Scott - The Numb Years Contunued (Jim)
Scott 12/13/2005
Scott, known by his friends as Aqua Lung, at age 22, was the most perfect physical specimen I’d ever known. He had high cheekbones, like an American Indian, with a strong chin, a huge Adam’s apple, and yet soft, cloud blue eyes, and mousy blond tousled hair. His shoulders were wide and arms were huge and solid and long. Veins popped out everywhere at the slightest exertion of his sinewy frame. He’d simply sweep the carpet and his arms would double in size. He radiated heat. Years later, at night, he’d sleep nude in a sheet while I’d be piled under six layers of blankets. He’d sprawl then in our huge queen size bed, always gravitating towards me. He’d literally chase me to the edge of the bed, till I’d fall out and then crawl around and back in on the far side. Then in the middle of the night he’d raise those massive arms straight up in the air and then fling them to the side, directly across my face. I’d wake in such a start that I’d instinctively fling them back across him, in a rage. And he’d just look at me in bemused, angelic puzzlement as to what had just happened. How could anyone not love him?
Below his arms and wide shoulders, was a taut chest, he was nearly hairless, and that chest then caved into a sunken knot of a stomach and slender hips. Veins crept above the top of his pants, on his stomach. He was long waisted and beautifully hung, with low hanging balls, but his ass was solid bone. He called it a Polish butt, where his tail bone was nearly a tail, going on forever. In a pair of pants his butt was the hardest most perfectly shaped example on the planet, but out of them, it was raw bone. Moving inside him slammed my pelvic bone into that stone. With each thrust, it hurt, like a bell being rang. His back was a ruined minefield, with beautiful musculature that was horribly scarred from acne.
I was a leg man then, and Scott had them in spades. Everyday he’d leap on his bike and ride it in the top gear, full out, down country roads to a wild life refuge and back, completing nearly a thirty mile round trip, in about an hour. He was so lean and so taut and defined, that the muscles were rock hard, not like muscles at all. I use to love to bounce a quarter off them, as if testing the bed sheets, on some Marine’s bed in boot camp.
At first it had been eerie to lie next to one another, on a child size twin bed, in the postage stamp of his bedroom, with trailer thin walls, in his parents home. His parents and family hated his being gay but in no way could they blame me for it. He had forcefully crammed it down their throat, coming out loud and rebelliously flamboyant since he was 14. The whole family loved me, and sighed with relief that I was so quiet and invisible in my gayness. But here in the dark together I felt their eyes and their disapproval and shame, on us. They didn’t deserve this. And yet here in the darkness, alone together, it was the hair on his legs and underarms that felt absolutely alien, yet intoxicating. At age 24, I had never been with a man ever before. Mickey and I had been mere boys, years and years and years ago.
I met Scott at the Charley’s Angels gay bar in the suburbs, with Ronny. Ronny, a younger seminarian with me at St. Meinrad’s, had taken me to my first gay bar. It was Charley’s Speak Easy, on slimy Wells Street, in downtown Chicago. That first time, I was so intimidated, so afraid anyone would approach me. So seeing a beautiful woman there with her husband, I felt safe with her, till after an hour had passed, when an insidious knowing worked its way into me. I looked closely at her hands, her Adams apple, her hips. She was a man! Yow. Nor would I go to the Catholic St. Sebastian’s Dignity mass with Ronny, sexuality and spirituality didn’t mix, but I liked it here at Charley’s Angels. The suburbs were more subdued than the city. Once before I had seen a beautiful man here and working up the courage to approach him, I’d asked him his name. When he, in a deep voice, said “Rod”, I turned red and couldn’t speak. Overcome with embarrassment, I fled back to Ron.
So here Ron and I sat that night. In mid sentence, as I complained how no one of the slightest interest to me was here, I stopped and said ‘Look, the man I’ve waited for all my life, just walked in’, as I ran over to meet him. It was Scott.
Scott was with a much older man, a neighbor, just a friend supposably, but the moment the older man saw me he quickly tried to whisk Scott out of there. Scott apologized as I follow them from bar to bar. The old man wasn’t going to shake me off. I had Scott’s number and two weeks later I was there at Scott’s home. I was so excited but he was so strangely distant and cool, and depressed. He didn’t believe we’d ever stay together then. Men only used one another.
Scott was a patient, tender, understanding lover. He worked so hard to explain gay sexuality to me. I remember him telling me the ass was a sex organ. I was baffled. The nipples too, he said. ‘Not mine’, I thought. I remember him giving me a blow job. He was a pro. Love had never been like this with Pat. But now I was the detached one. He had the endurance and determination of a thoroughbred, but I couldn’t let go. This was excruciating anguish, trying to unclench. He never gave up or sought sex elsewhere, but I could never let go. I’d always have to leave the room to cum.
A year after Scott and I met, we got our own place, nearby, in the town he’d always lived in. That first week, Scott had cleaned the place, with a tooth brush, it seemed, from end to end, refusing to rest till everything was beautifully and perfectly in place. Then his parents came over and presented me with a gift of two thousand dollars, as our wedding gift. They said they’d thought it over, and didn’t understand us, but could see we were in love. This was their blessing of us and our union, a gift they’d given to each of their children, as they’d married. Scott blew it off, but I was so moved. Last Christmas, I had sat in their living room, across the room from Scott, with his three brothers and their wives and children buzzing about us in a frenzy, wanting so badly to be near him. Scott eyes met mine, and he motioned me over to him, and spreading his legs, sat me on the floor between them. Then bending over and wrapping his arms around me he kissed me on the lips. I knew the world had stopped in frozen silence, but as I came out of it, no one had even taken notice. What a gift. Yet later, when my whole family came to visit us at our place, with my brothers and sisters marveling at Scott’s massive speakers and stereo, and begging him to play something, and me in the kitchen with my parents, till I screeched the needle all the way across the record as I heard “It’s Raining Men, Alleluia” by the Weather Sisters, begin to play. He was always sabotaging my family and friend relationships.
In hind sight I shouldn’t have insisted on it, but it went against my Protestant work ethic, for him not to work. What would others think? An able man had to work. It was indefensible. I imagined I was being taken advantage of, even though we didn’t need his income and even though he worked so hard cleaning, cooking and making the place absolutely wonderful, with cats, fish, gardens and flowers, and then focusing all his energies on me in the evenings. I had all I needed but was jealous he had off, so he’d try to work to please me but really couldn’t, and I’d shame him deeply for it.
Aqua Lung had been smoking huge amounts of pot, in his water pipe since he was 14. He’d become paranoid and obsessive. In the evenings, he’d smoke two or three friends under the table, so they literally crawled on their knees out of the place. But Scott just glowed with a radiance, and a slight sheen of sweat, and piercing dark eyes, under the influence.
At first in a job they’d absolutely love him because he was so personable and such a perfectionist. It was very much like when we had first moved in, where he wouldn’t rest till everything was perfectly in its place. He’d reorganize whole offices to peak efficiency. Seizing his gift then, companies would move him onto ever new chaos to unravel, constantly. He’d be so unable to relax, that I’d massage him morning and night, to unknot him. I eventually couldn’t take the strain of keeping him together. I broke it off when I could no longer take care of myself.
We’d dated a year, lived together for three, then though I knew I could never be with him again, I’d still see him each weekend, unable to stay away. After five or six years total in Chicago I moved to Atlanta, as my second geographic fix, putting ever greater distance between me and all who knew me.
Scott, known by his friends as Aqua Lung, at age 22, was the most perfect physical specimen I’d ever known. He had high cheekbones, like an American Indian, with a strong chin, a huge Adam’s apple, and yet soft, cloud blue eyes, and mousy blond tousled hair. His shoulders were wide and arms were huge and solid and long. Veins popped out everywhere at the slightest exertion of his sinewy frame. He’d simply sweep the carpet and his arms would double in size. He radiated heat. Years later, at night, he’d sleep nude in a sheet while I’d be piled under six layers of blankets. He’d sprawl then in our huge queen size bed, always gravitating towards me. He’d literally chase me to the edge of the bed, till I’d fall out and then crawl around and back in on the far side. Then in the middle of the night he’d raise those massive arms straight up in the air and then fling them to the side, directly across my face. I’d wake in such a start that I’d instinctively fling them back across him, in a rage. And he’d just look at me in bemused, angelic puzzlement as to what had just happened. How could anyone not love him?
Below his arms and wide shoulders, was a taut chest, he was nearly hairless, and that chest then caved into a sunken knot of a stomach and slender hips. Veins crept above the top of his pants, on his stomach. He was long waisted and beautifully hung, with low hanging balls, but his ass was solid bone. He called it a Polish butt, where his tail bone was nearly a tail, going on forever. In a pair of pants his butt was the hardest most perfectly shaped example on the planet, but out of them, it was raw bone. Moving inside him slammed my pelvic bone into that stone. With each thrust, it hurt, like a bell being rang. His back was a ruined minefield, with beautiful musculature that was horribly scarred from acne.
I was a leg man then, and Scott had them in spades. Everyday he’d leap on his bike and ride it in the top gear, full out, down country roads to a wild life refuge and back, completing nearly a thirty mile round trip, in about an hour. He was so lean and so taut and defined, that the muscles were rock hard, not like muscles at all. I use to love to bounce a quarter off them, as if testing the bed sheets, on some Marine’s bed in boot camp.
At first it had been eerie to lie next to one another, on a child size twin bed, in the postage stamp of his bedroom, with trailer thin walls, in his parents home. His parents and family hated his being gay but in no way could they blame me for it. He had forcefully crammed it down their throat, coming out loud and rebelliously flamboyant since he was 14. The whole family loved me, and sighed with relief that I was so quiet and invisible in my gayness. But here in the dark together I felt their eyes and their disapproval and shame, on us. They didn’t deserve this. And yet here in the darkness, alone together, it was the hair on his legs and underarms that felt absolutely alien, yet intoxicating. At age 24, I had never been with a man ever before. Mickey and I had been mere boys, years and years and years ago.
I met Scott at the Charley’s Angels gay bar in the suburbs, with Ronny. Ronny, a younger seminarian with me at St. Meinrad’s, had taken me to my first gay bar. It was Charley’s Speak Easy, on slimy Wells Street, in downtown Chicago. That first time, I was so intimidated, so afraid anyone would approach me. So seeing a beautiful woman there with her husband, I felt safe with her, till after an hour had passed, when an insidious knowing worked its way into me. I looked closely at her hands, her Adams apple, her hips. She was a man! Yow. Nor would I go to the Catholic St. Sebastian’s Dignity mass with Ronny, sexuality and spirituality didn’t mix, but I liked it here at Charley’s Angels. The suburbs were more subdued than the city. Once before I had seen a beautiful man here and working up the courage to approach him, I’d asked him his name. When he, in a deep voice, said “Rod”, I turned red and couldn’t speak. Overcome with embarrassment, I fled back to Ron.
So here Ron and I sat that night. In mid sentence, as I complained how no one of the slightest interest to me was here, I stopped and said ‘Look, the man I’ve waited for all my life, just walked in’, as I ran over to meet him. It was Scott.
Scott was with a much older man, a neighbor, just a friend supposably, but the moment the older man saw me he quickly tried to whisk Scott out of there. Scott apologized as I follow them from bar to bar. The old man wasn’t going to shake me off. I had Scott’s number and two weeks later I was there at Scott’s home. I was so excited but he was so strangely distant and cool, and depressed. He didn’t believe we’d ever stay together then. Men only used one another.
Scott was a patient, tender, understanding lover. He worked so hard to explain gay sexuality to me. I remember him telling me the ass was a sex organ. I was baffled. The nipples too, he said. ‘Not mine’, I thought. I remember him giving me a blow job. He was a pro. Love had never been like this with Pat. But now I was the detached one. He had the endurance and determination of a thoroughbred, but I couldn’t let go. This was excruciating anguish, trying to unclench. He never gave up or sought sex elsewhere, but I could never let go. I’d always have to leave the room to cum.
A year after Scott and I met, we got our own place, nearby, in the town he’d always lived in. That first week, Scott had cleaned the place, with a tooth brush, it seemed, from end to end, refusing to rest till everything was beautifully and perfectly in place. Then his parents came over and presented me with a gift of two thousand dollars, as our wedding gift. They said they’d thought it over, and didn’t understand us, but could see we were in love. This was their blessing of us and our union, a gift they’d given to each of their children, as they’d married. Scott blew it off, but I was so moved. Last Christmas, I had sat in their living room, across the room from Scott, with his three brothers and their wives and children buzzing about us in a frenzy, wanting so badly to be near him. Scott eyes met mine, and he motioned me over to him, and spreading his legs, sat me on the floor between them. Then bending over and wrapping his arms around me he kissed me on the lips. I knew the world had stopped in frozen silence, but as I came out of it, no one had even taken notice. What a gift. Yet later, when my whole family came to visit us at our place, with my brothers and sisters marveling at Scott’s massive speakers and stereo, and begging him to play something, and me in the kitchen with my parents, till I screeched the needle all the way across the record as I heard “It’s Raining Men, Alleluia” by the Weather Sisters, begin to play. He was always sabotaging my family and friend relationships.
In hind sight I shouldn’t have insisted on it, but it went against my Protestant work ethic, for him not to work. What would others think? An able man had to work. It was indefensible. I imagined I was being taken advantage of, even though we didn’t need his income and even though he worked so hard cleaning, cooking and making the place absolutely wonderful, with cats, fish, gardens and flowers, and then focusing all his energies on me in the evenings. I had all I needed but was jealous he had off, so he’d try to work to please me but really couldn’t, and I’d shame him deeply for it.
Aqua Lung had been smoking huge amounts of pot, in his water pipe since he was 14. He’d become paranoid and obsessive. In the evenings, he’d smoke two or three friends under the table, so they literally crawled on their knees out of the place. But Scott just glowed with a radiance, and a slight sheen of sweat, and piercing dark eyes, under the influence.
At first in a job they’d absolutely love him because he was so personable and such a perfectionist. It was very much like when we had first moved in, where he wouldn’t rest till everything was perfectly in its place. He’d reorganize whole offices to peak efficiency. Seizing his gift then, companies would move him onto ever new chaos to unravel, constantly. He’d be so unable to relax, that I’d massage him morning and night, to unknot him. I eventually couldn’t take the strain of keeping him together. I broke it off when I could no longer take care of myself.
We’d dated a year, lived together for three, then though I knew I could never be with him again, I’d still see him each weekend, unable to stay away. After five or six years total in Chicago I moved to Atlanta, as my second geographic fix, putting ever greater distance between me and all who knew me.
posted by LifeWriter at 1:35 PM
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