Pulaski Square

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"Are you saying I'm growing too old for you to screw?" I asked. "That you wish to seek new accommodations and protections—even a job away from the square?"

"No, I'm quite content here," Caleb said, with a sigh.

"Meaning I'm still one of the best fucks you can find, right."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Well, just you remember that, Caleb Freeman. Someday you'll be as old as I am. And if you don't play the fool, you will have a big chunk of what I have to leave behind."

He just smiled at that. If there was one thing that Caleb Freeman was not a fool about, I surmised, it was about ensuring his future. That and perpetually getting off.

Chapter Four: Mark Vincent

I don't know why Kathy thought that simply moving away from Richmond and trying to stay together would change anything. Even less, I don't know why I just followed along with her plan. I think we both were fools to be in such denial of how matters stood between us. We had both tried so hard—genuinely, I knew—to be conventional and make this work. Being as it was both of us who were "off"—never admitting it to each other and only slowly admitting it to ourselves—had largely been what had kept us together.

That and our families' expectations and conventionality.

I thought it would come to a head, allowing both of us to face the truth and just end the misery, back in Richmond, where we both taught at Virginia Commonwealth University and where I had been caught up in a police raid and photos had been plastered all over the Internet. But even with that, Kathy, so much like her mother, grasped at any lifeline thrown out to us. It was probably our bad luck that she had just received the invitation to take up the teaching slot in fine arts here at SCAD.

I urged her to take the position, assuming it was her convenient escape route—knowing she deserved an escape route from the notoriety I had brought down on our heads. But she surprised me by researching other positions at SCAD, finding one in the textiles department that would open up in the summer, and starting the process of getting me in that position. She was so determined to hold the two of us together despite the obvious obstacles and I had learned what she was working out so far into the process—and I was so worn down by the notoriety I'd gone through, my secret life exposed like that—that I just went with the flow.

I had little faith that it would work out, that SCAD would take me under the circumstances, that Kathy wouldn't wake up and just walk out on me, as she had every right to do. But I was wrong.

In the end, I got the SCAD job by just being the natural me—the same way I got the teaching position at VCU. At the end of the interview process, the textile department head took me to dinner at a hotel, and then I went with him to a hotel room and let him fuck me. I seemed to have the looks and manner that made men who wanted men want me. I have continued to meet with him occasionally in private in his office to assure that the job offer sticks.

Why did Kathy insist on maintaining this farce? I'm sure she knew what it was going to take for me to get the job.

But I knew at least part of the answer to that—our families. The two of us had grown up in this situation. Our families had been best of friends. They were sunny people who felt the gods had blessed them—one family with the perfect daughter, the other with the perfect son. Kathy and I were destined to be together if you believed what our families said all the years we were growing up. Our families shielded their eyes from anything that would detract from this dream. And dutiful children that we were, Kathy and I did whatever we could to fulfill our families' dreams.

All was focused on hope and self-denial—to the point that our families refused to acknowledge my arrest or that the photos existed on the Internet at all.

But subconsciously Kathy and I both knew it would never work. Although we lived together in Richmond for three years before coming to Savannah—and even though we maintained a routine of missionary sex once a week—we hadn't gotten married.

Although our families at least pretended not to know about the arrest—the charges of which were dropped almost immediately; it was the club the authorities were after, not the patrons—or the photos, they obviously knew something was amiss. They began to press us about wedding plans. I think it was this more than anything else that led Kathy to relocate us to Savannah, farther away from our families in Norfolk. And, the submissive that I am, I just went along with whatever Kathy said we were going to do.

I tried to change here in Savannah—even harder than I had done in Richmond. I paid greater attention to Kathy. I even tried some spontaneity, luring her to bed on evenings—and sometimes even in the middle of the day—other than the routine Friday night. I even tried variations in position—and I worked hard to make myself hard for it, watching an entirely different type of video on the Internet before coming to her.

The sex wasn't bad—I'd say that for myself, at least. It did provide release. I did manage to get hard and to penetrate and make her shudder. But I can't say it was fulfilling for either one of us. It certainly didn't give me the highs that I experienced in other ways. It didn't help me perform that I knew Kathy felt the same.

I thought that perhaps it was Kathy. She went through the motions, but after I had ejaculated, she'd just roll out from underneath me, turn on her side away from me, and go to sleep. Otherwise, she was always pleasant to me, but there didn't seem to be any more spark in our relationship than there had been when we were both five and sharing toys—or not sharing them—in the sandbox at one of our houses.

I had occasion to test out the "just not Kathy" possibility not long after we moved to Savannah. Two women students, Tracy and Donna, lived in an apartment in the same old subdivided row house on Savannah's Pulaski Square where Kathy and I lived on the second floor. The two SCAD students lived on the third.

At first I thought only one woman lived there, the two looked so much alike, in the California valley girl style—both willowy blondes. Over the first couple of weeks, I discerned that there were two of them, though. One was older—and harder looking and acting—and the other was more bubbly, younger, more attractive. And flirty. That was Donna. Tracy was anything but flirty with me—although she certainly was with Donna and even with Kathy.

Donna made no bones about showing that she was attracted to me. She kept calling me Paul or Mr. Newman, likening me to that movie star in his younger days. She had a way about her that was both innocent and sensual—and open to approach. I could see that many would think she was scatterbrained—the classic dumb, but bombshell, blonde. She certainly had the cleavage for it. I thought there was more to her than that. We conversed in the hallway and in the evenings at the café next door, when Tracy and Donna had introduced us to the gatherings of the residents of the square. She was intelligent. She was studying cartooning at SCAD, which I found quite interesting, and her work was excellent. The eye opener was that they were satirical political cartoons—real zingers—not home life cartoons featuring little kids with oversized heads.

She had shown me her portfolio of artwork in her apartment one afternoon when Tracy was at a class and Kathy was teaching one. Donna had seemed delighted, all smiles and chatter, when I had expressed interest in her artwork and had pulled me up the stairs and into her apartment.

I had praised her work—I would have done so anyway, but the work indeed was quite impressive. And, initiated by her, I had kissed her where we sat on the sofa, and I had felt and kissed her large, firm breasts after she'd pulled her tight T-shirt over her head. And I had come when she'd pushed her hand under the waistband of my athletic shorts and stroked me. But I had retreated, with confusion, embarrassment, and fear of being caught.

Donna took my retreat well, with a laugh and a coquettish smile.

"You could have fucked me, you know," she'd said. "You're not old. I could have made you hard again quickly. I think you're cute—and sexy. A real Paul Newman type. But does my openness or forwardness put you off?"

Maybe my Paul Newman to her young Goldie Hawn, I thought.

"It was just the surprise of it," I mumbled. "And I don't have protection with me."

"I have that. You can come on into the bedroom," she'd said. It was obvious that I was the one who stopped it. I did feel more than I felt with Kathy, but I didn't know if it was just the surprise of it. But such mixed feelings. And the complexity of it all. Was I being unfaithful with Kathy even as strained and strange as our relationship was? And what about Tracy? It was fairly obvious to me that she was hooked up on—and probably with—Donna. And we were in the same building together. Also, the Pulaski Square community was a small, tight one. We couldn't keep a relationship secret for long and tensions would quickly become evident here and would raise embarrassing questions. Tracy probably could and would beat me to death. I just didn't know. But there did seem to be more arousal with Donna than Kathy. I had come—and quickly enough to know I'd been highly aroused.

I just couldn't do it then. "Umm. I expect Kathy back from the school at any time. And there's Tracy. I just don't think—"

"Well, whenever you are interested in it," she said, as I stumbled out of the apartment. She was still smiling.

After long thought—and wanting like hell to be attracted to women—I showed my interest in it a week later, when I followed Donna down to the communal laundry room in the basement in the middle of the day when both Kathy and Tracy were at SCAD, and I fucked her on top of a rumbling washing machine, with me standing on an overturned wooden crate to give me the right angle and with her buttocks on the front edge of the washer and her ankles on my shoulders.

She had let me fuck her without hesitation.

It was an OK fuck—better than Kathy, again maybe because it was so illicit—and Donna said she was quite happy to do it when and wherever we could arrange it. But it . . . just . . . wasn't enough. And it just wasn't right for me. I think we both knew it wouldn't happen again.

The nice thing was that Donna was so good about it, not treating me any less as a friend afterward than she did before. There was a sweetness, innocence, and generosity that went with her zaniness.

What I secretly wanted to happen, though, began happening soon thereafter—the day we were all sitting around in the outdoor café next door and the novelist, Terrence Rowland, who lived in the big mansion on the western side of the square, appeared at the café.

I'd known he lived there, on Pulaski Square. I'd read and enjoyed his books. I'd been attracted to his jacket cover photos. He wasn't at all what I expected in person, though, although I saw him mostly from the back and in profile at the café that afternoon. He was turned away from us, looking out on the square, while the younger crowd sat across three tables in the middle of the outdoor café.

I'm afraid we were responsible for the height of the decibel rating. The square's matriarch, Emily Goodwin, was enthroned on the other side of us from Rowland's table, holding court with the square's widows and spinsters—quietly so, though with furtive glances outside their circle to see what others were doing. I had gathered from what little I heard that Ms. Goodwin and Rowland shared an unpleasant history and smoldered across the square from each other in their hulking mansions. I certainly could feel the tension in the air that day. It made me take more than the usual glances in Rowland's way.

And, to my surprise, he was glancing back at those in the café frequently too. He seemed to be looking at me. And there was the faint crack of a smile, which, when it came, opened up his handsome face radiantly.

When I noted that he wasn't what I expected, I meant that I expected the writer of adventure thrillers to be large, muscle-bound, and rugged—probably with a craggy face where each individual feature was ugly and gnarled but that it all went together into a whole that was charismatic and arresting. I think his publishers had expected that too, as they'd manipulated his jacket photo in that direction. Granted they were using a photo of a much younger and more robust Terrence Rowland.

Terrence was none of this. He was patrician. Tall and handsome and trim. Elegantly dressed and holding himself as the city patriarch that he was—at least in Pulaski Square.

After the brouhaha, where the square's black landscaper, Caleb—who was all those things I thought of as a writer of adventure thrillers—entered the café and exploded about the inn's housekeeper across the square and had been spirited away by Leo Tinley, the café's host, before the atmosphere in the café could be irrevocably soured, Rowland rose from his table. He turned and bowed his head slightly and gave a little smile—I fancied both were for me.

I don't know why the gesture moved me, but it did. I tried to return to the conversation with the women sitting around me—the mousey librarian, Olive Odom; the pair of Tracy and Donna, who I couldn't stop thinking of as a pair even after what I'd done with Donna; and, of course, Kathy, who I lived with but who I never felt comfortable with.

For some reason, as I watched him stride gracefully and purposely toward his mansion on the west side of the square, I had the impression that Terrence Rowland would be someone I could be comfortable and open with. I also got the impression that if I'd followed him to his house that morning, he would have opened his arms to me.

I don't know if it was premonition, or a pulling together of all of the gossip and rumors I'd heard about Rowland—including what there was in the enmity between him and Emily Goodwin—or just a recognition that one man of a certain persuasion has in coming into contact with a man of similar interest that made me instantly gravitate toward Terrence Rowland. I have to believe that it was a large dose of the latter. I knew I could walk into that club on the outskirts of Richmond and tell at a glance which men were what—tops or bottoms—and which might be interested in my own particular fetish.

I had sensed immediately that Terrence Rowland would be a man whose interests might be compatible with what moved me. Just as I had sensed the same, for some inexplicable reason, with the café host, the mulatto—or that was what they used to call such half white, half black people before the forces of political correctness had set in—Leo Tinley, the first time he had ushered me into his café. I felt the electric current when he laid his broad, strong hand gently on the small of my back.

The look Tinley had given me then had told me he understood as well. It was a look of invitation as well as understanding. I hadn't acted on it, though, as, fool that I was, I was still trying my damnedest to make Kathy and me work. It had been such milk chocolate men as Tinsley was who had attracted me at the club outside Richmond.

After the botched job with Donna, though, my resolve about Kathy was crumbling. Interesting, though, that it was Terrence Rowland who I was reacting to even more than to Leo. I resolved then, that day, that I wouldn't pass that opportunity by again.

The opportunity presented itself not more than two days later. I was sitting on a shaded bench in the square, not far from where Caleb Freeman was working. It was warm for early April—I never could have sat out there without a coat at this time of year in Richmond, even though Richmond was in the American south. Caleb was shirtless, and watching the muscles undulate over his rich, chocolate-brown torso as he worked in the garden, had me aroused. Although I would have been frightened to death to go with anyone as overpoweringly muscular as Caleb, I could appreciate the magnificent body of such a man.

Coincidentally—but not all that coincidentally, I supposed—I was reading the latest adventure thriller by Terrence Rowland and thinking about the description of his forthcoming one that wasn't out yet, but was, I was sure, destined to be another blockbuster best-seller when the man himself strolled into the park.

My heart beat double time as he walked down the path toward me. I buried my gaze into the book, waiting for him to pass me by, wanting to say something to him as he was doing so, but not being brave enough to do it—not knowing what to say.

"Excuse me. May a share the bench, or are you expecting someone?"

I looked up in shock. He was standing before me, all elegantly dressed and the picture of mature movie star looks and decorum. A regular Cary Grant.

"No. Please, No, I'm not waiting for anyone," I stammered. "Do sit, please. It's so beautiful out in the square today that I think everyone should be out here."

He sat and turned his handsome face to me. "Good book?" he asked, smiling and inclining his head toward the book I held with trembling hands in my lap—thankful that the book was covering my lap.

"Yes, it's excellent," I answered.

"So, you know a bit about me," he said. Again the smile.

Possibly more than you think, I thought, but what I answered was, "I did know you lived here on the square. And I am a great fan of yours. And of course I know your name. I'm Mark. Mark Vaughn." I held out my hand. He was wearing tight-fitting white gloves. That sent a shudder up my spine. There had been one black Naval Academy student who had visited the club outside Richmond and who kept his white gloves on while . . . but I was aware then that Rowland had retained my hand in his beyond the handshake. "Come August I'll be working at—"

I was stammering out the words. He was still holding my hand in his gloved one.

"You'll be working at SCAD—teaching in the textile department. Yes, I know about you."

"You do?" I asked, dumbly. Not about it all, I'll bet, I thought.

But he did.

"Yes. A novelist researches. And I'm more interested in what is going on in the square than most imagine. I have Internet. I've thoroughly researched you. I know the chair of the textile department. He's a special friend of mine. He has recommended you highly to me."

Oh.

"I would like you to come to my house with me now. That is, if you're interested. I think I've discerned that you're interested."

Rowland fucked me on the sofa in his den, me on my back against the arm, my right leg hooked on the back of the sofa, my left ankle on his shoulder, him crouched over my torso, and pumping up into me with his impossibly long, thin cock.

He hadn't batted an eyelash when he found I was wearing a black lacy bra and panties underneath my clothes. I can understand that he knew—if he'd seen those photos on the Internet; if he shared secrets with the chair of the SCAD textiles department. He glided the panties off my shaved legs, but he left the bra in place and ran the white-gloved hands underneath to clutch at my breasts, the white gloves being all that he was wearing.

Afterward, still on top of me, still inside me, he asked, "Have you been downtown to the Club Copa yet? I believe it is your kind of place."

"No, I haven't."

"You must go. I will take you there. Did you know that our own Leo, at the café, is the headliner there? He performs as April Fools. I find that amusing. But our Leo is very, very good at it and convincing on stage. I'm sure you would enjoy each other. He also is a power top and very well equipped."

"No, I didn't know that," I whispered. But of course I had intuitively known much of that about Leo. The mere thought of it was arousing, and my body conveyed that to Rowland.

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