Juan Gets Mace(d)

This is a follow up to "Lightning In A Bottle." If you have not read "LIAB," then you may want to seek it out for context before reading "Juan Gets Maced."

*****

Chapter One

As the new guy bent over the water fountain, the first things I noticed were his legs and his ass. His legs were muscled and covered with fine, blonde hair, and his ass cheeks were dimpled.

I walked up behind him, wondering what the rest of him looked like. As I waited, I could tell that his back was rippled, and that the hair on his head was long and blonde.

When he turned to go back to the weights, I smiled, held out my hand, and introduced myself. "Hey, I'm Juan."

"Hi," he said back, taking my hand in his. "I'm Mace, short for Mason."

"Are you new here, Mace?" I asked. I had not met him before, and I went out of my way to meet every new male member of our gym, especially the hot ones.

And, boy, was this one hot. As I introduced myself, I tried to take him in. He was wearing a tank top, and I noticed that blonde hair matted his muscled chest. But, nothing matched his eyes. They were pale green with a circle of bright orange around the pupil. I assumed they were real, but I wouldn't have been surprised to find they were not.

"I am new," he admitted. "I just moved from Chicago."

"Well, welcome to San Diego, Mace," I said, flashing him what my friends called my "toothy Juan smile." Mace flashed only the hint of a smile back. "Better weather here. Let me know if you need a tour guide. I've been here since I was fourteen, so I know it pretty well."

My family had fled Bogota in 1982. Drug violence was overwhelming the city, and America offered a better and safer place to live and to be a family. Everyone who could afford to leave left. We could and did.

"I like to find my own way," he said, subtly rebuffing me. "But, I'm sure I'll run into you here."

He would. I was at the gym every night after work, both to work out and to scout. I had a running game with my friends that I could bag every hot new male member within their first thirty days, and I was on track to win. I didn't think Mace would be much of a challenge. I could tell he was a midwesterner, and farm boys were no match for a sweet, dark Colombian. I doubt it'd take me thirty hours, much less thirty days.

My friends started in as soon as I returned to the flat bench.

"That didn't take long, Puta," Avery offered, as he spotted for Bruce.

"I have to stay on my game."

"Think you're at risk?"

"Nah. Blondie just moved from Chicago. He doesn't know anyone. He needs a friend to show him around. By the end of the tour, he'll be begging for my chorizo," I said, gripping my dick through my shorts as I did.

"Is Blondie as hot up close as he is from here?"

"Hotter. Dude's got orange circles in his eyes. I'm not kidding you. Orange . . . fucking . . . circles."

When I finished my workout, I lingered in the locker room, wrapped in a towel. I hoped Blondie would come in and give me a preview, but my hope was dashed. I dressed, tugging jeans on over my yellow briefs and a black tank over my torso. I looked in the mirror, and liked what was looking back. I had black, curly hair. I wore it long and reckless.

I had dark, oily eyes. They were almost black, and they reflected the light.

I had thick, full lips, and large white teeth. When I smiled, I got my way.

I hated to shave. So, I usually had at least a scruffy face and neck. I often had a full beard.

I had worked my body into shape. My chest was muscled and covered with dark hair, as was my stomach. My arms were also muscled, and I had barbed wire tattooed around both of them. I loved my ink.

I looked rougher than I was. I liked to joke that I was from the mean streets of Bogota. But, my street in Bogota was not that mean. Both of my parents were doctors, and we lived well in Colombia, at least until we fled. We lived better in San Diego. I was a private school kid who went to Pepperdine for college and majored in Biology. I was now at UCSD's School of Medicine, following my parents' lead. I looked street, but it was inauthentic.

I have always known I was gay. I have never been interested in girls. I have never dated or kissed a girl. I certainly have never fucked a girl. The mere thought made me throw up a little in my mouth. If the Kinsey Scale is 1-10, I am an 11. There was nothing about the female body that attracts or interests me.

The male body was another thing. I love the angles and firmness of it. I love the hair that covers it. There's a reason Michelangelo sculpted David, not Diane.

Still, I had not come out until I was in college. But, when I came out, I came flying out. I fucked or was fucked by every curious or gay guy at Seaver, Pepperdine's liberal arts college. I preferred blondes (opposites attract), but I was indiscriminate. When I was twenty, my only requisite was a dick. I took all comers, be they asian, black, caucasian, clean, dirty, dumb, fat, femme, masculine, muscled, smart, thin, or white. I was reckless, and I should have had to pay for my recklessness. But, my tests always came back clean.

I had settled a little since, but not a lot. I had sorta fallen in love once, but I wasn't ready to be bridled. So, I fucked around, got caught, and got tossed. It had hurt only until I started getting laid again.

I didn't understand straight monogamy, especially in the era of abortion and birth control. I definitely didn't understand gay monogamy. To me, monogamy was atavistic, designed to prevent unwanted pregnancies and so no longer applicable to straights and never applicable to gays.

My mother assured me I was wrong, and that I would meet someone who would make me want to commit to him forever and forsake all others. I assured my mother she was nuts.

I jacked off when I got home from the gym. I have always had a thing for chin dimples, so I thought of Blondie's as I stroked my uncut cock. I have a fecund imagination, and I was using his chin dimple as a cock ramp into his mouth as I came all over my chest and stomach. I smeared my cum into my body hair and let it dry. I liked to keep it. I liked the way it smelled.

Smell was my strongest sense, and I catered to it. I didn't wear deodorant, because I liked the way my pits smelled at the end of a long day. When I scratched my balls or cock, I always moved my hands to my nose after; I liked the musky, sweaty smell of my crotch. When I removed my underwear, I always raised them to my face. I liked the smell of cock more than I liked sucking one. I liked the smell of ass more than I liked eating one.

I jacked off again before I went to bed. Again, I was thinking of Blondie's chin dimple when I came. This time, I was sucking it while I fucked him.

*****

I did not see Blondie at the gym the entire weekend. When I ran into him Monday night, I asked if he had taken the weekend off.

"No, I was in Dallas."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Personal," he responded, coldly.

I seemed not to be having the effect on Mace I expected or wanted. I had already missed my thirty hour mark, and I was starting to wonder if Latinos were not his thing. I'd be screwed if he was an Only, which is what me and my friends called gays who sought "Only Whites" or "Only Blacks" or "Only Asians."

"Blondie's here," Avery said, grabbing the Stairmaster next to mine.

"I know. I talked to him."

"Getting closer?"

"I don't think so. I think there's something going on there. I'm not sure what, but there's something."

Mace almost always worked out alone, lost in his Walkman. As a ruse, I started spotting for him. When I talked about the Padres, he offered that he was a Cardinals fan. When he talked about conservative politics, I told him I was a revolutionary.

I didn't tell him I was gay. I just assumed he knew. I didn't wear it, but I also didn't hide it.

I assumed he was gay. He was too well maintained to be straight.

After spotting for him for about week, I asked "Hey, Mace, want to grab a beer once we're done here?"

He scrunched up his face, started to say something, then stopped.

When he restarted, he said, "If you're asking me out on a date, I'm with someone. I'm not available."

"Not even for a beer?"

"Is that all it is?"

"It is. Pretty full of yourself, aren't you?"

"No. Actually, you'll find the opposite to be true."

"I hope so," I answered. "I'll start looking tonight over that beer."

We sat outside, drinking and talking. Without the possibility of sex hovering, I relaxed and soaked in Mace's words. He was from a small Missouri town, had grown up poor, was the first in his family to college, moved to Chicago for law school, and was now clerking for Judge Thompson on the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. He was in a relationship with John. He told me about how it started, and I found the story incredibly sweet and hot. They were both straight when they met, they became friends, and then they slowly edged into being lovers, each day bringing a little more adventure than the one before. They cautiously and slowly went from holding hands to fucking. Three years later, Mace was further toward gay than John was, but John had surprised him by showing up at his law school graduation after trying unsuccessfully to quit him.

Mace's face lit up when he talked about John. He smiled, and I realized I had never seen him smile fully before. His smile transformed his face, dimpling his cheeks to match his chin dimple. It was a great smile. It was too rare, but it was worth the wait.

I told Mace about fleeing Colombia and re-starting life as a high school freshman in America, about being an only child, and about coming out to my parents. He asked me a lot about my decision to be a doctor, and I finally had to admit it was not a decision at all. I had reached a detente with my parents. They would put up with me being gay, and I would go to medical school. I didn't really mind. I couldn't think of anything else I wanted to do more.

When it was time to go, Mace hugged me goodnight. I was surprised. I thought midwesterners were more reserved.

"Your mother's right," he said. "When you fall in love, you'll want to forsake all others."

As I walked to my car, I knew I was up against it. I had Mace's smile in my mind's eye when I jacked off that night.

Chapter Two

Mace and I started hanging out every Monday night after the gym. We talked our way through dinners and drinks and long walks. Once Mace got going, he was an open book. He told me about his little sister, how lost he was after she died, and how disappointed he had been when none of his college friends had shown up for her funeral. I wanted to take his hand as he talked, but I resisted.

He told me about Freddie, the friend he had fooled around with on John. I chided him when he did, reminding him he had told me I'd "want to forsake all others" when I fell in love.

"I wanted to," he said. "I just couldn't. I'm human, too."

He paused, looked at me like he was going to confess how horrible he had felt after cheating on John, and smiled a devilish smile. "Plus, Freddie had a really nice dick." We both laughed at his mischief.

I had less than a week left in my game. I thought of telling him about it. But, I didn't. It just seemed too crass at that point.

Mace smelled of vanilla. It had to be in his soap or his lotion. It was faint, but it was certainly there.

I had vanilla in my kitchen cabinet. I started dabbing it in my chest hair before I jacked off. I liked smelling Mace when I came.

*****

I took Avery and Bruce to dinner to "celebrate" my loss. I thought of inviting Mace, but I didn't want him to know that I had bet that I could bag him in less than thirty days. I took a ton of shit at dinner before Avery and Bruce accused me of giving up.

"I didn't give up."

"You did," Bruce intoned. "You decided you wanted him as a friend, not as prey."

"I didn't decide anything. He's in love."

"That's never stopped you before."

They were right. I had ignored wedding rings and other evidence of coupling as I fucked or was fucked by someone's husband, lover, or beau. I rationalized that it was not my job to enforce whatever outdated contract or construct in which they were invested. If they were willing to ignore it, I was just as willing.

I didn't think that way with Mace. I didn't prey upon him when he was drunk or lonely. I didn't try to erode his resistance or his will. I let him be. I tried to be his friend.

I did think what Mace was trying for with John was ridiculous. As I mentioned, I didn't understand gays who sought the hetero construct of monogamy that was outdated and unmoored from its original purpose. I especially didn't understand trying to do it cross-country with someone who refused to accept or admit he was gay.

I thought Mace was setting himself up for another bitter fall. I thought John had revealed who he truly was when he had tried let Mace go. Sure, he had returned, too weak to permanently sever the tie that bound. But, I was certain he'd let Mace go again. John would never give Mace what he wanted, even if I was convinced he was a fool for wanting it.

I kept those thoughts from Mace. I liked being his friend, and I feared unedited honesty would repel him.

*****

The more time I spent with Mace, the more I looked forward to spending time with him. Looking back, I think it was his midwestern-ness. Mace seemed utterly without guile. He wasn't pretending to be someone or something he wasn't, and he wasn't interested in those who were. He was comfortable in his own skin, unlike so many of the guys I had bedded. He was not on the make. He was who he was.

He rubbed off on me. Especially when it was just the two of us, I let my guard down. I felt more me with him than I felt with anyone else, even Avery and Bruce, who I had been friends with for years.

Obviously, I was smitten with him. It took a long time for me to admit it to myself; it didn't take nearly as long for Avery and Bruce to diagnose me. They thought it was hilarious. The one who always got what he wanted couldn't get the only one he wanted.

I tried to keep my feelings from Mace. It was hard, as Mace was a naturally affectionate person. We embraced regularly. I inhaled him whenever we did.

While we were sitting at dinner one night, he offered that I had beautiful hands. I held up my right hand to look at it. I was vainglorious, but I had never really focused on my hands.

"What makes a hand beautiful?" I asked.

He told me to put my hand down, and I did. He complimented my nails, tracing them with his fingertip as he did. He talked about the hair between each knuckle, and then the hair on the back. Apparently, he thought it was just the right amount. Then, he turned my hand over and traced the callouses. He concluded they were strong, man hands, but nevertheless beautiful.

I got turned on as he described my hand and touched it. I folded my hand around his, my brown skin contrasting sharply with his, and looked directly into his eyes, smiling. Mace smiled back at me and asked "what?"

I couldn't help myself. "John's lucky," I said.

"So am I."

I should have left it there. But, I either couldn't or wouldn't.

"I'm not sure. I think you deserve more. And, I'm saying that as your friend, not John's rival." I have no idea why I had added "not John's rival." I don't think Mace had thought for one moment up to that point that I wanted to be John's rival. For some reason, I had just laid it out there.

Mace had too much grace to say anything. But, he pulled his hand from mine and looked pensive.

Chapter Three

Despite my faux pas, Mace and I got closer and closer Monday to Monday. And, Mondays soon were not enough for us. We started hanging out most nights that I didn't have to study, sometimes with Avery and Bruce and sometimes just the two of us.

When Avery and Bruce were around, they were too honest with Mace. They were explicit about the five years I had been out. They had nicknamed me Puta and referred to me as a "man whore." I wanted to reign them in, but I couldn't.

Mace seemed unfazed by their stories. He did not view me as an option, so there was no reason for him to fret over my sexploits.

For Halloween, Bruce had a "Dead Rock Star" party. Mace had let his hair grow, so he tucked it behind his ears, grew a little scruff, and showed up as a stunning Kurt Cobain. I went easy, shaved my face, and showed up as Richie Valens, the only Latino I could think of. Bruce dragged out as Janis Joplin. And, Avery scuzzed up a little as Jimi Hendrix.

We were all very drunk by the time the last guests wobbled out. Bruce suggested an old fashioned slumber party, so we used his comforter and blankets to build a bed on the floor. I was the last one out of the bathroom, so they were already settled with Mace closest to the wall and Avery in the middle. I had no idea what they were wearing, but I was in yellow boxer briefs. I owned only yellow underwear, as I thought they looked best against my brown skin and body hair.

I laid down next to Bruce, torqued by the sequence of bodies. Momentarily inspired, I rolled onto Bruce, kissed him good night, and said "Boo." I had drunkenly made out with Bruce once, but we had never hooked up.

I then rolled onto Avery, kissed him good night, and said "Boo." Avery and I had hooked up on and off over the years, usually only as booty calls to get off when we struck out on the prowl. I liked his smooth, soft skin, and his big black cock. We were both hounds, so anything other than a greedy fuck was out of the question.

I then rolled onto Mace, kissed him good night, and said "Boo." I lingered on top of him, and I could feel him getting hard against me. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. I pressed my crotch into his, but he didn't press back.

"Scooch over," I whispered. "I want to sleep next to the wall."

Mace shifted over, and Avery and Bruce followed suit. I didn't think I'd get away with it, and I didn't.

"Hey, Puta," Avery offered. "If you had wanted to sleep next to Blondie, all you had to do was say so. I shouldn't have had to endure a kiss for it."

"Endure?" I asked, mockingly, and raising up on my right arm. "You know you loved having these luscious brown slips pressed to your thick black ones."

"Been there, done that," he answered, rolling his eyes at me. "Like always, you were thinking of someone else while you were kissing me."

"Yep," added Bruce. "Like always. So very Juan of you."

"I am starting to sense some anti-immigrant bigotry," I teased.

"No," Bruce laughed. "You are starting to sense some ongoing anti-whore bigotry."

"Glass houses, Bitch," I responded. "I'm not the one who got fucked against a fence in an alley last Friday night."

"In my defense," Bruce offered, "it was a nice fence. Wrought iron, not chain link."

"Still, it was a fucking fence," I said, sarcastically slut-shaming him.

Avery jumped in. "It may not have been against a fence, but I'm pretty sure you got fucked Friday night."

"I didn't," I defended myself.

"Then you fucked someone."

The room went silent. I couldn't deny that which was true.

Bruce slowly drawled out. "Uhmmmm hmmmm."

I pounced on Avery. "What about you, Mandingo? I saw who you left with."

"I'm sure you mean 'with whom you left,'" Avery, always the grammarian, corrected me. "And, to answer your question, I had a decent Friday night, but a better Saturday morning."

"You let that chicken stay over?"

"No. I sent him away. But, I booty called him back the next morning. His tight white ass deserved another pounding."

Avery was proud of his promiscuity. Every Sunday brunch, he drawled out "I am Mandingo" if he had gotten laid that weekend. The self-moniker had stuck.

Mace finally spoke up. "I feel like I'm in an episode of Golden Girls, but you're all Blanche."