Here’s Looking at You, Kid

an accidental romance in fifteen parts

by Douglas

Chapter 10 – Rolling . . .

“The stove will be replaced,” Mrs. Watanabe was saying. “Which is a shame; it’s perfectly good. It is a good, nice stove. But the code says we need to have an electric stove, not a gas stove, in a studio apartment.” She frowned down at the tiny stove, in the little kitchen alcove.

Sunday, a week and a day after the frisbee game, and getting the cell phone number from Giovanni. Cole and me, peering around in the – well, kind of dark, actually – little apartment, with the landlady, Mrs. Watanabe, as our guide.

Mrs. Watanabe was big; as in, impressively wide. It was interesting, how much floor space she managed to take up.

“That’s too bad,” went Cole. Sincerely; sympathetically. Shooting a glance at me, which said, essentially, ‘you should be the one speaking up’. “Are there going to be many other changes? It doesn’t really seem necessary; this is such a nice apartment.”

Mrs. Watanabe beamed at him. “It IS nice, isn’t it? I think it’s very cozy, don’t you? Cozy,” she said, again, firmly, in two separate syllables, ‘Co’ and ‘Zy’.

I tried to pay better attention, as Mrs. Watanabe explained electrical circuits and grounded outlets to my wide-eyed, freshly scrubbed, oh-so-nicely-dressed boyfriend.

It was hard, though. Partly because I’d already fallen in love with the apartment, as soon as I’d walked through the door. The details didn’t really matter all that much, to me.

And partly it was hard, because of the flashbacks.

I kept having flashbacks to what we’d done yesterday. Really powerful flashbacks; scenes, feelings, sensations, and they were making me flush, and making my heart pound . . .

And Cole knew it, of course; from the way I was acting, from the way I kept zoning out; he so totally knew. His sideways glance at me, as he listened to Mrs. Watanabe, was knowing. And ironic.

I tried harder, to pay attention.

“ALL the electrical in the building will be replaced,” Mrs. Watanabe was saying. “ALL of it; Mr. Watanabe and I will go live with our oldest son, while the work is being done.” She nodded, for emphasis.

“Mmmmmmmm,” went Cole, sympathetically. Darting another warning glance at me, out of the corner of his eye.

He hadn’t even pretended to let me choose what to wear that morning, before we went to see the apartment. He just dove into my closet, and started pulling out clothes for me to put on; holding them up, first, to see if they were too wrinkled, and once or twice doing the sniff-test thing, which should have insulted me, but didn’t.

Getting this place was important to him, too. We didn’t even bother to say it, openly; we both knew.

He was dressed really nicely, himself; he had on another one of his dark, semi-rumpled, three-button-jacket things, with lapels and everything, and a pair of khaki pants I’d never seen on him before, and nice shoes . . .

Come to think of it, Cole had been dressing – really well, recently. Dressing nicely; those jacket things, and some really beautiful shirts, and clean, neat pants . . . it was a good look, for him; it made him look older. Kind of adult; but cool, stylish, adult. Mature, maybe.

I blinked at him, standing there, listening to Mrs. Watanabe. Wondering at that.

“ . . . so there will be a new stove, yes, and maybe a new refrigerator,” Mrs. Watanabe was saying. “And the new outlets in the kitchen area, yes, and new carpet in the loft. But very little else will change. We will paint the bathroom, of course,” she went, widening her eyes a little.

“Ah. Yes,” went Cole. Innocently.

We’d gone to the beach again, the day before.

We’d taken Trevor with us, this time. And two of Trevor’s still cameras; and his digicam.

And I flashed back to that, to the way my mouth was all dry and the way my heart was pounding on the drive down, Trevor in the back seat smiling, and Cole next to me in the front seat, either smirking at me, or smoldering, or telling me – loud – to pay attention to my driving, and I shook my head, a little, to try to clear it a little.

“So. You ARE a friend of Thomas’, yes?” Mrs. Watanabe asked me. Looking closely. “He knows you?”

“Ummm – yes. Well, I’m sort of a friend of a friend, actually. I know his friend – my friend – Giovanni. And we’ve talked on the phone, of course.” I tried to think of how to phrase it. “He said he’s been very, very happy here, and he thought I’d like it here very much, too. He thought I’d be a good fit. After he moves out.”

“I see,” went Mrs. Watanabe, neutrally. I tried not to wince; it sounded a little weak to me, too. She turned to Cole. “And you are local, you said, yes? You grew up here in Berkeley?”

Cole’d elected himself to come along, partly for that reason. To give some local credentials; a home-town connection, in case it helped.

“Yes, ma’am.” That innocent, trustworthy expression on his face, again; I was learning some new things about Cole, from all this. “I live just four blocks away,” – he named the intersection – “and I’ve spent my whole life here. My mom works for the University.” He turned to me, briefly. “And it’ll be so much easier for me to come over to study, after you move in; won’t it? So much more convenient, and so much more room.” He looked around, briefly, and turned back to Mrs. Watanabe, his eyes wide and sincere. “Jeremy’s a really wonderful tutor. He’s taught me so much, already . . . ”

And with just a tiny, ironic flick of his eyes at me, I was flushing again. And flashing back . . .

Cole made Trevor get naked with us, when we got down to the beach.

Not that Trevor put up much of a fuss, about it; he’d gone to the pool party with Cole, after all, even if he had spent the whole night wearing a towel.

But still, he stripped down readily enough, and it was kind of touching, watching Cole introduce Trevor to the fun of running around naked on the beach, playing in the water . . . we even played frisbee, for quite awhile, in the foam at the edge of surf.

Cole told me later, it was all mostly just to calm me down; he was afraid I was going to hyperventilate.

He was right.

But Trevor did enjoy the beach, and just watching him run around, his shaggy blond hair gleaming in the sun, his laughing grin pasted all over his face – it was clear, it was easy to see, he really loved the freedom of it all, the sensations, the bliss of not wearing a wet swimsuit . . . it was pretty certain he’d be coming along with us again, whenever he got the chance.

With or without his cameras.

“So, the paneling, we are not planning to change that.” Mrs. Watanabe said it a little firmly; and maybe a little defensively, I thought.

“Good,” I said, and I nodded my head , vigorously – copying her. “That’s good. I like the paneling.” Trying to reconnect with the moment; and I saw her beam at me, briefly.

I really did like the paneling. Knotty pine; like a mountain cabin, or a cabin on a yacht . . .

It was a small apartment, on the third-floor top of an old, elaborate, wooden Victorian, with two full-floor flats underneath; it was an attic room.

One long room, for the most part; mostly open space, with windows on one of the long sides, the postage-stamp-sized kitchen at one of the short ends, the antique bathroom at the other short end, near the door.

But it really was Co-Zy.

The paneling – well. I’d grown up in a kind of Spanish Colonial-style, fake-adobe house, with whitewashed walls inside and out; and after that, it was the dorms – and Cal in general – all institutional white or beige, all so BRIGHT . . .

The apartment was dark; dark, and cool, and different, and it already felt like a refuge, a refuge for me and Cole, shaded by the trees outside the windows.

“This is the closet,” Mrs. Watanabe went on – lumbering over to one of the long walls, and opening the door. “Oh, my; I don’t think Thomas has cleaned this, in a while . . . ”

And Cole looked my way, again, and I could tell from his look he was thinking of yesterday too, and the look made me shiver, and flash back again –

*

“Remember, this isn’t porn,” Trevor’d said. As he set up one of the cameras on a tripod, at the edge of our driftwood windbreak.

The same one we’d used last time. The one where we’d said, ‘I love you,’ to each other.

“It’s just for you,” Trevor went on, checking the viewfinder. “Do whatever you want; say whatever you want. Don’t be afraid to look at the camera; make it all as real as you want it to be.” And he grinned down at Cole, lying in my arms . . .

It was all even hotter than I thought it would be. Much, much more erotic that I thought it could get.

I was a mess. I was drooling precum like a leaky faucet, even before lying down with Cole on the same blanket we’d used the first time.

“Relax,” Cole whispered to me as he twisted in my arms to kiss me, deep; and on one level, it worked . . . and on another level it didn’t . . .

I don’t know why doing this – getting filmed like this, by Trevor – set me off, so much. Made me so hard; so inflamed, so short of breath.

Well. Actually, I do, I guess.

Doing this – having sex like this, with somebody WATCHING like this . . .

It was just so, so, sexual. So DELIBERATELY sexual. So beyond the careful boundaries of semi-repressed sexuality I’d always known with Jesse . . .

This was beyond. Beyond everything.

Deliberate, open, outrageous, erotic sex: celebrated, on film. Or DVD, anyway.

And Trevor moved around us, with still cameras or his digicam, finding different angles, different closeups, INSIDE the windbreak with us, as Cole and I made out outrageously, and then I flipped Cole over on his front and I rimmed him, deep, deeply and noisily –

And then, when I fucked him. Trevor was right there, low and close, as I entered Cole, as I slid into him, and he arched back against me, and moaned . . .

*

“Was this a real fireplace, once?” from Cole; looking at the little tiled-in mantel-and-hearth, on one of the short walls.

Bringing me back, painfully. Again.

“Oh, yes, yes, once,” Mrs. Watanabe nodded. “When the building was new, and it was all one house. Before the furnaces were added.” She peered at me, through oversize glasses. “Now we have e-lec-tric base-board heating, in this apartment. It works very well,” she said, in her firm, final way. “Very well. Keeps the unit very co-zy.”

I didn’t look at Cole. I’d already decided, I’d put an electric heater in front of the old fireplace, one of the ones that glowed red, and I’d find a nice, soft rug to put in front of THAT, and we’d pretend it was a real fire . . .

But I was already flashing back to the beach; which was more than enough. Block that image, I told myself. Just for a moment.

I turned back towards the long side of the room, the one that was away from the windows. “Can we go look up here?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, of course,” went Mrs. Watanabe. Surprised that I’d even asked. “Please, yes. But it would be nice for you to take your shoes off first, please?”

It was a kind of sleeping loft.

A raised platform, a kind of nook, about five feet up from the floor, reached by some carpeted steps almost steep enough to be a ladder . . .

And it was just a little nook, just big enough for a bed – Tom the Chemistry Guy had a queen-sized mattress on a box spring that rested right on the carpeted floor, all covered by an incredibly decadent-looking comforter; and that was all there was, there wasn’t any other floor space.

But it did have skylights.

The roof sloped, here, where the rest of the ceiling was flat, and two big skylights let in the December light, and views of bare tree branches above . . .

Cole and I both kneeled on the bed, looking around, and up at the skylights. Slightly in awe.

“These skylights . . . open?” I asked. A little hesitantly.

“Yes, oh yes, the skylights open. In summer, in warm weather, they open. There is a pole you can use to open them, in a rack. On the outside wall. Do you see it?” Large as she was, coming up to where we were just didn’t seem very practical.

“Yes . . . ” I looked around, and spotted a brown pole, almost hidden against the dark paneling. “Yes, I see it.”

And I glanced once, quickly, at Cole, kneeling by me, on the bed; and our eyes connected, and I knew, we both knew, what we were thinking.

This place – this apartment – was built for sex. Designed for it.

Co-Zy.

*

As exciting, as hugely erotic as what Cole and I had done on camera, yesterday – what happened after was what jangled me, was what had my feelings and emotions jangled, left me confused. Conflicted. Not entirely in a bad way, conflicted.

And it happened after. After I spermed inside Cole, for just the third time in our lives. After Cole spasmed out his own semen, all over everything, all over me, as I kept jabbing his prostate with my cock in that short, quick, shallow way I was learning that really set him off . . .

We were lying together; spent, shattered. Panting.

In front of Trevor.

“mmmmmmmmm . . . ” Cole moaned. Very softly; very contentedly, and I swear I could feel it, through my cock.

“I love you,” I whispered. Because I had to say it, right then. I just had to.

“I love you,” he whispered back, just as softly; almost inaudibly.

And it turned out, the mike of Trevor’s digicam was sensitive enough to pick it all up. And that moment, those words, became the tag line on the finished video that Trevor edited for us.

But it wasn’t the end of the photography, for the day.

“Yeah . . . ” went Trev, from just outside the windbreak. Sounding just a little ragged, maybe. “Uh . . . I’m going to go take a walk, now . . . ”

I felt Cole move a little, under me; and I lifted my head up, from where I’d been lost, kissing and licking his smooth neck –

Trevor was flushed, and panting, and just putting down one of his cameras.

And he was hard; really, really hard, curving up high, it was almost painful to look at.

And he was wet, too; leaking. Almost more that I usually do; as I watched, a little glob of precum dripped down from the tip of his bobbing dick, leaving a strand that glinted in the sunlight. Leaving Trevor mortified; I could tell.

That’s when it happened.

“Let me up,” Cole whispered to me.

And so I pulled out of Cole, slowly, a little awkwardly – another shockingly intimate thing to do, in front of a third person – and Cole got himself to his knees, on the blanket, and then sat up.

Looking at Trevor. Without saying anything; for heartbeat after heartbeat after heartbeat, but I could see something going on between them, without words.

And then Cole turned to look back at me. “I think we owe him,” he said.

Brightly. Evenly. And by the tilt of his head, and the way he half-smiled – it was a challenge.

“At least a hand job,” he went on. Looking at me so, so closely, now. Still that tilted-up, half smile. “Don’t you think?”

The sound of the waves in the distance, as I didn’t say anything.

It was such a challenge.

It was the single biggest challenge I’d ever had, from Cole. The single biggest test.

It’s the single biggest test he’s ever put me through, since. All this time.

And at first, my two years of Jesse, two years of him being unfaithful, of screwing around on me – and me knowing it; two years of me getting hurt time after time after time again, the humiliation, the manipulation, the lies – everything, just everything, made me want to say, just, no.

Cole knew how important monogamy was, to me. Being faithful. He knew better than anyone.

I even thought about it, in a flash. I could say ‘no’, out loud; or I could say nothing, just get up, walk on down the beach by myself, let whatever was going to happen, happen, without me . . .

I almost did just that. I almost did.

Cole’s look – what he was communicating to me, with that look – stopped me.

It was a challenging look, yeah, with his Cole-smile. But it was loving, too; I could see the love.

And the new vulnerability, on his side, that went with it; his openness to me.

And there were other things mixed in, too; a little fear, a little arrogance, some lust –

I made a big mental shift, then; as the moment stretched on, under Cole’s eyes, I made an effort, a real effort, to try to see it all from Cole’s point of view, and it was almost painful; but I tried.

What he was proposing – no. At first glance, for people like us, both of us hurt so much by infidelity, by sex outside our relationships – no. It was a crazy idea.

But.

Trevor was Cole’s closer-than-brother; like Derrick was to me, except they’d been close much, much longer. For much more of their lives.

And, of course, there was the thing about being jackoff buddies . . .

But. Still. Trevor was Cole’s brother.

Cole was including me in on that. Cole was opening up that maybe-most-precious relationship in his life, to me. To me; and trusting me not to fuck it up.

But on still another level – there was even more. A lot more.

Cole was trusting me with Trevor. Trusting us with each other, actually; trusting us both, that we could do this – fool around, be jackoff buddies, for an afternoon – without going farther. Without hurting him; the way he’d been hurt, so badly, before.

‘So you love me?’ he’d asked, at the beach. Before; three weeks ago, now.

‘Yeah.’

‘Prove it,’ he’d said.

The sound of the waves; Cole’s look, expectant, waiting, uncertain. Trevor, standing, frozen, exposed, on so many levels . . .

“Okay,” I said; to Cole. “Yeah. We do owe him.”

The look on Cole’s face; priceless. Partly surprised; partly admiring, a lot loving –

But mostly – connected. We looked at each other, and we, just, connected. We both understood. We understood each other, in that moment; so well.

‘Do you trust me?’ he was asking, without words.

Yeah.

‘Prove it.’

And then, for a lot of reasons – poor Trevor, caught in the middle like this, and my own pride . . .

Well.

I wasn’t going to do this reluctantly, like a sullen, younger, teenage me forced into mowing the lawn.

I smiled up at Trevor.

“Yeah. We do owe you,” I said. I patted the blanket, next to Cole and me. “Get on over here.”

In the end, it was me sitting up against the windbreak wall of logs and stones; Trevor between my legs, back to my front; Cole . . . between Trevor’s legs.

My hands all over Trevor, as Cole worked on him. Feeling his smooth, pale chest; fingers on his nipples, running through his dark-blond pubic hair . . .

My heart, pounding, confused, tested, as we did it. Even as I worked Trevor over with my fingers, and then my lips, and then my tongue.

Trevor was even noisier than Cole. He vocalized – a lot – and his voice was higher.

And just as Trevor was getting louder, and moving more against me – his back grinding against my chest, my hard dick pressed up, lengthwise, against his back, my balls pressed against his upper butt crack –

Just as Trevor was getting louder, Cole pulled back. Looking at Trevor, and at me, both; his eyes wide, his breathing fast. Cock hard, and up.

“Wait,” he gasped; and he sat back a second, looking at us, looking at Trevor in my arms, like that.

And then he gently reached out, and pulled my right hand away from Trevor’s chest, and brought it down, and all of a sudden, I was holding Trevor’s hard cock gently in my hand –

Trevor up against me. Leaning against me. My free arm hugging him; one hand on his cock.

Cole looking. Taking it all in. The three of us, a frozen tableau for a moment, except for Trevor’s whimpers, the feeling of him panting, against me.

Until I pulsed my hand, a little, and Trevor moaned; and I buried my face in the crook of his neck, and licked, and kissed, and I began to stroke him, gently, and I felt him tilt his head back, and moan, high, and long . . .

“Yeah,” from Cole. A pause; then, “Yeah.”

The sound, the vibrations of his footsteps in the sand; I didn’t look up.

More crunching footsteps, as Cole moved around, outside the windbreak; the electronic, fake ‘click’ sound the digital camera made, when he pressed the button.

Click. Click. Click.

Trevor whimpering more, now. I could feel wet on my right hand, from his leaking.

Me, confused; jangled. Maybe still pissed at Cole, for the whole situation, on some level; even if I understood. Maybe forgiving Cole, at the same time.

Hugely turned on. Erotically high. In spite of my confusion; in spite of my mixed feelings.

Not blaming Trevor. Wanting to make him feel good, not bad; whatever else I was feeling.

“Wait,” again, from Cole.

I stopped stroking – I just held Trevor, squeezing a little, across his chest, with my left arm. The beach sounds of the waves, and the seabirds, Cole crunching as he moved around on the sand –

Then Cole was with us again, and he leaned around Trevor and kissed me, quick, but wet, and his hand gently replaced mine on Trevor’s cock –

And he leaned in again and kissed Trevor on the mouth, fast – I’d never seen him do that, before – and, in another second, he twisted his head around, to face the camera on the tripod, red light blinking as the self-timer counted down.

“Smile!” he hissed – it was more like a command; so I did.

“For Michael,” he explained, after the ‘click’.

And then he was facing us both again, and he focused back in on Trevor; I saw it, in his eyes, the set of his arms, the loving concentration on his face . . .

And I felt Trevor tense up in my arms, and I heard his moaning pick up, as he got to the brink of his own orgasm, at last . . .

*

Kneeling, on Tom-The-Chemistry-Guy’s bed under the skylight; Cole there too, looking into my eyes, knowing what I was remembering, feeling; his face pretty damned naked and vulnerable to me, just then.

Relationships are conversations. Cole and I would be continuing this conversation; this topic.

“It is a very com-for-ta-ble sleeping nook, isn’t it?”, went Mrs. Watanabe, as we carefully climbed down the carpeted stairs, in our stocking feet.

“Oh, yes,” I said.

Bending down for my shoes; trying to focus, now, put the beach aside. Trying not to think of the beach, yesterday; trying not to think of what Cole and I would be doing, up in that sleeping nook.

I really needed to focus; this was the important part.

“And of course, we will clean, after the work is done. We will clean very thoroughly.” Nodding her head again, emphatically.

“Good; good.” I finished lacing up my left shoe, balancing awkwardly on one leg. “I like the apartment very much, ma’am.” I straightened up, which made me more than a foot taller than she was. “And so . . . Can I ask what the terms are?”

She beamed up at me; but behind the enormous glasses, I thought I could see her eyes get just a little – narrower. Guarded, maybe.

Slight pause, as she drew in breath.

“We ask for a minimum one year lease, of course; and after that, it goes to month-by-month. Yes, that is really quite typical. And we ask for the first month, and last month rent in advance; and a security deposit.” She nodded some more, a little more solemn, now

“Sure,” I said. Trying not to nod back. “Of course. And the one year lease starts on April 1st?”

“Yes,” she said; a little more firmly still, her voice a little lower, and I immediately understood – this was the point; this was where she expected a problem.

For good reason. In Berkeley, almost any lease would be timed to the school year. A student who transferred, or graduated, at the end of a term – a student like Tom-the-Chemistry-guy, if he was still on a lease – would be left liable for months of rent, for a lease starting in mid-semester. It was undesirable, to say the least.

But it was also Berkeley, where apartments were scarce. And I didn’t care.

“And the work will all be done by April 1st? The apartment will definitely be ready, by then?” I saw her surprise, that I wasn’t going to question the timing of the lease.

“Oh, yes,” she blinked up at me. “Oh, yes, the work will be done by April 1st, certainly. Possibly by March 1st; but certainly April 1st. My husband and I, we want to be back in the building as quickly as possible.” She was back to nodding, again. “We will supervise the work ourselves. And our son works with the contractor.”

“Ah. Good.”

“Would you like to fill out an application, then?”

“Yes. Very much.” I swallowed, looking around the little, dark, homey place, as she took quick, wide, cheerful little steps over to the manila folder she’d left on the table.

My first place. My first home outside my parents’ home – except for the dorms, which don’t really count. My heart was beating faster, and my palms were a little sweaty.

My eyes slid over to Cole’s. It would be OUR place, really.

If I got in. If everything worked out.

“Here is an application,” Mrs. Watanabe said, briskly, puffing her way back up to us; handing me a sheet that looked like the photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy. “You can fill it out now, or you could take it, and mail it to us – ”

“Now is fine, if you have the time,” I said. I had a pen in my hand, already. I sucked in a breath. “And, I can leave you a check today. A deposit; or the whole amount, first, last, and security deposit - ?”

Mrs. Watanabe’s eyes got very big, indeed.

*

I’d already made the call to my family, back in San Diego. About the money.

And of course, it didn’t come as a complete surprise to them – my Dad, I mean; I was talking to him, mostly.

Anyway. It wasn’t that surprising; both my sisters moved into off-campus housing, after their second year at college. It’s a fairly common thing; the dorms seem to be mostly for younger students.

But then, my mom was on the line, too; and as I explained about Derrick moving out, next Spring, and how I really didn’t want to get a new roommate – even a new suite-mate . . . as I explained all that, I could just hear the careful, quiet concern, in their voices; in what they said, and what they didn’t say.

About Derrick and me, I mean. Wondering about us; if we’d had troubles . . .

Wondering, I realized now, about the two of us. On some level, anyway.

I couldn’t exactly explain. I couldn’t tell them about Drew without outing Derrick – which I couldn’t do, no matter how obvious he was.

And I refused, I just refused, to make up a girl’s name for Derrick to be moving in with. I won’t lie to my parents, if I can help it; and Derrick would’ve hated the idea, anyway.

The dance around the truth, again. More consequences of me-and-Jesse, two years on.

So, I tried.

I did my best. I tried to reassure them, Derrick and me were fine, he hated leaving me hanging like that, he sent his love (true) to his ‘second mom and dad’, as he always used to call them . . .

And then, I offered to pay the difference, between the dorm rates, and the apartment rent.

Hoping against hope, they’d go for it. I could cover that much, for a year at least – from the money my grandparents put away for me . . .

I was ready to sell my car, though, if I had to. I would have. It wasn’t new, I’d gotten it used, but it was a Mini Cooper, and they’re expensive.

‘Oh, no,’ my dad had said. ‘We paid for housing for your two sisters, we’ll cover the whole cost for you. We promised you all, when you were babies. You just concentrate on your studies; that’s our deal, and that’s why you’re there.’

And underneath, in his voice, I heard the unstated concern, about me. For whatever he could sense, that I was going through.

And the love; in his calm, Lutheran, Norwegian, avoiding-emotional-excess way . . .

I choked up, a little, as I thanked them both. Multiple, multiple times . . .

*

“Oh, my”, Mrs. Watanabe was saying. She actually pressed her open hand to her broad chest. “Oh, my. You are very serious then?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I pulled my check book out of my pocket; trying not to look too eager. Or too anxious; even though my palms were still sweaty. Copying Cole’s open-eyed innocence, actually, although I didn’t realize it until later. “Yes, ma’am; I really want my plans for the next semester to be all settled, as soon as possible. And for next fall, too, of course,” I added, a little late. “And . . . I really do like the apartment.” Saying it as sincerely as I could.

I could almost see her thoughts, as she looked at my checkbook. First, last, and security deposit – it was a fair amount of money, actually. Paid more than three months in advance. And there were contractors to pay, there were so many expenses . . .

“My husband. My husband will have to look at your application,” she began, a little tentatively. Still looking at my checkbook.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And,” she went on, turning her magnified eyes on mine, “we will run a credit check.” She nodded for emphasis, again, on surer ground, now. “We will need to run a credit check. We always do. It is part of the application, you agree to a credit check.”

”Of course.” I didn’t have much of a credit record, but nothing in it was bad, anyway.

“And references.” It came out ‘ref-er-ence-es’. “We always ask for references, from our tenants. Do you have any references?” Her eyes locked on mine, now.

“Uh . . . references? Like, personal references?” I blinked down at her.

“References from previous landlords, yes. Or personal references, yes. We like to have references, for our tenants.” Her expression said, our STUDENT tenants.

My eyes slid sideways, to Cole’s.

“Ummmmm . . . ” I went, trying to think. “I have references from some of my teachers, from where I grew up; near San Diego. And from this volunteer program back home, that I was part of – ”

They’d all been attached to my college applications.

“Hmm,” Mrs. Watanabe went; her lips pursed a little, in what I thought was doubt. My heart began beating a little faster, now, and I felt a chill of dread.

“Do you have any LOCAL references?” she asked.

Local references.

I looked again, a little helplessly, at Cole; he started to open his mouth, and I shook my head, a little.

Who could I ask? I let my eyes wander around, while I groped.

There was my advisor, I guess . . . but she didn’t exactly know me all that well; I’d only met with her a few times, and I was one of I-don’t-know-how-many other students, to her. One of my teachers, maybe?

As a second-year, most of my classes were lectures, and most of the lecturers were TA’s, that I barely knew.

I kept going through the catalog of adults I knew in Berkeley; not coming up with much.

I didn’t think Rajiv would exactly give me a reference. Not a positive one, anyway. Not even to get me off of his floor.

“Well, I’m not . . . ”, I started, finally, and then – I stopped.

I could feel the smile begin to spread over my face, as the idea dawned on me; I tested it, mentally, from a few different sides – but I couldn’t think of anything wrong with it. It’d work.

It was perfect.

“Actually, yeah,” I said, and I could feel Cole looking at me. “I do have some local references. Some people who live up in the hills, off of Grizzly Peak; property owners,” I said, nodding at Mrs. Watanabe, solemnly. “One’s an attorney, and the other one, well, he used to be the CEO of a software company, and now he mostly works with charitable foundations.” My smile grew bigger, the more I thought about it. “They’ll give me two good references. I’m sure of it.”

And a little, guilty part of me, in the back of my mind, knew that they would. Because of the pool parties I’d gone to. Because of the last one, with Cole.

They’d help me with references regardless, I knew; even without that leverage. They were friends, and they were nice guys. But . . .

“Oh, yes?” Mrs. Watanabe’s face lightened up. “Oh, good. Good. I’m very glad.”

I didn’t even have to look at Cole; I could feel him, trying to choke back his surprised laughter.

“So, how should we work it? I can leave you the application today, and the check – ” I wanted to emphasize that part, still – “and have my friends send you the references? Would that be all right?”

“That would be fine,” said Mrs. Watanabe; beaming, now, as she nodded, firmly. “Have them send along the references, here, yes, please; and when we get them, you and Mr. Watanabe can sign the lease.” The beaming, and the nodding, went on, and for a moment I thought she would actually bow. “I think you will be very, very happy here. It is very cozy. Very co-zy.”

*

Outside, on the sidewalk, in the December gloom and cold; Cole was just bursting, trying not to bounce as he walked along, closer to the sixteen end of his sixteen-to-forty-five-year-old behavior range.

Until we turned the corner, and he whirled around and hugged me for joy, tight, burying his face in my chest. Actually twirling me around in a circle. “You did it! You fucking did it! Oh, cool, cool, cool!”

I kissed the top of his head, quick; hugging him back. “WE did. You helped a lot, baby.” I held him away from me, a little, and looked at him. “Jesus; I didn’t know you could be so smooth. I’m going to have to watch out for you, from now on.”

The brat grinned back at me, and we broke apart – reluctantly – and started down the sidewalk again. Cole still bouncing, a little. Butting against my shoulder, a little, every few steps. “And that thing about personal references – from those guys who own the house? At the pool party?”

“Greg and Jim. Yeah.”

“Priceless. Absolutely priceless. Of course they’ll give you references! Like they’d have a choice?” He hugged himself, in the way he has. “I’d love to see their faces, when you ask them!”

“Yeah.” I felt him look at me, as he heard the tone in my voice, and I shrugged. “Yeah. Well, it’s not like that, really; they’re both good people, and I know they’d help me out, regardless.”

I thought, anyway.

“But,” I went on, “that’s the part that bothers me, a little, I guess. Just the, I-know-your-secret, feel about the whole thing. Especially after the last party.” I felt myself making a face.

The party with the underage boys, I didn’t say. With the implications of potential blackmail material – however remote – figuring in, as I asked them for a favor.

“If you’re sure they’d help you out anyway, why be bothered about it?”

I just shrugged, again.

“I know why,” he went on, glancing at me as we walked. “Because you’re so fucking honest; you’re so ethical. And that’s one of the things that I love about you, Jeremy.”

I looked over at him, surprised.

“Well, that, and how just plain NICE you are, and the way you’re just so fucking loving; towards everybody, like Derrick and Drew, and not just towards me. And,” he went on, with a touch of Cole-irony again, “then there’s also the way you fuck me – ” I did the usual swivel-my-head-around panic scan, but nobody was in sight – “you’re getting really good at it, it’s kind of scary; you almost made me come without touching myself, yesterday.” He hugged himself, again.

“I love you too, but PLEASE don’t get me started, out here – ” I could feel the rush of blood below my waist, again. As usual.

“Oh. And I checked out the skylights; nobody can see us through them. It’s going to be fun, come April.”

I’d checked the skylights for that, too. “Yeah.” I put my hands in my pockets, to try to hide the bulge, a little. “We’re gonna need curtains downstairs, though.”

Cole smiled a wicked little grin. “Including the kitchen.”

Oofta.

We walked on quietly, for a second, me walking a little funny as I tried to rearrange my hard-on; Cole smirking the whole way.

Until he got serious.

“Jeremy . . . I’m sorry about yesterday. The thing with Trevor, I mean – ”

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

“Really?” He looked at me, close. “No; you’re still freaked. You’ve been freaked about it since yesterday.” He stopped, and turned to face me; and all at once, his expression was about as unhappy as I’d ever seen on him. “I’m sorry, Jeremy. To me, it’s just, like, Trevor.” His face scrunched up. “I don’t mean it that way, JUST Trevor . . . but it’s Trevor, and that’s different, to me.” He looked at me. “I should’ve thought more about you.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Honest. Maybe I’m a little confused about it . . . but it’s okay.” I smiled at him, and I could feel it come out a little crooked. “Besides, it really was hot. Really sexual.”

“Yeah.” He went on studying my face, and looking unhappy.

“How did you know Trevor wouldn’t freak out about – doing it with us?” I had to ask; I was curious.

“Trev? Oh, I just knew. I looked at him.” He paused, for a second. “He never would have done that with Michael, you know. Or anybody else I ever dated.” He took a breath. “And I wouldn’t have, either.”

“Cool,” I said. Standing there; looking down at him, a little; his face tilted up to mine. “Baby . . . do you mind that I’m monogamous? I’m kind of hopelessly monogamous, actually. Derrick used to get on me, for that.” I tried to turn it into a joke, a little.

Cole stared at me. “Are you kidding? Of course I don’t mind. I am too; totally.”

Meaning, Trevor didn’t count. I shrugged, and smiled at him. “Good; good. You know,” I went on, more softly, “I really do love you.”

The unhappy look went away, and seeing the smile, the totally un-Cole-like smile that spread over his face was like watching the sun come out from behind dark clouds.

“Oh, and for the record?” I went on. A little facetiously.

“Yeah?”

“I love you for a lot of things, like how strong you are, and how you’re not afraid of anything, and how underneath the cynicism, you’re such a big softie . . . ”

If anything, his face was even more luminous, now; just shining, and his eyes were glinting.

“But I also love the way you’re always pushing the boundaries.” I smiled a little at him, lopsidedly. “That, and the noises you make, when I’m making you come . . . MMMMPHHH - !”

Cole’d cut me off, by grabbing me around the neck and dragging me down for a giant, deep, very erotic wet kiss. Or wet make-out, more accurately.

The little brat.

But it served me right, for mentioning the pushing-the-boundaries part.

“MMMPH!” I spluttered, and pushed him back, looking around –

But, nobody was in sight.

And, I thought, after all, it IS Berkeley. There are worse places to do something like this.

“So, we’re okay?” asked Cole. His arm still around my neck. Looking up into my eyes. Me smelling his sweet breath, the taste of his mouth still on my lips.

“We’re okay,” I said. And then “MMMPPHHHH - !” again. Into Cole’s mouth . . .

*  *  *  *  *

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