Devoted to You

And they do for the remainder of the weekend. There's our lunch that she fixes, dinner at Olive Garden (her treat), followed by a walk under the stars and then more love making when we get back. We lounge in bed on Sunday morning, then I insist on treating her to brunch at the Waffle Shop. Great times, that seem to bring us closer. Still, given our situation, I can't help but wonder how long we can keep doing this. We stand divided by geography and age, mostly the latter, a chasm that in the long run neither of us might be able to breach. Living in the moment is fine. But it has its limitations.

*****

Layla

Tears fall as I stand with Bryson by his car on this brisk Sunday afternoon. The minutes pass and the shadows lengthen and we hug each other as if it will be our final farewell. He's emotional also, but doing his best to keep his floodgates in check. "It's a man thing," he jokes.

I attempt to joke back through my sniffling. "You silly macho men, trying to contain your emotions."

His suitcase is packed and his bike is racked for his drive back to Maryland. Saying goodbye to someone you care about is never easy. It wasn't so bad when I left his house a few weeks ago because I knew we'd see each other again. Parting then was indeed a kind of sweet sorrow. Now? More sorrow than sweet, I'm afraid. "You'll get more involved with Dylan or someone else and I'll soon be a mere footnote in your young life," he's told me. Perhaps he's right, at least about getting involved with someone closer in age. But a footnote? No way. My experience with Bryson, from Ocean City until now, would hardly qualify as a footnote. More like a chapter in my life, if not a book. One with its own set of footnotes. Copious footnotes.

Brice holds me, snuggled against his chest, kissing my forehead. I ask if he wants to see me again and he says, "You know I do. It's just...well, you know."

I do know and therefore don't ask. Looking up at him, I say, "Well, just don't shut me out, close the door on us completely. Okay?"

He nods, and then we start kissing like mad. He tucks his hands under my sweatshirt, fondling my braless breasts as I grind my pelvis against his jeans. Then the next thing I know, he picks me up and carries me from the parking lot to my front door. When he puts me down, I say, "You won't make it home in time to see 60 Minutes and then to prepare your student lesson plans like you wanted. That is, if what you have in mind what I think you have in mind."

"Then I'll just have to stay up later," he says, his face a picture of comic determination. "I'm assuming you've got homework of your own."

"I do but it can wait." I rub my hand over his bulging crotch. "This comes first."

He holds my head in his hands. "Layla Moretti, I adore you. You know that?"

I smile through my tears. "Not to be conceited, but yes, I do. And guess what? I feel the same about you, Bryson Kobin."

We make a b-line for my bedroom, throw our clothes on the floor and then slip into my unmade bed. The passion that poured out of us just moments ago ramps up in intensity. Like me, Brice seems to sense the urgency of the moment, senses that time is a luxury we don't have—not just today but for the future. "I can't get enough of you," he cries.

"Right now, you've got all of me," I say, "on every conceivable level." We skip the usual preliminaries, get right to it. "Ohmygod, Brice, I can't believe how hard you got! You've raised the bar, no pun intended." He's wedged between my legs, pile-driving his middle-age cock as if he were a teen boy chasing his raging hormones. The sound of the whirring ceiling fan mingles with other sounds—our moaning and grunting, the smacking of skin on skin and words of love that never get old.

We climax not quite in tandem but close enough, and then he holds me as if he can't let go. Which is fine by me because I don't want him to. "I wish you could spend the night," I tell him, "and the night after that."

He brushes strands of hair out of my eye, then kisses me. "Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. If only."

"Yes, if only," I say, brushing down the mustache that he's been growing for a few weeks. "You'd look sexy with a beard, too," I add.

"Older though. Too old."

"Nah, more like distinguished," I counter. I picture him with a close-cropped beard. "You'd look like this distinguished algebra teacher with muscles. Geez, Brice, I'm getting wet again just thinking about it."

He checks. "So you are." He looks down at his crotch. "Now look what you've done. I'm on the rise once again."

Chuckle chuckle. "But what about those student lesson plans?"

"Like I said, I'll stay up later."

"You could be up for quite a while."

"You can say that again!"

We both laugh at my double entendre, not intentional but damn appropriate.

The love making is longer this time, longer and slower, almost languid. I savor every kiss and feel of his muscled body, his special scent and the tone of his voice, loving and soft and sincere. "We're devoutly consummating," he says, while doing me from behind.

"Devoutly...How about devoted?" I say, nearly gasping. "Brice, at this moment I feel nothing less than devoted to you."

"Devoted to you. Sounds like an oldie I heard on satellite radio," he says.

We switch back to missionary. We're cruising now, pacing ourselves, savoring what remains of this late golden afternoon, this long day's journey into twilight. No surprise, we take longer to climax, and then, as night descends, we sit half-naked under a blanket on my sofa, holding each other while watching 60 Minutes.

We say our goodbye once again locked in passionate embrace on the parking lot of my townhouse. "Damn those lessons plans," he grunts. "But duty calls." They'll be no more encores, not this trip. This time, Brice lets his emotions pour out of him, lets his tears flow. I join him, of course, wondering when I'll see him again, wondering IF I'll see him again. I want to; he wants to. But...

I try to stay optimistic as I wipe my eyes, watching the taillights of his car fade from view, missing him already.

Minutes after I go in, Dylan calls, wants to know if I'm free to talk. "You sound upset," he says. I deny it, then laugh when he asks if "that older dude you were with" is my uncle.

"No, just a good friend," I say, "a cycling buddy." Not a lie but hardly the full truth either. He then asks me out for next week. "We'll see," I tell him. "See you in class."

He chuckles. "Playing hard to get, huh?"

"No, not at all. But I'm, like, kind of..." I shake my head.

"Kind of...what?"

"Can we talk about this after class this week?"

"Does this have anything to do with...what's his name?"

"Bryson."

"Right. Him. Not your dad and not your uncle. Are you, like, seeing him? Romantically?"

"Um, maybe. Look—″

"You can't be serious."

"Dylan, we'll discuss this tomorrow, okay?" He utters a few more incredulities before we click off.

Moments later, Bryson calls me from his car. "Just wanted to say goodnight, that I miss you and that...I'm devoted to you also."

I tell him the same thing. But then, as I finally dive into my homework, I can't help but wonder, with a guy like Dylan knocking on my metaphorical door, just how devoted I can be.