Layla Does It
3
Dylan went through the crowd, looking for Tom, who was by Lee and Danasia. He tugged on his father’s sleeve.
“Hey, you!” Tom turned around and hugged him. “How was Chicago?”
“It was good,” Dylan said. “For the most part.”
Tom chose not to ask, but nodded his head.
“Can I go out for a bit? I want to go over and see Lance.”
“All right.”
Clearly, Fenn had kept his word and told Tom nothing.
“Could you hold this for me?”
Dylan produced a small book from his jacket pocket and Tom laughed in surprise.
“I haven’t seen this in years.”
“I hadn’t seen it at all,” Dylan said. “It’s Dad’s Bhagavad Gita.”
“I was asking him questions about God and everything,” Dylan shrugged. “So he just gave me this on the train ride home and said, ‘Read it.’ You know how he is.”
“Yes, I do. I’ll keep that for you,” Tom told him clapping the small book between his hands.
“Remember, curfew’s still at eleven,” Tom added.
“I know, Dad,” Dylan told him. He kissed him on the cheek, greeted Lee and Danasia and headed out of the crowded room. Danasia looked like she had something to say, and she had always been the type of person who, when asked, “What’s going on?” took it literally. Dylan didn’t have time for that right now.
Outside of the theatre, the late summer night was still warm, and Demming Street always seemed safe. A litte further east downtown began, and he could see the steeple of Saint Agatha’s. He wanted to ask Tom about the whole Bryant business. It wasn’t a thing he expected of this father. Actually, it would have made more sense given the type of person Fenn could be, for him to say that he had strayed, or even that he had grown tired of poor, ordinary Tom. Not that his father was dull, only next to Fenn he seemed sedate and simple.
Maybe that was it, Dylan thought as he crossed Lanier Avenue, and going up a block, rounded the corner to the houses on Meadow. Bryant wasn’t exactly flashy either. There was something very similar in the two men. Still, Dylan steered away from the idea of his cup of tea drinking, stay inside and play the piano father, having wild affairs with anyone, especially Professor Bryant Babcock.
For a brief moment, Dylan was afraid to knock on the door, as if it was he who had been caught at Lance Bishop’s house. But he remembered now it wasn’t that way at all. He tapped on the door, and a few moments later, Lance’s sister came to the door, and Dylan could smell the remnants of dinner.
“Come on in,” Charity said and, closing the door behind him, she called her brother’s name.
Before anyone else came, Lance was down the hall in jeans and a tee shirt, long and tall, and he looked shocked when he saw Dylan.
“Thanks, Char,” his voice was a little off. He came to Dylan.
“I’m sorry about running out. I was scared,” Lance said.
“I was too.”
“I couldn’t have just stayed there. I…”
“I understand,” Dylan said. “You probably did the best thing.”
“I was so embarrassed,” Lance leaned in and whispered, his eyebrows still up in the air.
Lance really was the perfect guy. A year older than him. Tall and lean, good looking. Girls who were starting to think he wasn’t totally straight still couldn’t stop thinking about him. And he wasn’t a clutzy lover or someone out to take advantage. In some ways he was more skilled than Jack Ferguson. And he loved him. Dylan could see that.
“I’ll get my sweat jacket and we can go out,” Lance said. He caught Dylan’s hand for a moment and then said, “I’ll be right back. Or you can come up with me.”
Dylan went up the stairs after Lance. In Lance’s room he admired the curve of his long back as he bent over, looking for the sweatshirt in his messy room. He loved the movements of Lance’s arms and his long fingers picking through his clothes.
“Here we go,” Lance announced, and they were down the stairs and out of the house.
“We brought back Kenny,” Dylan told him.
“Your friend Kenny?”
“Yeah. He’s going to be living with Fenn and Todd.”
“What did your Dad say about the other night?”
“He was real good about it. I… I feel odd. I didn’t want to be a grown up just yet. Not for him. I wish he still thought I was a kid. Well, he still does. But he thinks I’m a kid who’s having sex.”
“Which you are.”
“Lance, would you want your mom to know?”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“Why?” Lance said, and Dylan almost chuckled at his wide eyed expression and his hushed voice.
“Tom was cheating on Fenn.”
“No!” Lance said, and Dylan laughed.
“What?”
“You’re funny.”
“I don’t mean to be. It’s just… Wow.”
Dylan was already slipping his hand into Lance’s, and their sleeves were drawn down as if that hid the fact that their fingers were clasped. Their hands twisted, and as they walked they pressed their sides together, stumbled, squeezed hands again. Two or three cars sped up and down Dorr. There was Saint Barbara’s.
“This just isn’t any good,” Lance said in that low voice of his.
“Whaddo you mean?” “Just us talking?”
Dylan laughed and shook his head.
When the road cleared, Lance pulled Dylan across it to the school property, and they crossed the short blacktop to stand under the stone porch that led to the school, and then in the darkness, Lance pulled Dylan to him, and holding onto his waist, kissed him. It felt so good. They kissed like that and went to their knees, arms tightening around each other, hands in each other’s hair, mouths on throats then back to lips. Dylan kissed his eyes, his ears, his throat again.
Lance got up, and Dylan looked at him. He held out his hand, and Dylan took it. Lance led him beside the school, past the rectory, through the playground to the darkened area by the wall, where the grass was long and thick. He pulled off his sweatshirt and then, putting it on the ground, he locked his arms around Dylan again and then slowly pushed Dylan to the ground. Dylan wrapped his arms around him, letting the shame and fear of the last day go away, even letting being Fenn Houghton’s child go away. Life flooded his groin. He felt his penis getting thicker and stiffer, and Lance was pulling away his jeans and pulling his underwear off, His dick popped up in the air and then was caught in Lance’s mouth. Dylan lay like that, looking up at the stars, his hands sinking into the waves of Lance’s hair. His mouth was open in pleasure and shock, and then it was open for Lance’s kisses, and then Lance’s tongue wrapped around his cock, his mouth pulling. Dylan came up. They completely undressed each other now, laying here, exchanging love, taking in each other until Lance was fucking his mouth and his hands were on the softness of his ass and then he did the same to Lance. In the end, the way he desired, the way he craved, face in the grass, body over the sweatshirt, he was crushed into the earth while Lance fucked him. Their hands were clasped together and in a lightning moment of bliss, unclasped as they both shuddered and screamed a little, Lance trembling and emptying himself the same time Dylan orgasmed and felt his penis, now a huge fountain, shooting and shooting. He felt if he didn’t stop he would shoot out the last of himself. He felt if it didn’t end he would die. He didn’t know there was that much in him. Lance deep inside of him ached. His balls ached and all of him, crushed to the grass was open. Wordless sounds escaped his mouth, a sort of nearly silent praise.
“Holy shit, don’t they ever turn the porch light on?” Lance said as they approached his house.
His arms were bare and he looked good in the snug tee shirt. He held his sweatshirt a little away from him and said, “Goddamn, Dylan, you fucking ruined it.”
“It’s jizz, not a wine stain. Just put some soap on it and it comes off. But I’m sure you know that—”
But Lance turned around suddenly, and pressing him to the door, kissed him. The pressure of his mouth, his arms holding him, the strength of Lance’s desire, felt so good. Dylan almost melted a little again. Limply his hands went around Lance’s neck.
“We’re going to make this work,” Lance said. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Dylan said.
They kissed a little more, lightly, slowly in the dark. And then Dylan pushed him away and said, “Get in the house. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Lance kissed him again, and then opening his door, went back in. Dylan thought it was best to turn around and leave before he gave Lance anymore reason to come out and kiss him again, even though he wanted it. He wanted to leap up in the air. He also wanted to go talk to Laurel. Instead he headed for Tom and Lee’s because the buses stopped running in an hour, and he didn’t want to walk. He only had to take a Number Six for about seven blocks and then get up and go down to the yellow bungalow. He unlocked the door and it was comfortable and homey, the house of a playwright and a musician. He went up from the sunken living room and up the stairs past the kitchen, and then to his room where he lost his breath.
“What the fuh….”
Sitting on his bed, as calm as anything, thighs crossed, feet stretched out, was Ruthven Meradan.
“You said we would talk, well now it’s time to talk.”
“Oh, my God,” Dylan put a hand to his head. “If you love me, not now.”
“Well, you’ve said not now and not now and not now, and you’ve been putting it off—”
“You put me off for… how long?” Dylan said.
“I know.”
“Then you should know this. This week has really taken a lot out of me, and it’s only Wednesday, and I am tired and dirty and just got back from Chicago, and I need a bath.”
“Okay,” Ruthven said, standing up. “Run a bath. Your folks aren’t home. I’ll come in with you, wash your back—”
“I need a bath by myself.”
Ruthven shrugged. “You’re not making this easy.”
“Why should I?”
“You’re not making it easy for me to do anything or say anything at all.”
“There’s no reason you should,” Ruthven agreed. “I didn’t have my act together. I kept going toward something and then pulling away. I don’t have any right to ask for anything.”
“But here you are, anyway.” “Right, Dylan. Here I am.” “For what?”
“For you.”
Dylan blew out his cheeks.
He opened the cabinet door and pulled out deodorant. He got the lotion too and closed it.
“Why don’t you just tell me what you want to say? Tell it to me right now.”
“I told you.”
“You told me in a letter.”
“Cause you were with that…. tool. Lance Bishop.”
“Lance Bishop is my boyfriend.”
“Lance Bishop is a fucking tool with the physique of a pencil and the biggest goddamned forehead in the world.”
“I just finished making love to Lance Bishop in the grass, by the schoolyard. We did it for an hour and a half, and he’s still on me.”
Ruthven looked at Dylan, and then he gave him a slight frown.
“We used to actually do it in a bed. And I can’t remember you wanting to wash me away that quickly.”
“Get the fuck out,” Dylan said, tiredly.
“I’m here for you. I’m here to tell you to get rid of him and whoever else you’re fooling around with so we can start some real shit.”
Dylan looked like he was about to lose it. He put his hand to his head and his mouth hung open.
“I’m sorry,” Ruthven said.
Dylan’s voice trembled.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he almost wailed. “Stop. I’m fifteen. Just stop it.”
Dylan suddenly looked like he was fifteen, and Ruthven remembered how he always felt one moment he and Dylan were lovers, and the next Dylan was still a boy.
“I’m sorry,” Ruthven said.
“You can’t just do what you want,” Dylan said. “Lance… tells me he loves me.”
“I love you.”
“And he sticks by it. He doesn’t go crazy and skip out the next day…”
Dylan looked deeply confused. He looked like a child. “I’m too young for this.” He wished his dad was here. He wish Fenn, who knew everything, was here.
“I’ll go away,” Ruthven said.
“You have to,” Dylan said.
“Uh… How about this? You just come to me if you want to? Alright?”
Dylan nodded.
“You know I love you,” Ruthven said. “And maybe you still love me too.”
All Dylan could do was nod.
“I’m just going to leave you to your bath.”
Ruthven gave him a small wave, and turned to leave.
Dylan sat down on the edge of the tub and sighed.
