Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

Etch-a-Sketch thing.
    “Good,” I told him. “Then we don’t have to worry about you.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You know…dying in that asinine war.”
    He regarded me for a moment, as if composing a response, but apparently thought it better to head in a different direction. “Y’all are partners, right?”
    “Right,” said Ben.
    “But you go to bars together?”
    Ben shrugged. “It feels good to cuddle in a crowd.” His arm was already around me, so he pulled me closer for emphasis. I knew what he meant, of course. A public display of affection—in the right place—can feel like a public benediction.
    The guy appraised us both, looking from one to the other with an intensity that was a little unsettling. “You look really hot together.”
    “Thanks,” said Ben, blushing furiously.
    “It’s obvious what you’ve got with each other,” the guy said, looking at me. “I can feel it from here. It’s like standing by a campfire.”
    I started to make a lame crack about being flamers—largely out of nervousness—but our admirer had turned his electric gaze back to Ben. “So he’s your daddy, huh?”
    Ben gave him that patented gap-toothed grin. “Sometimes,” he said. “And sometimes I’m his.”
    The guy nodded. “I hear you.”
    “Nothing formal,” I added. “No leashes or collars.”
    That got a laugh from him. “Do you guys ever…?”
    He chose not to finish this question.
    “Ever what?” I asked.
    “No big deal,” he said. “Take it easy, my brothers.”
    Then he headed off to the bar.

    Okay, here’s the thing: Ben and I had never had a three-way. Not together, anyway. We’d never made a rule against it or anything; in fact, we’d always considered it a pleasant possibility one of these days, when the circumstances were right. Like, say when we’re traveling together and a long way from home and it’s someone we’re both attracted to who’s attracted to both of us and who we’re never likely to see ever again.
    “Okay,” I said as soon as he was gone, “one of us has to say it first.”
    “He’s fucking hot,” said Ben.
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “Was he hitting on us,” Ben asked, “or just admiring our marriage?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Maybe he’s just the Welcome Wagon here.”
    “Maybe. My wagon sure feels welcomed.”
    Ben laughed. “I think he might wanna play.”
    “Yeah…with you .”
    “C’mon. You heard all that daddy talk.”
    “He was getting off on the idea of you with a daddy.”
    “He was practically slobbering on you, sweetie.”
    “Really?” I squeaked, sounding decidedly undaddy-like.
    “Yes.”
    “Well, what should we do?”
    Ben shrugged. “Are you sure you want to?”
    “I guess so,” I said. “If you do.”
    “He’s awfully nice,” said Ben. “I mean, he seems like a decent guy.”
    “He does, doesn’t he?”
    Ben chuckled. “Listen to us.”
    “Shall we go ask him?”
    “Now, you mean?” He glanced across the room to the far end of the bar, where the object of our lust was standing alone in a pool of blue light.
    “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
    “Well…as long as it’s okay with you. I don’t wanna fuck things up between you and me.”
    “That’s why it’s okay,” I told him, cupping my hand against his cheek.
    So, with eyes on the prize and hearts pounding in unison, we made our way across the room, only to be thwarted by the pot-smoking Jesus queens from Winter Garden. “Hi, guys!” the short one yelled, grabbing Ben’s arm.
    “Oh…hi,” said Ben with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.
    “Good stuff, right?”
    It took me a moment to realize he meant the pot. “Oh…yeah…thanks, it’s great.”
    “Nice easygoing buzz.”
    “Yes,” I replied vacantly.
    “Lonnie’s cousin has grow lights in his garage.”
    I presumed that Lonnie was the taller one, but this was no time to inaugurate introductions. Over at the bar, Mr. Johnson was pulling on a brown leather flight jacket in preparation for takeoff. Ben noticed this, too, and signaled his distress with a not-too-subtle jerk of his head.
    “So where are y’all staying?” This was the taller one, gazing pointedly at both us. “With friends or somethin’?”
    “At a motel,” Ben said. “His family lives here, but we’d rather…you know…” He let the thought evaporate, too distracted to continue. Mr. Johnson was zipping up his jacket, slapping down coins for the bartender.
    The shorter one was on us now. “We’ve