Chapter 12
“Marvin… buddy…” I crack my tired eyes open and Olan rests on the sofa’s edge, gently nudging my shoulder.
“What, what time?” I grumble.
“It’s after eleven. I’m sorry we’re later than I thought. I texted you, but you…”
“Fell asleep,” I say. Oops.
I push myself up and touch my hair, trying to assess the level of bedhead on display. The brown curls on my head feel askew and matted, and my hoodie twists around my torso from my nap.
“Cindy is upstairs. Let me drive you home.”
“I’m good. I can walk. It’s only fifteen minutes,” I lie. My humble, barely one-bedroom apartment is closer to thirty minutes away by foot but dozing off on the job isn’t cute. I don’t want to push my luck.
“Marvin, get your bag. I’m driving you home.”
Olan’s car reminds me of something from a sci-fi movie. Although I know it must be some sort of metal, the black exterior sparkles like glass. This car fills the odd request to be incredibly high-tech and expensive but also practical for a family, with a hatchback and large back seat. Illona’s booster seat, a necessary accessory, looks out of place in a car James Bond might drive. Wait, does that make me a Bond girl? Clearly costing more than the combined yearly salary of the entire staff at my school, there are buttons, screens, and switches everywhere. All I can think is “Don’t touch anything,” but also “I want to touch all the things.”
“What does this do?” I ask, pointing to a silvery, woodsy button right of center. My gut tells me this is a passenger seat button, so I should be privy to its use.
Olan glances at where my finger points and grins.
“That calls for assistance.”
“Calls who?”
“The service that assists in an emergency.”
“The police?” I ask, trying not to sound ignorant.
“No, Aston Martin has a service. It calls them. They call for help.”
“Who’s Aston Martin?”
“Aston Martin’s not a person. It’s the company that manufactures the car.”
“Oh, got it. So Aston Martin calls the police for help.”
Olan looks over at me and smiles, and the expression on his face confuses me. But I’m keeping my mouth shut. For now. I don’t push the button or ask about any of the others. I suddenly feel quite content with my old car. Even with all its coffee stains and its trash-filled backseat, I prefer simplicity. Thankfully, we approach my apartment. Olan will now observe the relative squalor I live in compared to him, but he knows my occupation and I can’t imagine he’d expect much more. The car pulls to a stop, and as I feared, he reaches for his wallet.
“Olan, I’m not taking money from you, no way.”
“Of course, I have to pay you, I insist,” he says, opening his wallet. There are bills. Paper money. So many bills. Bills I’ve only read about or seen in books but never had in my possession. Who’s on the fifty-dollar bill, anyway? Elton John?
I turn to him and say, “Look, we’re friends, right?”
“Yes.”
He considers me a friend. That’s lovely. Mushiness expanding.
“Friends help each other out.”
“Yes, but. Well, I’ll have to do something to repay the favor.”
“Olan, that’s not how it works. Friendship isn’t transactional.”
“Well, I’ll take you out.”
Out? What kind of out?
“Sure, I love going out with friends. But we’re friends , we’re hanging out because we’re friends , not because you owe me.”
“As friends. Sure. I mean, we’ve been chatting, and I find you charming” – he blinks quickly and slowly leans in my direction – “and I was hoping, kind of…” His voice fades out.
He reaches over, across the console, his arm lurches toward me, thick and sturdy, and he places his hand on the soft spot right between my thigh and knee. My heart was already racing, but now churns up to full throttle as I feel the air leaving the cabin of this brash car. I genuinely don’t fancy a panic attack sitting in this car with Olan, so I close my eyes and take a cavernous breath into the core of my belly. The opening bars, flute, handclaps, and the glorious Four Tops voices sing “Reach Out I’ll Be There” to me, and Levi Stubbs’s voice sounds like butter if butter could sing, and I move my tongue in my mouth trying to taste the soft creaminess. Breathe. Reach out.
“Marvin, are you okay?” Olan’s fingers now squeeze my leg, and I attempt to return to reality. I’m unsure what Olan’s doing, but I’m genuinely perplexed.
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, I needed a moment to, um, yeah, we can hang out sometime if you want, but Olan, honestly, well, I’m a little confused.” With my chest lightly trembling, I turn to face him. “I think I’ve missed a beat. You were out with Cindy tonight. What happened? Did it not go well?”
Olan smiles, not the hesitant one I’ve become accustomed to, but the cosmic, beautifully luminous one he seems to only let out of the cage occasionally. He actually chuckles. His low, deep laugh reverberates inside the car’s cabin.
“Oh boy. You thought Cindy and I were on a date together?”
The tart lilt in his voice hints he may be mocking me.
“Well, since you asked me to babysit and literally went out together. Yeah.”
He takes a deep breath.
“Marvin. Cindy has a boyfriend. Plus, she’s like family. She’s been with us since Illona was two. She’s dating the sous chef at a new restaurant and tonight was their opening. She asked me to escort her. That’s why I asked you to watch Illona.”
“Oh.”
Never in my twenty-nine years have I been at such a loss for words. Somehow, I have become the prince of misunderstanding. My cheeks flush, and I feel drops of sweat beginning to bead on my forehead. I suddenly wish I could melt into the car seat and disappear.
“Marvin, why do you think I text you all the time?”
With all my obsessing about Olan, you’d think I’d have an answer, but I don’t.
“Because you’re new here and don’t know many folks, and maybe you’re bored?”
He gives a small rich laugh.
“Marvin, you’re adorable.”
He’s not wrong. Wait, did he just call me adorable?
“You’re not wrong, but I’m confused. You like men?” I ask because my brain can’t keep up.
“I like you.”
Hearing this from his lips makes my chest feel tight. The air feels thin and distant. All the texts, the coffee, the school bus closeness, and the glances at pickup take on new meaning. Olan begins to shift, leaning over the center console, no small feat in this luxury vehicle. As his face passes over and moves closer to mine, I smell his cherry ChapStick, see it glisten on his full lips, and do the only sensible thing for a neurotic Jew to do – fling the door open, jump out of the car, and sprint away like the biggest shlemiel in the universe.
“Thanks for the ride, bye!” I yell in his general direction over my shoulder, but also to anyone in my building awake and listening.
“Marvin, wait!”
Wanting to vanish into the night, I dash up to the front door of my building, fumbling for my keys. I crash my key into the lock, shove the door open, and fly up the stairs like a gaggle of gays racing for Gaga tickets. As I approach my front door, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Because I can use all the help from above possible, I quickly touch my mezuzah and kiss my finger. I throw the door open and Gonzo lingers inches from the entryway, purring. Startled by how his human exploded into his apartment, he darts away.
My phone wobbles in my pocket again, and I swear by all that is holy, if my mother is calling me at almost midnight on a Friday night, I will run, okay, walk very fast, to the coastline and hurl my phone into the ocean. For some reason, ringing her adult son past his bedtime has become acceptable behavior in the last few years. The first time it happened, I bolted up in bed and imagined someone was in the hospital, or worse, only to have her profess her love for me and ask if I remembered the website for the kugel recipe she loves. I worried she had relapsed and was drinking again, but there was no slurring or telltale noises of pouring or clinking glasses. The second time she explained she was confused by the time difference. Beyond discussing the three-hour gap multiple times, I even made and shipped a time zone chart to help her visualize the difference, and she systematically disregarded it. After that, I simply ignored any late calls.
I pull my phone out to cancel her call, but it’s not her. Olan’s number flashes on the screen. Not a text, the man is calling me. Does he not understand cell phones are only meant for texting, social media, and Candy Crush? Even though my head feels like a popcorn popper busting with kernels, making an ass once a night feels like my reasonable limit, so I pick up.
“Hello, this is Marvin.” Of course, it’s me, and I know it’s him, but I don’t know how else to answer.
“Marvin, it’s Olan.” His voice, deep and sure, sounds like he’s making a business call. Why are nerds so hot?
“Oh, hi.”
“You left your bag in the car.”
Naturally.
“I’m at your front door. May I bring it up?”
“Oh, sure, I’ll buzz you up. I’m on the second floor. 201.”
And with that, I hang up, press the black entry button by the door and wait. Typically, I’d open the front door for my guest, but nothing feels typical about this moment, so I leave the door closed, a barrier between us, and take deep breaths, counting the moments until Olan Stone knocks on my door. After whatever just happened in his car. And what did happen? The sweat on my brow becomes palpable, and I use my sleeve to wipe it away because even when panic overtakes me, I’d prefer not to look like a hot mess. He’s coming up. To my apartment. Now. In most situations where I’m required to be cool, I fail miserably. I close my eyes and offer a quick prayer that, this time, I remain calm. I dip into my bathroom, grateful the poor placement by the front entrance facilitates my current needs, and splash cold water on my face. The coolness sparkles on my skin and soothes the rising heat in my body. As I grab a towel to dry myself, the soothing smell of bleach and cleanliness takes over until Olan’s soft rap on the door startles me.
As I open the door, Olan stands, his coat buttoned up, looking out of place in the hallway of my rent-controlled building, with its tan paint peeling from the walls and ratty avocado-green carpeting underfoot. Coming from his home, so elaborate, so pristine, so expensive, embarrassment begins to trickle in. But Olan knows I’m a teacher, and well, America, your teachers are poor. He’s holding my bag in his arms like an infant and wearing a sheepish grin that makes my mouth feel like the Sahara.
“Your bag?”
“Thanks.” I take it, and my fingers brush his. We stand silently for a moment.
“May I come in for a minute? Please.”
“Of course, sorry,” I say, and he pierces my space, and even though I know embarrassment makes no sense, I wonder what he thinks about my apartment. The entire space, except my small bedroom, can be seen from where we stand near the entrance. The bathroom door lingers a few feet from us, and the main room a few feet away contains a small kitchen needing an update but unlikely to get one. My sofa sits across from an old buffet I found at a resale shop. There’s a small two-person table, but with all my papers and forms for Teacher of the Year strewn about, eating only takes place on the couch. My bedroom door on the furthest wall feels far away and unattainable.
“I freaked out. It’s my anxiety, it’s not you, I don’t always manage it well, sometimes it overwhelms me and, I was starting to panic, I’m, I’m…” I’m not sure what more to say.
“Listen, maybe I’ve read things incorrectly, but we’ve been texting, and when I see you, something’s there. For me. And you’ve been so sweet, not only to Illona but to me. I thought we had a connection.”
He stops. We stand a foot apart. The aroma of his soap, fresh, clean, and earthy, swirls to me, and I attempt to ignore my quickening pulse.
“I have wanted to kiss you,” he continues. “For a while. Since the field trip, for sure. Perhaps sooner.” He pinches his eyebrows like he’s calculating. “Maybe I’ve misconstrued signals. I, I do that sometimes.” His face falls slightly, and Olan Stone appears dejected.
I’m surprised by the shift in his tone, and my left foot moves a few inches in reverse. I stumble into the wall with a loud thump and Gonzo leaps from his perch on the counter. Smooth. Apparently, I’m so out of practice I don’t even know when a gorgeous man makes advances. The sweat slowly begins to start up again under the curtain of curls covering my forehead. He’s standing in front of me, waiting for me to speak, and once again, I’ve got zilch.
“I should probably go. I’m not entirely sure I’m parked legally.”
This would be the time to speak, to say something, anything, but what?
“Olan,” I stammer.
His eyes are waiting, wondering. I reach out and take his hand. His fingers fold into mine and the intimacy of our skin, palms warm and damp, makes my chest blossom. I tug him forward and wrap my arms around his broad shoulders, pulling him into an embrace. He melts into me and links his arms around my torso. As we stand there squeezing each other, my eyes close, and I take a deep breath, centering myself, allowing myself to be in this moment. Olan’s heart thumps against my chest. Or is that mine? I’m unable to distinguish his heartbeat from mine, and the room swirls around me as I’m smelling his scent – not soap or cologne, but the slightly sweet smell of skin as my face lands right on his neck. He’s warm and solid, his muscles strong against my chest, even through his coat. At this juncture, all I can wonder is why don’t people hug more. Enfold yourself in another person’s essence and hold there for more than a nanosecond while the world stops spinning and give yourself over. I want him to know that I’ve heard him and am here for him, even if only as a friend. Because we are friends. But friends don’t hope for more. Right now, gathering Olan up in my arms cracks me open and carefully, as we stand so close, begins to piece me back together.
We begin to move apart, our faces again passing like ships in the night, his scent making it difficult to separate.
At the moment our faces are closest, Olan pauses.
“Hello,” he says. The vibrations from his throat reverberate against my chest.
“Hey.”
His breath, warm and sweet, gives me a jolt of confidence. We stand there dangerously close, and for once in my life, I don’t overthink the situation. Instead, I blurt, “Do you still feel like that kiss?”
“Marvin, I’m not leaving your apartment until you kiss me.”
His gaze falls to my lips and his pupils dilate, an electric tension quivering between us. He extends a hand to my face, my breath hitching from his touch. I close my eyes as his thumb traces my jaw to my chin and north to my lower lip, and what the fuck is happening? My heart, already racing, revs to overdrive, and I take it as a sign to move forward, closing the small gap between us. My lips graze his cheek, and finally having them on his skin, the urge to lick him from head to toe surges in my core. He carefully turns, our mouths meet, and it takes every ounce of restraint to pace myself. At first, he’s slow, cautious, and curious. A gentle brushing of his lips on mine. But as space and time disappear, I can feel Olan relax and press himself into me simultaneously. There’s an urgency and eagerness to him now. Our mouths coming together opens a new gateway between us and sends a shockwave through my entire body.
And his lips. His fucking magnificent lips. Plump and soft and coated with cherry ChapStick making me want to nibble every bit of them. He cups my face with his hands, leaving one on my cheek and sliding the other up to my hair. His fingers become entwined in curls, and his hand moves with conviction. Holding my face and my hair as our mouths take these first steps together makes me feel so damn cherished, I’m not sure I can bear it. I move my hands toward his head and rest them on the back of his neck, just below his hairline.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” he mutters into my mouth.
My hands begin returning the motions he’s made in my own hair, becoming entwined in his soft coils. He lets out gentle moans and whispers. They’re low, and I’m not positive, but I think he whimpers, “Fuck,” which sends a jolt of blood right to my groin. I want to keep exploring and get lost in him. All of him.
Rationally, I know the kissing must stop eventually, but I don’t want it to. I stopped searching, hoping for this feeling of connection, and now, our lips locked and his tongue beginning to explore my mouth, I feel brainless for thinking I didn’t want this.
Olan’s kiss secures me: warm and wet, steady and sound, and everything a kiss should be. I’m sure the kissing will come to an end, but it doesn’t. His hands have migrated, one on the small of my back and the other on my neck. He massages my back with his hand, forcing my body to succumb. My hands still entangle his hair, thick and springy to my touch, and I use it to pull him closer. We kiss like horny teenagers in the back seat of a car, and his energy radiates. My entire body flushes. The continued stirring in my groin becomes palpable. Our hips rest against each other, and Olan Stone resembles, well, an actual stone. Down there. He presses against me, and my excitement becomes more evident against his. Overcome by the moment and needing a breather, I pull away.
“What are you doing?” I murmur.
“I’m kissing you.”
“Oh.”
With that, his lips move on mine again, and this time, I clutch him, and I don’t care if the stiffness in our pants creates more friction. Grinding his stiff cock against mine through our pants tosses gasoline onto the fire raging in our mouths. He bends to kiss my neck and begins to move toward my earlobe, and heaven help me, he takes it in his mouth, sucking it gently at first, exploring my ear, and honestly, I’m unsure if I can remain upright. The sensitive nerves in my ear and neck explode with bliss. For a fleeting moment, my body forgets to be anxious. There’s no music. No singing. Only Olan’s hot, damp breath in my ear, deep and forceful. I’m so fucking aroused, lustful noises rampantly escape my mouth. Olan replies with a deep moan as his teeth bite at my ear.
“Holy crap,” I whisper.
How did I fail to notice this fervor in him?
“Mmmh. Good, Mr. Block?” he growls into my ear, and my insides simmer over.
He thrusts his midsection on me in a way that’s making it harder to keep this to a neck-up-only activity. The kissing, the biting, and the licking need to be enough. For now. The man hasn’t even bought me dinner. Keep it in your pants, Marvin. But my dick disagrees and strains against my briefs and pants. He keeps going back and forth between my ear, neck, and lips, and I’m not sure I can take it anymore. I can feel the precum on my underwear from the grinding, and my dick aches from the pressure. More noises escape my mouth, and I struggle to stay silent because I don’t want to appear foolish. Right now, words feel unnecessary, but because I’m me, I speak anyway.
“Should we… couch?” I whisper and attempt to nod toward it as he mouths my neck in a manner I truly hope doesn’t leave a mark. He’s seemingly in a trance, as my words interrupt and startle him, snapping him back to reality.
“I, I should probably go.” His face pulls away, but our arms stay jumbled, so his lips are still only inches from mine. The rational part of my brain takes over.
“You definitely should.”
Olan is a parent of a student in my class. Until about fifteen minutes ago, I was certain Olan was straight. If he’s not straight, then what? Bisexual? Something else? Does it matter?
Because we never moved from the front door, Olan simply detangles himself from my limbs and turns to leave. I take a single step toward the door to see him out, and he turns and kisses me one more time, quick and earnest, and I’m desperate for him to stay.
“I’ll text you. Please don’t be anxious about this.”
Laughing, I say, “I’ll try.”
The door closes. I shut my eyes and take deep breaths. My heart thumps with such ferocity my entire chest is heaving. What in heaven and earth just happened? I close my eyes, and immediately a bass slaps, strings swell, and a sultry rhythm guitar welcomes Luther Vandross’ silky voice as he begins to sing the first lines of his sultry classic “Never Too Much.” My head sways with the music and Luther. Ah, Luther. My body shudders with pleasure at his voice combined with the lingering taste of Olan on my buzzing lips.
I finally open my eyes and Gonzo, perched on the counter, stares at me with a judging glare only he can get away with.
“Listen, buddy, maybe if you weren’t neutered, you’d understand.”
He stretches, yawns, and heads toward his food bowl.