Never underestimate a man’s sexiness; this is what I always say. Whether he is the boy next door, mechanic down the street, or the banker who works in the city, never miscalculate his raw beauty.
I meet Dayton O’Hare at Marcello’s Grocerette on Mifflo Street in downtown Templeton, which sits approximately six miles south of Erie, Pennsylvania. Both of us stand in the check-out line with a few groceries. I hold a loaf of twelve-grain bread, half gallon of pulp-free orange juice, and a box of frozen turkey burgers. Dayton holds a two-liter bottle of Sprite, box of Saltines, and two bags of chocolate chips. There is some kind of bizarre, yet familiar, connection between us. Perhaps it is serendipity at work, drawing us together. Whatever it is, neither of us refute it, smile at each other, and nod our heads, offering simple greetings.
Dayton takes me in from head to toe and apparently appreciates that my six foot frame is muscled, a sign that I obviously work out. Maybe he likes my walnut-colored eyes, onyx-colored hair, and my Italian dark skin. Perhaps he wants to graze fingers along my clean-shaven cheeks and chin and touch my forty-four year old flesh with desire. What he can’t tell about my looks is elementary. I teach a number of English-related classes at West End College, I’m the youngest of six brothers, and the last “real” relationship I had with a man was over two years ago.
It’s my turn to take in the strawberry-blond gem in front of me, who had to be half my age. I scan his structure from head to toe and pile details between my temples: six-two frame, approximately 190 pounds, muscular build that smells of gasoline, grease, and oil, forest green eyes, pencil point-size freckles cover the bridge of his nose, PLAYER written across his tight yellow T-shirt, denim jeans snug against his muscular thighs, work boots on size twelve feet.
“I’m Dayton O’Hare,” he says. I believe he will shake my hand, but both of our arms are filled with provisions.
I nod my head and reply, “Nino Spiro. Nice to meet you.”
I honestly can’t recall exactly how we begin a conversation. I think he mentions the afternoon June weather with its blue skies and light wind. I concur that it is a beautiful day out and at some point I mention my three-bedroom Cape Cod on Cromley Way. He makes a joke about needing a place to live because his current situation with his two sisters and their shared apartment is not working out for his best interest. The next thing I know, he moves into the attic bedroom and agrees to pay me three hundred dollars a month for rent. This is how I become below the boarder. No lies mentioned. 2
Honestly, I can’t even tell that Dayton lives at the house. He is very quiet and seems to keep to himself. No visitors come and go; not even his older sisters.
When he is not working at O’Hare’s Garage on Smithfield Avenue as an assistant mechanic, he enjoys playing table pool at Tubby’s Lounge, a local pool hall where all the blue collar boys and men congregate and have a good time. Sometimes he does come home drunk in the middle of the night. The guy attempts to be as quiet as possible, respecting my sleep, but I can still hear him accidentally bump into a kitchen chair, a doorframe, or trip on one of the steps leading to his attic bedroom. Rarely, do we see each other, crossing paths within the old Cape Cod. But when we do, our meetings are short, concise, and somewhat awkward.
On June 7 we meet in the kitchen as both of us prepare for our day of work ahead. I unintentionally discover Dayton in nothing more than a pair of freshly laundered briefs. He stands at the counter drinking a glass of pulp-free orange juice. Upon my entrance, our eyes immediately connect. Here, I take in his chiseled and pale core. The guy has a toned torso with reddish nipples and orange-red-blond tangles of delicious looking hair below his comma-shaped navel. His thighs are thick, just like his shoulders, and a limp package between his legs looks five inches soft and cut with a mushroom-shaped cap.
He says to me, “You’re tie is crooked, Nino. Why don’t I fix it for you?”
I nod my head, agreeing with his suggestion. “Please.”
He places his glass of orange juice on the counter, moves up to me, fingers the Kenneth Cole tie at my throat, and exhales his morning breath on my face, which smells of oranges and a late night sandwich.
The moment becomes somewhat intimate between us. Our middles touch and my right palm instinctively reaches out and grazes two fingertips against his left hip. Following this action, my hand pulls away quickly and leaves us in a state of obdurate silence.
