The Hardest Thing

And then, with the car parked and the curtains drawn, we took a rest.
    After that first time in Richfield Springs, we were screwing like teenagers. I figured that if I kept Stirling well-fucked, he’d stay in a good mood. And he wasn’t the only one. You only realize how much you’ve been missing sex when you start having it—and now I wanted
it all the time. My judgment flew out the window. Stirling’s ass was even better than his mouth, and boy, could he take it. On his back, on his knees, on his side, on top, every which way I could give it. I’ve had boys that meant more to me than Stirling McMahon—boys that I cared for, and one boy that I loved—but I have never in all my life had a better, more talented fuck. He made Scott from the Downtown Diner look like a fumbling first-timer.
    We made our way into the Adirondacks and spent the night in the most old-fashioned hotel I’ve ever seen—wooden floors; tall, metal bed frames; and a claw-footed enamel bathtub, no shower. The bed creaked like crazy so we moved to the floor, and if it wasn’t for the old hooked rug we’d have been full of splinters. There was a bar downstairs where we ate chicken tenders and drank beer; the old girls who ran the place must have heard us, but they didn’t blink an eye. Maybe they were deaf. By ten o’clock, we were “tired” enough to turn in again. I fell asleep at first light, and when I woke, four hours later, Stirling was already sucking my dick.
    Thursday was a long drive east, taking the ferry across Lake Champlain and into Vermont, where we stayed in a pretty little town that looked like Stepford, all white fences and “adorable” gift shops. Usual routine: checked in at five, called Ferrari, and by ten thirty I was rolling on a condom. Pit stops at gas stations and supermarkets had been supplemented by visits to drugstores. We were going through a pack a day.
    Afterward I went out to get food, leaving Stirling alone for half an hour. When I closed the door he was singing Beyoncé songs in the shower. When I got back
he was fully dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his feet. He glanced up, then down again. I put the food on the dressing table—some fancy deli wraps that I bought from a stoned-looking woman in a kaftan for at least three times their real value—and ruffled his hair. “Hey, boy.”
    He flicked his head, pushed my hand away.
    Okay—something’s up—post-fuck blues, maybe. He’ll get over it.
    “Hungry?”
    “No.”
    I knew he was. He was always starving after sex.
    “Beer?”
    He shook his head, didn’t even reply. I prized the top off a bottle and handed it to him. “I said no!” His cheeks were red, his eyes dark.
    “Fuck! What’s up?”
    “Nothing. Just stop fussing around me.”
    Fussing? This from a boy who, about forty-five minutes ago, was performing one of the most elaborate feats of oral stimulation ever attempted on a penis? “Okay, Stirling. Whatever. I’m gonna eat.” The wrap was disgusting, like biting into a wet washcloth, but it was fuel. He still didn’t speak. I finished eating, glugged the beer and lay back on the bed.
    “Wanna watch TV?”
    “No.”
    “Okay.”
    What the fuck was his problem? Was it the fact that our little road romance was coming to an end? One more day and we’d reach our destination, the White Mountains of New Hampshire. For three days we’d been lost,
driving where we wanted, sleeping where we wanted, fucking when we wanted, which seemed to be all the time that we weren’t driving or sleeping. After tonight we would slip back into someone else’s program. He was a rich-kid “secretary” with a price on his head; I was a disgraced ex-marine and unemployed doorman. It did seem pretty hopeless. I was tempted to start sulking myself.
    “Stirling.”
    Nothing.
    I went over to him. “Stirling.” He turned away. I reached around and grabbed his chin, stroking it with my thumb. I’m surprised I couldn’t feel an indentation in the shape of my balls there, due to natural erosion.
    He looked up, and tears spilled down his cheeks. I sat on the bed and put an arm around his shoulders. “Oh, baby, what’s the matter?” Baby? What the fuck? How did this happen?
    “I’m sick of this,” he said. “Sick of running away. I’m sick of shitty motel rooms and crappy food and… I’m sick…I’m sick of you.”
    This was not the impression he’d given me earlier on. Something had happened in the thirty minutes I’d