Going Gay / Tim – Chapter 1

I was walking down a long, wide hallway in a building that seemed somehow familiar. The carpet was patterned in red and gold. Elaborate wallpaper adorned the walls. There were doors on both sides of the hall, and they had numbers on them.

I walked on for what seemed like forever. Then, I saw a door on the left that was slightly ajar. I paused before it, then tentatively nudged it with my foot. It swung open. Inside, I could see a lavishly-appointed living room with a bar area to the left. There was a fire burning brightly in a gas fireplace. Directly across from the door were large uncurtained windows, and I could see beyond them to the outdoors. It was dark and raining.

A small hallway to my right led to other rooms. I turned and followed it. The door to the first room on my left was also ajar. I stopped. Something told me not to go in, to run like hell and get out of this crazy nightmare.

But a longing deep inside me countermanded the order from the sensible side of my brain. Instinctively, I knew that there was someone on the other side of that door, and my body began to ache with desire.

I opened the door and stepped into the room. There was a large bed, other furnishings, and soft lighting. From somewhere, music that I didn’t recognize was playing.

And he was there.

Naked.

A tall, handsome young man of about 25 stood at the foot of the bed. His medium-length hair was blond and nicely styled. His eyes were such a deep blue that I thought they actually glowed. He was smiling broadly, and his perfect teeth gleamed in the soft light. His neck and shoulders were soft but muscular. I did not see any tattoos or piercings, which pleased me for some reason.

His chest, which rose and fell with his gentle breathing, was hairless, and his brown nipples were hard and erect. His abs were perfectly sculpted. A line of soft brown hair led down from his navel to his pubic bush, which seemed to be trimmed in such a way as to invite attention but also not conceal what lay in it.

His penis was long – longer than most men I knew. It hung limp on top of testicles that hung down a further inch below the considerable length of his manhood.

He seemed aware that I was in awe of his sexual organs, because the penis began to move slightly, enlarging and rising as it filled with his blood. As it became erect, it throbbed with each beat of his heart. Fully engorged, it was aimed directly at me, beckoning me to do more than simply admire it from across the room.

I was inescapably drawn to the young man, most of all to his hardness, which was waiting for something, or someone – me? – to pleasure it. I stepped forward cautiously, awkwardly, and lowered myself to my knees before this Greek God of a youth. My hands hung at my side, but I leaned toward his magnificent erection and opened my mouth to take it in…

“Uncle Tim?”

A soft voice. Female. Young.

“Uncle Tim?” A little louder and more urgent this time.

I jolted awake and quickly rolled onto my side, my back to the speaker so as to hide the raging hard-on inside my pants. I silently cursed the dream that I had been having for the past two or three months, ever since Julie and I had stopped having sex.

“Cara,” I greeted my niece groggily.

“Momma said you should come down and have something to eat,” the 12-year-old said brightly.

As the fog of sleep lifted, I thought back over the day. My wife of 50 years, Julia, had been buried this morning. After the funeral, family and friends had gathered in our home, a six-bedroom antebellum on a hilltop surrounded by woodlands. The last mourner had left around 4 PM, and my sister-in-law, Charlotte, had marched me off to bed to get some rest. I hadn’t really slept in the five days since Julie died, and preceding six months’ final battle with breast cancer had left me exhausted.

“What time is it, dear?” I looked over at the window and saw the dim light of evening.

“Almost eight o’clock.”

“Yes. Please tell your momma that I’ll be down in 15 minutes, but I don’t want to eat too much.” This, even though I had eaten no breakfast and only politely nibbled what the guests had brought.

As Cara closed the door quietly behind her, I slowly sat up and looked around the room. The master suite in our large house had a king-size bed, in which I had been sleeping alone for six months. Opposite it was the hospital bed that my wife had lived and died in. The rest of the furnishings were early American.  There were original paintings on the walls, an imported French chaise longue and a small English writing-table and chair that Julie had often used.

Two walk-in closets and a short corridor leading to the expansive bathroom filled one wall. The opposite wall had floor-to ceiling windows, opening onto our balcony with its own small table and chairs, where we often had our morning coffee or before-bed cocktails. Even with all that furniture, the room felt totally empty, now that the light of my life was gone.

I was still wearing my suit pants and dress shirt. My jacket, tie, and shoes were neatly arranged on the clothes tree at the foot of the bed, the work no doubt of my thoughtful sister-in-law.

Frantically willing my rock-solid dick to soften, I changed into chinos and a golf shirt, put on bedroom slippers and made my way downstairs to the breakfast room, where I knew Charlotte would have far too much food waiting for me.

The rest of the evening was a mix of quiet conversation, tears (from Charlotte and Cara – I had done all my crying over the previous six months), and a few bites of food that I couldn’t even taste.

By 11 PM, Charlotte, my brother-in-law Will Thomas, and Cara had gone back to their hotel, leaving me alone in the now-empty house. Curiously, I didn’t feel lonely. I didn’t really feel anything at all.

The next couple of days were filled with trips to meet with my accountant, insurance agent, and a few close friends who insisted that I have lunch with them. Gradually, I settled into a routine – one that was new and strange, in that it didn’t revolve around a dying wife and the assorted people who came and went to care for her.

 

“You’ve got a big goddamn hole in your life now, Timmy.” Keith Cartier (he pronounced it “Car-teer” so as not to seem too prissy!) was my best friend, golf partner, attorney, and financial advisor. We were seated in high-back leather chairs sipping brandies in the gentlemen-only lounge at the country club. He continued “Not right away, but soon, you’re going to have to figure out some way to fill it.”

“To tell you the truth, Keith, I’m still just getting used to having time to myself.”

“Well, that’s natural, buddy, but that’s a big-assed empty house you’re in, and when the family all go home and the visitors trickle down to zero, you’re going to go stir-crazy.”

I knew what he meant. Cancer and its treatments and its devastating effects had been the center of our lives – Julie’s and mine – for such a long time, and her last few weeks were really debilitating. I was ashamed to say how well I had been sleeping now, and how rested I felt when I woke up every morning since the funeral.

“I guess I’d better put the house on the market.”

“Hold your horshes, pardner. Lemme just shay one thing.” It never took very long for the liquor to slur Keith’s speech. “The best advice I’ve ever heard about shituations like this is don’t change anything or make any decisions for one year. I think that’sh what you oughta do.”

 

And that’s more or less what I did for the next twelve months. Sure, I took care of the financial and legal issues, and I checked on our investments and accounts from time to time, things I had mostly neglected during Julie’s illness. But for the most part, I tried to live a “normal” life. Normal, that is, for a lonely widower. Even surrounded by family and friends, and with more money than I knew what to do with, I felt more and more alone every day.

I was also troubled by the increasing number of sex dreams I was having – all of them involving handsome young men. I had never had sex with a man or even imagined doing such a disgusting thing, but somehow it had become an obsession of my nightly reveries.

And so the time came when I knew that I needed to do something different, perhaps entirely new. With help from Charlotte and Will, I distributed Julie’s things, either to friends and family or to charities. As the house gradually emptied of memories of my wife of 50 years, I began to sense that there were new horizons, new directions in my life, and that I was longing to explore them.

Keith helped me sell the massive house, and I was shocked at the price someone was willing to pay for it.

“You’re set for life, old friend,” Keith assured me. “Between your investments, savings, life insurance money, and the sale of the house, you’ve got a cool ten million to tide you over the rest of your days. Unless, that is, you hook up with a 20-year-old gold digger who will fuck your brains out and leave you penniless!”

I laughed with him about that, secretly knowing that my thoughts were taking me in an entirely opposite direction.

“So, what do you think you’ll do?” Keith inquired with concern in his voice.

“Travel, I think. I’m not sure where, but it doesn’t really matter. There are so many places I have always wanted to see, but running the company, raising the kids, and then Julie’s cancer all pushed that aside. I think I might start in Vegas, where we had our honeymoon. I’d like to see if it’s changed much.”

“Well, wherever you go, you know I’m just a phone call away. And be sure you check in every so often, or I’ll send the Mounties looking for you!”

As I packed the next day, I smiled to myself, knowing that none of my friends or business associates could even imagine what I was planning to do. It was my intention to leave my straight, repressed, monotonous existence behind and boldly embark on a sexual expedition that I hoped would take me to places I never knew were possible. And I was beyond ready for it!