Bromance?
More than that. Way more than that.
David and Jonathan.
By name and by nature.
Man love. The love of one male of the species for another male of the species.
And certainly not platonic. When they got into it, they got into it. Lusty, greedy, hungry, sucking, deep-throat oral. All arms and legs, face-fucking, soixante-neuf. Anal, sometimes hot, sweaty, grappling, winner takes all. Sometimes slow, languid, muscular, caressing. Other times hard-core rutting, snorting, grunting, ass-stretching, chest-thumping, Tarzan-yell straight out fucking. If you were ever invited for a weekend at their beach condo you would know.
But there were also quieter times, shared moments. Hunkered on a beach for instance, looking out over the water, skipping stones, tracing figures in the sand and watching them disappear. Or holed up in a cabin, cracking a single malt, straight up, ruminating on the problems of the day.
And there were also those moments when what was needed were the arms of one around the other, being held by the other, close, body to body, the steadiness of the one shared with the other, vital.
Two guys, hitting it off. Pool buddies, gym buddies, one spotting the other, urging the other for one more lap, one more rep, and then another. Out of the pool, the gym, jazzing each other. Socially. In their business dealings.
No PDAs, public or private. Unless you count ass-grabbing. At home. Never in public. And sometimes, in the kitchen when one was preparing something, - and let me tell you, both of them knew their way around a kitchen - the other would come up behind and put his arms around the other's waist, rest his chin on the his shoulder. And sometimes, playful, grind his crotch into the other's ass.
But no holding hands, no walking arm-in-arm, or arms interlocked around the other's waist. Just the assurance that the other was by his side.
And no cloying terms of endearment. No 'darling', or 'hun', or 'sweetie'. Nothing like that. 'Bud' or 'Buddy' or 'Best Buddy', yes. Maybe 'Friend', or 'My Friend'. Or, more usually, in all that it meant, 'Mate'.
Two guys who knew, when there was need to speak, what the other was going to say. When there was no need to speak, what the other was thinking. Two guys for whom there was no reason to think it had not always been that way, and would always be that way.
Alike as two who weren't but could have been brothers. Everybody remarked on it. Age, height, build, colouring, temperament.
Six-four, give or take a half-inch. Muscled. Sleek. Slim. Some bodybuilders go for the big and muscle-bound. Not them, just the opposite. Fluid, liquid, articulated, aesthetic. And in the water, they both looked as good in the water as they did out of it.
And here maybe was the difference. They were both were into bodybuilding and swimming. David was the swimmer, into bodybuilding for what it could do for him in the water. Jonathon was the bodybuilder, into swimming for what it could do for him as a bodybuilder. But perfect. Both of them.
T, D and H, both of them. David, Celtic dark. Hair, black, wavy. Untamed. The bod, hairy but not furry. Black, wiry. Pecs, abs, belly, legs. Mostly he kept it clipped, - number three - neither ape nor clean. And the beard, dark, which likewise he kept to a three days scruff. 'It's sex-ay,' he used to say.
Of course when he was up for a meet it all came down, the hair, the beard and the body hair, clean for speed. But the way it grew, it would all be back in a week or so anyway. Five o'clock shadow five minutes after he shaved.
Jonathan, as much the Celt, but bodybuilder clean all the time. Three days max and it was a whole body shave, head to toe.
Outgoing? Believe it.
Fun-loving? Yup, up for just about anything, anytime.
A wild side? You gotta be kidding. Definitely, a wild side! In those eyes, Jonathon's particularly, always something dancing. At the same time, something deeper, mysterious, a bit of the dark side. David particularly. Touching on dangerous even.
Hang ups? Not them! Uninhibited. Really. 'Live and let live' - that was their motto.
They were a smart dressers, with an eye for cut and quality and what would look good. And more, with their athleticism, and putting themselves out as models, they knew how to make it look good. But, dressing only as circumstances demanded. At home or wherever, whenever, shucking off shoes, shirts and pants. Naked. Always bare-assed naked. The freedom of nothing at all. Dress was optional for anyone invited or dropping in.
For certain, sharing the same space, something, or sometimes rubbing one or the other the wrong way, there would be words, stubborn silences. But always there was regard for the line that must not be crossed, and eventually, apologies, and the other coming round.
And invariably that meant, well, in up to the balls, humping, pounding, rocking and rolling, belly-to-belly, cheek-to-cheek, edging, then, arms wrapped around backs, legs-entwined, going for the gold, the sharp, hard thrusts, reciprocated, over and over, fingers clawing at the mattress, moaning involuntarily, and over the top, the ejaculation, powerful, shooting hot, hard, deep into the other; consummation, warm, spreading, sexual satisfaction, each continuing to hold the other, then drifting off; then waking, flip-flopping top for bottom, penetrating, deep, to the balls, again the waves of one body merging with the other, late into the night.
Mutually exclusive. No strange C or A for them. Not that there weren't opportunities. They were a couple of hot numbers. There was always somebody, of either gender, checking out one or the other and putting the moves on. But it was always 'thanks a lot, but no thanks - the only one I am interested in is the one I've got!'
Sure, into bodybuilding as they were, and built, they would check out a dude with a good build, but it was the build more than it was the package that had them turn heads and take notice.
As for the package, they could have been doing porn. David, uncut, long, like seven plus. Skin-back, he called it the one-eyed monster. Not original. But he was not exaggerating. Jonathon, likewise uncut. But thick. The other one-eyed monster. Straight up when he was hard. Stood them in good stead as models. They had the goods for swimwear and underwear shoots .
What got them together? It was sort of their own Brokeback Mountain. A wilderness camping trip they had gotten talked into with a bunch of guys. It had turned wet and cold, and the choice was to spend the night shivering with your teeth chattering, or do the common sense thing, bunk in together, snuggle up and keep warm. So they zipped their sleeping bags together and got cozy.
How cozy and how much sleep they got, well ... But apparently in the morning they were not the only ones not sure where to look when it came to squaring the other guys in the eye. There were several who came home with new fuck buddies.
But they were the only ones who took it further than that. It wasn't long after that they moved in together, in time bought the condo, which eventually they flipped for the penthouse. The sexual attraction had been mutual for some time, but neither of them knew just what to do about it. It was the camping trip where, and when, it was consummated.
Started out they were working for the same dot.com, in different departments, dumped on the street when the company imploded. They got together on some contract work, which landed them a retainer and the breathing room to establish themselves as independents. To help keep the wolf at bay, they signed with an agency, did some movie background work, and some modelling gigs. As they got older they were in demand as mature models.
That was how the travel bug bit, ranging farther and wider on locales for photo shoots. It was their ambition to at least swim in all seven seas, set foot on each of the five continents. And they did manage to see a fair bit of the world. Latin America, the Mayan ruins. Oz, the Land Down Under, Bondi Beach, the Reef. Europe. France, Paris, the Riviera. Italy, Rome, Florence. Greece, Athens, the Greek Islands, Santorini. England and Scotland.
Scotland particularly. They kept going back. The Highlands and the Isles. Tramping the glens, sailing the lochs. The lure and the lore of ancient ancestral holdings, long gone. Leaving the car, searching on foot for what might remain. Misty mornings, rainy days, peat fires in the pub.
They had one favourite pub that did B and B. Ocean views on one side, the hills behind. Come and go as they pleased. Or not. Some days, particularly when there was no letting up to 'the Scottish mist', they would just hang about the pub, or likely as not hang the privacy sign on the door, and go for a 'roll in the heather,' as they called it.
So when did it all go wrong?
They were in Scotland. David's 50th birthday. Apparently there is a cairn marking one of the Clan lands. Not easy to get to. But David figured this was where he wanted to be when he turned over his half-century. In the photographs, they are triumphant, but the hike there and back was more really than Jonathan could handle.
For maybe more than a year he had been off on what he had been able to lift, and on his times in the pool. He put it down to age, but there was the nagging suspicion it was something more. It was this hike that convinced them to get it checked out.
Their doctor, long time friend, put him through a battery of tests. And then he called them in.
