In the Middle of Somewhere (19 page)

“That’s awesome,” I tell him. “Your work’s beautiful. Of course you should get the word out. You need a website, for sure. And do you have pictures of the pieces you’ve sold? If not, I’m sure the people you sold them to would let you photograph them. Then people can reach you through the website to place orders. You know?” I trail off at the blank expression on Rex’s face.

“Um,” he says, “I’m not so good with computers.”

“I can help you. It’s so easy now. There’re free sites you can use and tons of tutorials online.”

He makes a noncommittal sound and kisses me, and I immediately lose track of everything except that I’m sitting on his lap and he’s kissing me.

He tastes like Rex and coffee. Mmm, coffee….

Apparently, I said that out loud, because he chuckles and asks me if I want some. I nod eagerly and follow him into the kitchen, where he pushes me against the counter and kisses me, a long, deep kiss that bumps grading at least thirty slots farther down the things-I-want-to-do list than it already was.

“I missed you this week,” he says, and pulls me into his shoulder.

“Me too,” I say. “Sorry. It was a killer week. Freaking Peggy,” I spit out.

Rex squeezes my shoulder with one big hand and I kind of melt against him involuntarily.

“Jesus,” he says. “You’re all knots. It doesn’t seem fair that this Peggy woman can just make you do her work.”

“She didn’t
make
me. But, you know, I’m low man on the totem pole or whatever, so I’ve got to put the time in.”

He takes my other shoulder in his hand and massages them for a minute. At first I tense up, but then every muscle relaxes, including the ones keeping my eyes open. I groan.

“Well, I don’t think it’s right,” Rex says. “Are they at least paying you for it?”

“It doesn’t really work that way in academia,” I say.

Rex makes an irritated sound and his thumbs dig in harder.

“Ugh, you gotta stop; you’re gonna put me to sleep,” I tell Rex, but I’m kind of nuzzling him.

“After dinner I’ll finish, okay?” His voice is husky. He tilts my chin up and kisses me. “Finish your work,” he says, and the promise in his voice thrills me.

“Hey, which is your Wi-Fi network?” I ask Rex. “My piece-of-shit computer isn’t picking anything up.”

Rex looks surprised.

“Oh,” he says, his shoulders going rigid. “I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have the Internet?”

“Don’t need it much. When I do, I go to the library. Oh, do you need it to get your work done? I should have told you, I guess. I just didn’t think of it.”

“No, it’s okay, I just… man, I’ve just been in academic-world too long, I think; I didn’t think to ask. I use it to double-check if I suspect a student’s plagiarized. But, no, it doesn’t matter. I can do that later.”

I settle into the first paper, immediately irritated because the student doesn’t seem to have a thesis. I let out a deep sigh. It’s going to be a long afternoon. She also doesn’t cite any of her quotes. The next paper’s argument is so convoluted that I’m almost impressed with the fact that the student has managed to appear sane in class so far. Paper three has no argument whatsoever and not a single grammatically correct sentence. I sigh again and rub my eyes. Grading always requires waging a mental battle against my temper.

Rex looks up from his drawing and quirks a brow at me in question.

“Sorry,” I tell him. “Grading always infuriates me. It’s like my students don’t listen to what I say at all. I mean, we go over thesis statements in class and I give them a handout about how to tell if a thesis is strong or not. Then they write these papers and they’re just nonsense. I mean, actual nonsense. They aren’t making an argument, they don’t connect any of their ideas, and half the time I can’t even tell if they’ve read the book they’re writing about. It drives me fucking nuts. Listen to this. ‘I will argue that the way Bartleby doesn’t want to do anything proves that he’s politically opposed to doing anything.’ What!”

Rex clears his throat.

“You make it sound like they do badly just to piss you off.”

I laugh, but he doesn’t seem to be joking.

“You know, it’s not really that easy for everyone,” he continues. He’s trying to sound casual, but I can tell he means it. “Sometimes people aren’t good at things.”

“I know that. But it’s like they’re not even trying—” I start to explain.

“You don’t know that,” he says. “Maybe they’re trying their best and they’re just not as smart as you. Or they’re good at math but not your class.”

Of course I know he’s right. At every moment other than when I’m grading, I know that.

“You’re right,” I say. “I guess it just makes me feel like I’m wasting my time trying to teach them shit sometimes. Like they don’t care about it anyway, so why do I spend all my time trying to make them?”

“Well,” he says after a pause, “that sounds like a bigger question.”

“Yeah, I guess it is. I don’t really want to think about it right now. Sorry, I’m just so fucking glad it’s the weekend. I’ll just finish this.”

Rex doesn’t say anything. His shoulders are tense and his jaw clenched. He must think I’m such a pretentious ass right now. Really, it’s never a good idea to grade while anyone else is watching.

“Hey, can we put on some music?” I ask. “It’s so quiet in here I can’t think.”

Rex points to the cabinet next to the television.

“Put on whatever you want,” he says.

“Yeah, sorry, I just, I’m so used to working in coffee shops or at the bar that I guess I’ve, like, trained myself to associate noise with concentration. I can just put my headphones on if you want.”

“No, it’s fine,” Rex says. “Do you miss the city a lot, then?” He’s looking at his drawing and fiddling with his pencil.

“Yeah,” I say, standing before the cabinet and tracing the wood grain with my finger. “Did you make this?” He nods. “You’re so talented.” Rex smiles.

Wow, he has a lot of stuff I’ve never heard of. He has almost all records, but he definitely doesn’t strike me as the sort of neo-vinyl fan who buys new records but never touched a turntable until college. Some of these are moldy.

“Who’s Blossom Dearie?”

“She was a jazz singer. Mostly in the fifties and sixties. Recorded a lot of standards.”

I put the record on. There’s a scritch of static and then a light voice fills the room.

“Were these your mother’s records?”

Rex’s head jerks up.

“Yeah.”

“I like it,” I say, and go back to grading.

By the time I’m finished, I’ve gone through three more records, my comment-writing hand is cramping, my shoulders are tight, and I’ve decided that Rex is an incredibly distracting work buddy. Every time I look up from a paper, there he is, his sensual mouth tightened in concentration and the tiny line between his eyebrows reminding me of how he looked when he was inside me.

“Oh, thank god,” I say finally, my forehead resting on the stack of graded papers. “I need a drink.”

A
FTER
WE
take Marilyn for a walk, Rex makes omelets for dinner.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” I ask, putting my plate in the sink.

Rex shakes his head.

“Do you want me to go so you can… do whatever?”

Rex shakes his head again, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. He stands up and holds out a hand to me.

In his bedroom, Rex pulls me close, running his hands up and down my back.

I put my arms around him, thrilling at his firm muscles and his warmth. Every time I touch him it’s like my whole body reacts. He slides my T-shirt up and pulls it over my head, never losing contact. Then he strips off his own.

“Lie down,” Rex says, a warm hand splaying across my back. He pulls my jeans and underwear off. “Just relax.”

Rex massages my neck, strong thumbs digging into the muscles on either side, then runs his fingers into my hair, massaging my scalp. I guess he wasn’t kidding about finishing that massage. He kisses the back of my neck, then moves on to my shoulders. At first, I tense every time he moves to a new part of my body, but he just keeps whispering, “It’s okay, relax,” and, little by little, I do. He spreads my arms, massaging my biceps, and then down my ribs. My breath catches when his thumbs go to my spine. I can hear little pops and cracks as his weight bears down on me.

With every breath and every touch, I feel like I’m melting into the mattress. When Rex straddles me on the bed, I can feel his heat everywhere. He kisses the back of my neck and the top of my spine as his strong hands massage my lower back, pressing me into the sheets. His palms skim my thighs and I tense up again.

“You’re okay,” Rex murmurs, and uses more pressure, massaging the muscles of my thighs firmly. I bury my face in the pillow, hugging it to me, tensing up again. No one has ever touched me like this. Cared for me like this. It’s like Rex thinks of my body as something he’s responsible for. Something precious. I shake my head in the pillow.

“Hey,” he says, “look at me.” He rolls me to my side so he can see my face. “What’s wrong? Do you want me to stop?”

I shake my head violently but can’t muster a single word.

“Do you want me to keep going?” I nod. Rex is looking at me carefully. I don’t know how to explain it to him. I keep opening my mouth and nothing comes out. Rex gives me a sad smile. “Do you want me to take care of you? Make sure you’re relaxed?” Is that a trick question?
Do
I want him to take care of me? What does that mean? I don’t want Rex to think I’m weak, but I don’t want him to stop. I want this to be like a dream, where things just happen and no one talks about them and everything is liquid and sleepy. I wish I were drunk so I could let him do whatever he wants to me and it wouldn’t have to be my choice. I don’t think I’m supposed to wish for that.

Rex presses a soft kiss to my cheekbone. “Just try and relax, all right? You don’t have to think about anything. You don’t have to do anything. Your only job is to relax, okay?” I nod.

Just relax. No big deal, right? Just relax. Years of experience have taught me that it
is
a big deal, though. If you relax, you’re unprepared for what might happen next. If you relax, someone can sneak up on you. If you relax, you can’t react quickly enough. Years of brotherly sneak attacks on the couch, being pulled into hallways and alleys, and slammed against lockers and walls have taught me so.

“Daniel, do you trust me?” Rex asks. I think I do. Intellectually, I know Rex isn’t going to hurt me, but it’s not as easy as I thought. Not as much of a choice as I thought. I take a deep breath and decide that it’s just mind over matter. If I want to trust Rex, I just have to do it. I close my eyes and nod.

I’m rewarded with a kiss on the mouth and a smile. Rex looks genuinely pleased. I let out a deep breath, glad to have done the right thing, and spread my arms out again, letting go of my death grip on the pillow. If I open my eyes just a sliver, the green flannel of Rex’s sheets is a nubbly landscape that I can pretend is moss. I’ve always wanted to take a nap on a bed of moss.

Rex’s hands are back. I imagine that he’s some kind of sinewy mountain cat padding across my back, pressing me deeper into the springy moss with his huge paws. I used to do this as a kid. I’d lie in bed with the covers over my face and pretend that my stuffed animals were bigger than me. I would pretend that my stuffed lion would gather me up in its paws like a cub and pull me on top of its stomach to sleep.

Even Rex’s pine and cedar smell fits. Now he’s a tree that has been standing for two hundred years, limber enough to bend with the wind, but sturdy enough to shelter me. His hands are on my thighs again, and this time it’s like he’s soothing muscles I didn’t even know I had, stroking purely functional things to a sensual tingle.

“Okay?” Rex asks, and I want to ask him how a tree can talk. I just nod, though, my eyes closing a bit, casting the green hillside into the first shadows of evening.

It’s working. I really am relaxing. Then Rex’s hands touch my ass and I don’t want to pretend anymore. He takes the globes of my ass in his hands and massages them and it feels like I’m drowning, sinking deep into something warm and viscous, like honey. I moan as his palms rest on the hills of my ass and his thumbs caress my lower back. Then he slides his hands to my hips and massages them, rotating them one at a time.

He kneels between my legs, spreading them to make room for him, and kneads my inner thighs and up to the crease of my bottom. He takes me by the hips and digs strong thumbs into my spine, pushing my knees up and apart. His hands slide back to my ass, fingers dipping into my crack, and I moan again. Every touch is electric. I never knew relaxing could feel so amazing. Every strong squeeze of his hands on my ass sends jolts of heat to the base of my spine and my cock, the only part of me that is not relaxed. I squirm a little, trying to maneuver myself into a position that isn’t crushing my burgeoning erection.

Rex lifts my hips easily and settles me back on the bed tenderly, then urges me down again, his attention returning to my ass. I gasp when I feel his hand on my erection, and I let my breath out slowly as he gentles me again, caressing my ass softly to relax me.

I never thought about having tension in my hips or thighs, but as Rex spreads my legs farther apart, relaxing them, I feel loose and flexible, the tension draining from me, leaving me open to him. He scoots up, running a hand through my hair and I arch into his touch.

“Okay, baby?” he asks softly, like he doesn’t want to break the spell.

“Feels so good,” I murmur. When Rex slides down over my back and starts kissing my neck, I vaguely register that he’s taken off his pants too, but I didn’t notice. He kisses down my spine and, when he reaches the plump of my ass, he doesn’t stop, kissing a line down my crack. I gasp and tense up again, but his hands stroke my hips.

“I want to taste you, Daniel,” Rex says, his voice the tumble of a blood-warm wave breaking near my ear. “Can I taste you?” He follows this up with a lick to my ear and I groan, nodding manically. I can feel his hardness between my legs, a pulsing brand on my thigh.