He's Only A Man 



"He's only a man," I think as I pull the duvet up, taking care to tuck it in tight. Allow the soft down filled comforter to provide what my arms ache to do. 


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How many nights will I walk the long cold blocks from my dingy apartment and stand waiting ---waiting for my god to appear in his black chariot, returning from his daily battles? 


I stand here in the darkness, waiting for him to pull himself out of his Jeep and trudge up the stairs to the elevator. He thinks no one is watching so he allows the slump of his shoulders to betray his emotional state. When a neighbor steps out of the elevator he snaps into his god like pose, shoulders back, proud head high, trademark smirk on his lips only to return when the person walks out the door, to his true self. The emotional wreck he is allowing himself to become. 


Every one thinks he drinks and drugs himself into oblivion each night. But we both know it isn't true. He works at Vanguard until exhaustion claims him each day and then he returns to the empty loft. Empty because he thought he wanted what was best for me. Empty because he never asked what I wanted. Empty because he loves me and can't say it. 


All the time he's spent in the last couple of years worrying about me he never realized that I spent an equal amount of time worrying about him, and I still do - I knew what he was doing with the whole Rage party - and I let him. I should have called him on it but I knew he wouldn't listen. Those last weeks before I left, I'd fantasize about how I would sit him down and make him listen. I could tie him to the bed, the chair, chain him in the elevator, lock us both on the roof and hundred different scenarios - oh he'd be pissed, but then he's often pissed at me so that wouldn't matter. I'd put my arms around his stiff body - he wouldn't be able to move away and I would tell him how I feel and make him understand even if it took hours or days or weeks. I tell how much I loved him, adored him, needed him and he would finally have to admit he felt the same way. When he said the words the bindings, the chains what ever would fall away and we would be together forever. Romantic crap, but hey, I'm an artist, I can weave romance into my sketching, my painting especially if my muse is part of it and he always is. Together or apart he never leaves me, he saw to that our first night together. Be careful what you wish for my Grandmother always said - and now I know what she meant. 


I check my watch; I know he's fallen asleep. He always liked to say how he couldn't sleep, how he'd stay awake for hours and be alert at the drop of a pin. Every night we were together he'd fall asleep instantly, from exhaustion or relaxation, and there would be nothing that could wake him. I count on that each night as I walk up the stairs to the loft. The bag from the grocery is heavy tonight, he was out of juice and he needs some form of vitamin C each day. 


I let myself in, careful not to allow the door to shut back with a bang. The loft is in darkness only the streetlights shining in through the window cast any light. I stand for a moment letting my eyes adjust, listening to his small whistling snore, which he would never admit to. It makes me smile each time I hear it remembering the times I'd tease him about it. And how comforting it was to wake in the dark and hear it, knowing the man I love was safe beside me. 


I kick off my shoes, walk over and put the juice in the fridge along with a fresh bagel, the cream cheese in a small packet on top. I shut my eyes, for a moment as the pain of being without him washes over me. I know it's only temporary, I know he loves me and all he needs is time. But it's hard, I'm nineteen and time moves so slowly. We'll laugh about this someday, of that I'm sure, but now, now we only cry when no one is around, saving our laughter for company like the good china. 


I stand at the foot of the bed, once again he's sprawled there, clothes on, and exhaustion has won the game today like it has for the past week. I take his shoes off first, then his socks; I can't resist and give his feet a small massage, reveling in the feel of the familiar. He rewards me with a soft sigh. I wait until his breathing evens out - this nightly game I play so familiar already. My fingers linger for a moment over the zipper and button on his pants, soft as velvet this Armani creation, then with an expert tug they are off and quickly folded to be left over the chair, waiting for him to hang them up in the cold dawn. His shirt has the buttons undone already, he has one arm out, sleep stole him before he could complete the small task of undressing. I eased his arm from the other sleeve and put the shirt in the hamper by the bathroom. I wanted to sit and watch him all night, absorbing his essence to sustain me until the dark came once again and this game would be continue for another round. 


He rolled in his sleep toward my pillow, one hand searching, I slid it under his arm and he pulled it close, my name a murmur on his lips. My heart swelled a bit with the knowledge of his love. The unconscious Brian knew what the conscious one was too stubborn to admit. 


Once again I reach for the down filled comforter, he calls me his Baby, but he's mine. I let my lips brush his forehead, butterfly kisses in the night before I silently leave my home another night and return to my temporary apartment to sleep, the smell of my lover still in my nostrils, the feel of his skin still on my hands. And I wait until I can repeat this night once again. 


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The sunlight streaming in the window filters into my dark bedroom and I wake, once again his name on my lips, his pillow tightly clasped in my arms. I refuse to open my eyes because I know they will confirm his absence. Instead I lie, the comforter still tucked tightly around me, I lie trying to catch the feel of him from when he tucked me into the bed. I try to smell the air, hoping not to disturb any particles of scent that might still linger of his shampoo. I catch a small scent and I'm rock hard immediately. My cock knows and admits what I find so difficult to do. I love him. I want him. I need him. 


With reluctance I leave the bed, heading for the shower, my cock leading the way like some form of comedic porn. I have to smile when I see he's folded my pants wrong. He tries, but he's still only nineteen and the pants he wears can be put back on from a heap on the floor and no one would be the wiser. I refold them then hang them up. I almost hate to do it, looking at them reminds me that he was here last night. 


Standing alone in the shower is almost painful the aloneness of it all. Did I really shower alone all these years? Did I really like to find my toothpaste and hair gel side by side neatly on the counter? I want to find them lying on the counter, the lid off, I know I would feel better if they were. 


I wrap a towel around my waist and walk to the fridge, reaching in for the juice and bagel I know will have magically appeared during the night. I'll have Cynthia put some more money in his account; these double grocery bills will be hard on his budget. What budget? I remember he doesn't do budgets, little baby WASP that he is hasn't learned budgeting yet. 


I sit with my bagel and my juice on the sofa, once again watching the Yellow Submarine parade silently across the television screen. I don't need the words; I have them memorized by now. This is probably my thousandth viewing. My eyes drift to the picture of him, his blonde hair glistening in the afternoon sun, his smile radiating happiness and I remember the salty taste of him that afternoon when we rolled in the autumn leaves ending up in a tangle of arms and legs. Lips tasting each other as we struggled to control our urge to make love in the public park shocking the Sunday afternoon families. My eyes drifted to the television and back to the picture over and over again like a bad movie and I knew. All this time, all these tears, all this stupidity, I knew we were meant to be happy, both of us. We were meant to be together. 


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Tonight I stand here in the dark and the cold, waiting for my man once again. I have the feeling that this charade was about to end and my life would start to move forward again. I couldn't go on, one of these nights I would wake him up or he'd already be awake and the silent recriminations would start again until we both gave up on each other. I could almost smell him and my lips turned up as the scent of his cologne edged with the tang of cigarettes and the heady smell of his Beam. I hadn't realized smells could be conjured out of the air. My eyes never leave the street, waiting for my god to arrive in his chariot. My cock stirs with his familiar smell enveloping my body. My arms ache to hold him. Maybe tonight I'd give him a soft hug, he'd never know and I needed to feel him in my arms if only for a moment. 


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The shadows hide me in my black jacket and pants, I watch him slowly walk towards his waiting spot. He never thinks that his blonde hair always acted like beacon in the dark Pittsburgh night. I can't believe that my stubborn stupidity has led us both to play this game of who loves whom the most. Seeing him stand there, shivering slightly in the night air, I know who loves the most, with the most passion and the most intensity and I only hope that I can come close to what he feels. I hear him sigh, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his nightly offering in a bag by his feet. I need him in my arms. 


As my arms wrap around him from behind, he doesn't even flinch, but instead allows his body to sink further into my embrace, like he's finally arrived home. 


"I'm only a man Justin. I make mistakes. This isn't one of them. Come back home with me, lets make mistakes together." Before Justin could turn in his arms Brian leaned down and whispered in his ear. "I love you Baby" 


The rush of warmth from Brian's words chased away any thoughts of the cold night air. Justin allowed himself the pleasure of feeling the strong arms hold him tight as the words echoed over and over in his head. Brian didn't need to see his face to know that it was Justin's smile that had lit up the Pittsburgh night. Words were unnecessary as they crossed the street. They were going home.