Cafe Au Lait Ch. 01

This is a work of fiction, Darling. Well, sort of. The narrator is me, of course, and the object of affection is Alexander and he is real, too. We would have to get together to discuss some of the order and events to determine they are either entirely fictional or accurate. I certainly will never forget them, and they were one of those tipping points we encounter. And fun!

It features explicit descriptions of sex between men. None of them at the time of these purely fictional interludes were underage, and all were between men of legal standing for purposes of intimacy.

It is set in the past, so protect yourself.

If you are under eighteen or your locality prohibits material of this sort, stop reading immediately and get the heck out of here.

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Café au Lait

Chapter One: Men on the Moon

It was going to be a wasted summer. It was 1969, the height of the decade which didn't actually end until the oil crunch in 1973. I'll never forget the night the whole party ended, and just as a matter of personal bookmarks, it was when Tricky Dick Nixon came on the tube and told us to drive 55 miles-an-hour to save fuel.

I almost got killed the next morning trying to do it, run down by angry white guys in big cars on the Dan Ryan Expressway the next morning.

Then it was Disco, and that is about all I remember of the fabulous 80's.

There were music festivals, and dope, and loud music and I was going to be off to college soon. I was interested in the concepts of the Age of Aquarius, though I hadn't seen much of it in the mid-western town I found myself stuck in.

It was a great time to be alive, but my toes were tapping. I wanted to get on with life.

I missed my pals, and I missed being around the Big City. My family had moved because of my Dad's reassignment. I was now in a suburb around an old brick city filled with the descendents of the hardy block-headed Dutch who populated this part of the state. It was staid and boring.

On the upside, it was easy to get alcohol. On the downside there was nobody to drink it with. I had passable fake ID and it was not hard to get a six pack to drink in the field out in back of the house. And of course there were the racks of Dad's home-made wine.

He fancied himself quite the vintner and had custom labels made up and liked to give the stuff away when he went out. When he decanted it from the barrel, he used all manner of bottles and consequently there was not particular rhyme or reason to it and it was easy to take the odd bottle from the garage.

I was as excited as anyone that summer, following the flight of the Eagle to the moon. They went in July of that summer and on July 20 at 4:18 p.m. EDT, the Lunar Module touched down on the Moon. At 10:56 p.m., Neil Armstrong jumped off the Lunar Lander.

In between I lay in my bed and gazed out the window where the moon hung silver in space.

I couldn't quite believe it. Interplanetary travel seemed to be possible. I wondered everything was the same way, possible. I was horny all the time. It did not take much to tent my trousers.

I wondered about a lot of things. Women. They were such impenetrable beings. I thought about the airbrushed Playboy images as I stroked myself, and thought about the strange fortress undergarments they wore under the mini-skirts when they shot us a look in High School. The all seemed to wear the same foundation garments, of a sort. It was the mid-West after all.

But the way they crossed their legs under the desks and that resolute aspect of their crotches filled me with wonder, and a certain amount of dread.

It wasn't like that with the guys. I used to love Phys Ed, and the shower afterwards. I could see that I stacked up pretty well with the other guys, and I often found myself thinking of what it would be like to see a guy as hard as I was.

I laid down on my bed and looked at the moon. I thought of Playboy images with airbrushed pneumatic women. But increasingly I found myself daydreaming about hard penises. I had found a copy of the shocking story of Fanny Hill in my father's remote library, in with the magazines I liked to look at.

Fanny was poked and prodded by all manner of lusty rakes. It was curious that I found myself wishing to be on her end of things. I inserted a candle in my ass one day, and pulled it in and out just like the fat cocks that filled up Fielding's heroine.

I didn't understand why this felt so good, or why I was so attracted to the idea of having it in me. It just felt good, and seemed to touch something deep inside me that tingled. God, it felt good. In fact, when I stroked myself I clenched my tight ring around the smooth intruder and when my balls boiled I shot Technicolor plumes that arced from the tip of my cock and hit me in the face.

This night, I looked at the moon and stroked my eager cock, thinking of astronauts and hard dicks. Mine rose to the occasion for the second time that day, spewing hot milk on my hand. I shuddered with the release.

In the silvery light I licked the back of my right hand, tasting my warm seed. It was slippery, with a slightly sweet musky taste and a hint of something else that made my throat tingle, seeming to close it of its own volition.

It was powerful stuff.

I knew that.

The Men's Department

I was up late with everyone else the night man landed on the moon and was tired when I drove my little red VW to the Mall the next day.

The department store I had worked for back home had an outlet here, and I was able to secure a job selling clothes. They were stricter here in the smaller town, more formal, but I got the same employee discount on clothes and I enjoyed interacting with the customers. I was a born salesman, and so long as I moved product, the management left me alone.

This morning the Manager of the men's department caught me early. I had a cigarette going in one of the dressing rooms, so I tried to sidle away from him and put it out. He was a nerdy type, a little old maid guy. He grasped me on the upper arm to keep me fixed in place.

"Listen," he said. "We have a new employee coming in today."

"O.K." I said. "I can handle that."

"No." He scowled. "This is different. He is a Negro."

I gave him a puzzled look. I had worked with black people all the time back home.

"Our first Negro," he said, as if I was supposed to understand the enormity of it.

"O.K.," I said again. "I'll try to be nice."

He gave me one of those looks. "I just don't want any problems that would reflect badly on the Men's Department."

I promised him that I would be on my best behavior and got back to stub out my cigarette before it fell out of the ashtray and caused a fire. Now that would reflect badly on the Men's Department, I thought.

I straightened up and killed time through the first hour of opening. Sometimes, on sale days, things started out with a rush. Sometimes the men's department was as silent as a tomb. Today was one of the latter, and it seemed like even if men where on the Moon, it was going to be an endless summer.

And it was not going to be one with surfboards, even if that surf documentary came around again.

I could see taking off for something completely different. I wanted to go.

Alexander the Great

The Negro my boss had warned me about arrived just before lunch.

I don't know what I had been expecting. He had been so concerned about the racial thing, I thought it might be some dark-skinned H. Rap Brown thug. I knew that wasn't true. I had been working with the black guys on the loading dock and in the parking shack since I was fifteen and could get my papers.

I knew they were just people, and when the summer came with all the riots I gained a deep respect for what they had to deal with that I had no comprehension about. So even if this person was a tough guy I was confident I could get along with him.

I was selling a pair of jeans to a woman who had a disinterested pimply kid in tow when I heard my name being called. I completed the transaction, closed the register, and slid the pants into a sack with the Department Store logo on it and turned around.

My nerd manager had a tall young man with him. I took an involuntary breath. His skin had the rich color of caramel, just lighter than a the sweet rich cup of coffee au lait with which I started my mornings. His hair was a sort of light brunette in a million tight curls, cut close on the sides and rising a little on top. Style.

His eyes were the strangest shade of hazel and his aristocratic nose had just a hint of African flare. I was stunned. This was no Negro. This young man looked like the pictures of Malcom X when he was still Detroit Red. Handsome!

"Bob," I want you to meet Alexander. He will be joining the staff here today and I want you to show him the ropes. How to open up and close out."

"I'd be happy to" I said, hoping I didn't look too startled. "Nice to meet you, Alex."

He smiled and I saw radiant white teeth behind his lips that were not much fuller than mine. Just rich and sensuous.

"I prefer Alexander" he said softly "But just don't call me late for dinner." He finished the joke with a smile and I grinned right back.

"Alexander it is" I said. "Sorry."

The manager looked at us and pursed his lips. "I'll handle the register here. Why don't you show him the break room and where he can get some lunch if he is hungry. We have a half hour for lunch here, no more, and two fifteen-minute breaks."

"We are very organized here" I said. "We run a tight department."

The manager knew I was ribbing him but he let it go. He was such a wimp. "Come on, Alexander. Let me show you the ropes." He smiled and we walked off past the display counters and the suit racks. I pointed to the door between the slacks and sports coats. "Back there are the dressing rooms. We are supposed to keep an eye on them to make sure no one is doing any shoplifting or tag-changing."

"Do you have much of that here?" asked Alexander in that soft voice. His inflection rose on the word "that."

"Nah," I said. "Mostly we have hard-working blockhead Dutch in here. It is a boring clientele." I paused. "I'm sorry, are you from around here? I didn't mean anything by that."

"Goodness, no," he said firmly. "I am from Chicago. They sent me here for the summer."

"Who did? The family?"

"Yeah," he responded with a sigh. "There were some issues. We have kin here. I'll tell you about it sometime, if you are interested."

I found that interesting. I wondered if he had to cool off from something. But that could come in time. "Let me show you the break room. It has the only Coke machine on this side of the Mall." We took the escalator down to the basement where we sold tools and patio crap. I don't know why the heavy stuff was in the basement, but I just work there.

We looked at the Coke machine and the ultra-modern industrial microwave. "That thing will cook a hot dog in about three seconds," I said. "And sometimes the machine actually gets the ice right in the cup, unless it turns it over and spills everything."

He laughed, a melodious sound like water flowing over smooth stones.

"I've seen worse," he said, eyes twinkling. "Now why don't you show me how to work."

We went back upstairs and relieved the Nerd at the register. I showed him the buttons to mash for "no sale" and how to do the credit vouchers and how to place the card just so on the register plate so when you pressed the handle the name and account number came through on the carbon. I showed him the tally sheet we each had to fill out for all the sales we did, and how we would close it out at the end of the day.

Since it was slow, we chatted through the afternoon. I found out he was recently graduated, too. He was headed for college, though his family wanted him to attend a historically black school in Washington DC rather than the University of Illinois.

"Why is that?" I asked. I was headed there myself. I looked forward to the challenge of the big campus and all the activity.

"They want me to be Black for a while, so that I don't forget."

That stopped me dead. I didn't know what to say, and preferred to say nothing rather than something that might be inadvertently offensive. Thankfully a 44-short suit customer showed up and I taught Alexander how to mark up the cut-job instructions for the tailor. That is the only part of the job that is complicated. People come in such a variety of sizes.

Selling a suit is a big deal, with a lot of interplay with the customer. I rang up the sale and then measured the stocky man's coat, marking with chalk the hump where the jacket had to be taken in at the collar, and the rise and inseam on the trousers. I always feel a little funny about that, particularly when the guy is such a toad. Alexander seemed to think it was amusing and grinned when I had completed the process, filled out the tag and instructions, and thanked the man for his business.

The chunky man ambled away and I turned and said "What's so funny?"

"You are, Bob. I don't think you liked that man, and I think you are afraid that I don't know I am a Negro."

"Shit, no, I didn't like him. He was a toad. But about the other part, I don't want to hurt your feelings by saying something stupid."

"Like whether I can get a sunburn?" He paused and smiled. "I can, you know. And that is because white men have been fucking the women in my family for three hundred years."

I must have blushed. "It's O.K.," he said. "I didn't say you fucked them."

"It's complicated" I stammered.

"Yes, it is." he said gently. "For white people it is. But relax. Don't for an instant think that we do not know what is going on around us. When you are as light as my family is, you get it from both sides. Not white, and not black enough to be authentic. In New Orleans, we were aristocracy. Up North we are just colored folks that look too white."

"Is that what happened to get you exiled here for the summer?"

"Something like that. Sometimes you get the double whammy."

I didn't know what he meant by that, but he touched me on the upper arm as I looked up to see a family looking at the shirt counter. "Gotta' go sell," I said, grateful at the opportunity to avoid the sudden honesty. "Maybe we can catch a smoke in a while."

"I'd like that," he said. Then he smiled and I felt my stomach tighten.

I was glad it was busy. Alexander made his first sale, and I admired the elegance of the way he bagged the shirts, the little flourish as he handed it over as though it were a prize of great price and not just a couple Arrow shirts. The late afternoon traffic stayed pretty brisk and it was coming up on dinner when the Nerd told me he would keep Alexander and show him how to close out, since he came in late and I had opened up. "OK," I said, though I wouldn't have minded staying.

The Nerd said he would be writing a new work schedule to accommodate Alexander's arrival and I said goodnight to the Nerd and told Alexander that I looked forward to working with him.

He extended his hand and I noticed for the first time how slender and graceful his fingers were. I did not clasp his palm in the death grip I usually use. His touch was firm and his flesh supple and warm. I walked out into the still-bright sun and found the car.

The vinyl seats were hotter than shit, and I roared home with the windows down, wishing the little car has air conditioning. I took a swim and found a place in the field out in back of the house to go drink a couple semi-cold Pabst Blue Ribbons. I was daydreaming out there as the shadows grew longer and night fell.

I was day-dreaming about Alexander's fingers. I wondered if it were true, about the proportional relationship between fingers and cock. And if all the Caucasian blood had any effect on how big it was.

Shoot, I thought. I wonder if I am a fucking homo?

When I lay in my bed later, I got rock hard and images of him flashed through my mind as I grunted and rubbed my throbbing dick. When I came, I thought of him shooting all over me. When I licked it up, I imagined it was his.

Shoot, I am a fucking homo, I thought.

Now what the fuck do I do about that?