He Said My Name (A Sequel)

"Are you sure you're okay, you know, with my status?" he asked.

Honestly, I hadn't known that I would be. I had always wondered how, if that day came, I would react. I knew how I should, but I hadn't honestly known how I would.

With Timothy, I didn't even think about it. My reaction had been instinctive. He had an illness, nothing more and nothing else.

I wanted him to know how okay I was. "I'm so okay," I said. "That I want you to fuck me."

"Really?"

"Really."

He had never fucked me, but he had assured me he had fucked others.

He worked me open and then wrapped himself. I had bottomed a lot in my life, but I was not really a fan of it. It was something I could do, but not something I wanted to do. I just never got out of it what others seemed to get out of it.

At least, until it was Timothy topping me. "Holy shit," I said, once he had fully penetrated me and started working his hips a little.

"It's good, right?" he asked.

"It is," I answered. "It really is."

"It's about to get better," he bragged.

And it did. I don't know how, but he in no time had me sweating and tingling and begging "Fuck me, Michael, fuck me...."

It was like nuclear fusion was occurring in the area behind my balls. My whole body started to twitch as I felt that ball of energy move up, through my shaft, and out of my meatus.

"Oh Marco," Timothy intoned, as he watched my orgasm and then met it with one of his own.

When he started to pull out, I pleaded, "No. Please, just stay there."

"I can't," he said. "We can't let it leak inside of you."

I whimpered when he pulled out. I felt empty.

The rest of that day and the next day went on like that, a merry go round of sex, sleep, and sustenance. We were in love. We had been since that fateful summer. It had gone dormant, but dormancy is not absence.

I returned to work on Wednesday. We moved into the Brownstone on Saturday. We talked about staying in the basement apartment, as it held such good memories. But, in the end, we decided we needed and wanted more space.

Timothy insisted that we have a spiritualist cleanse the Brownstone before we moved in. I thought it was a crock, but it wasn't my Brownstone. So, she crystalled and saged and did whatever else spiritualists do to cleanse.

"I'm not an excorcist," she said, when Timothy asked her about ghosts. "Plus, some ghosts are good. They protect us when we're asleep."

I don't know that I believed in ghosts. But, I kind of liked the idea of being protected when I slept.

Timothy also insisted that we christen the Browstone as soon we could. So, I sucked Timohty's wrapped dick while he sat on a box marked "kitchen" (we still hadn't gotten to that clinic). When he was finished, he sucked mine while I sat on the same box and, goddammit, he put me back on that elevator, teasing me until I blasted through the roof like Willy Wonka and Charlie.

Later, after we had unpacked (there wasn't much) and eaten, we went to make love for the first time in our new bedroom. "I like to ride," Timothy had said, wrapping me and then sliding down, his knees on the mattress, his hands on my shoulders.

Boy, did he. He bounced and bounced, flipped around and bounced some more, then topped it off by raising his hips and riding me like James Manziel would ride Ethan Manor. I was amazed by his physicality and stamina. I again woke up not realizing that I had cum or pulled out or cleaned myself.

I told Timothy about my memory lapse, and he started to laugh. "Jesus, Michael," he said. "You were yelling Michael and I was yelling Marco and then you bucked into me and I could feel your dick swelling and emptying and you said 'Holy shit" and went dead still. I came, too, just from you fucking me."

"I wasn't fucking you," I said. "I was making love to you."

"You can believe what you want," he said. "But I know what fucking is when I'm in it, and that was fucking. Pure, base, carnal, fucking."

He was right. For the second time, he had let me fuck him senseless, only I was the one senseless.

* * * * *

We have been in the Brownstone for ten years. I no longer lawyer. It was too consuming, and it left too little time for Timothy, Knute (the retriever I named, after Knute Rockne), Vincent (the retriever he named, after Vincent Van Gogh), and -- a few years later -- Ella (our daughter) and Louie (our son).

Timothy's bequest meant that neither of us needed to work (oh, to be in the lucky sperm club), but he continued to paint, and I managed the gallery, his showings, and his career. He is known in national art circles, but not yet a household name. He will be, though. I'm sure of it, especially when I look in the eyes of the painting I opened 20 years ago, which is in our bedroom and still has his note to me taped to it and now also has my note back taped to it.

Until then, he successfully manages his illness, we successfully manage our family, and I marvel at the idea that I stumbled into a happy, full life that day I was wandering around Lincoln Park and wondered whether Cafe Ba Ba Reeba was still open.