Caught in August

It was late August, and everything from the collars of tourist's Hawaiian shirts to the necks of stray dogs that lumbered past Seaside Joe's Diner had begun to wilt. The zealous crowds that peaked around the Fourth of July had gradually tapered off and were replaced by last-minuters who came up from the city, seeking to make something of the final days of summer before the warm, pleasant winds that whipped off of the ocean were replaced by a biting chill that would last until next year's April. The oppressive heat that was hardly displaced by a few whirring fans, and forced a slowness on every motion that allowed my mind to wander through the confusion and mixed emotions caused by an uncertain future. I hadn't the faintest idea what I would be doing in a months time when the flow of beer-bloated tourists stopped altogether and the busy strip of a town would become hushed as if obeying the downward motion of the first lightly-browned leaf that was blown off its branch.

I had just graduated college in May and the slower pace of these late summer days seemed to better parallel my own inner world than those busy July days filled with cleaning up after drunk college kids and tirelessly attending to the near endless crowd of sunburnt families- although they had been a welcome distraction.

I always assumed that by the time graduation rolled around some force would have pushed me down a path that I would become happily engulfed in and would spend the next decades of my life quietly attending to. But I made this assumption these when there were still distinct forces (parents, teachers, coaches) pushing and pulling me according to what they considered my 'true potential'- before I realized that I was the one that was supposed to push off and generate the wind in my sails myself. But I didn't have the energy to flap my arms or the strength in my lungs to blow that hard, so I had fallen back on the same Summer job at Seaside Joe's I had kept since I was a freshman.

But I didn't mind.

The work was easy- especially now that locals that rented out their places during the high season had returned from whatever quiet corners of New England they retreated to. The owner and cook, Ms. Dora (the widow of Joe) was kind enough, letting me keep my tips and go about my day unbothered. More and more I felt myself merely moving through the motions of my job, complacent being lost in whatever was and wasn't on my mind, drifting through it all.

But like June or July or the Spring that had preceded them, it was only a matter of time before I snapped back to something that had been around just a year before. It is only in retrospect that I can pinpoint the exact moment.

It was a Tuesday afternoon just after the lunch rush. A smattering of locals mixed with the red-faced out-of-towners that lingered in the gentle breeze of the fans. I had been entirely consumed by a daydream, wandering between the tables and cleaning off bits of French fries and picking up cups, when a hand reached out and rested on my inner thigh well above my knee accompanied by an "excuse me", stopping me in my tracks. I jumped back instinctively and he must have read something on my face because his eyes became busy.

"Can I have my check please?"

"Of course, sir," I quipped without my usual professional smile and hurried back into the kitchen.

I stood just through the doorway breathing just a bit heavier, my fingers resting on the spot he had touched me. If the touch had been incidental, the ever-so-slight squeeze that accompanied it or the smile that disappeared as quickly as it had cracked certainly couldn't have been- but maybe I had just imagined it all.

When I had regained whatever I momentarily lost as a result of his soft touch I peeked through the window out into the dining room at the man, realizing instantly that I had recognized him from the summers before.

He was a local, and we had shared a few brief conversations the previous summer. He was what I assumed was between his late thirties and mid-forties. His skin was gently bronzed and his hands less than gently calloused from what must have been an outdoor existence. Years of squinting through the sun as it reflected off the ocean had left him with deep creases that cut through his otherwise smooth skin when he squinted or smiled. HIs brown eyes held within them a muted shine that reminded me of a sunrise seen through the boughs of early spring trees that were just regaining their bright green leaves.

As I considered those eyes I had vaguely remembered considering the intense feeling of his gaze on me, the utter confidence he held that I both lacked and craved. I remembered the long pauses I had found myself inserting into our conversations and the short smiles I had been careful to suppress.

I suddenly realized I had been lost in thought for a few minutes now. I hurried to the counter and as soon as his check was in my hand I realized he had already left. I approached his table and found the 5.50$ for his meal as well as a ten dollar tip set aside for me.

The next few days he came in and ordered his usual, quietly eating and placing his money (exact change with a friendly tip) on the table and leaving before I had a chance to drop his check. I would catch glimpses of him here and there, occasionally catching him looking at me, and surprised myself when I had begun to blatantly smile in response to his more obvious glances. His eyes moved about slowly but with a passionate glow.

And then he was gone for a few days, and I found myself slumped over the counter looking out the windows replaying his touch in my head over-and-over again, wondering if there was an off chance that this what he had meant to do to me.

Upon his return, I found myself in the bathroom studying the mirror and making sure everything looked right before breathing a deep breath and opening the door to him.

"It's nice to see you again," I said while I fished out a pen from my pocket and stared at a spot on his table.

"Is it?" he replied with a touch of effortless humor.

I could feel a gentle blush coming on and something rising in my throat, so I blurted out, "Y'know I didn't recognize you from last Summer," realizing that this wasn't enough but unsure of what more to add.

"Well I recognized you," he added assertively. With that, my eyes met his and he didn't flinch even a bit and I could feel the thing climbing higher in my throat. And as if I were pushed (or maybe pulled) I found myself stepping a step closer to him, and that smile cracked again.

"Oh?" I asked.

"Oh." He replied in an affirmative tone with a self-assuredness that was entirely absent from my voice.

I tried my best to repress a nervous smile and asked, "so what can I get for you today?" Knowing full well it would be the same as yesterday and the day before that.

He took a moment to consider the menu in front of him. Slowly, his slow eyes moved just off the table to my thighs, moving his way leisurely up to my chin. If I was unsure if I was making up any of the previous flashes of interest I had seen in him but was dead certain that this was something intentional. The force of his stare caused a sway in my step and an audible exhale.

"You know what I'll be having," he said, his eyes unblinking and unflinchingly locked with mine.

"I do?" I asked, the question in my voice snapping me out of his stare. I looked around to another customer who was beginning to grow restless and corrected my tone. 

 "I do," I said firmly and nodded and gave him a tight smile then rushed off to clear the other customer's table. When I dropped ditched the plates in the kitchen I released a heavy breath and felt dizzy. There seemed to be a pressure growing in my eyes and a feeling of something churning in my stomach. I remained in the kitchen for the remainder of his lunch, darting out quickly to serve him his food without so much as another word.

As soon as he left I cursed myself for being such a coward, which I continued to do until I finished up my shift and left for home and was stopped dead in my tracks. George was standing beside the bright blue pickup truck I had noticed him get into the past few days. His face was bathed on one side by the pink of the setting sun and the gentle creases in his face flickered as he winced ever so slightly.

"Need a ride home?"

I looked around as if to check if I ride home that I knew wasn't coming or a friend that wasn't supposed to be there was missing, and all the while he kept his gaze locked on me.

"Sure," I said in a voice that hoped to apologize for my awkward look-around, "I'd... like that." He motioned for me to get into the passenger's seat and I climbed in.

We sat in silence for a beat and then he asked, "Where's home?"

"We can go somewhere else if you'd like." As soon as the words were out of my mouth I felt a nervous grip in my stomach that almost made me keel over. I swallowed hard and flashed a glance at him. 

"I would like." He smiled coolly and shifted his car into drive.

"I'm George"

"I'm Eric," I said, feeling as if this was the only thing in the world I was certain of.

Caught in an amber of silence and anticipation we drove out of the downtown strip and into the nice part of town, pulling into the driveway of a house that half covered in that Tyvek construction paper. He told me self-effacingly that this wasn't his house and that he was just working on it (his hard hands suddenly made more sense) and pulled his truck slowly around to the back. A wide view of the ocean and the piercing rays of the setting sun greeted us and for a moment I forgot where and who I was as I always do when I look out onto something so endless.

He asked me a few cursory questions and I answered without substance or much thought, not peeling my eyes off of the ocean. His eyes on me mingled with the warmth of the sunset and I felt something wonderful crash over me in step with the crashing of the waves.

He could read everything I wasn't saying when I responded and dropped the questions, turning to look out onto the ocean.

I exhaled as he placed his hand on my thigh. My breathing hitched and I grabbed instinctively at his wrist which was thicker than I assumed it would be. He let up only slightly, and I could feel the movement of his muscles as they contracted. I looked at him and his arched eyebrows that carried a mixture of a question and an apology that relaxed as I pulled his hand back into me. We sat there studying the ocean for what must have been at least 10 minutes of nothing but pure silence and my legs spreading almost imperceptibly and his hand crawling up and up.

Something inside me felt ready to burst when he put a pin in me with a "So-"

"-I'm fine with-" I interrupted in a near shout "-or rather, I'd like to..." and I trailed off uncertain of how to say what I had never dreamed of saying.

"I'm not impatient. We only have to if you want to, and we can go whatever speed you like."

And with those words, the thing reached the top of my throat, just past my tonsils. I found myself suddenly able to look out him with an unwavering stare, wishing that I was someone who was able to be direct and point-blank and tell him that of course, I wanted to and I wanted to now and I wanted it fast and I wanted to be pinned up against something feeling a heightened mixture of the same release of nerves that each and every stare he laid on me filled me with.

But I am not that someone so I chewed on my bottom lip all the while trying to force something (anything) out.

A gentle laugh that didn't mock but soothed rescued me and all at once I found his hand cradling my chin and his lips on mine doing most if not all of the work in a moment that has only grown within me. As he pulled back he took with him a sigh from me that indicated I didn't want him to let up.

He put his hand on top of mine, holding mine with just two fingers and then said, "Just let me know."

"I will," I said in a voice just one decimal above pure silence, placing my other hand onto his.

The sun was blinking a final goodbye and he began backing his car out the same way we had come. I told him where home was and he dropped me off without hardly another word, although his eyes had told me plenty.

The next few days passed as effortlessly as August had rolled into September. George came for his usual 2pm lunch like clockwork, and at 1:45 each day I found myself in the bathroom adding an extra cuff or two to my shorts that already sat well above my knee and rubbing my fingers through my hair to almost no effect at all. His once-quick glimpses became drawn out, and I took his order so close to him that he only had to whisper, and he would playfully brush my hand as I set his food down.

For a fleeting moment each day I called into question my convictions about what was taking place. It was true that he wasn't the first man to express his interests in me, and twice in college, I had even followed through with boys from my class, but this was different. First of all, he was older, and I was unsure what significance (if any) this held beyond the fact that it was something I often considered. Secondly, I had never been with someone as... confident in their gazes and pauses. It was as if he knew every thought that I was having about his hands wrapped around every inch of me. The feeling was foreign and overwhelming but welcome all the same. The more I considered these facts the more I realized they were not apprehensions, but desires...

Each day he left Seaside Joe's I would breathe in air that seemed suddenly sweeter and would propel me through the rest of my day until I would clock out and tell Ms.Dora goodbye and find George just a few stores down leaning on his truck. He would stare me down as I walked to him and by the time I was in his arms with my head pressed into his chest a stupid smile would be stuck on my face.

For about a week we spent unremarkable evenings in each others company, my legs draped over his as I laid back on his couch enjoying wandering conversations that were punctuated by comfortable silences. He lived two streets off of the main strip in a sun-bleached and sand-smoothed one story home. He told me about a wife he had once had and a life he had left behind. He had a soothing voice that was only slightly touched by an inoffensive Maine accent that bit the end off of most vowels and ended each sentence in a gentle sigh.

With each passing night, the kneading of my legs crept higher and higher above my knees and up my thighs until I would close my eyes and, as if without my consent, begin to gently buck my hips as he pulled me in. But just as I would begin to allow myself to be truly lost in his grasp, his hands would let up and he would return to my feet, mindlessly pulling at my toes, asking me another question.

After a week of this, I began waking up craving the grip of his hands, chewing on the thought of how much larger they were each time his fingers pressed into me and sent a shiver up my being.

It was Tuesday again, and as 2pm rolled around so did George. It was an unusually slow day (although slow business was becoming more and more usual as September continued to press onwards) It wasn't until I walked up right next to him, catching a familiar whiff of sweat mingled with his cologne that I realized the cravings I was waking up with had become physically manifested as a throbbing sensation in my throat. He must have sensed something (or maybe he was feeling similarly) because as soon as I was close enough one of his hands wrapped around the back of my right thigh, pulling me in close to him. I caught myself with one hand on the table and another on his shoulder, letting out a hoarse moan as the lips on my neck gave way to teeth.

There was a clattering in the kitchen and I pushed away from him, straightening myself out and returning to a world that was occupied by more than just he and me. I must have had a bewildered look on my face because he let out that low laugh of his and, without another word or gesture or ordering any food, walked right out the door.

After an hour and a half of not another customer, Ms. Dora sighed and told me I was done for the day. I ran to his house in a near sprint, my heart racing, and my skin tingling. I knocked and heard him ask who it was to which I only knocked again. He opened the door with his eyebrows in an arch that settled as soon as he saw me. I placed a hand on his bare chest (his shirt was unbuttoned down to the fourth) and pushed him back. He was usually so subtle but right then I could clearly read surprise and anticipation on his face as I wordlessly motioned to the couch.

He accepted my offer and sat down. I walked up to him and stood so our knees were touching. He cracked that smile and began to say something but I knew I couldn't let him get it out.

"George?"

And his features replied with a 'yes?'

"You know how you told me to let you know?"

"Sure" he whispered.

And with those deep brown sunset-through-the-tree-eyes watching me I took off every last piece of clothing I was wearing. Now it was his turn to chew on words and gasp breathlessly and I savored it for a few moments before I slowly and assuredly made my way to straddling him and whispered into his neck "well now you know."

Something was on the tip of his tongue and I leaned in to take it. Before I reached his mouth, however, the trance he was in was broken and his hands were on my hips pressing my torso into his. He was biting and kissing aimlessly at my chest and down my ribs, holding me firmly in place as I squirmed. HIs hands began working their way up and down my back, before they settled at the top of my ass, massaging me while his kisses moved up my torso. I pulled back and looked into him, savoring this moment of something new and exciting that we would never quite have again but were lost in now.

In that instant, I found myself suddenly aware of everything I had just done and was about to do. In retrospect, it was all so out of character for the shy, awkward boy that could hardly hold eye contact, let alone feel comforted by the gaze of someone he hardly knew. But then I refocused on George and those feelings of insecurity washed away in his gentle gaze and were replaced by the same humming and shaking that had kicked at my feet when I ran over to him.

I leaned over him and landed my lips squarely on his, playfully biting and sucking anything I could. His hands went limp as my tongue found his, and I reminded him of what he was holding by reaching behind me to his wrists and pushing them down my ass and into me. He obliged by curling his fingers around the creases and spreading me open. I sighed into his open mouth and a finger found it's way to rubbing my asshole slowly in tempting circles. My hips began bucking of their own volition (not the gentle bucking like when he kneaded me, but instead, something primal as if I wanted to dig into him and become a part of him.) He licked the finger that had been circling and placed it back there, pushing gently and rhythmically. He began to push in and instinctively I tensed and retracted from him.

"Oh, Eric- I'm sorry. I wasn't even thinking." But I shook my head and smiled, grabbing his wrists and putting them in front of me. Getting off of his lap, I stood up, and for a moment a look of loss washed over him. I motioned with my hand for him to stand and he did. Dropping to my knees, I looked up at him rubbing my hands up and down his thighs.

"Are you actually sorry?" I asked playfully, surprised by my own confidence. Before he could answer I was playing at his belt loops. He fumbled with his button and slipped off his zipper and I put my mouth on a bulge that had begun to grow in his briefs as I pulled his pants down. For a moment I sat on my knees looking up at him as he leaned his head back. I released my teeth and pushed him at the waist back onto the couch.