Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Richard tensed, jerked, and came . . . tensed, jerked, and came again. David had released before him. He always did. With an "Umph" and a muttered, "Shit, that was good," Richard rolled off David and onto his back in the king-sized bed that took up nearly every square inch of their postage-stamp-sized Chelsea apartment in Manhattan. David turned onto his side, away from Richard, so that Richard couldn't see his tears.

If it's so good, why are you leaving, David thought. That's not what he said, though. He wasn't going to beg. "Yes, it was good . . . for a last time," he murmured.

"It doesn't have to be a last time. Splitting up in an arrangement like this doesn't have to stop all of the fringe benefits," Richard remarked, with a snort. "Remember that we both came into this declaring it would be casual—no strings attached."

Yes, that was the base problem, David thought. To him this had become a commitment—and Richard had eventually said it was as well, but, at the base, with Richard, it was just a convenient economic arrangement. A sure lay when a better opportunity wasn't in the offing. That was why they'd reached this point. No, that wasn't fair, David thought. To Richard it was mostly a convenient economic arrangement. It had been something to Richard too, or they wouldn't have been together for nearly two years. What had started off, admittedly as casual, had become more than that. They both had said so at one time or another. It just hadn't become enough of a commitment—to both of them at the same time. At least they hadn't both honestly said and meant it at the same time.

He didn't respond to Richard's assertion that discounted so much of what had been shared and said since they'd first hooked up. They both lay there, both awake, both satiated with sex—but sex that couldn't have come in worse circumstances. The breakup wasn't coming out of the blue. David had seen the signs. But tonight was the first time Richard said it was over.

It probably should never had begun. They were polar opposites. Richard Stern was the robust, Nordic sports guy—two years younger than David, at twenty-six. He was a sports caster for ESPN, the Entertainment Sports Programing Network, that televised live commentary on sports events. He specialized in the minor and unusual sports—fencing, repelling, figure skating. He also did tennis and European football. He was boisterous, outgoing, glad-handing, bigger than life. David, dark, more slender and cautious, was the introspective, cerebral one. He was a writer on architectural history for the Architectural Record journal.

Richard was the closer at parties, usually ending up in bed, on the top. David generally left parties early, usually alone. They did this even as a couple, and that hadn't seemed ever to bother either one of them. Richard would be moving on to the next party or a bar after the romp in bed; David would be going to back to the apartment to put classical music on and read a book or to write at the computer.

But they'd both eventually meet in bed even if it was after dawn when Richard dragged home, and they'd have satisfying sex. Richard, of course, was the top and David the bottom.

"There's only one bedroom and one bed here," David said into the darkness after a while when he was able to control the tears and knew that Richard was lying there, looking up at the ceiling, not any more prepared then he was just to leave here, even for tonight.

"True," came back from Richard.

"So, who moves out?" They'd both celebrated the finding of this apartment. No matter how small it was, it was in a good building and within walking distance for both of them to their home offices. Neither one of them had a car. There was no place, really, to have one in the Chelsea district.

"We both will have to," Richard answered. "Neither one of us can swing this alone."

David saw the truth in that, at least as far as Richard would know, even though he didn't want to accept it. He would have accepted it if Richard had said David would have to go and Richard would stay. It would have told David that Richard had someone else ready to move in. It would be whatever Richard wanted, though. Richard controlled. They both knew that. Even in saying they were breaking up, Richard controlled. David would never have said it even if he'd known it was coming. Richard had, David realized, known it was coming. He'd been quick to say they'd both have to leave. He'd already given this thought. He was the one who had a realistic handle on their combined finances.

Is that why he'd pledged a commitment he wasn't going to carry out? David wondered. Was it because he'd already worked out that they could swing the apartment together but not apart? But, no, that wasn't fair. He'd just tried it out and it hadn't worked for him.

It had been working for David, though.

"Shit," he suddenly exhaled.

"What?" Richard asked.

"The trip—our two weeks in Spain, followed up with Paris."

"What about it?"

"We can't go now, but all those nonrefundable deposits. And the airfare and the seaside apartment in Galicia. We've already paid those in full. Those were nonrefundable too." David was just miserable about what was involved in this breaking up business. Of course this was just him being him—thinking of logistics to avoid thinking about what really mattered—that, after two years together, they were breaking up.

"We'll just have to go ahead with the trip, with Spain, at least," Richard said. "We should at least give it a try. I have some business to do there anyway. We hadn't agreed on what we'd do in any event. I had my ideas and you had yours."

"I suppose we could rearrange to have separate rooms or separate beds, at least," David said.

"Why should we do that, David? I swear you're stuck on being a romantic. It's just fucking. A form of exercise. It's a renewable source. It doesn't have to come with strings."

There it was, David thought. The real reason they were breaking up. Their interests were radically different. They'd been dancing around what they'd do in northwestern Spain and Paris and hadn't come up with much both wanted to do, other than swim in the sea, sleep, and fuck. That would have been enough for David, but he knew that wouldn't be enough for Richard—not just in doing it with each other. And, besides, once in Galicia, there was so much of interest for David—the architecture and the pilgrimage trails, the ancient Camino de Santiago religious pilgrimage routes. That would be near the ocean-side apartment they'd rented in Puerto de Sanxenxo. But, sportsman or no, Richard hadn't expressed an interest in hiking a religious pilgrimage route.

"I suppose," David murmured.

"The apartment in Puerto de Sanxenxo has two bedrooms," Richard, the practical one, said. "We can both base there, in separate bedrooms, and do our own thing, if that's what you want. It's just a hotel room in Paris, but you can do Paris alone."

Doing Paris alone wasn't anything like how David had envisioned doing Paris. "I suppose," he whispered again.

"And, again, just because we're breaking up—not being a couple anymore—doesn't mean we can't fuck. We're good with that. We're good at that. What we just did was great—and that was after we'd agreed to split up."

David didn't answer. He hadn't agreed to split up, not really. It had been imposed on him. But of course he realized that it took two to commit. He was still a commitment sort of guy. He wasn't good with continuing to have sex after breaking up. That was another thing where they were different. Sex wasn't that casual with him. And being with Richard hadn't been casual with him either. He'd lied about agreeing to the limitations Richard had put on the arrangement. Whenever Richard had taken another guy to bed, David had tolerated it, but he hadn't liked it, and he only now had surrendered to not being able to change it.

"We'll just need to add a rental car. I'll be on the road a lot in Galicia."

What David couldn't understand, having decided that he should have realized the breakup was coming, was why now? Why was Richard bringing this up now? In another month they were going on their holiday. Why didn't he wait until they'd gotten that in?

"Oh, I should let you know too that I'm moving out this week?" Richard said, his voice heavy with the onset of sleep.

"Moving out? What do you mean?" David asked, turning toward Richard in the bed.

"I'm moving in with Craig Lundsford."

Craig Lundsford. The Olympic gymnast. Richard was just back from covering the U.S. gymnastics nationals. So, he had been half right, David thought. There is another man. It's just a man with an apartment Richard likes better than he likes this one.

"Is that why you're breaking up with me now, right before we go on vacation?" David asked.

Richard didn't answer, because Richard was asleep now. But of course that was why. Richard was moving on. Richard was moving on without David.

* * * *

The plane flights out of JFK, through Europe, and to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, northwest Spain, were exhilarating for David. He enjoyed being on the move, going on vacations. Richard complained all the way. He and the gymnast, Craig Lundsford, hadn't hit it off well—not well at all. Richard didn't actually ask to move back in with David, but the architecture writer had hopes that was coming. Everything Richard said he didn't like about living with Craig was something David thought he didn't do, and David thought, with hope, that Richard mentioned them to express appreciation for David and what the two of them had had together. He still pined for the big blond in his bed. Maybe if he just gave it a little time, David thought, Richard might be back. Would David take him back? Yes, of course, without question.

Richard had moved out. David had kept their apartment in Chelsea. He'd gotten a couple of raises at the magazine since the two first moved in together. David had told Richard about them, but it apparently hadn't sunk in that it meant he was bringing more home. He hadn't pressed the point, because Richard was fully capable of expanding his spending to erase anything coming in. David had to economize a bit to stay in the apartment, but he'd had his hopes that Richard would be back. Now there was a chance of that—or so David thought, as the blond sports commentator complained almost insistently while they flew across the Atlantic and down through Europe from London—that their Spain vacation would bring them back together.

At the Rosalia de Castro airport in Santiago de Compostela, as they picked up their luggage, David made a tentative suggestion. "Do we really need to rent two cars? That's about the most expensive aspect of the trip. We'd originally thought we'd just do some of what you wanted to do and some of what I wanted to do but that we'd do it together."

"I have plans already—in Lisbon, Madrid, and Barcelona. All sports stuff," Richard said. "That was sort of the sticking point. We never did agree to go everywhere together. So, yeah, I think two cars is best."

So, David got the Nissan Micra they had reserved and Richard picked out a sportier Nissan Juke, and they drove, in tandem, the sixty kilometers to the coastal harbor town of Puerto de Sanxenxo, where they'd rented a two-bedroom penthouse apartment with a large terrace overlooking the yacht basin. Richard loved the apartment, telling David, with a wink, that David should take the master bedroom with the queen-sized bed—"to encourage visitation," he said, and Richard would take the bedroom with the two twin beds. Richard had always liked the roleplaying of attacking a defenseless and vulnerable David unawares in bed and ravishing him. David had enjoyed that game as well.

As soon as they settled, Richard wanted to go to the beach.

"Both of us?" David asked.

"Sure," Richard answered, and off they went to the nearby Carabuzeira Beach, which was sparsely populated that late afternoon, mostly by other beefcake men cruising on the beach. Richard's eyes roamed but David did what he could to maintain the blond's attention. They cavorted in the surf and touched and kissed, and David was in heaven. They returned to the apartment as it was growing dark.

"We forgot to shop for food," David said, looking into an empty refrigerator.

"And, worse than that, there's no liquor," Richard said.

They decided to hit a waterfront restaurant for dinner and order something they could take out from there for breakfast. A nearby bodega supplied wine and beer.

"I'll make a grocery run tomorrow," David said.

"You do that. You do that so well," Richard answered. David preened at the compliment, sure that the two of them were returning to what David thought had worked so well in their relationship.

Everything was looking up as they prepared for bed. Richard was showering in the master bedroom bathroom rather than the second bath that went to the twin-bed room he'd selected. He came into the bathroom where David was grooming himself at the sink. Richard was naked and in erection. The shower was large, with a transparent glass door. Richard masturbated under the water, his eyes on David, also naked, at the sink. When he beckoned for David to join him in the shower, David eagerly complied, going on his knees under the cascading water and taking Richard's long, thick erection in his mouth.

Life seemed to be returning to normal, as David had hoped it would.

Richard fucked David on the queen-sized bed in the master bedroom, with David on his back and Richard running a muscular arm under his smaller, but older, slim, dark-haired, slightly hirsute sex partner to lift and roll David's pelvis up to him. David's torso streamed out toward the top of the bed and he raised his arms over his head, grasping the top of the headboard, and, heels dug into the mattress, and, eventually, moved in consort with Richard's thrusts up into the quick of him and held, trembling and mouth open in a silent yawn, as Richard filled the bulb of the condom deep inside David's channel.

They had roleplayed as in times before, with Richard surprising David in bed, and David pretending to resist, being overpowered by the stronger man, trapped under him in capturing embrace, thrashing about as such clothing as there was was dispensed with, writhing and crying out at the forceable penetration, and slowly giving in until they were working together in the rhythm of the fuck. Despite the roleplay, Richard was not a rough or cruel lover. They were well matched.

David was in nirvana. He hadn't been fucked since Richard had moved out of the apartment. He had lived in the hope that Richard would return. That hope was alive now.

Later Richard lay on his back on the bed and held David's slim waist between his beefy hands as David rode him in a cowboy position. Then, both of them exhausted from the flights, the swim in the ocean, and the sex, they slept, entwined, in the same bed.

In the morning, David woke up on the bed—alone. Richard was gone. He'd eaten half of what they'd bought for breakfast. The coffee was cold. His suitcases were gone. The note he left said he was off to see a matador in Lisbon, at the Campo Pequeno bullfighting arena.

He said nothing about the lovemaking the previous night. Of course, it was only David who had called it lovemaking. Richard had always referred to it as sexual exercise—fucking, for short.

* * * *

Emilio Garca had gotten them seats on the boards at the Campo Pequeno bullring in Lisbon, delighted that he had managed to lure Richard to Lisbon to, he hoped, do a special sports clip on the matador, Roque Avila, who Garca managed. They had been in loose "if you're ever in Lisbon" discussions of this ever since they'd met in New York at an ESPN reception, had moved on from the reception to a gay bar in Chelsea, and, ultimately, to a gay bathhouse. They didn't ball each other—they were both tops—but Roque Avila was a submissive and Garca had seen his chance to get the matador some special sports coverage.

"Isn't he magnificent?" Garca asked, pointing out Avila, who was now in the ring, dancing with a bull. The Portuguese bullfighter was just a year younger than Richard, at twenty-three. He was a handsome, sleek young man, slender and willowy, and he did, in fact, dance with the bull. He was small, not more than five-foot-six, but he commanded the arena and the bull. He was gorgeous and sexy in his tight matador costume and he knew he was.

He performed like a ballet dancer and was costumed like one. He knew that his manager had gotten a man from ESPN to come—and to interview and film Avila, if the matador was accommodating to the man. From what Avila could see of Richard, sitting with Garca, he was quite acceptable—nearly worthy of worshipping Avila's body, as was the young man's due.

Avila danced for Richard—obviously playing directly for Richard in the stands. The matador was toying with the bull, basking in the worship and delight of the crowd in the arena. The bull died well. Avila performed better. At the end, he came to the boards where Richard and Garca were sitting, and he pulled his hat off and gave a deep bow. The crowd went crazy in love with him.

The crowd couldn't be any more in love with him than he was with himself.

Richard had known that sex would be on offer if he did the interview. He thought it would be kicky to do a genuine matador. Avila came into the stands, and they did the interview there, filmed by two cameramen Garca hired for the occasion. The interview went well, although Avila was as skittish as a thoroughbred racehorse and twice as arrogant. He also had a high voice and now, outside of the bullring, his mannerisms were definitely seen as feminine. He normally wasn't anyone Richard would go after, but this had been set up for him and he was trapped into taking what was on offer. Richard did what he could to tone the young matador down and encourage him to do little talking, letting Garca carry most of the interview talk, because Avila's high-pitched voice didn't go with the macho image of a matador.

"I wish to do another kind of film, with you and Roque," Garca said at the end of the ESPN special report filming, "like we did together in the New York bathhouse for presents for some of your friends. Roque has special fans here in Portugal who he does special films for. You are quite the handsome and capable man. I know you want to lay him. You could wear a mask if you have a problem making such a film. I did it for you in New York. I thought maybe you'd do it for us here. I have kept the cameramen. They do this sort of work for me."

"Where would we do this?" Richard asked, eying the simpering matador, who was vamping for him. This obviously was fine with Avila. He quite evidently made films like this for his special fans. Richard had certainly wanted to lay the matador in theory, but, now that he'd met him, he wasn't so sure. But he was trapped into the arrangement. He didn't want to alienate Garca.

"I have a flat on the Avenida Óscar Monteiro Torres leading off from the Campo Pequeno toward the sea," Garca said. "It's quite elegant. Avila wants to be fucked on shiny silk sheets."

Avila got fucked on a queen-sized bed in a well-appointed bedroom on shiny silk sheets. His small body was beautiful in a willowy, effeminate way, and he wanted to be worshipped and fucked like he was a delicate-flower woman. There were mirrors on the side walls and behind the headboard, and he wanted to hold the most sensual, sexy poses for those while Richard, hunky, muscular, big-cocked, and blond fucked him. Avila, insisting that Richard be as worshipful with his body as he was himself, got more enjoyment out of the fuck than Richard did. For Richard, it had a one-time-only novelty pleasure to it, but it was like trying to dick a porcelain doll—a female one—without breaking it.