These Men

Chapter 2: The Journalist

Chapter 2: The Journalist“Don’t stop. Right there. Keep that up. Roll it up and down. Up and down. You obviously know what you’re doing. Get it wet. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. That’s the spot. You’ve nailed it. Jesus, you’re good at this,” I told Zac, watching him paint his living room wall a submarine gray hue which would eventually be accented in a lime green trim.

Zac Cramer had purchased the condominium on Campton Road three months before. Although it was move-in ready, he wanted a few updates: a new floor in his bedroom, a whole new kitchen, fresh paint everywhere, and an up-to-date bathroom. Because I did a lot of Jesus-carpentry work on Chester House to save money, and I knew a little more than the average Joe about home remodeling, he came to me for advice. I didn’t mind. I was glad to help him; painting tips included.

He looked over his right shoulder at me, stretching his shirtless body. “You make it sound like I’m sucking your d**k, Joel.”

Not going to happen, I thought. At thirty-six, Zac was hot to have an afternoon fling with, but I honestly didn’t have pangs and thuds in my heart for him. I could have easily taken him up on his offer since he thought me attractive, and wanted me, but I chose not to. His brown eyes were smoldering and his tight jaw looked good in afternoon scruff, but the man wasn’t my cup of tea. I knew that he liked working out at Muscle Town’s Gym in downtown Templeton, molding his six-two frame with its muscular and compact chest that he shaved every other week: his thighs were thick in khaki shorts; the bulge at his center resembled a Wyoming boulder; his legs were like tree trunks. Any guy would have liked to push their fingertips through his short, creamy brown hair, enjoying its softness.

I shouldn’t have teased him, leading him on, but I did. “Trust me, if you suck my d**k, you wouldn’t be able to talk. Your jaws and throat would hurt.”

He laughed and continued his work. The roller pushed upward on the massive wall, downward, and upward again.

“Remember, make a W. That’s the proper way. If you’re going to do it, do it right.”

He listened; a competent man regarding tools. Frankly, he had more knowledge of handyman work than he had given himself credit for. Unlike other men his age, he knew how to use a hammer, drill, saw, and other tools. Zac was in a league of his own: smart, practical, willing to learn and listen to me. He lived by the motto: Give anything a shot. Try your best at it. You can’t learn anything if you don’t fail.

I stood behind him, watching his every move, and listened to him say, “This isn’t anything like writing an article for the Templeton Caller. And I’m pretty sure it’s not like writing a mystery like you do, Joel.” He continued with his work: stretching his back and leg muscles, reaching above his head, near the condo’s ceiling, and showing off the nape of his sweaty back and its corded muscles; a total turn-on for other men, but not me: strapping, no hair, dapples of perspiration.

“Good job, guy. You’re a pro at this. Before you know, this living room will be painted and you can move on to the bedroom floor. You’ll have the condo you want by the end of summer.”

A short history of Zachary William Cramer: he lived by the lake all his life in a small town called Clover, a sister town to Templeton; he went to a private high school named Blaketon Academy near Erie; thereafter he studied journalism for four years at Hoffton College, a country-bumpkin college in Tennessee, near Nashville; the Templeton Caller picked him up right after he graduated from Hoffton; he’d been working there ever since he’d turned twenty-two; Zac wrote fuzzy-feeling and strange vignettes for the Caller about life: Marie Dempsey Turns 100!; Local Boy Sees Angel in Oatmeal; Killian Daye vs. Garden Gnomes; Soothsayer Sees World Virus Happening. The articles were silly tales that readers of Templeton had loved throughout the years, calling him talented, the talk of the town, and other positive compliments.

Our history: we met a year ago, bumping into each other at one of my book signings in Low Hollow, another sister town to Templeton. He spilled his coffee all over my lap and felt guilty about it. The guy ended up buying four of my hardbacks (A Filthy Murder, Sin Times Four, Murder by a Mother, and Ink Splatter), spending over one hundred bucks at the signing. Being a writer and enjoying the hobby of digging into people’s business, I asked him to stick around after the gig to get to know him better. He did. We had coffee at a shop near the signing. I learned that he had a boyfriend named Luke, a cat named Princess Cunning, rented an apartment on Shell Street next to the lake in Low Hollow, and didn’t vote for Trump. Thereafter, we quickly became friends, enjoyed much talk throughout the next year, shared many coffee dates, and a platonic relationship ensued. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Today, Princess Cunning napped in the master bedroom, his ex, Luke lived in Houston with a new boyfriend, and Zac stopped painting and climbed down from the stepladder. A plastic bottle of water sat next to the leg of the ladder, which he fetched and took a swig from.

I stared at his smooth, bare chest of steel-like plates, pink n*****s, and the tangles of brown hair beneath his navel. Other men would have been excited and popped wood for his beautiful body, but I didn’t see him as a s*x object, just a friend. Some men would have wanted to keep looking at him forever, accidentally licked their lips, and concentrated on him as if he were an expensive piece of art. Something rare. Mesmerized. Under his spell. I simply clapped my hands together and told him, “Come on, get back to work. You have a lot of wall left to paint.”

Perspiration clung to his forehead and nose. I deemed him a working man, a stud who knew how to paint a wall, and maybe accomplish other things with handy tools. A stud who…

Did he just wink at me? I thought so. Shame on him for hitting on me. He dragged his gaze over me from head to toes. Why’d he have to study me like that? Taking in my five-eleven height, blond hair, aqua-blue eyes, stubble on my chin, and 170 pounds of toned muscle. Friends shouldn’t look at each other that way. Never. Not once. But it happened. Zac wanted me. Every part of me. All my body parts. d**k and all.

He knew everything about me, having gained information about me in the last year. My birthday in July. That I was forty-one. Knew my parents lived in Key West, and they were traveling around the world, enjoying retirement together. He knew that my older brother was a banker in Switzerland, and that I had a degree in creative writing from Marlon College in Ashtabula, Ohio. He also knew that I had a younger sister who lived with a country singer (Kansas Weld) in Nashville. Honestly, Zac knew everything about me. Everything. We didn’t have secrets between us. None.

But…maybe he didn’t know the obvious, and most important, thing about me: I didn’t want to jump in the sack with him and knock boots with him. I didn’t have a s****l attraction to him. Yes, he was god-like in the looks department, and he was sweet and charming, and a nice guy. But none of those things could sway my heart (and other body parts) to land him as a boyfriend. Bottom line, I didn’t want him as a boyfriend. No way. Zac could be my friend as long as he wanted, but not my boyfriend.

He squeezed the water bottle a little too hard. On purpose. I knew that. Water spewed out of the bottle and trickled down and over his bare and chiseled chest, into the rim of his paint-splattered khakis. “Oops,” he said. “I had a little accident.”

His water bottle gig would have worked on so many other guys, but not me. Other men would have dropped their pants and boxer-briefs to the living room floor and had their way with him there and then. Game over. Let the s*x begin on the plastic-covered sofa. That didn’t happen to us, though. Truth said, I wanted to scold him and tell him that it was impolite to try and seduce me, even though I was charming, handsome, and single. He left me stolid, unmoved, and in an awkward position. Frankly, I wanted to ask him what he was doing, ruining our friendship, taking it into a wrong direction, and draining me.

His gig continued. He used a free palm on his chest: brushed it down and across one pec and a hard n****e. The appendage traveled to his navel and stopped there. He sighed. Why? I wasn’t sure. No one would have been sure in my position.

“What?” It was the only thing I could say.

“I’ve been thinking, Joel Bass.”

He used my full name; such a serious moment. Men who did that only wanted something from me. Of value. Priceless things. s****l things.

Two of his fingertips against his stomach began to circle his navel, tried to tease me, or attempted to concoct a hex. “Would it be crazy of me to ask you out for a beer? I was thinking we could meet at The Rift, tomorrow evening. Let’s say eight.”

Nervous, I shook my head and stammered, “I don’t go to The Rift.” Young, wild, and s*x-driven men frequented the bar; people I didn’t hang out with, now that I was in my forties.

“But you will go with me, right?” His eyebrows raised and he puffed his chest out, proving his masculinity like some odd bird in a mating ritual.

“I could.”

“You will.”

“Maybe I could.”

“Should I pick you up?”

He’d been at Chester House a number of times in the last year: to discuss the remodeling work he needed to accomplish on his condo; for a Halloween party back in October; for the Fourth of July barbecue last summer; and picking me up for numerous seven-mile runs around Templeton on the occasional Saturday mornings.

We were only friends. Just friends.

I told him, “No. I’ll meet you there.”

As friends. Friends only. I should have said that, but didn’t.

Shit! s**t! s**t!

“Good. See you there.” Satisfied, he returned to his painting. He sat his bottle aside and climbed the stepladder again. Started his Ws.

I checked out his ass. Such a nice ass: bulbous, tight, like a soccer player’s. An edible ass. Maybe I could smack it. Didn’t want to, though. Someone else could do that for him. Someone into him. Connected. More than a friend.