Revised version copyright 2006 by the author.
PART ONE: MARSH MOVES IN
There are people who have always been a part of your life. You can't remember the exact moment you got to know them, or how--and it doesn't matter. Others enter and exit in ways that are forever etched in your mind, as if they were actors in a play: an aged parent slipping quietly away in the hospital bed after a long illness; a newborn baby, tiny bundle of life, squalling its head off in the delivery room.
I wouldn't know about that baby firsthand--I've never been lucky enough to have a kid of my own.
I have, however, been lucky enough to love and to have lovers, and I remember the first time I saw each of them as plain as if it were yesterday. Marsh Atkins, for example--it's been years now, but I can still close my eyes and see him clearly, getting out of his sport utility vehicle in the driveway of his house: my new neighbor.
The house next door had started going up just a few months before. They get built amazingly fast when the economy is good, and the local economy had been more than good--it had been exploding. Frankly, I wasn't all that enthralled. The most relevant indicators for me were the spiraling appraisals and property tax bills, and the fact that the undeveloped lots in the neighborhood, which had provided some pleasant greenspace, were fast disappearing.
It was particularly painful to see the multi-acre wooded lot next door subdivided, and four large, ostentatious houses go up on it. The nearest one was right up against our shared property line, so close that from my bedroom window upstairs I could peer right into my neighbor's second story. That had resulted in an interesting encounter with one of the crew while the house was being constructed. Stan and me, even now we sometimes laugh about the way we met. If those walls could talk, he still says. But that's another story.
The thing between us had begun to cool off a bit when Marsh and his family moved into that house. I had sort of figured it would when my construction man wasn't around every day, strutting his stuff. In a way, it was okay. As nice and hot a guy as he was, Stan wasn't someone with whom I had a great deal in common. Still, I noticed his absence, particularly as I was pretty much on my own otherwise.
When the "For Sale" sign disappeared from the front yard next door I began to wonder what my new neighbors would be like. I hoped they would be quiet, at least. Some of our windows were so close that sound traveled easily between them, and I dreaded the thought of loud weekend parties on their back deck. I wanted a dull yuppie family: husband in khakis starting to lose his hair, smart blond wife in shorts and perfect makeup, carting the two-point-one children off to school (private, no doubt), soccer or ballet in their gas-guzzling sport utility vehicle.
As it turned out, some of my predictions were on the money. Marsh did wear khakis a lot, snug ones that showed off his tight butt. The family owned a Chevy Blazer. His wife Audrey was blond and pretty, and an attentive mother to their four-year old son, Jonah.
I found out about his wife and son later, of course. The first time I saw Marsh he was by himself, getting out of the oversize vehicle in his driveway just as I drove in, finally coming home myself after a late day at he office. He had apparently been to the local supermarket, and was unloading his car.
Looking at him from behind, I saw a man, about six feet tall and perfectly proportioned, with a full head of dark brown hair, dressed in dark blue nylon running shorts and white t-shirt. He had long runner's legs, and a back that rose in a perfect V-shape from narrow hips to broad shoulders. His arms were corded with muscle, and ended in large hands that, even at a distance, I thought were beautiful--I have a thing about men's hands. He bent to retrieve a grocery bag from the back seat, and the sight of his butt cheeks straining against the thin fabric of his shorts made my heart--and cock--leap. My eyes locked onto his form and stayed there, forcing my head to swivel backward as I passed by.
Believe it or not, it's not my style to pant over a guy, no matter how hunky. A part of my mind was busy trying to deflate my excitement. So he's great-looking from behind, a little voice said, he'll probably be a troll from the front. Then I got a glimpse of his face as I passed his driveway: strong and symmetrical, square jaw dusted with a modest five o'clock shadow. His nose was absolutely straight, and just a shade long—it kept his face from being vapidly pretty. He moved away from the car, and I saw the swell of his pectoral muscles against the cotton of his shirt. Lower down, toward his waist, the fabric hung limp--I could imagine the flat hardness of his stomach. Unfortunately, the SUV hid the rest.
I took this all in just before I drove my own modest vehicle's right front wheel over the high curb at my driveway entrance, tipping the car abruptly and causing me to crack my head hard against the driver's side window.
The impact hurt enough to make me yell "Ow!" and brought me out of my lustful reverie with a vengeance. My neighbor hadn't seen my inept maneuver. He disappeared into his house without looking back, carrying his purchases. I sat for a moment, my car still riding over the curb, rubbing my bruised temple.
I wanted to go next door, knock, introduce myself, shake hands and invite him over for a beer, but I didn't do any of that. After backing up and parking the car properly, now that I had no distractions, I walked into my own house, cool and dark after the warm spring afternoon outside, still nursing the bump on my head. I sat in my living room, wishing there were some way I could meet and talk to him.
A few days later, I was backing out of my driveway, ready to engage in my five-times-weekly battle with the freeway traffic, when I saw a woman loading a little boy into the SUV next door. My heart sank, but I wasn't surprised. After all, what were the odds that a specimen like my neighbor would have been one, gay, two, unattached, and three, interested in me? Practically nil. Even so, I moped around at the office that day. One of the bolder members of my staff remarked to my face that I seemed to have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed.
So he was married and had a kid. I could still fantasize, and I did. I got into the habit of checking his driveway every evening when I came home. I did the same thing every morning. Gardening is really not my thing, but I started poking around my yard on the weekends, hoping I might catch him out doing something similar.
I did get tantalizing glimpses of him, but always with his wife and son. It was getting hot in the way Texas springs always do, but the evenings were still bearable. Sometimes after dinnertime I would see them sitting on their front lawn together, him in a collapsible chair reading the paper, his long legs out stretched in front of him, while his wife played with the little boy, or vice versa. They were the very picture of old-fashioned family values. Damn.
Finally, after several weeks, I got my chance. It was a Saturday in late May, and the days were really scorching by now. I still went out to do some gardening, digging and weeding now and then, but only in the morning—by midday it was too hot outside to work.
I had started this outdoor stuff only to run into my neighbor, and had been singularly unsuccessful at that purpose. But I had actually gotten interested in this particular project, which involved building a stone wall around a flowerbed I had planted by the fence that separated my property from his. I had been working industriously for a good while when I heard a slamming door, the clattering of footsteps on wood, and the sound of voices, one high and piping, the other deep and mellow. Father and son had come out of the house next door and were tossing a ball in the back yard.
My plotting and planning had finally worked, but now that my neighbor was actually within earshot, I was too shy to say anything. I confined myself to occasional quick glances upward as I continued to stack rocks and they played their game, the little boy laughing and squealing with excitement. Once, the father caught my eye and raised his hand in a friendly wave. I nodded and ducked my head down, blushing. What the hell was the matter with me?
Suddenly I felt a blow to the top of my head. Crying out more in surprise than in actual pain, I put my hand up to where I had been hit. I heard something land on the ground near me, and turned to see the brightly colored ball that my neighbor and his little boy had been throwing lying in the grass nearby.
"Sorry, buddy! Jonah got a little carried away there."
He was standing at the chain link fence that separated our back yards, as close to me as he had ever been. I stood up, wobbling, my legs half asleep from squatting, my heart thudding so loudly I thought surely he could hear it.
"Are you okay?"
