Thinking about it, it was the Realtor, Roger, who put me back to doing what I had been escaping, but I can't say that I objected to that. He, a flash and a bit swishy guy of about twenty-two, was the one who showed me the house on Larkspur Lane, on the circle at the end of that street, in the 55-plus community of Peppertree Crossing on the edge of Brunswick, Georgia. That was about as far away from Providence, Rhode Island, as I could get, and a seniors' community was about as much into hiding for someone like me as I could get too. Nobody on God's green earth who knew me would look for me in an old-people's community. But Roger brought it all the way back.
I'd gotten into trouble in the first place by fucking little honey's like him. They--and he--were legal, but not by much. And I had been in a position where I shouldn't have been doing anything like that. And, second, it was Roger who sold me the house on the cul-de-sac at the end of Larkspur Lane.
Roger was the type of pretty boy who could sell a chipmunk hole to any of the simpering widows who were moving into Peppertree Crossing as a transition from the big house and a living husband in the suburbs to the nursing home paid for by the husband's settled life insurance policy. He had just the little boy, cute, "oh gosh" charm that the gray-haired widows gravitated to. Roger, though, gravitated to mature, but good-looking and still hard-bodied men like me--men who liked to get young, pretty-boy guys, like Roger, under them.
I fucked him in the empty master bedroom of the house he was showing me on the Larkspur Lane cul-de-sac. He sexed me up while selling me the house and delivered after I'd signed on the line. Most men can get laid for a couple of hundred bucks. This Roger was so good that his tail cost me a couple of hundred thousand bucks. I bought a house just to let him know how much I enjoyed fucking him.
I put him on the wall next to a floor-to-ceiling window on the adjacent wall from where I watched another honey of a young guy exercising in a Speedo beside a pool in the backyard of the neighboring house. I remember being surprised and heartened that a young guy was over there. That this was a seniors-only community was both the answer to my situation and the great disappointment that I had to live here among all of these old people. I wasn't really old enough to qualify to live here--not quite.
I put Roger the Realtor against the wall, his arms raised, his hands palming the wall, his cheek pressed to the plaster, and his butt jutting out into the room. His trousers and briefs were puddled on the carpet around his feet. I was grasping his hips to hold them steady and jutted out to me, and I was crouching a bit behind him and pounding his ass with my shaft. All the time, though, I was watching the sweet young piece--a couple of years younger than Roger--next door, working out only in a Speedo. He was well-tanned. I wondered if there would be a great contrast in his coloring--if his naked loins would be white when the Speedo came off. I hoped so. The tan-line contrast was a fetish of mine.
As I fucked Roger, a mature guy, somewhat older than I was but still in pretty good condition, came out of the back of the house next door. He and the younger guy who had been working out dove into the pool and played around in there. I fantasized that they were playing around with each other's dicks under the water. They certainly got in positions where they could have been doing that. You never can tell what can go on under water in a swimming pool. Thinking about it made me harder--and it made Roger moan deeper as I went on spiking him.
I bought the house. Roger told me I'd fit right into the close little neighborhood at the end of Larkspur Lane. He's also the one who told me about the roadhouse just off Highway 17, nearly all the way to the Brunswick I-95, that was a gathering place for gays from the Brunswick area. That was the second thing Roger did to pull me back from the full effect of my escape from Providence to the Georgia coast. I should send him a thank-you note for that, I guess.
* * * *
Not only did I have a headache and no patience for figuring out how to put together this bedframe I was working on, but I also could kick myself for maybe getting drunk the previous night in the roadhouse up Highway 17 toward the I-95 interchange that Roger had told me about--drunk enough to have let more slip than I intended to and letting it slip too close to home. I--and others--had gone to such extremes to cover it all up and, because I couldn't hold my liquor, I might have blown it.
I went into the back master bedroom of the 55-plus community house I'd bought on the cul-de-sac at the end of Larkspur Lane in Peppertree Crossing and looked down at the steel frame pieces and lugs that were scattered around on the floor. I wasn't old enough to be there by a couple of years, but the new identification and documentation I had--that the board at Brown University in Rhode Island, the exclusive Ivy League school, where I had been the dean of a special section of the university where the sons of the ultrawealthy who wouldn't otherwise be admitted to the university were coddled had arranged for me to get in New York--made me legal here. Pretending I was older than I really was was meant to help me relocate and hide. The university's board was only too eager not to have its hidden program dean messing around with eighteen or nineteen-year-old willing but not-the-brightest special students spilling over into the public news. That the guys were good with it and had wanted it to just continue only added to the scandal potential. The university board had been very helpful in quietly moving me on.
I wasn't that helpful last night when, already half looped from loneliness and the bleak prospect of how my new life hiding out in an old-folks community in Georgia was going, my next-door neighbor on Larkspur Lane, Gordon Montgomery, saddled up to me in a gay roadhouse and formally introduced himself--and wanted to stand me a drink.
I hadn't recognized him when I'd first entered the roadhouse Roger had recommended to me. I only went to check the place out because I was lonely and horny. I saw Montgomery holding down the far end of the bar, but he was clothed now and, although he looked familiar, I didn't connect him with the new neighbor I'd seen cavorting in a backyard pool with a young and tender-looking guy. I hadn't been at the bar for long, though, when a young guy--maybe eighteen or nineteen, my danger zone--saddled up next to me and got friendly. We talked. I found he was interested in making a couple of bucks, and he found that I was there because I was lonely and horny--and that I liked them young. Young and slender and blond and good-looking like he was.
This and that transpired and we were going through a doorway covered with a beaded curtain into the back of the roadhouse. We entered a dusty and dimly lit corridor going back to a windowed door at the back that led to the outside and let some light into the far in the hall. There the young and good-looking guy needing a bit of money sucked me off as I leaned my shoulder blades back into the hallway wall, jutted my pelvis out and ran my fingers into his curly blond hair while he palmed my buttocks and gave me head.
I noticed in my periphery vision the clattering and swaying of the beaded curtain covering the doorway into the bar area and I could see that someone was standing there--at least for a bit after realizing the hallway was being used--before he drifted back into the bar area. When I came out from the back, I realized who that had been and that I indeed had seen the man before. Roger had told me my neighbor's name and I had remembered it. Gordon Montgomery.
