Reggie's Hair Ch. 01

Lying in bed today, I lightly touched his hair as he slept with his head on my stomach. I was attentive to the feel of him on me. Particularly, I love the feel of his hair on my skin. I love the tight kinky curl and its shiny wiry texture. I like how it feels in and around my fingers. It's nothing like my hair.

Maybe it's the difference between us that intrigues me. Or is my intrigue with his hair because it's a part of him, his manner, his story. Or is it because all of his parts intrigue me?

His dark skin, so smooth, and his lips, and hands. The tips of his fingers, when he moves my head ever so gently to gain access to my neck and jaw and ears. He is tall and lean, and he seems strong. Feels strong. Yet he is always so tender with me.

His hair became an obsession for me. I was careful not to touch it too much. I knew that he didn't really like other people touching his hair, just as he dislikes rain on his hair, pulling up his hoodie at the first indication of scattered drops falling.

Yet I love looking at his hair and tenderly touching it, at the edge where it runs out, crisply, like a line, to the smooth skin of his face and neck.

I like feeling the edges of the thick dark beautiful hair. Sometimes he would rub his head down on my face, tickling me and inciting me. He would move his hair around my chest and across my stomach and that would send me into a simmering ecstasy.

He knew that and would look up at me to watch me writhe and relish his attention. It was always a skin thrill, a deep growl boiling in me, when he brushed his head, even lightly, against my skin. And he knew what he was doing. His body always seemed to move smoothly like watching someone pull a ribbon up and down slowly through the air.

I met him last year at the grocery store where he worked in the produce department. Wearing a beige apron with marks of having worked in it awhile, he was sorting and stocking peppers. I was looking for some vegetable - maybe asparagus or zucchini. I do not remember that part.

I do remember his hair and his serious manner. And the curve of his biceps coming down from his shoulders. And his smile.

When I said, "Excuse me, can you tell me..." He smiled at me and pulled himself up straight, answering my question. And I headed off in the direction he pointed.

For weeks, I saw him often when I was in the store. I guessed then that he worked days. At first, when I would go into the store it was a surprise to see him again. After a while, however, I began to think about him when I approached the store. I hoped to run into him or at least see him across the store.

He was an object of beauty, even in a work apron and grocery store uniform shirt. Just watching him walk was like seeing a treasured painting or a flower that you want to look at the rest of the day.

Sometimes, when I stopped to watch him, I observed that he was also a really nice guy. He smiled when customers asked him a question. I saw him help people find what they were looking for. He talked with the other employees like he was their friend or at least a good-natured comrade.

After the first time I saw him and asked him a question, I kept my distance and observed him from time to time from another part of the produce area or as he walked through the store. Once as I was leaving, I passed him at the front doors and he smiled at me.

It was like he knew me or knew that I had a weird thing about enjoying looking at him when I shopped. I felt embarrassed. Later I learned that he had no idea and didn't remember me at all from the store.

One night, I was out with friends to see a play. I didn't really know much about the plot or characters of the play, but my friend, Jack, and his current partner, had invited me along. Jack and I had sex a couple of times many years back. Now we were friends and we talked regularly about life and tried to ask each other honest questions and to respond with at least mostly honest answers.

As I made my way out of the theater that night, I was standing in the line in the main center aisle, waiting for the crowd to move again. I turned back to the darkened stage, still set with the living room furniture of the last scene's set. And I saw him there, on the stage. "Is that him?" I asked myself, "Could it be the guy from the produce department?"

I knew I was manifesting a troubling obsession. I needed to cut it out. I looked again. Now I was blocking people who were waiting in line as well. They moved around me.

I stood there for a while and then I turned to catch up with my friends, looking back a few times. And then I saw him. It was the guy from the store. I recognized his hair. His tallness, and the way he smiled and talked with the other people on stage disassembling the set.

The next time I was in the grocery store, I walked by him and said, "hey I was at the play the other night and I think I saw you working on stage."

Big smile. "Yes," he said, "I'm a theater major at the university and I work stage crew as much as I can."

We talked about the play and about his classes. I went on with my shopping and as I was leaving, he was heading to the door as well. He told me his name and shook my hand. Reggie. I told him my name, "Thom, with an h."

"OK, well good for you, Thom, with an h. See you around," he said, and he was gone, out into the parking lot.

Here I am a 30-year-old white man, smelling my hand to see if I could discern a scent or anything about him. I had it bad for this guy and I needed to get a hold of myself. I should call Jack and confess my erotic obsession with a 20-year-old black kid. He would laugh and tell me to go home and beat off and move on. And he'd be right.

However, as I walked to my car, I noticed Reggie getting into the driver's seat of an older silver car. I got in my car and watched his car leave the lot. And I knew as I cranked the car that I was going to follow him and see where he lived.

Part of me was screaming at myself to stop but another part of me was hard as a rock. He pulled into a nondescript apartment complex near campus. And I didn't.

I took the advice that I had earlier guessed that my friend would have given me. I went home and beat off, took a shower and got to work.

When I was in the grocery store, I stayed aware of Reggie and nodded at him and he waved or nodded back. Very friendly outwardly, I felt like a stone-cold stalker. "Is that who I am?"

The frustration and excitement was driving me a little mad.

One day as I was leaving, I asked him about his classes and he started telling me about the theater work he was doing. It was an animated conversation as he described the set he and a couple of other students were building.

He said, "If you want to see the production, it's this Thursday night." And he gave me the building and room number.

I said, Yes, that'd be great." I felt like a school kid with a crush. Oh, I was embarrassed, yet excited at the same time.

After the play that Thursday night, as I was walking to my car, Reggie came up and asked what I thought about the production. Then he had other specific questions. I was surprised. And we talked in the parking lot for almost an hour, both of us with car keys in our hands, moving out of the way as cars went around us.

Soon it was just his silver car and mine in the lot. And before I could stop the words, consider the words or filter my thoughts, I invited him over.

I said, "No sense standing around in an empty parking lot. I've got wine and comfortable chairs at home."

He followed me to my place. Reggie was coming to my house. Now I felt excited and somewhat ashamed. I said to myself, "What in the hell am I doing?"

At my house, he sat in a chair across from the sofa. I handed him a glass of wine and took mine to sit on the sofa. He talked more about the production. "My part," he said, "is set construction and design. I want to learn lighting."

I asked, "What do you do when you're not in class, working on a play or at the grocery store.

He laughed and said, "Not much, really."

We talked about where he was from and what he liked about our little university town. And then he said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, I said, what's up?" He looked me right in eyes, and smiled, and asked, "Why did you invite me to your house?"

I felt called out and flustered. Again, without filtering and without considering how stupid I would look, I said the most honest answer my brain could form, "I've seen you around and I think you are a very nice looking young man.

I think you treat people with courtesy and kindness and all of that attracts me to you. I shouldn't be telling you any of this information, but you asked. And that's the truth."

He laughed and set back in his chair. "Are you gay?," he asked.

"I am," I said.

He said, "I'm not gay but that is a hell of a big compliment. Thank you." We laughed, and the tension seemed to be broken.

I felt like I had cleaned things up and told the truth. He asked me about how difficult it is to be gay in this town. "It's easier for a gay white guy with an MBA who can mostly pass under the radar than it is for you, I'd imagine."

He laughed again. And we spent another hour just talking about life. As he was leaving, he asked if I had invited him back to my house for sex.

I paused, slightly nervous laugh escaping me, again feeling very called out, and said, "Well, look at you. I wouldn't turn it down."

"But," I continued, "I'm really glad to get to know you. I hope we can be friendly and I'd love to see any of the productions you are a part of. Just tell me and I'll try to be there. I'll likely be stalking you at the grocery store, staring at your beautiful hair."

At that, he was laughing, and I was nervously laughing still, standing by the door, unsure what to do with my hands. It felt awkward but in a way that we both seemed to understand.

"You think my hair is beautiful?" he asked.

I assured him it was what first caught my attention.

He said, "Tonight was really cool. I'd love to talk more with you and I'll definitely let you know when the theater department's next production."

He opened his long arms and gave me a hug. Oh my. His back muscles were something else. And he pulled me in close. He thanked me again and he was gone.

Two days later we talked in the produce aisle. He had changed his hair and it was large, round, and standing out in a large afro - like a giant hair crown. It was breathtaking.

Of course, I commented on it. "Reggie, your hair looks great."

And he laughed in his gentle kind of way and said, "I knew you'd notice." He explained some of the process and then he hustled back to work.

Before I left the store, he found me in an aisle and said, "Are you around tonight? Want to grab a bite to eat after I'm finished at work?"

I offered even better, "Come by my house when you're off and I'll cook. I make a great roasted salmon and you bring something from the store for dessert." He said, "Deal."

After dinner and wine and long conversation about his family and current politics, he said "I don't want to make you uncomfortable or anything but since we talked the last time I wondered what it's like to be gay.

Like, man," he laughed, "I have some goofy-ass questions."

I walked to the sofa and waved him over to the living room area of my small house, and I said, "Ask away. What do you want to know?"

He began, "Well, I've known of gay people before, but I've never known, like had a real conversation with an actual out person before."

I laughed and said that I was dumbfounded. "How are you in theater and you don't know gay people?"

He laughed easily and said, "Well, there are some obvious gay people around the stage, but everybody stays in their own thing, you know. It's always busy - building or taking down sets or running wires and all of that."

And he paused before saying, "I'm the only black guy on our production team so it feels like there's some cultural barriers separating some of our conversations. So, yes, we talk, but we don't go deep about life stuff."

He then talked a while about a girl he dated in high school and a girl he likes here but he hasn't had time or nerve yet to ask her out. He told me that he's 21.

Then he said, "You know, when I hold a girl I want to be with, I just wrap her up in my arms and help her get warm and comfortable and, if possible, out of her clothes. Of course, if that's what she wants to do, though.

And my girlfriend back home seemed to like it. A lot. I think. We did it a lot, anyway."

Again, he looked up, right into my eyes, and he asked, "How do you hold a dude? How do two dudes hold each other?"

I assured him that there are plenty of men - probably several on his campus - that would love for him to do with them what he did with his girlfriend.

"They would find that a very satisfying sexual experience. Hell," I said, "so would I." And I burst out laughing, nervous and feeling like maybe I had overstepped.

He laughed at first and then he stopped and sat back in his chair looking at me. He asked, "Really? You would want a guy to hold you like that?"

"Yes," I assured him, "particularly if they look and act anything like you."

Again, I stared at his amazing beautiful hair. And the way his shirt draped over his chest enough to indicate pecs but the shirt wasn't skin tight. He shook his head. His arms extended to knees and his large fingers curled and uncurled.

"Reggie," I said, "why are you asking? Are you curious about, as you say, dude-on-dude sex?"

"Not curious, really," he said, "but since you said something the other night I have just felt kinda' weird about it. I didn't know you had watched me in the store. You're always polite to me and all.

I thought...oh I don't know what I thought but you aren't like who I thought a gay man would be. Never really thought about it much."

We sat with the silence for a while.

And he said, "I've just been working and going to school since I came here and these talks with you are the deepest things I've talked about with anyone here. I guess I'm confused some because I like hanging out with you and that makes me ask myself why about wanting to hang out with a gay guy."

"Good question," I said, "but it may be as simple as you wanting to hang out with a guy, me, who just happens to be gay. Like you just happen to be black and I'm white. We both happen to be men sitting in a living room talking. Nothing at all weird about that."

"That's right," he said, "I agree. I agree. Except you said the other night and have hinted that you'd like more out of this thing. And that feels weird to me. I don't know what to do with that."

"My bad," I said. "That's out of line. I apologize. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable and I hope it doesn't get in the way of our friendship, if you think of what we are doing as a friendship."

Reggie said, "I do. I think of you as a friend. Best I've had here in town anyway. And don't apologize. You were speaking your truth and I appreciate the compliment. It's nice."

After another prolonged silence, I asked, "How are you doing?"

He said, "I'm good." Then he told me that he wanted to offer me something.

Reggie, so sincere, and eye-to-eye, said quietly, "And, Thom, just the offer of this is a really big deal to me. So, know that."

He got up and sat by me on the sofa, tilting his head toward me. "You can touch my hair if you want. And I don't let just anyone touch my hair."

I almost gasped but I kept some composure, reaching out to his hair. It was as I imagined, only softer. I was careful, just lightly touching the ends and feeling it against the palm of my hand. I closed my eyes and let the moment be what it was.

Then I felt a hand on my wrist, and Reggie said, "Get on in there and feel around." He pushed my hand into his afro. It was luxurious.

I did feel around and soon I began massaging his scalp and he sat stone still while I slowly and tenderly rubbed around with my fingertips, feeling the wiry yet smooth hair in my palm.

I knew I had an erection and I hoped it wasn't obvious. I moved my hand down toward the back of his neck and he let a long slow sigh escape. He said, "That feels really good."

I rubbed his neck a little more and he lifted up his head with a big goofy grin on his face and he said, "Thank you. That was really nice. You have good fingers. I hope you enjoyed it as well."

I assured him I had.

At the door, he opened his arms again for a hug and I moved in to his arms. "G'night, Thom." "G'night, Reggie."

For a couple of weeks, I'd see Reggie at the store occasionally and some nights my phone would ding with a text and soon he'd be at my door.

We'd drink a little wine, talk some and, not every night, but often he'd ask for a head rub. We'd settle in the sofa, me sitting facing him and him sitting forward on the sofa. Then he'd lean his head in my direction and I could play with his hair and rub his head and neck.

One night, I suggested moving a large pillow from the floor to the middle of the sofa and for him to lie back toward me. It looked uncomfortable for him to have to hold his head tilted toward me for so long.

He agreed. And soon that was our twice or so times a week arrangement.

We had long talks about his classes and different things going on in the world. He stayed up on news about as much as I did and that was a nice connection and provided some rare times that we saw things differently and talked about those disagreements in perspectives and levels of concern.

It's rare for two men to touch and talk and share themselves with each other. It was a gift, I think, to us both. Reggie would lie back on the sofa and let me have access to his marvelous head of hair.

He brought a special oil one night that he works into his hair and scalp before sleeping and he showed me how to do it. What a pleasure that was.

That night, after the oil was everywhere it needed to be, and I had washed my hands, Reggie wrapped up his hair in a black nylon mesh cloth. He stayed on the pillow with his head leaning back and I sat where I normally do, and I began rubbing his shoulders and neck.

Reggie seemed to be ok with that. He sighed "oh, ah," leaning further into the pillow.

His shoulders were muscled and taut and I kneaded the tight places as he moved his head back and forth slowly allowing me access to the right side and then to the left. I moved my hands to his temples, rubbing in slow circles. More sighing.

I placed my fingers of either side of his nose and applied the slightest pressure to the muscles in his cheeks, pulling back slowly toward his ears.

"Oh yes, more of that," he said. I rubbed and massaged his entire face.

He told me, as he was standing up and reaching for his coat, that he was so relaxed he wasn't sure how he'd get home. "Well," I said, "you could stay here if you want."

A smile moved across his face and he said, "No, I better get home. This is really nice. Am I being too much for you? I really like the attention and it feels amazing, but I don't want to be causing you frustration or setting up an expectation that's not going to happen."

I assured him I understood where we each stand. "well, something's standing," he said as I moved to open the door and I looked down to see that my erection was quite obvious in my pants.

We laughed, hugged side-to-side, arms around shoulders. He was gone. And I took care of myself.

"Was I setting a trap? Was I being that guy, luring a young, probably horny college kid, into my bed?" I thought.

"No. Maybe," I went back and forth. I didn't know. I was torn.

I really liked Reggie and I didn't want to see him hurt or for us to have an awkward or painful experience and lose a friendship that had obviously become somewhat meaningful for both of us.