The Forever Man

Allen didn't say it, but the immediate response in his mind was, "Wouldn't you like to invite me in to share yours?" Even if he'd said it, though, he would have been talking to himself, because now the young man had firmly shut the door in his face and he was left alone with only the dark and the rain drops for company.

Chapter Seven: Corey's New Life

I was angry. The visit a few days before by the reporter, Allen Whathisname, had stirred things up in my mind, including thoughts about love and faithfulness.

"How could he do that to you?" I asked the Forever Man. He had just shown me the journal.

I had found just what Shawn had found with the Forever Man. I had found peace and quiet and a home. One where I felt warm and wanted and needed, and yes, and loved. "How could you take him back after what he did? Going off with Randolph—saying all those things, writing them, then . . . then just walking back in and you saying nothing?"

"I wanted him back, Corey. I loved him. For me there was no one else who could come close to him—ever. You are young, too young, and . . . and too inexperienced to understand. You need to get out more. Find yourself a young man who really matters to you. It's different nowadays. You have so many opportunities, and so much freedom. Back then we could still be arrested for being what we were."

Sometimes it was hard to remember that Shawn had died before I was born. His journal made him so alive. So present. He was almost a third man in the house.

The Forever Man squeezed my hand. "I had the man I wanted, and if he didn't always put me first . . . well I wasn't his first choice. I wasn't the man he had wanted to be with forever. That made a difference."

"Malcolm, you mean? He keeps talking about Malcolm, but he never seems to have gone looking for him or done anything to get back together with him. He was all just talk and making out they had a great love when he should have been thinking of what he had here with you."

"Corey. Wasn't it in there somewhere? What happened to Malcolm?" he frowned and shook his head. "No. I don't think it was. Malcolm died, Corey. He was beheaded by the Japanese a week after they took possession of the island. Only a couple of months after Shawn was evacuated."

I was stunned. "I . . . I didn't know. But . . ." I had no idea what to say. I had got annoyed with Shawn talking about his past with Malcolm more than about the man he was with in his journal. Going on about some old lover he had not bothered to see again when he had a wonderful man right there. Right with him. But . . . "How . . . when . . . when did he find out?" I asked, trying to tie it back to what I had read in Shawn's journal.

"Just before he left the hospital. A letter came for him from the matron who had been on the island. It had taken months to find him. I never resented Malcolm's place in Shawn's heart, Corey. Malcolm was a brave and noble man. But Malcolm was beyond touch before I knew Shawn."

I hugged the old man. "I'm sorry. I didn't . . . I mean . . . I didn't know. I just . . . ."

I thought Shawn should still have loved the Forever Man better, but to lose Malcolm that way . . . I had no idea how I would feel if I had left the man I loved behind and he had gone like that. I knew I had probably misjudged Shawn—a bit anyway.

"Come on; time you went to bed," I said soon after, helping the Forever Man up, and to his room. In the year and a half I had been living there he had gotten considerably weaker and more unsteady and now he limped badly and was often unable to leave the house without my help. There were times, though, when he was driven to go out and write "Forever" on the footpath somewhere that he and Shawn had been together. But he could only go with my help, and I didn't hesitate to take him out when he had to go, and to help him with his strange urge to write.

I was now at university part time, studying literature, I did a couple of shifts at a nearby supermarket filling shelves and cared for the Forever Man as much as he needed, and that was my life. Far from the usual life for a twenty-year-old gay man in Sydney, but it was a life that made me happy and fulfilled.

That evening I helped him into his pajamas and then into bed and climbed in with him. Even now that he was old and weak it was still like Shawn had said: He loved to fuck, and I knew I was giving him something special when I shared it with him. And I got my own release, a release I rarely got with anyone else. Maybe I was shy like people said, maybe I took my place as his caregiver too seriously, but whatever the reason I had only had a few goes at taking up with someone younger, someone closer to my own age, since I had arrived there. Young guys seemed so foolish and so shallow whenever I talked to them, but I sometimes had needs and desires the Forever Man couldn't meet, and then I'd roam up to Oxford Street and beyond and look at the men on the street, the young guys looking for sex, and I'd wonder . . .

Chapter Eight: Allen's Obsession

This was the third time this week Allen had been drawn to The Wall—that place in Darlinghurst where young men gravitated to at night—and increasingly boldly during the day—to hook up with older men, older men with needs and money. The idea and reality of it fascinated Allen. He had done that series for the Times on the gay districts of New York City, and slowly the idea had formed within him that he could do the same for Sydney. He was sure that it would work as a story in Sydney but would also be of interest to the readers of the Times who liked his New York series.

And to write the story, he had to visit The Wall and become steeped in its lure and seamy underbelly. In New York, he'd been able to write with passion because he had experienced the passion. Not that he'd pick up anyone there himself, of course. It was just for the story he was going to write.

And, in fairness, he hadn't given in to the temptation to avail himself of the services offered there, at Sydney's Wall, either—at least not yet. There had been no one for him since he'd been deserted by Daren Martin. And it had been nearly a year now since that had happened. But he couldn't see himself as paying for it—and he was more in the frame of reference of the younger men. Those bold enough to come to The Wall looking for service tended, in what he was gathering, to be the aggressive ones, the ones looking to control. The tops. That wasn't Allen. And as well put together as he was, he no longer was young—at least not young enough to compete with the almost boys who came to The Wall to "give"—most for the price of tomorrow's existence.

And he wasn't stalking the Forever Man—or his desirable assistant—either, although their house was nearby and the allure of that story had not left Allen.

Thus, it was an innocent surprise when Allen saw the Forever Man's young assistant lurking near The Wall—seemingly as hesitant to move in from the voyeur periphery as Allen was. But perhaps for different reasons.

Allen saw the young man—quite close by—first, and it was his movement, his own attempt to withdraw some distance, that arrested the young man's attention. The look Allen received—at least the one after the initial look of prurient interest that could not be hidden from Allen—was one that considered the probability that Allen was stalking him, that he had been moving in on the young man rather than trying to fade away to a less-challenging distance.

But there had been that first look, and that's what motivated what Allen did next. He melted at that look. He'd done nothing—not since that rainy night months ago—but he had dreamed much. And he had dreamed that the young man would grace him with that look again. It had become almost an obsession with him. The young man had given him the look at the door of the Forever Man's house. If he hadn't done that—in conjunction with nearly begging Allen to leave them alone, Allen wouldn't have done what he did with the story assignment.

"Please, no. I wasn't following you," he said, braving a rejection by addressing the young man. "I'm on a story here. Please, no, you needn't go. Perhaps . . . perhaps there is someplace we could go for a cup of coffee or something and just start all over."

The young man was indecisive, but he wasn't retreating.

"Look, there's a place just over there—across the street and down. I'll treat. You could use a cup of coffee, couldn't you? I know I could."

"I've seen nothing in the papers," the young man said when they were settled in a crowded, noisy room with small tables and almost adequate slips of chairs wedged under them. The table they'd picked had a leg shorter than the others and they both had to take sips of the steamy coffee in silence for a pregnant couple of minutes before either could trust lowering the cups to the tabletop. In that brief time, each—one more willingly than the other—conveyed to the other an interest and need that was mutual.

"No, no you haven't. I haven't written the story. It continues to be an extremely good story to write. But neither you nor the older man has used the card I left either."

"The older man? You didn't track down his name as you said you could?"

"No, I didn't." Then Allen, who had been eyeing the steam rising from the surface of his coffee looked up into the young man's eyes, trying to open to him completely, show him the vulnerability, trust, and need that he had. "I didn't fail to out of disinterest. You told me you didn't want me to. You told me you didn't want me to." Couldn't the young man understand what that meant?

Silence reigned for a short time as the young man looked around the room—at everywhere but at the steady gaze Allen was giving him. When he spoke, his voice was low. "Why? You said it was a good story. And that's your job."

"To me the importance of the story—not just the visits to Martell's grave but the writing on the sidewalks too—was in the message. The word 'Forever,' and the obvious implication of that in the annual pilgrimage to the grave site. It isn't as much from the two physical acts represented. It's in the message. You told me that anonymity meant everything to him. I would have destroyed all of that if I had sought out his name."

"So, you no longer want to know?"

"I no longer need to know. I have other desires, other needs that override that, no matter how good a story it would be." Allen was openly showing his need to the young man now, desperate to be understood—and not to be rejected.

"I no longer can know without breaking the spell of it all—without destroying the message," he continued. "I would still like to write up the message. If I ever think of doing that—without destroying what it means to the Forever Man—I would let you read what I'd written before I gave it to my editor. I must tell you, though, that I'm a good writer. I would find the angle—I would find a path you would agree was acceptable."

"And so you were working a new story tonight—not looking for me or my . . . companion—but working a new story? You told me the truth about that?"

"Yes. I'd written a similar series of stories for the New York Times about gay districts in New York City. The Wall complements that in the context of Sydney."

"And writing about it—what happens down here—isn't repugnant to you?"

The young man's eyes were searching Allen's face, looking for assurance that he had not misjudged a sign. Corey was nowhere near as experienced in this "dance" as Allen was.

Allen didn't hold back. It was a now-or-never moment. "No, not at all. It's my world. Although I admit that I hold back in the world more than being part of a scene like this. But I won't deny it. I'm gay; I've gone with men. I let them—no want them—to make love to me. Inside me. Them moving inside me." Allen was looking intently at the young man, looking for the moment where it wouldn't fit, where the young man would lose interest. That moment didn't come.

"Men fuck me. It's what I want."

More and more people were crowding into the coffee shop, forcing Allen and the young man to hunch farther over the small table and into each other—not just because of the jostle of the crowd but also so that they could hear each other talk. Their faces were close together now, their eyes latched on to each other's. Their knees had moved beyond touching; Allen had gently encased Corey's thighs with his knees. If they had been lovers—yet—they could have kissed and no one would have noticed or cared. If this had been one of the dimly lit bars scattered throughout the district, Allen could have, trouserless, wrapped his legs around Corey's waist with a minimum of movement, and Corey would be inside him—and no one in the bar would have flinched.

They both put down their coffee cups at the same moment and their hands brushed. The young man jerked his away, almost as if it had encountered an open flame, but at the brief look of hurt and disappointment he saw in Allen's eyes, he searched for and found Allen's hand again and held it in his.

"My name is Corey, Corey Hutchinson."

"And mine is Allen Singleton."

"I remember. I have your card. I've looked at it often."

"Because you were thinking of cooperating with the story?"

"No, because I saw you. Because I found you attractive."

"And why have you come to The Wall, Corey?"

"Not to write a story about it." But then he laughed a low laugh and continued. "I've rarely come to The Wall, to be truthful—not since I've moved in with the man you call the Forever Man. But I itch sometimes too. I don't scratch, but I worry the itch by coming to The Wall when I feel needy. I look and then I go off alone and scratch the itch by myself."

"And what you need, Corey . . ." Allen stopped, at the brink, but then he plunged on. "What you need, Corey. Is it something I might be able to help you with?"

There was a pause, but not a long one.

"You once told me you lived nearby. Was that the truth?"

"I have moved out of the hotel, but I'm still living nearby. Just a few blocks away. My flat is on College Street, near this end of it."

* * * *

Allen panted and moaned and moved his hips, pulling as much of the young, virile Corey inside him as he could. He'd wanted to be on his back, looking into Corey's eyes, seeing the reflection of his own passion, lust, and satisfaction as Corey made love to him. Allen widened his legs as much as he could and clawed at Corey's buttocks, pulling the young man brutally into him, wanting all of him—forever and ever. And crying out in ecstasy as Corey reached depths and stretched channels as no one had ever done for him before—and then pumped inside him, slow, fast, fastfast, shallow, deep, plunging. And then holding, not allowing either of them to go over the top. So that the next round of cock expanding and rubbing on sensitive, inner walls and reaching ever-new depths lifted them both to new heights of satisfaction.

And neither was content with just once.

It had been so long for Allen that it took on a meaningfulness and fulfillment that he couldn't remember ever having been topped like this before. And that made him wonder—and hope.

They were laying, sweaty and entwined, both purring, in the tangled sheets of Allen's bed.

"The Forever Man, Corey. Do you . . .?"

Corey rolled over to his side, facing Allen, who was stretched out on his back, not yet able to close his legs. Corey's hand went to Allen's cock, which surprised Allen by awakening. After having been milked three times, Allen assumed he was finished for the night.

"He is still off limits. He has needs, Allen. He has given so much of himself, unconditionally and without end, that whatever he needs of me, I give. Beyond that, I cannot say."

"That would be intrusive?" Allen asked.

"Yes, that would be intrusive," Corey answered. And the tone of his answer was definitive. Allen could sense the door slamming. He had no idea how he could feel so satiated and needy at the same time.

"When you were inside me, Corey, and I cried out 'Forever,' do you have any idea what I was asking—what I was offering? What I was saying I needed and was looking for?"

"I already have a 'forever' assignment, Allen. Can you understand what I'm saying, what this means to me?"

Allen struggled with the answer. He knew what he wanted to say, but he also knew what he had to say. "Yes, I understand. I guess that's what attracted me to you. Your commitment and dedication—just like his. Just what I need to find for myself. Someday."

"This was nice, very nice. but—"

"Shush, don't say it," Allen said, lifting two fingers to Corey's lips. "I understand that you have to do it, but please, please don't say it."

"Is there anything I can—?"

"Yes," Allen answered in a small, far away voice. "You can make love to me again. You can give me another forever memory, no matter how brief."

Corey turned Allen on his stomach and raised his hips over Allen's pelvis. Allen clutched at the bedspread and cried out the ecstasy of need and welcome as Corey slid once more deep inside him.

Chapter Nine: Inevitable Transitions

I was on my way home from a late shift at the supermarket when I saw it. I looked at the writing on the footpath in horror and then hurried home.

"You shouldn't have gone out. You aren't well enough. You know I will take you when you have to go," I was saying as I found him in his bedroom.

There he was in bed asleep and I wasn't going to wake him up to tell him off. The Forever Man was all right, but how he had got out, and up to Oxford Street and back home again I had no idea. He was failing fast. He was old but in some ways he didn't seem old. He was still alert and it was his body that was failing him. It was so sad to see. I had never watched anyone going like this before and it was rocking my world. I had taken him to doctors and the hospital, but they seemed to take it as a natural aging process and just said they were doing the best they could for him.

I didn't want to lose him. I had no idea what I'd do without him. But I also knew too that ever since the day I had gone back to Allen's place, I had felt restless.

When the Forever Man woke up and I had helped him out to the bathroom and into his chair for dinner, I said it. I couldn't stop myself. "Don't you do that again," I said angrily. "You could hurt yourself. And if anything happens when you are on the street, well . . . you may not be looked after properly. If you have to go out, tell me, and I'll take you. You know that. I wasn't gone for long today, we could have gone before I left for work or you could have waited. We could go now if you have to."

He looked at me, "What are you talking about, Corey?"

"Forever. It's written up on the footpath in Oxford Street at one of your favorite spots."

He smiled wanly. "I wish I could have written it, that I could have got up there, where Shawn and I would go, but I'm sure I didn't."

I didn't believe him. I was now worried that it wasn't safe to leave him alone. I was sure he must just have forgotten he had been out. I suddenly thought of Allen, because I needed help. I couldn't give up everything and stay home all day. Even if I did I still had to go out to get the food shopping and to get some exercise and the medicines. "Well, someone must have written it," I said. "And I don't know anyone but you who goes around writing 'Forever' on the footpaths."

He didn't answer me. He had nodded off over his dinner. That was happening a lot now, and I had to wake him and feed the rest to him. For the first time I wondered if maybe it had not been him who had written "Forever."

I didn't want to think of Allen, but he was different, and I knew I couldn't ask him for help, but part of me felt he'd say yes if I did. That was confusing.