morning. Our hands are laced together and I hold them up in a bar of bright sunlight, studying the blue veins under his skin, the dusting of dark hairs on his wrist and forearm, the square nails tipping his long fingers. "We have to get up and find food, or I'm going to expire right here."

"Not getting up," he mutters. "Thanks to you and your selfish needs I'm on day 1 again, so I might as well just stay in bed."