Date: Wed, 18 Oct 2006 20:25:02 -0600 From: Roy Subject: Wesley - chapter 2 - Adult Relationships section Wesley - chapter 2 By Roy Reinikainen "Would you like to take a walk?" The words were clearly an invitation. They were written in red letters. 'He intended them to be seen.' Wesley obviously wanted an answer . . . or was he merely trying to be cute? There was no way to tell. "What do you think I should do, Beulah?" She leapt onto a chair and then onto his desk and picked her way across Clifford's belongings, to finally sit and face him. He had to chuckle when she made a single noise, as if encouraging him to respond to Wesley's email. He sat back in his chair and shook his head. 'I asked for her advice. I shouldn't be surprised that she gave it.' --- From: Clifford Grayson Subject: Seriously Date: October 17, 2005 To: Wesley Atkins Hey Wesley, Don't mess with me . . . please. I may be an old man but I don't have a lot of experience meeting guys over the Internet. Hell, I don't have a lot of experience meeting guys, anyplace. So, when you say something like asking me if I'd like to take a walk on the beach, I can only take you at your word. Am I wrong to do that? Do you mean what you say? I'm going to send this and then start your story. Thank you for your picture. Now I have a face . . . and body on which to pin my fantasies. And boy do I have fantasies. Some of them would probably make you blush. . . . On second thought, you're an artist. I expect artists are always full of lewd and lascivious thoughts. Do you ever spend any time indoors? Such a wonderful tan! And your smile! Wesley, you are one handsome man. You know, before I 'met' you, I never hugged a pillow. Now, that's the only way I seem to be able to go to sleep. Turnabout is fair play. Here's a pic of me that I had one of my co-workers take. Sorry I don't have one showing my legs and hairy chest, like you, but then *this* is how I usually look. I guess I'm a tad more formal than an artist. What would one expect of an engineer? I'm sitting here not knowing exactly what to think. I know what I *want* to think, but I'm afraid to go there just yet. Beulah just butted my shoulder with her head. I guess that's her way of telling me to shut up and send this email. I'm wishing you were here right now, so I wouldn't have to wait for a response. Okay, okay, I wish you were here for other reasons as well. I don't even know what beach you're a block away from. Maybe you're someplace where the beaches are cold, like Alaska. I shudder to think what the water must be like. Bye for now. Your good friend, Cliff I feel stupid typing a hug, but at least it's heart felt. So, here goes. H U G. That wasn't very satisfying on this end. --- Clifford clicked on the link to Wesley's new story and settled back, prepared to enjoy himself. The Big Rock -- by Wesley Atkins 'Strange name for a story.' Clifford leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. 'I'm sure he'll explain himself.' Howard had almost become accustomed to the thunder of the big waves as they rolled toward shore, propelled by a storm far out at sea. When he had first come to this beach he had been frightened of the large waves as they rose to dramatic heights as if they were attempting to impress the onlooker. They each seemed to hesitate a moment before giving in to the inevitable and crashing on the shore with the sound of thunder, as if in frustrated ambition. 'Just like life,' Howard thought to himself. 'Great plans fall in upon themselves, here on the beach each ends up as nothing more than thick spray and white foam interspersed with flotsam. Howard turned as another wave approached, hitting the distant curve of the beach, proceeding in his direction with the sound of fury. The late afternoon sun shone through the wave as it reached its highest point causing the roiling water to glisten green and gold. Then came the inevitable crash onto the shore causing the sea birds to scamper aside amidst rainbows suspended in the mist left. Howard strolled along the beach with his head bowed, the wet sand squishing between his toes. The beach was still new to him, as was the sense of loneliness he continued to feel after the departure of his lover. For years, Wil had been there. They had had a good life. Then, one day, Wil announced that he felt hemmed in, constrained by a relationship which no longer provided the things he needed. Howard had not known what to say . . . or do. They had only just moved to the beach, so Howard had no friends or family for support. One minute his life was happy and secure. The next minute, he was alone, and terrified of spending the remainder of his life without the companionship of another man. 'I'm too old for this,' he muttered to himself, kicking at the wet sand, splashing the water in front of him. 'Who's going to want a fifty-seven year old hanging around when there are so many twenty-year-old body builders to choose from?' Each time he thought about his situation he became more depressed. Before he and Wil had moved, he might have spoken with friends. Now, he was alone, facing an uncertain future. The sea breeze whipped at his shirttails, buffeting his baggy shorts, as well as his full head of dark hair. He squinted into the low sunlight and saw his destination, a big rock that was totally out of place on the sandy shoreline. The first time he saw the rock he envisioned some titanic wave in the long past, depositing the smooth black lump, having carried it from parts unknown. Since the first time he'd seen it, the rock had been his favorite place to watch the sun set. He approached and leaned his back against the rock before scrambling up to sit on its smooth flat top, setting the sandals he'd been carrying at his side. He returned the greetings of a few couples as they strolled past, all of them laughing, or leaning their heads close to one another in their own private world. With each couple that passed, he hurt more inside. 'I'm too old to go out searching for someone new,' he thought, brushing his wind-blown hair out of his eyes. 'Of course, I've always got my looks.' He chuckled and wrapped his arms around his bent knees. The sea birds were now mere silhouettes against a yellow sky. Soon, they would disappear to wherever it was sea birds spent the nighttime hours, and their raucous company would fade. Howard heaved a great sigh and rested his chin on his bent knees. . . . --- Clifford couldn't go on. The story had a ring of truth to it. Wesley's other stories were good, but weren't so . . . personal. In only a few paragraphs, Clifford could feel Howard's loneliness. Or was he feeling Wesley's . . . or possibly . . . his own? Beulah jumped onto his lap, ignoring his preoccupied smile. 'Could it be he's writing about himself, and is sending me a message? After all, he urged me to read his new story.' Clifford shook his head. 'I'm imagining things, giving meanings to things that have none.' He glanced back to his computer display where, 'The Big Rock.' appeared next to Wesley's name. "Hmm," he said aloud, causing Beulah to look up. Suddenly, she heaved herself off of his lap and onto his desktop and stood next to his computer keyboard, looking at him as if waiting for something. 'My imagination is working overtime,' he thought, rubbing the back of his neck. 'Now, I'm imagining Beulah wants me to write to Wesley and ask him point-black if *he* is Howard.' Beulah stood as still as a statue. Not even her constantly mobile tail was in motion. "Okay, okay," Clifford laughed, reaching out to scratch the nape of her neck. "You win. I'll write him." From: Clifford Grayson Subject: The beach Date: October 20, 2005 To: Wesley Atkins Hi Wesley, I sense there is more to your story than has been revealed. I also sense that you *want* me to feel this way. I've been chatting with Beulah and she has given me her usual sound advice. I know we've only 'met,' but would it be a big imposition if I were to spend a couple days visiting? (When I sat down to write this message I had not considered the possibility of visiting you. *Really.* But, now that I've typed the words, I find that I would very much like to meet you in person. As I've said, this sort of request is unprecedented for me, but I feel, (and Beulah agrees) that my mind won't rest until I know you better. Somehow, Wesley, I would like you to be more than a name on a computer screen. When we meet, you will most likely find me a little stodgy for your taste, but we'll work something out. After all, you're an *artist,* and we all know how free spirited *those* people are. Perhaps, I'll even mess my hair up . . . just for you. I would love to see your beach, and hear the calls of the sea birds as the waves roll in. Perhaps you could even show me the big rock. I'm sitting here wondering if I should press the 'send' button. I know I'm being presumptuous. I don't even know if there is a special someone in your life whom you've not mentioned. If there is no such person, I would dearly like to touch you, Wesley . . . and to have you touch me. Damn, I'd better send this before I become even *more* maudlin. "Okay, Beulah . . . here goes." I hope to see you soon. Cliff --- Clifford idly scratched his cat's neck. "What have I just done, Beulah?" She purred, almost as if she was answering his question. "I feel as if I've just set something in motion that may be difficult to control." Beulah butted his shoulder, demanding to be fed. He laughed and followed her to her food bowl while she anxiously circled his feet. When Clifford returned to his computer an answer to his email was waiting. From: Wesley Atkins Subject: The big rock Date: October 20, 2005 To: Clifford Grayson Dear Cliff, I would *love* to introduce you to the big rock. I should tell you that you have become the subject of my fantasies. I am surprised, as it seems you are, that in only a couple of weeks, I can feel about you as I do. You are in my thoughts when I awake, and remain there until I go to bed, hugging a pillow that I wish was you. I'm not thinking of practicalities. I must admit, I feel selfish. I want you with me more than I've ever wanted anything. At the same time, I didn't know *how* to ask if we could meet. I have never been good at expressing myself aloud. Therefore, I write. 'The Big Rock,' says much about my past, my dreams, and me. I look forward to having you at my side, Cliff. Tell Beulah that for this once, she can't be invited. I want you all to myself. I can't say the words yet, but you know how I would like to close this email. Instead, I'll close it with a hug and kiss. Wes --- 'I hate airports,' Clifford thought as he left the plane. No matter how long I delay leaving the plane, it always seems as if I'm in a crowd and we're all being herded like so much livestock, through a narrow opening.' He thought of trying to use his carry-on's shoulder strap but decided against it. 'You'd think I'd brought all my worldly possessions with me,' he thought as he lifted the bag and followed everyone else out of the plane and into the jet-way. 'I have no more idea of what awaits me than those poor cattle.' He briefly closed his eyes and shook his head, attempting to smile. 'After all,' he thought, 'I'm about to meet a fantasy.' He swallowed, wondering if all of this had been a dreadful mistake. 'Maybe I should have stayed at home. At least I *knew* what to expect.' The moment the thought raced through his mind, he knew he was mistaken. The time for doubt was past. All he could do now was move forward with the people in the crowded jet-way to meet whatever awaited. He stepped into the large room and paused, looking around. He would have known Wesley anywhere. The man standing across the waiting area speaking with someone was the man he had been fantasizing about. Wes had the same dark hair as in the photo he had sent, though slightly shorter and not windblown. He and Wes were the same height, a pleasing discovery. Wesley was wearing a white short sleeve lightweight linen shirt tucked into a pair of tan cargo shorts that clung to his buttocks and ended at mid thigh. The top button of his shirt was unfastened, allowing hints of a hairy chest to show. His arms were strong and deeply tanned, as were his long legs. He stood straight; showing a confidence Clifford had never been able to master. His smile was bright, flashing on a mobile face. The person he was speaking with must have said something funny because Wesley laughed and patted the other man on the shoulder before shaking his hand. He was still smiling when he turned and caught Clifford's eye. The man Wesley had been speaking with said something as Wesley turned and began walking toward Clifford. Wesley's response was a distracted motion of his hand. The man looked puzzled for a second and then shrugged and walked away. Clifford couldn't move. His breathing had become shallow. All he could do was watch Wesley walk directly to him. 'He's even better than my fantasy,' was all he could think. Clifford set his bag at his feet. As he straightened, Wesley was standing in front of him. 'He never told me about his pale green eyes,' Clifford thought. A smile played at the corners of Wesley's mouth. Neither man seemed to know what to say. They had felt comfortable communicating by email. Now, standing face-to-face they were at a loss. Wesley took a step closer and reached out to take the hand Clifford had offered. He clasped it for a moment, grinning like a schoolboy. "Hi, handsome." He pulled Clifford into a warm embrace, ignoring those who watched the greeting. Clifford didn't know what to do. He wanted to return Wesley's embrace, but he . . . couldn't; too many people were watching. Instead, he patted Wesley on the back. 'He's so strong,' Clifford thought during the brief embrace. 'He seems so confident.' Clifford found himself torn between welcoming the embrace and embarrassed that it was happening in such a public place. "Um, hi, Wesley." He patted Wes once more and gently backed away. 'Damn,' he thought. I've come all this way, and all I can say is, "hi?" He returned Wesley's grin, wondering why it was so difficult to smile, and mentally grimaced. 'Meeting Wes is tougher than I thought it would be. He seems so relaxed. I feel like a social misfit. Until I saw his smile, I never realized how serious I must appear.' Wes rubbed an open palm across Clifford's back and lingered a few moments before he moved to pick up Cliff's bag, watching him with sparkling pale green eyes. "You never told me you had such wonderful eyes, Mr. Atkins." Wesley's smile grew even broader at Clifford's compliment. "I don't think of them as wonderful." Wesley hefted the bag and made a comic face when he discovered how heavy it was. "They're just my eyes. I don't have any control over them." He comically began to carry the bag, pretending to stagger under its weight. "By the way, Mr. Grayson, I asked you not to bring Beulah on this trip." He glanced at Clifford's bag. "Do you suppose she climbed into your bag when you weren't looking?" He winked and the two men began laughing. "You *did* say she was a little overweight." Clifford chuckled at Wes' behavior. "No, I fear Beulah is curled up near the radiator back home, planning revenge for being left alone." He glanced to his left and added in a lower voice. "You did say this weekend was to be only the two of us, didn't you?" Wes looked at him and grinned, slowly nodding his head. The drive from the airport to Wesley's apartment was difficult for both men. Neither seemed to know what to say, so, much of the time was spent in a strained silence. By the time they arrived, it was late afternoon and a heavy fog had formed, creating a dream-like atmosphere that seemed to glow from the light of the sun. Clifford stepped out of the car and closed the door, glancing around at the lush greenery, almost lost in the mist. He slowly inhaled the warm moist air and turned to Wesley who was watching him over to roof of the car. "This morning, I left home in a snow storm. Now, I'm surrounded by all this greenery . . . and fog." He made a brief gesture toward the surroundings. "It's much nicer here than back home." Wesley merely grinned and watched him as he moved to the driver's side of the car. "Do you mind if we put your stuff in the apartment in a little while?" Wesley watched him with a hopeful expression. "I'd like to show you something before the sun sets." Clifford gestured for Wes to lead the way. The fog seemed to have dropped a blanket of silence over the community. There were few cars on the street leading to the beach and even fewer people. Those people they did see passed in silence, not much more than shadows. "C'mon, Cliff, we've got to hurry." Wesley put a companionable hand on Clifford's shoulder as they walked faster. They turned a corner and there it was, the ocean, the major player in each of Wesley's stories. Today there were no crashing waves as in his 'Big Rock' story. There were no sounds of thunder as the waves hit the land. There was no spume or spray caused by a wave's impact. Instead, gentle milk-white waves lapped at the shore in a gurgling caress. Except for an orange glow on the horizon, the ocean had taken on the color of the fog. The beach appeared to be deserted. Wesley stopped at the edge of the wooden walkway. "We should take our shoes off." Even his *voice* seemed subdued. He stepped out of his sandals and picked them up with his left hand, where they hung from two of his fingers. "Come on, Cliff, off with the shoes." He made a hurry-up gesture as Clifford stooped to remove his loafers. He stripped off his socks and stuffed them into the shoes. "You said that you needed a little loosening up, Cliff. It starts here." Clifford gave him a resigned look as he stuffed his socks into his shoes. 'I haven't gone barefoot anywhere since I was a child,' he thought, picking up his shoes. "Now, roll up your pant legs a bit . . . so they won't get wet." Clifford leaned over and began to roll up each pant leg, feeling slightly ridiculous. 'I'm a grown man,' he thought to himself. 'Grown men don't go around barefooted with their pants rolled up around their shins.' Wesley stood and beamed a smile, which faltered slightly at what must have been a serious expression on Clifford's face. "Am I pushing too hard?" He urged Clifford off of the boardwalk, down the three steps, and onto the comfortably warm sand of the beach. Clifford paused a moment to wiggle his toes in the sand and felt some of his tension drain away. 'Maybe this won't be so bad. The sand feels pretty good.' He looked up and tried to grin encouragement. "No, you're not pushing too hard." He briefly rested a hand on Wesley's shoulder taking pleasure in the physical contact. "I told you I'm bit stolid. If you're moving too fast, I'll tell you." This time, the grin felt slightly less foreign on his face. He gestured toward the water. "Lead on, Mr. Atkins. I place myself in your capable hands." He chuckled when Wesley looked at him with raised eyebrows. "You were going to show me something, I believe?" Wesley gestured, and they began walking across the beach to the water's edge. "I didn't think the water would be this warm," Clifford commented, the first time one of the gentle waves swept across his feet. He handed Wesley his shoes and bent to further roll up his pants." Wesley watched him quietly as the tepid water swirled about his ankles. They walked shoulder-to-shoulder in silence as the light slowly faded. "There it is, Cliff. That's what I wanted you to see." Wesley pointed to a large black flat-topped shape, darker than the surroundings. "The big rock?" Wes nodded and grinned. Clifford paused a moment, finally beginning to feel the tranquility of the surroundings. Clifford moved his shoes to his other hand and rested his hand on Wesley's back, moving it slightly from side to side. "It's just as you described it in your story, Wes." He could feel the warmth of Wes' body through the light shirt. "I would have recognized it anywhere." "C'mon, give me your shoes." He grabbed Clifford's shoes and then turned toward the rock. "Wait here. I'll be right back." With that, Wesley dashed across the sand toward the rock, quickly crossing the beach with his long-legged stride. Cliff watched his host's retreating back admiring his broad shoulders and muscled calves. He placed the shoes on the flat top of the rock and then paused a moment to pull his shirt free and unbutton it before he ran back toward Cliff. His shirt caught the breeze, exposing his chest and the spread of black hair between each of his small dark nipples. 'He looks so much at home. It's like he's a small boy.' Wesley huffed to a stop, smiling brilliantly. The breeze had caught his black hair, much of which now hung over his forehead. "Isn't this place wonderful," he asked, stretching out his arms to his sides and looking around. "I love it here." He critically examined Cliff. "We've got to do something about your clothes, man." Clifford looked down at himself, wondering if his pant legs were getting wet. When he saw he was dry, he looked at Wes with a puzzled expression. Wes stepped forward. "This is the second step in loosening you up a little." He was no more than a foot in front of Cliff. "May I?" Clifford shrugged, giving Wesley permission. "I'm going to touch you. Is that cool?" Clifford gave him a crooked smile and a single nod. The sun had finally set and the long twilight was fading to darkness, illuminated only by the distant widely spaced streetlights of the road running the length of the beach. The fog remained, casting its spell of quiet over everything. "Okay," Wesley chuckled. "Remember, you told me it was okay." He moved closer and began to unfasten the buttons of Clifford's shirt, and then pulled the shirt free of his pants. "There, you look a little more loose to me." He stepped back and seemed to reach another decision. "Just one more thing is needed." He quickly reached out and messed Clifford's short hair, laughing at his startled expression. "Don't worry, man, it's dark. No one but me will see you. We'll wait till tomorrow to have you go out like this in broad daylight." Clifford looked down at himself, feeling the warm air against his skin. He ran a hand over his chest as a gentle breeze billowed his shirt behind him. "Are things okay?" Clifford grinned a response, finding it easier to do each time he tried. "I *do* feel more loose." He looked down at himself, at the short grey hair on his chest and flat belly, amazed he was *outside* in this state of undress. He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "If knew it was this easy, I would have done it *years* ago. There has to be more to it." He was feeling almost playful. 'It must be the sea air,' he thought. 'Is it my imagination, or is Wesley becoming more quiet as I become more relaxed?' "No, Cliff. Changes won't come that easily . . . for either of us." Wesley was now not much more than a dark shadow in a darker background. He stepped closer and searched out Clifford's hand, lacing their fingers together. At some unseen signal, they began walking down the beach, the breeze blowing their shirttails behind them. "Cliff." The voice came out of the darkness. Clifford felt Wesley's fingers tighten slightly. "Are you . . . sorry . . . you came?" Once again, the fingers tightened. "Am I. . . . Am I, okay? You're just so quiet, I don't know what to think." Clifford paused, releasing Wes' hand. He turned to face Wes and ran both of his hands up Wes' arms, pleased at their warm strength. "Wes, you are vastly better than a mere okay. After spending only a short while with you, I know you are a wonderful, caring . . . handsome person. I am astounded that I am walking along this beach holding your hand." He squeezed Wes' shoulders. "Please Wes, don't take my silence as a sign of unhappiness. I am more pleased to be at your side than I can say. I'm naturally quiet. I don't make friends easily, and once I do establish a friendship with someone, I tend to keep the person at arm's distance." He sighed, a sound Wesley could hear over the background sound of the waves. I've called myself staid. That's an awful thing to say about oneself. I would like to be more adventurous and less sedate, but I don't think making such a large change is something I can do quickly." "If I'm quiet, it's not because I'm not having a good time, or because I don't like you. It's just the way I am. I'm very happy to be here." Wesley wrapped his arm around Clifford's waist and they began walking side by side. The tide was slowly coming in, so Wes steered them toward more shallow water. Clifford didn't seem to mind that his pants were wet half way up his thighs. "I'm glad you're here too, Cliff." The two men walked in silence before Wesley began to speak once more. "I'm not too good at saying things I feel . . . in person. That's why I write. I can say things in writing I couldn't bring myself to say in face to face." Clifford wrapped his arm around Wesley's shoulders. He was intensely aware of the warmth of Wesley's body next to his. Wesley rested his head on Clifford's shoulder. "S'nice," he murmured. "You feel good." Clifford hummed a reply. "That's why I'm able to talk to you . . . now, you know . . . because it's dark." He paused a long moment. There was the sound of a foghorn in the distance, a mournful drone that seemed to hang in the air. "I feel like I can talk to you because it's dark and you can't see how difficult it is for me . . . to say, how good you feel." A larger wave broke against their legs. Clifford didn't seem to notice his pants were now totally soaked. He stopped walking and moved to face Wesley, seeing only a dim silhouette in the darkness, holding him in a loose embrace. "Both of us have difficulties, Wes. We're helping one another." He tightened his embrace until their bare chests touched. "I think your and my main problem is that deep down, we both feel as if we're too old for a relationship, that love is only for people in their twenties." He ran his fingers through the hair on the back of Wesley's head. "Am I correct?" He barely felt Wesley nod his bowed head. "We don't want to believe we're too old for love . . . but we can't help but wonder how anyone could be interested in someone our age. Wes, if you're anything like me, I'm afraid that somehow, this chance at happiness we've stumbled upon will be snatched away. I almost expect it to happen at any minute. Is that how you feel?" Wesley rested his head on Clifford's shoulder and silently nodded. Clifford slowly ran his hand over Wes' back, feeling the nubbly texture of his linen shirt. "By thinking that way, we're both allowing someone else to govern our lives. No one's going to snatch anything away from us if we won't let them." "Wesley?" Clifford spoke the single-word question. When Wes had hummed a response, Clifford continued. "Those people who say older people can't find love are wrong. I'm sure of it. The trouble is, they've gotten lots of older people fooled into believing they *have* to spend the rest of their lives without companionship, and that it's hopeless to seek out happiness. Those youngsters never stop a moment to think that someday *they* will be older, and may possibly be alone, seeking love." He continued to run an open palm up and down Wesley's back. "C'mon, Wes. Let's not allow some twenty-year-old to tell us we have no right to be happy. Okay?" Once again, he could feel Wesley's nod as well as his warm breath against his neck. "You're a smart guy, Mr. Grayson," Wesley murmured, his rich voice close to Clifford's ear. "I really like smart guys." A moment later Wes' warm lips grazed his. It was a feather touch, gone before he realized what was happening. "May I kiss you, Cliff? I've been wanting to . . . ever since we met." ~ to be continued ~ Thank you for reading my story. If you would like to read more of my work, the stories may be found in Nifty's Gay College section, and are entitled, 'Phalen,' 'Leith,' and 'Chris.' I invite comments or observations. Your email is welcomed, and will always be answered. I may be reached at: or