FH: Just Found Heaven Ch. 04: Ben

I'd meant everything that I'd said to that, but that was the primary theme that I wanted Sam to take away from today if nothing else. Sam was obviously attractive, and I appreciated the aesthetics, but past that, there was something about him that read like a man who felt he needed redemption and didn't know how to find it. A man reluctant to accept the idea of being worthy of love, and of forgiveness. I'd been there too once, a long time ago, and I knew how daunting the emotions could be without having a guide, so I was appointing myself that guide. I'd fight for him until he started fighting for himself, and he'd just have to deal with it.

Both Sam and I were stopped from adding anything else to our exchange because at that moment, Sofia exited the funeral home, and made a beeline straight for us. Her expression brightened when she saw me, and I immediately smiled back.

Sofia and I'd been friends for a while like I'd told Sam, though it was only recently over the last year that she and her daughters had been attending services regularly. Unfortunately, just like Sam, she refused to come to the support group meetings but I was working on her just like I planned to keep working on Sam.

"Aquí estás, Sam. Fui preocupada de usted cuando usted se fue." Sofia slid a gentle hand along Sam's arm before smiling at me. "¿Está todo bien?"

"Everything's fine, Sofia," Sam assured her with warmth in his smile despite the fact he was still a bit pale beneath his desert tan.

My eyebrow arched when Sam responded before I did, apparently fluent in Spanish unless he was just reading Sofia's obvious anxiety which anyone could have done right now because it was rolling off of her in almost palpable waves.

"Estamos muy bien," I added. "Sam y yo acabamos de hablar. ¿Cómo usted está soportando todo esto, Sofia?"

I jumped in to give Sam a lifeline if he needed it, adding to his assurances to his sister-in-law that we were both fine. Sofia visibly relaxed, and responded to my question about how she was coping. We went back and forth for a few minutes in rapid-fire Spanish, and when I glanced at Sam a few times during my exchange with Sofia, he looked like he was listening, not just staring at his toes or up at the sky like most people would've if they didn't understand a language.

Definitely fluent then. Another check in Samuel Trammel's growing pros column though I wasn't going to focus on that.

I gently squeezed Sofia's hand after I leaned in to brush a kiss over her cheek. "I hate to run, but I need to get going. I'm meeting someone here in a bit to help her with her mother's funeral sermon. I can't say that writing moving eulogies is my strongest skill, but it's one of the priestly duties I can't get out of."

I saw Sam shift in my peripheral vision as if I'd suddenly drawn his complete attention toward me. "You're a priest?"

Amusement curved my mouth as Sam's gaze dropped from my face to the smooth column of my bare throat before I chuckled. Like a good friend of mine who was also an Episcopal priest, I didn't usually wear my clerical collar unless I was giving a Sunday sermon because it was a symbol, not an identity as it was with Catholic priests. I didn't need it to prove that I was a man of God.

"Yes, I'm an Episcopal priest. I've only been here a few years."

"You didn't mention this group was a church thing."

"Did I have to? Anyone is welcome whether they believe in our faith or not. And on that note, I really have to go. Sofia, I'll call you to go over the final details, okay?"

"Si, Padre Santiago. Gracias por todo que usted ha hecho.

"It's my pleasure, Sofia. You have my number. Feel free to call if you need anything at all."

I turned back toward Sam, and my smile slowly widened. His pupils had returned to normal, proof that the earlier dilation hadn't been because of any drugs or alcohol to numb his pain.

"It was nice to meet you, Sam. Have a blessed day, you two."

I walked away, and once I was back inside the foyer of the funeral home and out of Sofia and Sam's line of sight, I looked up toward the ceiling as I murmured, "Charlie, you might finally get your wish..."

***

Charlie... just the name of my former lover, and in so many ways, my first savior, made my lips curve with bittersweet affection. If he'd still been alive I might not be here now, yet even though Charlie had been dead for years, I could feel his energy as if his stubborn spirit was coming to visit for the day to watch me fulfill his last wish for me.

I pressed my hand briefly over the cool metal of the cross. It might've been a gift from Sam, but Sam himself could be seen as a gift to me from the man who'd been so insistent that I should never give up on the possibility of tomorrow...

***

"One day you're going to meet a man who you'll care deeply for Ben, and I want you to be ready and open to that opportunity when it happens."

"I am with a man that I care for, and he knows just how open I can be for him when the mood hits."

I grinned, and stretched my arms over my head languidly with a lazy pop of my spine when Charlie smiled. Affectionate exasperation was obvious in his hazel eyes as he tracked my movements when I deliberately bent my left leg at the knee, and propped it at a 90° angle on the seat of the antique wooden rocking-chair that I was sitting in. I extended my other leg with the tips of my bare toes braced on the floor so that I could set the chair into an indolent rock. The position stretched the thin, silky fabric of my long, garnet red lounge pants tightly over my lower body every time the chair arched back with the gentle momentum, pulling the material taut across my crotch to make it very obvious that I wasn't wearing anything else beneath them.

Charlie's lips twitched because he knew I was doing it deliberately.

The pants had been a gift from Charlie in the earlier days of our relationship. He was a sensualist, and enjoyed the sensation of pleasurable textures against his skin. Our bedsheets were a high thread count sateen fabric that felt like silk against my skin whenever I pushed Charlie into the plush mattress with the long, slow strokes of my cock that he liked even more than the scent of the bergamot candles we always had on hand. They used to add ambiance to our bedroom. Now they helped to subtly tone down the scent of antibacterial soaps, and other small signs of Charlie being mostly bedridden, and wasting away from his illness.

Charlie still enjoyed the candles but we hadn't slept together in months because the medications used to treat his prostate cancer made him so sick that that even his own touch hurt him. During the last few months, we'd started behaving more like platonic roommates than lovers, but whenever Charlie tried to push through the walls I kept between my emotions and most people, even him, I always reverted to sexual innuendo, and carnal diversion. They were distraction techniques I'd used hundreds of times both with Charlie, and with all of the other men who'd hired me when I'd still been working as an escort before meeting Charlie.

Most people, especially men, who're generally more easily led by both their lizard brain and their dicks, could easily have their thoughts turned by a strategic caress or well-timed, very deliberately placed kiss. I'd done it millions of times before. My act had been so perfectly mastered that even after my customers placed their envelopes fat with cash on the nightstand, solidifying the business transaction, they always willingly bought into the fantasy I could spin with them being the center of my world. They always came back for more because men who could afford to pay the prices my house charged--usually in the upper thousands for just a few hours-- weren't paying for sex. They could get that with any quick, cheap street corner hookup. They were paying for the boyfriend experience; an attractive, open-minded, appreciative, and attentive lover who'd do anything they asked whether it ran along the purely kinky spectrum, or just venting about work, what expensive private schools to send their children too, or how much they had to pay their ex-wives in alimony. I'd been expected to listen compassionately, and then rock their world however they wanted so they could forget about their problems even though 99 percent of those problems were usually ones they'd created themselves with bad decisions.

That hadn't been my problem though. Men with power, and high prestige who could afford my rates made living a comfortable lifestyle relatively easy. Most of my regular client's tastes ran along the entire spectrum of kinky, but safely depraved. Some of those men had also occasionally required an attractive trophy piece to accompany them to galas and charity events. Women no longer cornered the market as arm candy meant to inspire lust as desirable trophies, and being well spoken, intelligent, and charming in public, but completely uninhibited behind closed doors, was a recipe for success in that world.

I'd been with men from every race, religion and walk of life, and the one thing that almost all of them shared in common was that their primary interest had been what was between my legs, not what was in my head. At least none of the things that I actually cared about, or was interested in. My talkers usually had a specific pot of topics that I could pull from, and mix up in new configurations so that every "date," always seemed like the first one, even for my longtime regulars.

Charlie was the only man other than my closest friend, Roman, who'd never treated me like a rent boy. Our first, 'date,' had been at a high-end restaurant in Miami that I knew had a wait-list over a year long. Charlie had made the reservation that same night, and had been waiting for me inside at a quiet table in the back near the windows. He'd immediately stood up when I was escorted to the table by the restaurant hostess, but instead of kissing my hand, cheek or any other body part most men preferred, he'd offered me his hand for a warm, solid shake. He'd given me a solid once over of course, but he'd also pulled my chair out for me, which had amused me to no end. Instead of champagne, he'd ordered a glass of scotch on the rocks for himself, and then told me to order whatever I wanted for dinner, and for dessert. He'd added, with a mischievous, lazy smile, that he wouldn't be offended if I preferred not to drink on a 'first date,' so I could, 'keep my wits about me.'

I hadn't been the first, second or third of Charlie's paid dates over the years, so he'd known how to play the game. I'd found it charming that night, and the next one we spent together, and still on the multiple ones over the next few years when he'd stopped asking for anyone else except me until I'd eventually sold my list, and gotten out of the life.

I hadn't stopped hooking because I was Julia Roberts, and Charlie was my Richard Gere. I'd just wanted out, and by that point I was financially comfortable, and wanted something different, though I wasn't sure what other than figuring out a major so I could finish my remaining 2 years to get my bachelor's degree. Charlie had offered me the opportunity to stay with him while I figured it out; friends with benefits, because though he'd always made it clear he was in love with me, he'd also accepted that it wasn't reciprocated at the same level, even though I cared for him. Us being roommates, and companions had worked out well because he enjoyed traveling and experiencing the world, and I got to go along with him. The first time I'd ever seen Paris was with Charlie. We'd made some amazing memories, not burdened by price tags or timelines. But now that his cancer had given us a definitive timeline about the number of days we had left together, Charlie had embarked on a personal mission to make sure that I lived a, 'fulfilled life,' as he put it. One that was more than just the economically well-off one he planned to provide for me with the stipulations he'd made for me in his will recently. Without any other family as beneficiaries, Charlie was leaving his entire estate, and all of his investments to me, even though he knew that I didn't care about, or want the money. I could take care of myself since I'd been savvier with investing the money I'd made from hooking than I'd been with some of my other life choices. Charlie didn't need to take care of me, but he wanted to, and I allowed it only because I knew his motivations were genuine. He was my friend. My closest next to Roman, but when he got into these moods where he wanted to discuss his mortality, I did everything I could to distract him, and change the course of conversation.

My biological family were very traditional Cuban Catholics, and had disowned me years ago when I'd told them I was gay. Before that we'd been a large, close-knit family. My six brothers and sisters had been my closest friends and allies, but except for my youngest sister, Catherine, who'd been too young to have a real voice in our family at the time I'd come out, none of them had spoken to me once I'd left home after my parents had given me the ultimatum of hiding who I was, or getting out of their house.

I'd chosen to leave because I'd felt I had no other choice.

I could still remember the look on my parent's faces; shock, disbelief and anger. The latter had been mostly on my father's face. My mother had been the one to verbally react first, though it'd just been a low, strangled sound deep in her throat before she'd crossed herself, and burst into tears. My father's face had turned florid red with anger before he'd started shouting. Mild mannered most of the time, he'd become a different person after finding out that one of his sons wouldn't ever be bringing a pretty Catholic girl home for Sunday dinner.

Most of the exact conversation was blocked from my mind, the rest left behind in hazy fragment; emotional self-preservation. I didn't want to remember how my mother's soft palm had felt when it'd connected hard enough with my cheek to make my ears ring. My father had gone after her when she'd fled from the kitchen, leaving me with the confusion and wrath of my siblings who'd all voiced their opinions about my newly queer status in varying volume levels.

It was only after Michael had pushed me up against the wall after calling me a faggot, a word that had drained all the color from my face because I'd never expected that kind of vitriol from my compassionate older brother, that I broke. My pleas for understanding turned to rage at the rejection, and I'd lashed out.

Growing up with as many siblings as I had, we'd all gotten into scuffles over the years but it was mostly verbal, and never with any true intent to hurt one another. I'd never thrown a solid punch at any of them, but when my fist connected with Michael's face, I felt the blood even before I registered him shouting in pain instead of in anger. When he'd stumbled back away from me, I'd seen the blood slicking his face and fingers, still pouring from his nose.

I'd never found out if I'd broken it, because everything happened so fast after that. Silence had descended after my oldest sister had moved to grab paper towels which she pressed against my brother's face; a silence that had been more deafening then all the screaming had been just moments before. All of my brothers and sisters were staring at me in mute horror, but it'd been Catherine's wide eyes, and the round, quivering O of her small mouth that had broken me, and I'd taken off before anyone could even attempt to stop me.

I'd never gone back to the house after that. I'd spent the night on the living room couch at a casual friend's house, and in the morning after breakfast with him and his boyfriend, I'd called my parents on their home line because their cell phones has gone to voicemail when I'd tried them first. They hadn't picked up the home line any of the other 5 times that I'd called throughout the day. Pain and regret had made me try to justify their silence as just not knowing it was me calling, but even if I hadn't left long messages each time, they were retired, and had caller ID. They knew that I'd reached out. They just didn't want to talk to me.

I'd also tried Michael's cell that day, and multiple times over the next two weeks. I'd left voicemails for him every single time. I'd also texted him, asking for forgiveness, and if we could start to fix things by talking on the phone if he didn't want to meet in person.

He'd never responded.

None of my siblings had, and after one week became two which became three, then a month, then several months in and out of shelters until I'd realized that the streets were safer as long as you stayed out of certain areas, I'd finally just given up completely. After I'd started hooking occasionally to pay for my closet of an apartment, and boxes of ramen noodles, my resentment had morphed into rage, and I'd turned away from every aspect of my former life that reminded me of everything I'd lost. That had included the religion I used to find comfort in because the God who I'd been raised to believe would always have my back, hadn't gotten his hands dirty to help me in the kitchen that day, or any of the times I'd been forced to give up things I'd imagined I'd only offer to willing romantic partners.

No matter how hard I'd tried to be a good person, and a better man as I grew up, loving men had been the character trait that had made God turn his back on me. I'd never been able to shake the comparison between me in the kitchen that night, and Adam and Eve being cast out from the garden of Eden.

Those first months alone had been hard with no money, and few life skills past a 4.0 high-school GPA, and 2 years of undergrad education, but then by chance I'd met a now former colleague, Justin, from the escort agency in the bathroom of an upscale bar that several escorts met their clients at for preview drinks. I'd been sleeping with one of the bartenders at the time which was the only reason that I'd gotten through the door in my one decent pair of jeans, and the black t-shirt that was tight across my chest from age, not fashion. But fate had crossed our paths, and after telling me that I had, 'great bone structure,' Justin had launched into what I now knew was a spiel to recruit "new talent."

I'd seen the writing on the wall but I hadn't cared. I'd been sleeping with men to keep a roof over my head in the back alleys of nightclubs, and in cheap hotel rooms for a lot less than Justin's expensive looking suit and haircut had hinted I could make. A desperate sense of resignation was what had made me follow him out to the town car where I'd been, 'interviewed,' in the back seat. That was also where I'd been introduced to Roman shortly after Justin and I were done, since he was the one who drove us back to the elegant brownstone that was one of the handful of buildings that my former madame, a respected realtor, had run the business out of.

Roman had never turned tricks but after a stint in jail that was the consequence of a tragic, juvenile mistake, he'd been working as a driver for the agency in between other odd jobs. We'd hit it off immediately, and he'd always had my back whether I was on the clock or off. Even though he was a behemoth of a man, Roman was gentle toward and protective of the people he cared for, which included me. We'd never crossed the line of friendship but he was the only person other than Charlie who I could call family.

After losing my biological relatives even though they were all still very much alive, and living throughout Miami except for Catherine who'd recently moved to Havana with her new husband Raul, my heart couldn't handle losing anyone else, so I tried to avoid thinking about the inevitable expiration date on my life with Charlie. But when he got like this, Charlie was as determined as a dog with a bone, and wouldn't drop it.