Sexy Gay Stories - Volume One - three m/m short stories

Stand By Your Man
by Michael Bracken

    My client had been practicing Tai Chi before I interrupted him, and he wore only white gauze pants – loose, comfortable, and so diaphanous in the hot Texas sun that I knew he wore nothing beneath them. His smoothly shaved chest glistened with a perspiration sheen and his muscles flowed under his sun-bronzed skin with a fluid grace as he closed the distance between us.
    Jeremy carried two tumblers half full of Jack rocks, placed one on the patio table before me, and settled into the chair opposite mine. Then he leaned forward. Piercing blue eyes captured my attention, just as they had the day we’d first met in my office downtown. He wore his wheat-blond hair long, parted in the centre, and tucked behind his ears. A lock of hair slipped from behind his left ear and curled around the corner of his mouth, like a close parenthesis to the sensual expression of his full lips.
    ‘He doesn’t love me any more,’ my client said. ‘I’m not sure he ever did.’
    I sipped from my tumbler, the Jack burning its way down the back of my throat. ‘Do you love him?’
    Jeremy looked away, his gaze taking in the neatly manicured lawn, the blooming bluebonnets growing along the back fence, and the new Lexus parked in the rear drive. He returned his attention to me, wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, and said, ‘I love this.’
    I felt my body react to my client’s presence, the crotch of my pants growing uncomfortably tight, sweat beading on my upper lip, and my pulse quickening. I took another sip from the tumbler. The ice had nearly melted and the Jack felt warm in my throat, warmer still when it reached the pit of my stomach. I hadn’t eaten since the previous night, and then only a bean burrito I had left over from the day before.
    My client watched my face and waited.
    I reached into my briefcase and retrieved a manila envelope containing a dozen colour photographs. I slid the envelope across the table to my client. He turned it over and worried at the brass clasp until one of the arms separated from it.
    ‘I came for my master’s,’ he said. As he spoke, he worried at the remaining arm of the envelope’s brass clasp. ‘I worked as his graduate assistant, grading papers and researching obscure references in Hemingway’s short stories.’
    My .38 felt heavy under my left arm, the thick leather of the holster ironing my shirt to my ribs. I considered removing my jacket, but didn’t. Instead, I finished my Jack.
    ‘One evening, after a Christmas party at the dean’s house, his car wouldn’t start. He asked me to carry him home, and when I did, he invited me inside for a nightcap.’ Jeremy pushed the stray lock of hair behind his ear, wet his lips a second time, and continued. ‘I knew what he wanted. I wanted it just as much as he did.’
    My client leaned across the table and touched the back of my hand with the tips of his fingers. An electric tingle shot through my body, and my balls tightened. ‘You know what that’s like, don’t you, to want someone so bad you don’t care about the consequences?’
    ‘Yeah,’ I said. My throat felt parched and I wished I hadn’t finished my drink. I subtly shifted position to relieve the pressure at my crotch, but I didn’t move my hand. ‘I know what that’s like.’
    ‘I finished the semester, then moved in. I never went back to school, never …’ He didn’t finish the sentence and we stared deep into each other’s eyes for a full minute before my client pulled his hand away. ‘How much do I owe you?’
    I named a figure.
    ‘That’s what it comes down to, then, isn’t it?’ He leaned back in his seat. ‘A few thousand dollars ... infidelity ...’
    I returned to my office with half a dozen crisp new Benjamins tucked into my money clip, and a still-painful tightening in my crotch. I knew better than to become involved with the people who kept me in business, but I couldn’t deny the physical reaction I had to my client’s presence.
    I’d felt it that first time, when I’d been sitting behind my desk, thumbing through a stack of unopened mail. He’d knocked on my door and then pushed into my office without waiting for my response. He dressed well, but simply: form-fitting teal polo shirt over crisply pressed khaki pants and highly polished penny loafers without socks. Unlike the hulking muscles I’d developed wrestling bail jumpers and repossessing cars from irate owners delinquent on payments, he had