Human Contact (1)

“Alone again?”

Brynn nearly jumped. He hadn’t heard the man approach.

“Mind if I sit with ya? Have a little company?” Not waiting for a reply, the man sat. The next moment was silent except for a passing car.

“Used to be the old Collinwood library, this building here,” he commented. “Sittin’ on the original cement. Now it’s—what?—BattleLines?” The man’s head turned toward advertisements in the windows. “‘Challenge your skills! Play others! Private booths. Ten dollars for a half hour.’ So that’s why I seen you here sometimes this summer.”

“I gotta go,” the boy announced.

The man’s hand grabbed the boy’s forearm. It was gentle but also firm. “Naw. Stay. We’ll talk. Might make a new friend.”

Friend? The boy scoffed inside. He felt invisible, inconsequential, and mostly unvalued. Even when he caught someone’s glance, he never captured their interest. Maybe he was an oddity and they could somehow tell. He didn’t think he was bad-looking although being shorter and thinner and having longer hair and nickle-sized brown eyes made him seem more androgynous than most. Whatever the reasons, he was an alien; a freak on a cold planet.

Maybe it was genetic. His mother had once seemed normal but having been married to a dolt for years was causing her to become somewhat of one herself –- lethargic, numb, self-absorbed, slobbish. Yes, his father provided food and shelter but never acted like it took anything more than that plus a single sperm to be a dad. He probably knew. He just didn’t care.

Anyway, there were benefits for Brynn being a loner—come and go as he wanted; answer to no one. While that might be prefatory self-absorption, he would never become like his father.

“What’s your name?” The man’s tone and face seemed pleasant. His white hair was thick, slightly receding, and grooved back. His eyes were blue with smile-lines at the edges and graying caterpillars above. He seemed a little under six feet tall and wore a faded, whitish, short-sleeve shirt that covered a full, but not fat, torso.

“Brynn,” the boy breathed.

“Ah. Brynn. Bit different, but nice. Pretty name for a pr— My name’s Gilbert.”

He extended his hand. Brynn’s was slow to follow and weaker in clasp. “I guess you’re sitting here because you ran out of money. I wouldn’t mind putting up ten bucks to watch you play.”

Why would he do that? Anyway, the boy had not played well and didn’t need to add more failure to his loss of esteem.

“No. It’s okay.”

The man laughed. “Played out are ya? Well listen, you’re kinda thin. Maybe you’d like a malt. Jake’s isn’t far. Food if you’re hungry.”

While the man’s presence was unnerving, his attention was nectarous, like a warm liquid slowly through a funnel and into a cold and empty vessel.

“C’mon! You could use the calories and I could use some conversation.” He tugged on the boy’s shirt. “Besides, what the hell else you got to do right now?”

It was a point without counterpoint. Even more than having nothing else, Brynn had no ONE else. And, this man noticed him and talked to him.

Besides, even if the man was dangerous, how much could be lost from a life that no one noticed? The possibility that his world might get better was like a flashing lure twisting in a clear and sunny lake, except this promise was better because, unlike duped fish, even if he died, he would at least have a full stomach.

Gilbert suggested they walk to Jake’s. He asked many questions and Brynn liked that for once, someone showed interest. His answers were brief because he was shy and not accustomed to extended conversation.

He felt validated walking with this man. Like, because of Gilbert, Brynn belonged. It was like he had the same prestige as everyone else because he was with a man who was acclimated and proficient in the currents of society.

They placed their orders at Jake’s and sat in a corner booth.

“So, what are you, middle school? Eleven?”

Brynn stirred. “Sixteen.”

The man laughed. “Yeah. Sure. Then, what grade are you in?”

“Going into tenth.”

“Yeah, well when you finally get there, tell ‘em to teach you how to add.” His laugh was friendly. “Don’t matter. Really. Don’t matter.”

He asked about Brynn’s family then expressed misgivings that the boy’s parents were messed up and he had no siblings. “Me? I got daughters. Went to all their games. Recitals. Took them everywhere. Loved it. So, I mean, your situation … how you feeling about it?”

“Dead” was the word that came to mind but instead, Brynn replied, “Used to it.”

“’Used to it?’ Sad.” Gilbert paused. “Tell you what, my daughters are grown and gone and I miss those times going places and doing things. Whataya say we do something? Sometime. Theme park, zoo, the pier, ball game. There’s a carnival in Easton City this weekend.”

Was he kidding? They just met. Brynn hedged. Gilbert encouraged.

“Why?” the boy finally asked.

“Why what?”

“Why would you? You don’t even know me.”

“That’s the point. I want to know you.”

Those words –-“want to know you” –- Brynn couldn’t remember having them said to him—ever!— and they became claws that gripped his tender insides and were more warm drops to the basin of his being.

“Look Brynn, I’m a family man. Semi-retired. Own a home. Law-abiding.
Trustworthy. And hell, you can end things anytime. C’mon Brynn. Everyone can do with … well … human contact.”

That didn’t make sense. He was married and had a family. How could he not be getting his share of “human contact”, whatever that meant? Yet, the man was sincere and his face almost pleading. Brynn was quick to determine that he could say “yes” now, put an end to the man’s doleful face, and chicken out later if he needed to.

“Okay.”
. . . . .

The following Saturday, they drove forty minutes to the carnival in Easton City. Brynn noticed that the man paid good money for their admission, food, a ride, games, etc. While others had never had time for him, this man had actually paid.

Brynn went on one ride before realizing that rides took him away from Gilbert’s attention. He chose instead to walk and with each minute, he wished to God that he had been born into Gilbert’s family.

They left at sunset for the trip back to Collinwood. Gilbert asked if Brynn had had a good time. The boy said “yes” although he was still was not settled with what this new experience was about nor where it was going. But, he was curious and needy and wanted the chance to find out.

They met a few times for lesser events such as a movie, a scenic drive, and Malivar’s, a spacious restaurant with video games, which Brynn didn’t play.

Two weeks after meeting, they went to the zoo on a Saturday and upon their return, Gilbert parked behind BattleLines, their usual rendezvous site. As darkness began to set in, the man talked about incidental things, told jokes, tapped the steering wheel, and eventually sat back in the driver’s seat and seemed to rest.

After a couple of minutes, he mused, “Damn, you see them girls at the zoo? I know, you’re not really into that yet, but there was some hotties. Mmmm-MMMM-mmm.”

The boy didn’t know how to respond.

“That one girl … oval-neck top. Yummm. Almost see her nipples. Whataya think?” Brynn didn’t reply. “Probably 14.”

Yes, Brynn had noticed the girl but what he noticed now was Gilbert’s commenting on a girl that young.

“And that one with the ‘ECHS’ backpack? Legs like that, she gotta be a cheerleader. Twirl little girlie. Sorry. I should shut up.”

He turned the ignition key and Brynn panicked that the man was bored of him and wanted to leave. Instead, he only turned the key far enough to have the overhead light shine on his watch. “Ehhh, plenty of time,” he said as he settled back into the driver’s seat and looked out the side window.

“And that little blond girl. You saw her. Teeth just comin’ in. How cute. Little pink shorts! Mmm-MMM. Sorry, but I mean, I’m a man. Anyway, it ain’t against the law to look. Or dream.”

Brynn knew men were horny. That’s just the way life was. But, was life okay if Gilbert … well … if he liked little girls; very little girls? Yes, the girl in pink was cute but in a kid-sister sort of way. And jeeze, she was probably only seven years old; maybe only six. Did men in their sixties actually get turned on by grade school girls or was it just some fascination for them?

And, suppose it was true, that men were turned on by very young girls. Was that truly okay as long as they didn’t touch? None of those were questions with evident answers and Brynn set them aside.

The following Thursday, they drove to the pier, walked about, marveled at a juggling display, and feasted on delicate Swedish crepes. As the sun doused itself in the ocean, Gilbert returned to park behind BattleLines and talked about the day and the unusual people they had seen.

As the topics began to lag, he said he was frustrated. Once again Brynn felt daggers of inadequacy. Soon enough, Gilbert revealed that while he loved his wife, theirs had become a sexless marriage. “She doesn’t understand. Probably, most women don’t. Men … have needs. Brynn, it’s why I look at pretty girls. Even little girls. Look and dream. Makes me feel young and alive at least for awhile. I’m not a bad man.”

Brynn thought he saw the man’s hand graze the front of his pants but in the dim light, he wasn’t sure.

The following Saturday, Gilbert had tickets to the local, semi-pro, night baseball game. Brynn wasn’t into sports but he loved the warm summer night.

Gilbert drank a few beers and offered sips to the boy who declined. When it came time to leave, they drove through the warm Collinwood night with the windows down and inhaled the scented summer air. Despite the late hour, Gilbert parked.

He did most of the talking and Brynn listened, an arrangement that felt natural to both. Gilbert followed his usual paths of conversation and, as always, the path came to the same intersection and turned into Gilbert talking about girls they had seen.

This time, the boy was sure that the man’s hand was brushing the front of his pants. He didn’t know if he should mind and he chose to act as if he didn’t notice. However, ignoring Gilbert’s actions was no longer an option when the man curled his hand over his pants and held in an unabashed and gentle squeeze.

“Brynn,” Gilbert murmured. “Listen … don’t mind me. Just need to touch. Just a little. No big deal. All men do.”

Brynn thought he could yank on the door-handle and bolt into the night, but he realized that if he did, it would be like a bullet to the only relationship he had ever known and that was as objectionable to him as his family’s old, faded Volvo.

“It’s … It’s like give-and-take, Brynn. Ain’t no perfect relationship or person gonna come along to any of us. Gotta give a little. See, it‘s like you’re shy and don’t talk much. Okay, so I gotta give and accept. I’m a horny old goat. Harmless but horny. No different than most men. So, you gotta give a little. It’s like I accept you and you accept me and we keep it going.”

Did that mean that not accepting would be the end? Brynn shuddered.

“You know Brynn, spent a lot of time with you and loved it. Spent money. Been pretty giving.” He looked at the boy. “You like me don’t you?”

Brynn nodded. He liked Gilbert, and in a way, he was discovering his system needed him. “Yes,” he replied. He could feel the man’s smile.

“So I’m thinkin’, I done a lot for you so now, you know, maybe you can … you know … do something nice for me. Not complicated. Real simple. Mean a lot to me.”

The boy glanced at the man’s face, studying it for clues. Gilbert’s gaze moved downward, then slowly back up, and then to Brynn. He smiled and nodded slowly but neither of those provided conclusive evidence of his intent.

Then, Brynn felt the heat of older man’s hand as it came down and covered his own. He felt the man lifting it and bringing it toward the driver’s side. Brynn knew. Had he faced himself honestly before, he probably would have suspected it.

His head silently argued that he couldn’t do it and he wasn’t gay. But, he couldn’t argue his own need to be wanted. It was a conundrum. He wouldn’t agree, yet he couldn’t disagree. In the abyss between lay his verdict-by-default: He couldn’t start it. He couldn’t stop it. Whatever would be, would be.

Gilbert’s hand was dry and course, like the texture of an egg carton. It was big enough to cover Brynn’s, which by itself, was an act brimming with sexual imitation.

The man’s eyes studied. Brynn looked away. He felt their hands moving downward. Gilbert pushed the boy’s palm to the front of his pants and adjoined their fingers to curl with the exactness of his needy erection.

Brynn felt heat; heat from the man’s sexuality; his … personalness. The fabric felt rough, like a brittle denim although not styled like jeans. And he felt … “it”. It— the man’s penis. Hard but not iron. More like a finger with fat. It was tubular and lay dormant, the mimic of a Lochness slug lurking in the depths.

“You will make me happy,” he whispered. “Ahhhhh—very happy.”

While there was a sense of it being sleazy, it also felt warming because Brynn was doing his part and that Gilbert would like him more. And, it wasn’t hard to do, especially since the man was controlling their hands and movements.

Even so, he had to shake his head to clear away certain realizations about the situation—realizations that he was sitting in a dark car in a parking lot with his hand on the clothed erection of a man older than his grandfather; the crotch of a married man; the father of daughters.

But … But it wasn’t sex! Sexual, yes. But not sex.

Besides, wasn’t the flush of Gilbert’s pleasure greater than Brynn’s apprehension? In the equation of give-and-take, Gilbert held the greater sum and that meant that Gilbert’s side prevailed.

“Yesssss Brynn!” the man sighed as he entwined their fingers to a tighter embrace. He increased their pace so that even had there been the most-oblivious of onlookers, they wouldn’t have missed that this man was masturbating in his car—and doing it while using the hand of a young school boy.

Gilbert’s eyes were closed and his mouth sighing. Brynn liked that he was doing something very important and he felt certain that Gilbert would like him even more.

Things were making more sense now. Please someone to keep someone.

That’s how it worked. It was not something he had ever thought of before and he wondered— if relationships were so important, then why weren’t things like this taught in school? He smiled while imagining several classrooms with teachers showing students how to masturbate them—for the sake of interacting, of course. Social skills via young fingers.

He let his hand relax and meld further into the template of Gilbert’s will.
Despite his reservations, it felt good to acquiesce.

The man was moaning with low, lustful growls until he slowed nearly to a halt.

“Brynn,” he said. “I don’t want to … to finish … like this. I have to pull these down.” He didn’t wait for approval and soon had his belt unfastened and was beginning to unzip.

Brynn was flooded with uncertainty. Pull his pants down? That would mean his bare hand on … on the man’s bare erection! He had never even seen a grown man’s penis and now he was expected touch it— bare—and masturbate it. Could he actually go that far? Yet, if he didn’t . . .

“Please Brynn,” Gilbert pleaded. “you can’t stop. Not now. Not like a prick tease. Be worse than if we had never done anything.”

Never done anything? Never started this sex thing or never met? Panic arose and it felt bad but was actually beneficial because it forced Brynn to choose and do it fast. If he would do it bare, then he needed to get to it before Gilbert became upset and ended things. Brynn quickly rationalized regardless of clothing, what he was about to do was the same thing that he had already been doing … masturbating a grown man.

His head nodded and he offered his hand. He turned his head to look out to the warm night while Gilbert’s clothes rustled for a few seconds. Then, he felt that egg-carton skin and the bigger hand folding over his and bringing it to his hard-on.

Brynn felt heat before he felt texture. He felt his fingers being curled around the naked appendage. It was like … like a rubber tube. With ridges. It felt tacky. And vibrant. Yes, like it was vibrating from batteries humming within.

And that heat was more pronounced, like a radiance, and like it was emanating the man’s sexual essence into Brynn’s pores, another act of immeasurable sexual portrayal.

Gilbert insisted the boy look. Brynn was curious, but he hadn’t planned on … this … this whole strange thing. But, his eyes moved … slowly while his insides raced and then … he saw … it. It looked foreign, almost alien. Strange and, in a small way, frightening. Mysterious—yes— enough to be respected.

Even in dimness, he could see that it was hard enough to stand by itself. He felt his fingers pressed over it and that sent sensations to his brain about how peculiar this whole sexual realm was.

It looked big but in time, the boy would know that seven inches was not monstrous. Brynn’s nostrils flared with the distinctive scent of a man’s sexuality. It was like an acidic perfume that infiltrated him and would reside within him until the proper time to raise its head and seduce the boy.

Gilbert began to move their hands in joint quest for his pleasure. Brynn felt the hard shaft stiffen even more and he liked that his hand was the cause. He was enchanted with how the shaft remained still while the outer skin moved and how it jumped from time-to-time.

After being united in their perverse handy-work for a couple of minutes, Gilbert slowed and in a gravelly heave uttered, “Brynn. I … I want you to … to look. Closer. Real close.”

Brynn was bothered, not because seeing it up close would be much harder than seeing it from further away, but rather, he wondered when Gilbert’s requests and expanding of things would end. Just twenty minutes ago, it had seemed like a simple thing-—just rub the front of the man’s pants. Then, it progressed to curling his fingers around his cock and moving in a masturbatory manner. Then, Gilbert had insisted on pulling his pants down, then rub it bare-handed, and now to get close. Who knew what else? Where would it end?

Brynn wasn’t a brave or confrontational person, but he managed to ask, “Okay, but can that be the last thing?”

“Last thing?” Gilbert queried.

“Yeah, the last thing. Can it be the last new thing for now?”

The man smiled. “Yeah. Of course, because it is the last thing. I just want you to see it up close. It would mean a lot to me.” His hand touched the boy’s head. “Brynn, get down on the floorboard.”

Brynn did as the man said and, with Gilbert’s nudging fingers, he brought his face closer. Then, closer. He was within a few inches. The sight was far more poignant up close than he had expected. And, there was … that scent. Yes, much more scent. And now it seemed more … more … like it was sexual.

Gilbert was holding his cock straight up from the base. It was captivating yet frightening and ugly yet somehow provocative. The crown looked soft yet also firm, like a rubber mushroom or a stale-hardened, burnished marshmallow.

The man pulled the boy’s fingers to his shaft carefully and wrapped them to fit. He resumed the process of masturbation and his hips soon began moving more than before.

It all seemed so crazy! Brynn—on his knees with his face up close and watching a grown man in the throes of masturbation. And if that wasn’t enough, then go ahead and add that he was doing it with a man who liked little girls.

He watched the hard cock as it sometimes jerked and how it bent to the actions of their fingers even though it remained so very hard. Gilbert’s head was again leaning back and he rasped, “Brynn, don’t … stop … I need to … to finish. I need to. Don’t … stop!”

Brynn hadn’t thought about the “finish” part of things and he wondered if he could go through with it and didn’t that constitute yet another expansion of things? Or did men just naturally contemplate climax as part of whatever they did sexually?

The man’s hand moved faster. “I have to … cum. I … have to!” He gasped.
“Don’t stop!” His demand was gratuitous because Gilbert was the one controlling Brynn’s hand.

Judging by the wrenching of Gilbert’s body, this orgasm part seemed greater than all things that had come before and probably the diviner of their future.

The man tightened their mutual grip and moved faster and he gasped, “Almost … Almost … Yessss. Yessss!” He growled and his hips twisted and pushed and his face contorted and seemed rose-hued. “Watch! Watch! I want you to … to … close Brynn … up close! Ahhhhhhhh. Ahhhh-hhhhhhhh!’

Brynn’s fingers felt the man’s cock jerk before his eyes caught the spew of semen in the air. He watched the first small geyser erupt straight upward and he felt his eyes and his mouth burst open with astonishment. Much of the gooey stuff landed on the top of his hand. It felt thick and warm and it oozed like egg white down his skin.

For all its gooey repugnance, Brynn was fascinated. He had never seen sperm before. It seemed dangerous, like some kind of narcotic with the power to alter people’s lives and actually give life and it had started world wars and led to murders and crime and divorces, and pleasures and addictions etc. Not knowing how to handle sperm came with profound risks.

Brynn was captivated by how much Gilbert gripped their fingers tighter and how the man’s hip still pushed up in very slowly and how he moaned. Then, his body sagged. It sank in delirious aftermath. He was silent except for quieter gasping.

He reached for a rag from a compartment on the driver’s door and he cleaned his deflating cock before handing the small rag to Brynn. With his head still against the head rest and his eyes barely opened, the man tugged his pants into place and zipped them.

Perhaps a dozen words filled the few minutes until Brynn got out and Gilbert drove away. The boy didn’t remember his walk home although he was aware of the moon’s light and the warm air. He reckoned it was past midnight but he didn’t know by how much.

He had difficulty falling asleep because his head filled with so many questions. What had he done? Was it bad? Was he gay? Should he feel remorse? Had he done enough? Had he done too much?

He would have to answer those very soon, but not that night.

And the question he could not answer at all was most important: Would he see the man again?

What if everything had been just a ruse to get a one-time pleasure? But, did that make sense? Would he have put in all of that time for one hand-job? But then, there were a lot of things that he didn’t understand. After all, this relationship thing was all new to him.

He believed that Gilbert’s twisting orgasm was evidence that the man had liked what they had done and would make the man like him more. He had done his part. Brynn had given to the man and now he believed the man should give back by seeing him again.

There was much he couldn’t answer, but for now he knew one thing. In this relationship, if his currency of exchange was to masturbate an older man in a car parked in the dark, then he would do it. In his part of the give-and-take, those were pennies on the dollar.

He had done his part but even so, there was no guarantee that Gilbert would return. Maybe he would feel guilty or that Brynn was now considered too gay because he had given in to it too easily.

But, Gilbert had achieved climax. That’s what men want. He would come back. He had to. Of course, no one knew, but if he had to wager right then and there, he would put his money on the probability of Gilbert’s return.

It wasn’t much shelter but it was enough for his brain to release him to sleep.

He would see Gilbert again. He just knew he would.

---