At that moment, a stranger appeared at Ian’s bedroom door; a man of some height, wearing a suit, a tie, and some shiny black shoes. Sighting Ian, he rocked back with combed-black hair and a surprised expression on his face, intrigued by the naked white and orange youth gawping at himself in the mirror, still reeling from his first orgasm. Ian saw the stranger and gasped loudly. Then with a bemused smirk, his eyes twinkled with fear, embarrassment, then rage. What the… Who are you? How did you get in here? Have you been spying??? Ian’s face contorted until his eyes shone with elvish glee, and he erupted with a laugh. “Ha!” The sound shot through the room, and landed like a slap on the intruder’s face.
Beau Gantry raised a hand of apology, his manly face smiled easily, and his eyes glittered. I sensed something not quite right about him, a blend of straight-jacket officiousness and a devil-may-care attitude that made him most curious.
Ian grabbed his pants to cover himself, his hands still sticky, his orange lips gaping, backed into a corner, his nerves tingling, brain sizzling; exposed, terrified, elated, defiant.
“Who are you?” He demanded.
“Ian?” A woman’s voice called from the living room.
The stranger assumed a mask of adult propriety, waved and closed the bedroom door. Ian jumped up. His heart raced as he forced one leg down his jeans, then fell over putting the other leg in. He fumbled to get his swollen appendage packed safely behind his zipper as the door reopened and a young woman about five and a half feet tall, with a tired but comely face, curled auburn hair swept off her neck, wearing figure-hugging jeans and a blouse, appeared. This was Angie, Ian’s mother. She looked confused at first, seeing her beautiful son, leaning awkwardly against his Star Wars duvet, covered in semen, half naked, pornographic magazines strewn over the floor. I could see the facts slowly knit themselves together in Angie’s mind.
“Where did you find those?” She asked him guardedly, then as if to protect some secret, “those were your father’s.”
The sight of Angie unglued Ian. He stood nervously, arms crossed over his chest. His toes brushed the edges of the magazines, and he stared at her. His face radiated fear. The oddball stranger stood behind Angie, his eyes perversely glued to Ian’s pale freckled chest.
“They were in your closet.” Ian admitted sheepishly. “I was looking for Simon.”
Angie reached down and scooped me up into her arms. “And what were you doing in there?” She asked. Then to Ian, almost laughing, “It’s alright. Don’t be ashamed.”
The stranger stepped forward, offering Ian a sturdy outstretched hand. “I’m Beau Gantry.” He said with a twang. There was that glimmer again.
Ian looked up at this Beau Gantry, breathing in his musky cologne, observing his square jaw and tailored hair, but incredulous and confused. The situation was beyond his reckoning.
“Beau wants to take us to dinner.” Angie informed us. “I thought it would be nice to get out. It will give us all a chance to get to know each other and talk.”
It occurred to Ian in that moment he had had enough getting to know you for one day. “Talk about what?”
This seemed to sting Angie as she caught the shine of semen on Ian’s navel. “Good grief, get yourself cleaned up!” Angie’s voice cracked, as her own nervousness finally caught up with her. Her arms sprang wildly and she ushered Beau Gantry out. “We’ll wait for you downstairs,” she said as she closed the door.
Silence filled the room, but for Ian’s heart pounding in his chest. He sat on the edge of the bed unable to take it all in; exhausted from his exertions, the total body shock of his first orgasm, of being discovered by a total stranger, then his mother. He had expected her to fly off on one of her fits, as she often does when things go out of whack. Ian sat motionless, taking deep breaths and looking at me, thinking, “that’s him, huh?” – referring to the strange man who had just left the room.
“Yup,” I thought back, licking my paw. “Not what you expected, is he?” But I knew Ian had never given it much thought. Angie only talked about Beau briefly, in the most oblique terms; “Beau and I are going out after work, fix yourself a sandwich and don’t wait up.”
Until now Beau Gantry had been as real to Ian as a tree hidden deep in the forest. Ian’s father had been gone almost a year, and was equally removed from Ian’s thoughts. But today marked a change. Ian’s father would continue receding into the background. And though he was unaware, Ian was now grappling with Beau Gantry; his awkward smiling intrusion into Ian’s bedroom, his probing eyes, his manly fingers jutting toward him, his friendly twang insinuating itself into Ian’s mind.
“You should take a shower.” I said. “That will help you calm down.” I watched Ian move in starts and stops, running what had just happened over and over in a world askew from the one he’d known moments before. We waited for the sound of the living room door to close, then Ian tip-toed into the bathroom, pulled his gooey exhausted limbs from his jeans and started the shower.
I padded across the tawdry magazine covers, and leapt onto the window ledge overlooking the parking lot. Angie and Beau Gantry leaned against Beau’s car, a burgundy BMW 735i, that glimmered in the late afternoon sun. The incident with Ian evidently sparked an amorous episode down by the car. And I watched them leaning and kissing passionately against the driver door, and overheard them whispering.
“That’s not what I had in mind for your first meeting. I can’t believe it, I’m so embarrassed.”
“Why? You should get used to it. How old is he?”
“He’s just twelve. He’s growing up too fast!”
“You should have seen the look on his face! He’s different than I imagined. I guess he gets the red hair from his father.”
“Yes. Yes, he did.”
“Do you really think Ian will be ok with us moving and living together?” And I detected longing in Beau Gantry’s voice.
“He’ll be ok.” Angie said, taking in Beau’s serious gaze. “He’s used to moving. If I’m fine with it, he will be.”
I thought about Ian. The poor boy had no idea about the news waiting for him at dinner. I lunged from the window and found him lathered in soap from head to toe. Steam billowed from the shower, and I watched the soap running down his hindquarters and down his legs.
“You never told me what happened to your father.” I said to him.
“I don’t know what happened to him.” He answered crisply. “He just left.”
“But it was something about his job?”
“He lost it,” Ian sounded, as a kind of whisper from the depths. “He worked at… the chicken plant in Canton and uh…” Ian’s voice trailed off, “it got sold, or something, and… my mom…” His voice dipped again, and Ian’s spirit followed it… I waited. “There was a fight.” He said.
“A big fight.” Ian’s words formed in my head, and I could vaguely perceive the contours of the scene as Ian remembered it, shadows and lines, mostly. I felt the rush of Ian’s emotion, his sadness, mainly his fear. Ian’s voice trailed and echoed through space. “I tried to make it stop.” He whispered. “I tried with my mind.” His voice looped over and over and grew louder like echoes in a cave.
This is how it is when a thought obsesses Ian and his emotions take over. He gripped the shower head, leaned his head back gulping in as much water as he could, in a vain attempt to quell the echoes. Then he spat it all down the drain so dark, it threatened to take him too. I had to leave.
I leapt back to my window perch as an evening breeze blew past. My eyes were moons beaming down at the lovers poised against Beau’s car, which was the color of blood, of passion, of Ian’s swollen member as he recovered in the steamy shower. Ian’s mother faced the driver’s side, her hands tight against the door frame. Beau Gantry gripped her from behind, thrusting his pelvis, and biting her neck just like a lion.