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BITTERSWEET

December 2005

By JD Davis - shaofu_danny@hotmail.com

Andy's not the kind of guy that spends a lot of time thinking about stuff, at least not usually. He knows what he wants and usually finds it without too much trouble. He's not into angst and soul searching, nor is he into hearts and flowers. When he gets an itch, he scratches it: quick, easy, no hard feelings; no please, no thank you and never, ever, see you again. No next times, no arrangements, that's him in a nutshell.

When he's hunting, he knows the terrain, the bars and the clubs where he'll find his prey. Other hunters know him and stay out of his way and he tries to stay out of theirs. After all, there's plenty to go round, if you know where to look. He doesn't have a particular type; he just needs to know whomever he picks up will understand the game plan. He knows from experience that the eyes always give it away. They may say they're up for a one night stand but he can usually pick out the ones with a hint of desperation lurking. They're hungry for more than he can give them and the fuck just isn't worth the fallout.

It's not a case of 'Love 'em and leave 'em': he never loves them. He's interested, sure, has to be to get the ball rolling, but there are never any feelings involved. It's just a fuck, that's all. He gets what he wants, they get what they want. It sounds arrogant, but he can have any of them; never been turned down yet. He can be charming when he puts his mind to it, and he's attractive, there's no sense denying it. A smile, a look, that's all it takes.

So when he walks into a particular bar on a particular night he's not expecting anything unusual to happen. He's far enough from his usual patch to be a stranger among strangers and this is what he needs. He's hunting and all his senses are attuned to his surroundings. There's a fairly good crowd in the bar and he scans the patrons as he orders a beer. One or two spike a little interest and he studies them unobtrusively as he sips his drink. The first one he eliminates almost immediately, classifying him as a desperate loser. The next is obviously waiting for someone and, within minutes, is met and leaves the bar to sit at a table with his companion.

He's just beginning to think his luck might be out this evening when a new prospect walks in and props himself against the bar. He looks a little wild around the eyes and he wonders if he's on something or maybe had a few before coming to this bar. He's about to dismiss him and head out to try somewhere else when he notices the loser approaching. This could be interesting, he thinks idly, hiding a smirk, and settles back to watch.

The interaction is brief and the loser is still a loser, the quiet words exchanged enough to send him out the door. The prospect sighs and turns to his drink, blinking when he realizes his glass is already empty. Before he can think about ordering another Andy pounces, decision made.

"Beer," he calls to the bartender, "and another of whatever that is." He waves his hand at the prospect's empty glass, the man turning towards him in puzzlement. They size each other up and this is when things start to go adrift. He feels a twinge of something - something indefinable - wondering if he has made one of his few mistakes. Then the bartender puts a foaming glass in front of him and a straight shot of some clear liquid - vodka? - by the stranger. The stranger raises his glass in a brief toast and the twinge becomes a tight knot as Andy watches him down the shot, his throat working briefly as he swallows. He sets down the glass with a snap and smiles with his mouth, the eyes cool and unresponsive.

"Thanks," he says briefly and turns away.

"Hey!" Andy calls before he can stop himself. The prospect turns back, eyebrows slightly raised in query. What can he say? This is not what was supposed to happen.

"You're welcome," he mutters, turning away and hunching his shoulders over his beer. So he made a mistake after all.
There is no movement behind him but he refuses to check whether the man is still there or not. He doesn't even raise his eyes to the mirror. He becomes aware of a shift in the air then someone sits on the stool next to his.

"You're quite right," a voice says softly, "that was rather churlish of me." He turns his head a little in acknowledgement and shrugs.

"No problem." He turns back to his beer dismissively, not sure if he's interested after all.

"Okay, shall we try again?" The light note of amusement catches his attention and he finds himself almost smiling in response, just a twitch of his lips but the stranger notices.

"Better. Thank you for the drink. I'm David." Each short phrase is pronounced separately, clipped almost as if there is considerable effort in shaping the words, but the tone is still amused.

"Andy, and like I said, you're welcome."

"You're new around here," David continues although Andy had given him the opportunity to end the conversation. He had expected David to walk away.

"Yes, never been in here before, go figure." Andy is unwilling to open up yet.

"Now you're being churlish," David responds, the amusement slipping from his voice.

"Am I?" Andy is annoyed, more at himself than at David. "I suppose now you want me to apologize."

"I don't want anything from you at all." The voice is positively arctic. David throws some money on the bar and walks away, leaving Andy wondering what the hell just happened.

* * * * * * * *

The following Friday, Andy finds himself back at the same bar. He is restless, not sure what he's doing back here, although somewhere deep inside he acknowledges that he's hoping David will be there. There is no sign of him, however, and Andy nurses a beer, unsure if he even wants to try to connect tonight. He'll just finish his drink and go, he decides, and looks around vaguely, his eyes unexpectedly meeting David's in the mirror. The same unresponsive look is there and Andy feels a shiver of something - fear, maybe - as he locks gazes with his previously intended prey.

Suddenly, he feels like he's the hunted and it sits uncomfortably with him. He tears his eyes away and finishes his beer quickly, anxious to leave. David is right there, in his personal space, in his face as he tries to move away.

"Excuse me," he mutters, vaguely hoping David has forgotten him. David doesn't move.

"Hello, Andy," he says, no hint of uncertainty in the identification. "Back for more, I see?"

"What?" Andy is past being confused and is verging on unexplained anger.

"Stop that. We're not here to play stupid games, are we?" The voice is mildly amused again; Andy remembers the tone well from their last encounter. He's tempted to throw some money on the bar in a petty gesture but the gentle hand on his arm stops him, as if his intention was quite obvious.

"Don't." The voice is quiet, commanding or maybe pleading. Andy stares down at the hand, feeling his flesh burn beneath the contact until it is removed, then he meets David's eyes. There is none of the desperation Andy fears so much, but something is lurking in the blue depths along with the hint of a smile.

"Let's have a drink."

Andy concedes; it's Friday night, he's had a long week and he's tired. At least, this is the excuse he makes to himself later. They don't talk much to start with, just the odd desultory comment about the game on the TV above the bar. There is little to say as far as Andy is concerned. They know each other's names and that they are interested; what more is there? Andy is trying to work out how they are going to get from the bar to wherever they'll end up. David has other things on his mind.

They drink more than necessary, certainly more than Andy had planned: one round after another, alternating, while they continue to size each other up. David holds his liquor well, the alcohol showing little effect on him. Andy has a nice buzz going and knows his tongue is loosening but is unable to stop himself from relaxing into a vague camaraderie. He is flirting and knows it, turning on his easy charm, smiling in an attempt to capture David's cool gaze and quiet self-assurance. David smiles and watches the exaggerated hand gestures, hears the careful speech disguising an alcohol induced slur.

"I think it's time to go," he says eventually as Andy prepares to buy another round.

"Okay, sure," Andy agrees and lurches to his feet. David smiles and allows the clutching hand as Andy regains his balance. Andy is aware of hard muscle and bone beneath the fabric of David's jacket and his hand lingers. Finally, he has established contact in the most direct way. David moves and steers Andy towards the door, his hand impersonal on Andy's arm.

The fresh air hits hard and Andy reacts woozily. He leans on David, who allows the weight against him until they reach the curb and he hails a passing cab. He asks Andy's address and Andy infers that they are going home together. He offers the required information and David pays the driver, adding a hefty tip to compensate for having a drunken passenger. Andy is snoring, tipped sideways against the door, before the cab pulls away.

Andy wakes to a blinding headache and a muzzy feeling of unfinished business. His memories of the night before are elusive and there is no feeling of satisfaction, of objective achieved. He got drunk and David poured him into a cab and sent him home. He should be grateful but he isn't. He'd wanted David in a fleeting, peripheral manner, needed to get off and find some passing relief. He had achieved none of those things and he feels cheated.

He hadn't been sloppily drunk, at least he thinks not, and he cannot remember causing offence, so he is puzzled as to why David sent him home. The thought occurs to him as he stands under a cold shower that David had refused to take advantage of his drunken state, even though he had been more than willing. Maybe that was a good sign? And maybe he would never see David again. He knows he won't be going back to that particular bar anytime soon.

* * * * * * * *

It's almost a week before Andy finds the slip of paper in his jacket pocket. He is sorting items for the dry cleaners and checking them before he throws them in a bag. The note is cryptic, just a number and 'call me'. It can only be David, he thinks, and debates whether he should contact him. Finally, he picks up the phone, wondering what he will say, stumbling when he gets an answering machine. He leaves his name and numbers and feels happier than he has in a while. He's not sure what is happening, but now the ball is firmly in David's court.

David doesn't call back immediately, and Andy thinks about him as he travels to work. Several things become obvious to him as he turns over the previous weeks' happenings. He hasn't had the urge to go hunting since he met David: he isn't sure if he wants to see him again but, at the same time, he's desperate to hear from David. The contradictions amuse and puzzle him at the same time. He's never been in a position of 'Wait and see' with any of his other conquests. And maybe he's the conquered after all.

Work is hellish and he gets home late. The light on his machine is flashing and his heart lurches with anticipation, only to sink when he hears his mother's voice. He calls her back and chats for a little while, but he's not really interested. Only one call will mean anything to him. He sits by the phone, idly flicking the TV remote, his senses straining for the first ring, everything else just background noise. He is destined for disappointment.

Finally, he gives up and goes to bed, muttering an obscenity and cursing his own stupidity. His eyes closing, he surrenders to sleep, verging on unconsciousness when the harsh ring of the phone has him leaping like a startled deer. Groggily he answers, half asleep and disoriented.

"Did I wake you?" the soft voice enquires.

"Um - yeah, I guess - it's okay." Andy stumbles over his words, his stomach somersaulting as he recognizes David's voice. Fleetingly he thinks he is being ridiculous, acting like a love-struck teenager, but he can't keep the smile from his face.

"Sorry," David apologizes, "I didn't realize how late it was. I'm still jet-lagged."

"Jet lagged?"

"Yeah, I just got back from Europe so my internal clock is completely screwed."

"I didn't know you were out of town." Andy hears a peevish tone in his voice and clears his throat. "Sorry," he mutters stupidly, "I'm not quite awake. I'm glad you called." Damn, he shouldn't have admitted that, but he is glad and he is well aware that David can hear it in his voice. Andy hears a chuckle and his heart soars even as he tries to regain his cool.

"I'm glad you left your number," David replies. "Do you want to get together on Friday?"

"I guess." Better, he thinks, not so eager but willing enough.

"I'll see you then. Go back to sleep." David hangs up before he can say anything else and Andy hangs up slowly, staring at the phone as if it could solve the mysteries of the universe. Sleep has deserted him and he lies awake wondering what will happen on Friday.

* * * * * * * *

Andy gets to the bar fifteen minutes later than in the past, deliberately delaying in the hope that David will be there before him. He doesn't want to sit at the bar waiting like the desperate loser he saw the first time he was there. He doesn't get the impression that David is into power plays or mind games, but then he doesn't know him all that well. He knows he has planned and strategized to try and get the upper hand, but gives David the benefit of the doubt.

He is doomed to disappointment. There is no sign of David and Andy reluctantly waits at the bar, sipping a beer he doesn't really want. Five minutes, he decides then stretches it to ten as he nurses his drink. Fifteen minutes and he is on the way out the door, a mixed bag of emotions churning in his gut. Anger flares but so does disappointment; he is annoyed at himself for feeling anything, furious that what he really feels is hurt.

He pushes through the Friday night crowd and out onto the street, searching for a cab, biting his lip in an uncharacteristic surge of self-pity. The last person he expects to see is David leaning casually against a car across from the bar. Some undefined feeling surges through him pulling his facial muscles, but he's not sure if he wants to smile or scowl. David straightens as Andy walks towards him and gets in the car.

Andy gets in the passenger side with a bad grace but David ignores the angry vibe.

"I thought we'd go have dinner," he says matter-of-factly, and pulls out into the heavy evening traffic. Andy feels pole-axed: everything has slipped from his control and he is reduced to nervous throat-clearing. David glances across at him and does not attempt to hide his amusement.

"Go ahead and say it," he says.

"Say what?" Andy is snappish and there is an edge in his voice.

"Whatever you were going to say." Andy opens his mouth a couple of times but words fail him. David grins at his discomfiture but relents.

"Why didn't I meet you in the bar? Why didn't I mention dinner when I called? Why did I wait outside? I wasn't in the mood for another drinking session. I thought about it later. I wanted to surprise you. Anything else?"
Andy remains at a loss until they arrive at the restaurant David has chosen.

"I hope you like sushi," he comments as they stroll from the car. It's finally too much and Andy finds his voice in protest.

"What if I didn't, hm? What then?"

"Then we would go somewhere else," David answers evenly. "Do you like sushi?" Andy is flummoxed but trying to regain lost ground. Since David has apparently taken complete control of the evening and finds Andy's discomfiture amusing, Andy decides to change tactics. He rolls his shoulders to help relax and smiles.

"I love sushi," he says, pleased at the note of enthusiasm in his voice.

"Very good," David replies, his tone leaving Andy wondering whether he is pleased that he likes sushi or admiring his effort at politeness. He has not been this much off balance since Gerry Thomas gave him his first blowjob years ago in the locker room at Ashton High.

Andy looks around the restaurant with undisguised pleasure. It's elegant and expensive-looking and they have a good table. The place is crowded and he cannot resist asking.

"How did you manage to get a table? I didn't see you slip the maitre d' anything."

"That's because I didn't," David replies, still amused. "I made a reservation."

"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" Andy mutters and David laughs; a genuine, full bodied laugh. Shaking his head, he smiles and picks up the menu. A waiter arrives asking for drinks orders and David orders champagne without consulting Andy. At the last minute, he adds," - unless you'd rather have a beer?"

The quirk of his eyebrows indicates he would think Andy ridiculously unsophisticated if he did, and Andy doesn't have the nerve to argue. He is completely at sea and finally resigns himself to relinquishing control for the evening. At the back of his mind is a plan to regain the upper hand when they finally get it on. No way is David going to be able to control him then.

Andy devises another ploy when the waiter returns with their drinks and asks whether they are ready to order. He turns to David with false humility and says,

"Why don't you order for the both of us? You obviously know this place and what's good."

David smiles and orders.

"Not bad," he says once the waiter has left, "but I'm not looking for you to play the little woman." Andy chokes on his champagne, his throat burning enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he makes a swift recovery.

"That's good," he snarls, making his throat hurt even more, "because if you were, you'd be out of luck!"

"Now don't start getting angry all over again," David says softly. "Can we just enjoy a nice evening together, hm? Please?" Mollified somewhat, Andy shrugs and clears his throat, the champagne still aggravating where it had gone down the wrong way. David beckons the waiter and asks for Perrier, immediately, please. As the waiter scurries off, David says,

"The sparkling water will be better than still, although it seems contradictory." He watches solicitously while the waiter pours Andy a glass and then encourages him to drink some. Andy feels the chill easing the rawness of his throat and smiles in relief. David sits back and grins impishly and shakes his head as if something is puzzling him.

"Better?" he asks and Andy feels a smile undermining his sense of self-preservation.

"Yes, actually. Thanks."

"Good, I'm glad." Andy clears his throat again but this time it's to presage a change of subject.

"Where were you in Europe?" he asks, his tone conversational, his body language relaxed, but he is aware the effort is perhaps obvious.

"France for two days, then Italy. Nice segue!"

This time Andy genuinely laughs and the atmosphere between them changes. They make full eye contact for the first time and Andy feels his heart stutter then settle. David is very different to anyone else he has tried to pick up and he feels a twinge of shame at his previous behavior. Not towards David per se, just a general disgust at his prowling habits.

"Stop second guessing yourself," David says.

"I will if you'll stop with the mind-reading act!" David merely smiles and their food arrives. David tells Andy about his trip, his pithy comments keeping Andy in a ripple of laughter

The food is amazing and Andy praises David's choice of dishes, the service, the restaurant, everything that he had been geared to reject. He feels slightly foolish and tries to repress an eagerness to please. David is charming, sophisticated, witty and very attractive: Andy steps over the cliff and free falls. There is no safety net but David is there to catch him. He suggests going back to his apartment for coffee and Andy feels a frisson of anticipation.
By the time they reach the elegant apartment building, negotiate the doorman and the elevator, and finally walk through the door, Andy is twitching with nervous anticipation. He is hard, has been since leaving the restaurant, and David's elegant designer trousers are not roomy enough to disguise his interest.

David grabs him and pushes him against the door, his mouth closing over Andy's in a fierce kiss, as assertive as he has been all evening. His lips are warm and mobile, his tongue demanding entry, his fingers wrapping around Andy's skull as he holds him still and threatens him with anoxia. The lack of oxygen makes Andy harder and he rubs himself against David in a frantic manner.

"Let's slow down a little," David whispers in his ear, his breath raising goose bumps down Andy's spine. He sighs in frustration, deflating a little as David moves away giving them breathing space. Then he reaches out again, his hands attacking Andy's shirt buttons. Andy retaliates in kind and soon the hallway is scattered with abandoned clothing and bare flesh presses against bare flesh. They are well matched; firm, muscular, fit. David is slightly taller and heavier, Andy more agile.

He scatters small kisses over Andy's face, then moves down, spending time on his nipples, licking and tugging at the nubs until they are hard and sensitive. He works his way lower, his hands sweeping in long strokes down his flanks, fingers inserting themselves into his waistband, scratching gently through the rough curls of pubic hair. Andy's hips move without his conscience volition, thrusting upwards, his cock searching for relief, pre-come oozing from the slit as David brings him to the edge.

David is on his home territory and maintains the advantage he has created all evening. He backs Andy steadily towards the bedroom with no resistance. More scrabbling and awkward shedding of the remaining clothing, then Andy drops to his knees before David can push him towards the bed. He's good at this. He sucks and licks, even nibbles a little, scraping his teeth along the throbbing vein on the underside of David's cock. He cannot get any harder and fights to maintain control. He listens intently for every little gasp and moan, discovering what pleases David, what brings him close.

There is a growing pleasure within him, unrelated to their activity. He has justified himself, regained control, will make David come and then fuck him, just as he had originally planned before David had thrown him for a loop.

The thought has barely formulated when David pulls away. Andy's world tilts again as David tugs him to his feet. They are both gasping for breath but, despite Andy's very best efforts, David has not lost any of his awareness. Andy resigns himself to the inevitable: he will still get his fuck, after all, and that's what this was all about. He resists the idea that he wants more and allows David to take over. Surprisingly, David does not go for a quick finish as anticipated. He pulls Andy close and kisses him, fiercely at first and then gentling until his lips are softly caressing Andy's. David smiles and shakes his head as he pulls the coverlet off the bed and tosses back the sheets. It only takes a few seconds and then he is back, taking Andy in his arms and easing him slowly down, kissing him as they sink together to the mattress.

Then he moves slowly downwards, lingering again over the hardened points of his nipples, the soft flesh of his abdomen, his tongue twirling in and around his navel making Andy twitch and suppress a small laugh, which chokes into a moan as David progresses further.

Hot wet heat surrounds his cock and Andy is lost. His hands search for an anchor and he threads his fingers through the soft strands of David's hair, clutching painfully for a moment before realization sets in and he settles for twisting the sheets between his fists. David sucks and licks, his head bobbing between Andy's legs as he watches. David palms his balls and a probing finger slides back over his perineum, making his hole twitch in anticipation. The suction increases and Andy surrenders, gasping as his orgasm hits and strands him in no man's land.

David half sits up and Andy hears the crinkle of a condom wrapper, the slick sound of lube and then Andy's fingers are inside him, stretching him carefully before he slides his cock home.

* * * * * * * *

Andy opens his eyes slowly, his brain muddled with sleep. He doesn't recognize his surroundings and slowly he recollects the evening's events. He is alone in David's bed, his mind slow and his limbs feeling heavy in the aftermath of sex. Despite his plans, his devious attempts to maintain the upper hand, he had lost everything. He had lost control the second he spoke to David and he is only just realizing this. Nothing is the same and he has a tight knot in his chest, which he is too afraid to analyze. There is no paradigm for what will happen next, he cannot guess or second guess David. He realizes how much he hates the feeling.

A glance at the bedside clock tells him that he has been at the apartment for a couple of hours, so he has slept for at least an hour. He does not understand why David did not wake him earlier. After all, that's what he would do. Get his conquest up and out as quickly and easily as possible, hopefully without any bad feelings but, if there is, too bad. David let him sleep. The sheets beside him are cold, so David left him there a while ago.

Andy fumbles for the light and looks around for his clothes. He pulls on his boxers and pants, socks and shoes. His shirt and jacket are somewhere between the bedroom and the front door. Taking a guess, he finds the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face before venturing out into the hall. There is a light on in the living room, a small table lamp leaving most of the room in shadow. He picks up his shirt and buttons it with shaking hands, not sure what he should do. Should he find David and say goodnight or just slip out the door and head home. It's what he would want if this was his apartment. But he doesn't want to leave.

A slight rustle makes him turn. David is there holding his jacket. There is a profound silence and David does not offer the jacket, just stands there holding it in both hands. Now Andy wants to leave before things get awkward but the tight place in his chest has eased a little at the sight of David standing there. Andy is willing David to say something, anything. The silence stretches, pulled tight between them, waiting to shatter without warning. David holds out the jacket reluctantly, Andy thinks. He takes it without a word and shrugs it on. He turns towards the door, holding his breath, waiting for one word. He does not want to speak, not to say 'Bye' or 'Goodnight'. He wants to hear 'Stay'.

© j.d. davis 2005

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