Trey, my 20 year old neighbor, was in his sophomore year at a downstate university. He and his family moved into the neighboring home when he was in his mid-teens. We'd developed a symbiotic relationship early on. Trey would come by to help the old man next door and I'd pay him. He attended to the landscaping in the summer, and assisted with home improvements. He was energetic, lithe and handsome, and I admit it thrilled me to watch him pushing the lawnmower on hot sunny days, his shirtless torso shiny with sweat. But I'm not a creepy old pederast. I respected the boundaries our ages set between us. He would come by and do a chore, and I'd pay him. Sometimes, as I said, I watched him as he worked.
I watched him grow from a skinny teen into a handsome young man. He swam on the high school team as part of the 4-man relay. He played basketball in his driveway. He ran. He had developed tight sinewy muscles and as he grew he would assist with more arduous tasks in my home, moving furniture, clearing out the attic and cellar. He helped me go through the painful process of parting with my late wife's belongings.
My wife had been dead a year when Trey and his family arrived, and it took time for me to let go of her presence, which haunted me with her collection of odd sewing machines and antique sewing tables. Trey helped me catalogue everything, take photos to show to local antique shops for quotes, and when a price was set, he helped me carry out the last remnants of her property and deliver them to the shops.
Trey had departed for university in the late summer after high school graduation, and he assured me he would return for every holiday break and come over to see if I needed his help with anything. During his spring break of sophomore year Trey was helping me move furniture from my room into an empty guest bedroom. He was going to help me paint the room after we cleared it. With luck we could clear the room, paint it, and then replace the furniture within the week of his visit. He was enthusiastic to help, and as always, entertained me with stories about his life at the university. He shared little about his studies, focusing on the girls he'd been dating or his one night stands with someone he met at a party. I enjoyed listening to his tales of youthful sexual conquests. While he was in high school Trey would occasionally mention girls he dated, but we usually talked about sports or politics. Once he adapted to campus life he returned home and spoke freely about his sex life.
That fine spring day we had moved all but the chest of drawers from my bedroom. Paintings and photos had been removed from the walls. Bed, box spring and other furniture were crammed into the guest bedroom. Trey suggested we remove the drawers from the chest to make it easier to manage. Before I could stop him he began pulling out drawers and carrying them into the other room. I told him we should be able to manage with the two bottom drawers still in the chest, but he said no, and leaned over and opened one of the drawers. My collection of gay porn videos and magazines stored inside stopped him cold. He straightened up, took a step back and said, "Uh, Mr. Mitchell um, what is this?"
I told him to close the drawer, but he squatted down and began taking out the magazines and VHS tapes. Under the magazines he found a lifelike 8" dildo and a squeeze bottle of lube. He didn't touch the dildo, but pointed and turned to face me from the floor. "Are you a..." he started the say homo, but corrected himself, "gay? Is this yours?"
I nodded, blushed and said, "I told you to leave that drawer in the chest."
He stood to face me. "You're gay?"
"Bisexual. I was married to a woman for thirty years."
"Where's your straight porn?" He asked, smirking. "Did your wife know about this? This is old stuff. I mean. Who even has a VHS player these days?"
"I do."
"Okay, hold on. Let me wrap my head around this." He walked across the room, away from me, and said, "You like guys. You like fucking guys."
"And women."
He returned to the magazines and leafed through a few quietly, perusing the glossy photos of muscular men with large penises sucking and fucking each other. Some guys were hairy, some smooth. Trey must have realized that most of the men in the photos were about his age, and he looked at me. "You like younger guys?"
Busted. "I like mature men. Men old enough to know what or who they want."
"These guys don't look mature. They look like me. Like they're 20 or 30 years old."
"Trey, what's your point?"
"Did you have me come around here so you could try and fuck me?"
"No! Have I ever made you uncomfortable? Have I ever made a move on you? Touched you?
"No." He looked a bit ashamed at his accusation, but pressed on with his interrogation. "But have you ever thought about it?"
"Thought about what?"
"Thought about fucking me?"
"No. I would never do anything to jeopardize our friendship."
He was silent. He returned the magazines and tapes to the drawer, removed it and carried it into the guest room. I removed the last drawer and put it on top of the one he'd just set on the floor, hiding the porn. We went back to the bedroom and carefully carried the chest into the guest room. We returned to my empty bedroom and spread a tarp on the floor. We checked the walls for cracks.
"I'll come back after lunch and start patching. Then we can tape off the trims. We can put the first coat of paint on tomorrow." Trey left the room and walked downstairs. I followed him.
"Trey," I called, "please stop."
"What?"
"I understand if you don't want to come back and finish the job."
"I'll be back. I need the cash."
"How about lunch? Let me fix you lunch. I have leftover pot roast I can heat up."
"I don't know, Mr. Mitchell. I need to sort out some shit."
"Like what, Trey? I'm right here. Ask and I will answer. Truthfully."
He was reluctant, but he accepted my offer for lunch. He set the table while I heated up the leftovers in the microwave. We sat at the kitchen table, ate our meal in near silence. He broke the silence to tell me that the food was delicious.
"It's my wife's recipe. She left me a treasure of recipe cards and sometimes I'll break one out and make something. It's never as good as when she prepared it, but it's like she's still here."
"You two were happy together?"
"Yeah. The final years were pretty awful as she declined. Cancer. But I took care of her until the end."
"Did she know about the porn in the drawer?"
"No. I didn't keep that stuff in the house when she was alive. It was locked up in the garage near my work bench. It was there until last year. I brought it in and watched a couple of the movies to see if I could get my blood flowing."
"What do you mean?" He started clearing the table as talked.
"I'm 66, Trey. The old guy doesn't always work like it used to." I smiled and glanced down. "Imagination and memories need a little visual help, if you know what I mean."
"I don't have that problem," he grinned.
"Ah, to be 20 again," I said.
"So, have you, uh, hooked up or met anyone since your wife passed away?" He leaned on the counter. I might have been mistaken, but I thought there was a bulge in his crotch. He wore jeans and a t-shirt with his school's emblem across the chest. The shirt fit snugly and I could see the outlines of his pecs. He crossed his arms across his chest and I thought he was aware I was staring.
"Yeah, a couple of times. Always left me feeling more alone than I felt before the meeting."