KENNETH
I could tell what they thought when they saw us out and about together: the old wreck and his toy boy. I could see it in their eyes, that they felt sorry for—and perhaps a little disdainful of—him. That's why I haven't gone out with him in public for months now. But now it is even worse. He goes out alone, and each and every time, I agonize all the time he is gone that this is the day he wouldn't return. And life wouldn't be worth living then. No, I must admit it. Life won't be worth living then, because there's no doubt in my mind that Rob is leaving me. And soon. There is such a tension between us now. I always knew that he would leave me; that he was using me. No, that's not fair. I've always known, rather, that he knew I was using him and that he would stand for it for only so long.
I was younger—and much more virile—always ready to go, when I first found him. I was out running the river trail that first day and there he was, under one of the bridges, nearly out of sight between a concrete pillar and the bank of the river, dirty and hungry and half drunk from the cheap wine he had in that paper sack. I had assumed he was a child and only approached him because of that—because a child should not be living in such conditions. But he declared he was nearly nineteen. Still, he looked so desperate that I offered to buy him a meal. We mounted the stairs running down to the river trail and walked the short distance to a hamburger joint, where I bought him enough cheeseburgers to choke a horse and sat there at a patio table and watched him wolf them down. I don't know when it hit me that I wanted him; I'm sure that hadn't been in my mind until sometime while we were chatting and he was chewing. His open smile and his easy banter melted me.
I offered him a shower and some better clothes, and I'm sure from the look he gave me he knew what I was interested in getting for those. He agreed readily enough, and I took him home, and he showered and sat at my kitchen table, where we both drank my far-better-quality wine until we could both excuse whatever we did next as influenced by the drink, if we needed an excuse. And then I fucked him on the top of the kitchen table. He showed no reluctance, knowing better than I did, I'm sure that there was a price for what I was doing to improve his living conditions. But even though he'd obviously done this before, probably in the same circumstances, he still moaned and cried for me like no one had stretched him or reached the depths of him like I was doing. Even while I was doing it, I knew that he'd never really be mine, that he was doing just what he had to do to survive, that he'd always hate me for what I was taking from him.
I gave him the shred of dignity when asking him to stay that he could use the pool house rather than staying with me in the main house. And we initially played a game of the unspoken deal. By day, I'd kept my hands off him and taken him around to the shops and the open air cafés just as if he was some visiting nephew I'd agreed to benefactor. Late into the evening, he'd retire to the pool house. After his lights went out, I'd sit for an hour by the pool, sipping wine, and struggling with my desires and intentions. And then I'd creep to the door of the pool house through the shadows and stand there, watching him sleep, naked, on the bed in the moonlight. After I no longer could take the tension, I'd silently come to him in the bed and muffle his mouth with one of my hands and take him deeply and rapidly as if I were an intruder. He'd writhe and moan under me as I fucked him relentlessly until near dawn, and then I'd leave him. When he appeared for breakfast on the terrace in the morning, we'd pretend nothing had happened. But I knew he was doing it just for the shelter and food I was providing. And hating me all the while.
