Rewriting Singularity

Three days passed, and I was still in Hector's room. The days fell into a pattern: First Hec woke early, took care of his errands and upkeep while I wrote. The laptop became a fixture on the bed along with Hec's rumpled clothes, which came off every afternoon around three. After, we wrote, we laughed. I threw off my bathrobe, and we practiced our numbers all over again.

Today I'd started early. Hec hummed as he dressed, then went to help Kate run into town while I snoozed longer thinking about last night. Our Favre-O-Meter had maxed out on four. We'd kicked back and watched the Packers, drunk Coors, ate Fritos and shed big tears over Brett Favre's departure. Later Hec crushed the Lay's bag flat as I tackled him into the mattress after a long pass. This morning I was content as I leered at Hec's tight ass through heavy eyelids.

I got up later. Showered, shaved. Decided to dress. Still, the best place to write was on that bed. Me and my laptop continued our long romance.

I was better. I knew it. Hec knew it. But no way either of us wanted to bring it up. I sure didn't want to leave our sanctuary; I enjoyed living in a haunted room with a not-so-haunted roommate.

I liked how that word rolled off my tongue--

roommate

. Especially the

mate

part. There are all sorts of mates to appreciate: Playmate, Coffee-Mate, checkmate, Paper Mate, soul mate, the right mate, the wrong mate, mating,

The Mating Game

(ok, yeah, that's

Dating Game

-- but well,

Mating Game

would be

more

entertaining).

I closed my eyes. The words on the laptop blurred. I rubbed my eyes. I wasn't getting very far today-- might as well be drawing left-handed with broken Crayolas. Time for a distraction-- a little fantasy à la Hector. Um, yes...

The Dating Game music begins-- me? I'm contestant number three. I sit calm, collected on the last stool. Behind that 70s psychedelic flowered panel, Hec sits with his legs crossed on his lone stool, his questions scribbled on a yellow notepad. He has a leisure suit on. Tan-- no, brown-- to match those eyes. He has on one of those loud patterned shirts-- bright rainbow colors. He taps his small notepad against his leg-- he's doing the all-twitchy-and-nervous-cute thing I love. He tells the host he's "looking for that perfect match." I smirk, because, well, that's me of course. I flash a smile and wave as the camera pans over me then across to the two other possible suitors. The music stops. And the questions begin.

Yes, the questions.

I tap my toes on the rung of the chair, waiting. Finally, it's my question, my turn.

"Contestant number three," Hec says, "it's the holiday season and I'm Santa-- you're on my lap. Little boy, take it away!"

I clear my throat. Here's my chance to impress him. "Oh, Santa," I purr, "I've been such a good boy. Please come down my chimney and fill..."

Bang!

The door. Shit, another good fantasy wasted.

"What?!" I jumped, and the laptop cover slapped down right on my fingertips. "Fuck! That hurts."

"Hey, Jake?!"

God, Hec surprised me. I looked at the clock-- only one-- he was early; it wasn't his usual time to come back yet. But wait! Fantasy be damned-- Hec stands next to the door, looking so much better in those old jeans and flannel shirt than any old 70s polyester-wear.

"Where were you just then?" Hec asked. "Not on this planet."

"Ah," I sucked on my bruised fingertips as Hec studied me critically. He raised his eyebrow. I decided to confess my fantasy to him. Why not? Maybe he'd share fantasies. "Ah, The Dating Game? Yeah, The Dating Game. I was contestant number three, and you were just asking me what I'd do if you were Santa and I was on your lap."

He stepped across the room. "Actually, I have this Santa fantasy about you too-- but in mine you're only wearing a Santa hat-- and it's not on your head."

"Where is it? Oh! Sounds intriguing." Yes! Jackpot! "Most people don't have sex fantasies about Santa Claus." I decided to push the envelope-- or the letter to Santa-- whichever. "Similar sex fantasies? We

must

be soul mates!" I twirled the ring around my finger.

Hec smirked. "Not all Santa sex fantasies are good ones. I remember when I was 14, and Kate told me we were going to play 'Dirty Santa' for Christmas-- I thought my family was going to exchange more than gifts-- almost scarred me for life thinking about grandma and those dentures."

He completely ignored my point about soul mates.

Hec smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Get much writing done?"

"Yeah, I did-- some."

"So," he looked at me and licked his lips, "we were on the Dating Game."

"Yeah, I used to watch it on TV Land-- now it only plays in my head."

"So, what did you ask for?" he asked, scooting closer to me. "From Santa?"

"I didn't get that far."

"I can remedy that."

Did I ever mention Hec's amazing tongue? Yeah, I did. Um, well, he showed me another use for it that afternoon-- he called it "Ring around the Rosy."

I practiced on him too. He sure was enthusiastic.

"Yes! There! Oh, god... Flick it again like that... again! Ahhh... Jake! I'm cumming!"

After, we snoozed for a while. I woke before him-- getting hard again thinking on his magic nursery rhyme tongue-- highly contagious, almost as contagious as the bubonic plague but this plague didn't come with a big death, just a little death.

Oh sweet orgasm, kill me now.

Yes, we must play "Ring around the Rosy" again. Ring, rings. I recalled other rings and my question to Hec a couple of days ago about the ring

he

was wearing. He admitted to me in a matter-of-fact tone that "there were two rings." He took it off to show me-- and I read the matching inscription.

I'd been wearing the other one since, and he hadn't said a word about it, but I'd seen him taking secret and not-so-secret glances at it over the last few days. Not that I expected him to say anything-- that stoic male inside him kept him from vocalizing his kismet heart.

I was fiddling with the ring when I noticed his eyes open, watching me.

"You know, I've been meaning to show you something," he said, rolling into me. "You feel like a trip to the attic?"

Man of mystery, what now?

"Sure."

---------------------------------

The walk between the walls was less nerve-wracking with Hec. He'd dug up two flashlights with fresh batteries (especially after my last experience, he made sure), and we'd headed through the secret door in the back of his closet. He moved through the walls' recesses with the same sure-footedness and stealth as Daniel Boone.

"How much do you use these corridors?" I asked, spitting out a cobweb.

"Some quite frequently. It's a good shortcut-- and it's the only way to get to some places in this house."

"Like the attic?"

"Like the attic."

"What about spying? Do you--"

Hec stopped abruptly. I stepped on his heels.

"If you're suggesting that I spied on you or any other guest here, you're wrong." He started walking again. "Besides, it's not like there's peep holes all over the place to look through."

"But there are some. Hey! You did watch me!"

He hesitated.

"Well, maybe once."

"Or twice?" I asked. I rested the beam of the flashlight on his backside, admiring it. Such a nice ass-- the kind of ass that deserves a spotlight.

He hesitated again. I almost bumped into him again. My dick against his ass. I bit my lip and moaned.

"Well, maybe twice."

"What about your sisters?"

"Kate? No. But I don't know about Char." He turned: my flashlight illuminated his crotch instead of his ass. "Hmm, seems we're not the only peeping toms."

"Ok, so I'll drop that-- how about telling me why you're taking me to the attic?"

"It's where I found the music box and the diary and-- I thought you'd appreciate it."

We continued on. I doubt I could recall how we got there again-- right, left, right, down this corridor and that with steps up in between, each passageway looked the same-- some just had bigger spiders than the others.

I tried not to flash my light on Hec's ass again since it was far too distracting. Every once-in-a-while I'd catch Hec making hand shadows of dogs on the wall.

Finally Hec stopped just after cutting around a corner. I stopped behind him and held my breath. His flashlight beam moved across the floor then up to a staircase. I moved my beam along with his, following up the stairs. These weren't a few steps made from pine boards nailed together like the others in the passageway. These steps were dove-tailed and crafted with care.

As we stepped in front of the staircase, I used my flashlight as my eye, focusing on parts of the woodwork. The carving was simple-- elegant. No ornate, intricate carving-- the edges smooth. Each rung a simple spiral, twisting into each step. The steps were worn but polished. The wood differed too-- this looked like oak.

"Twenty-two steps," Hec whispered. I stepped beside Hec and knelt down. My fingers traced the wood.

"The same number of pictures on the bed."

Hec nodded. "Come on."

I stood and followed up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, a simple door. I turned the knob. Locked. Hec dug into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a key and held it on his outstretched palm in front of him. The flashlight cast a perfect shadow on the door-- Hec's profile, the key, his hand. He gave it to me-- I turned it over on my own palm. It was a larger version of the simple diary key I had in my own pocket.

"Well," Hec said, "open the door."

The key turned easily, tumblers clicked, the door swung open with a twist of my wrist.

Long thin windows lit stacks of the books, weathered chests, old rugs in bundles along with tapestries and a couple of old model flying machines dangled from the ceiling. A few pieces of old furniture sat haphazardly around the room. Light filtered down from the center of the room. Another set of stairs led up to a cupola.

"It's like Merlin's laboratory," I whispered.

Hec chuckled. "I pretty much thought that the same first time I saw this."

I walked up to a stack of books to investigate. Old Bibles, classics like Shakespeare's

Hamlet

and Homer's

Odyssey

, a few Latin books, five or six red-bound journals, old ledgers neatly stacked and separated. I picked up a curious book off the top of one pile of fiction,

Cheiro's Book of Numbers

.

"You might want to read that book-- it's about numerology."

I opened the book. "This is Henry's book--" I said, "his name is on the inside cover."

"This has 22 steps, too." Hec nodded to the stairs. "Come on. The view is incredible."

"Numerology! Now I remember!" I said, snapping the book shut. "Twenty-two! It's a mystical number-- people who live in two worlds-- one normal and one, well, surreal."

He turned back to me as he started up the steps. "You coming?" he asked, pointing to the steps up into copula.

I set the book down and followed him. You'd think it'd be cold up there with only wavy glass windows between winter and us, but it grew warmer as we climbed up the steps. It wasn't only temperature that transformed me into a different state. I'd dreamt of this moment many times. This was not Deja Vu but a real dream I'd had-- I remembered it all. The view. The light. The bright edge of expectance. The tightness in my chest. The same ghostly spell and panoramic view surrounded me. Light blossomed around us as we stepped up into the sky. Snow twinkled and glittered like faerie dust from the above, and the sun just above the horizon glowed like some saintly specter. The only element missing from my dream was that I couldn't throw open the window and fly up and over the snow-covered limbs on the fir trees.

Flying.

Sure glad I don't have vertigo.

"Well?" Hec asked.

"I--"

He stood, hands in pockets. There was no more maybe. I loved him.

For a few moments, I couldn't decide whether to confess my dream, my love or my lust. I decided on lust.

My fingers filled with curls, my mouth with moans. Our cocks bumped together, teeth clanked. We collapsed down to our knees, rubbing, pushing, then I swung Hec down flat to the floor boards-- we dusted and polished the floor. Hec sneezed.

First we rutted like teenagers, rolling, humping and copping feels through clothing. After about ten minutes of heated make-out time, we discarded first our shirts, then jeans, and finally our BVDs.

Yeah, this was a hell of a lot better than flying.

I told him to fuck me-- not that he needed any encouragement-- the man's dick was knocking at heaven's door already.

On hands and knees with Hec behind me, I didn't worry about splinters or lube or heights. Nothing to use but spit and a condom. The burn didn't bother me-- I only thought about how sweetly Hec teased my cock with those long psychic fingers and about how his mouth wisped against my neck. He pushed inside me, and I'd never felt so full.

He groaned. I moaned. He thrust and collapsed on me. That dick buried deep hurt

so

good. He slowed down, licked my neck and blew in my ear. He whispered words I couldn't understand. And in the last moment before I came all over the floor, I bleated out those three words without maybe in between.

We were both out of breath, sweaty and stuck together. We rolled on to our backs, and I rested my head on his shoulder as we both looked up into the sky. I knew he'd heard me. He smiled and stared at me.

"When we first moved here," he said, "I slept up here. Pulled a mattress up the stairs. I should have left it--"

"Think Johann and Henry did it here?" I asked. "I bet they did."

"I bet they had a mattress."

I think it was his way of telling me his back hurt. I sat up. "It's beautiful here. And familiar."

Hec looked up at me-- our eyes locked, understanding.

"Me too," he said. "First time I came up here-- I knew it, recognized it." He sat up next to me and gathered our clothes, handing mine to me. "There's something else you need to read--"

"That book on numerology? I--"

"No, I mean you should read that book, too-- but it's the journals I want you to read. That's why I brought you up here-- to see this view and to show you the journals."

Hmm, and I thought he brought me up here for a quickie under the sky.

I pulled on underwear and jeans as Hec dressed too. "Come on then," I said, resigned. "Let's go back down and look at Henry's journals."

"Johann's," Hec corrected as he buttoned his shirt. "They're Johann's journals."