Timothy and the Lion Boy Chapter 11

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Works of fiction are all fantasies about other people's lives. Those lives have their own trajectory of wants and needs, actions and reactions, hopes and despairs. Fiction allows us, the reader, to share their paths, vicariously, without personal consequence. We do not need to approve or disapprove of their actions because it is their lives. Our role is to bare witness and take what we find relevant to ourselves.

This story is intended for adults who like homotropic erotica. Erotica is more about the journey to sexual fulfillment than the event itself. All erotica is aimed for those 18 and older.

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Timothy and the Lion Boy 10--Epilogue

        I never heard from Danny again except once. I moved on. Dated Lance, but he was just a friend with benefits. I dated others, but not seriously. I completed school and found a great job at a large company in their accounting department. I stayed close to Horse and Crystal, and Ben with his first real boyfriend. I was content with my life.

I never heard from Danny again except once on my birthday, a year after he left. A card arrived with a lion on front and the greetings “Have a roaring good birthday”. It was unsigned, but I knew. It hit me hard. I did not know how to react. I carried the card with me; I slept with it under my pillow until.

I was sitting in Grant Park, far enough away from Buckingham Fountain to not be disturbed by tourists, in the rose garden. It was summer, the humid morning air held the scent of roses like an old lover’s shirt. Morose, I sat on a bench, card in hand, staring at the bees as they flitted among the flowers.

        “Mind if I share this bench.” A voice said, older male. I did not respond or look at him.

 I sensed him sit next to me. “Nice day to enjoy the garden. I love coming here, particularly in the morning when the smell is heaviest. It gives me peace; it gives me the strength to face another day.” I looked over at the speaker. The man was old, maybe in his eighties or more. He wore well faded loose jeans that hung too long so the edges were frayed and they were too loose around the waist. Ontop was a green flannel shirt under a saggy grey cardigan sweater. From his clothes one might think he was homeless except for his well trimmed hair, a little long but stylish, and the bright red Air Jordan. His eye caught mine. A smile broke through the wrinkles like a sunrise through clouds. “Another lost soul like me.” His eyes were a watery blue, but intense like a scanning beam. “Name’s Clyde.” I mumbled Timothy, from a habit of politeness that my parents instilled. Part of me wanted him to go away, another wanted him to stay. Sometimes the comfort of strangers is a better solace than the companionship of friends because with strangers there are no expectations. He spotted the card in my hand. “Birthday?” He gestured at the card.

        “Couple weeks ago.”

        He barely nodded his head in reply. “Birthdays can be depressing, my thirtieth, fortieth and seventieth were my worst. At thirty I knew I was no longer young. At forty I fretted over how my dreams slid past: some fulfilled, some changed, some lost. At seventy I knew I was old, a septuagenarian; my life was winding down. Now at almost ninety, I relish every day. I stop to smell the roses. I know that is a cliche, but they are cliches because they hold a truth worth repeating” I found a smile for him as I looked with him, at the roses. We, together, took a deep breath. “But you my lad, are way too young to have a crisis of age. So it must be a crisis of the heart.” He did not say anything for a long time. I wanted him to ask. I need him to ask. “A lost love?”

        He asked and I unburdened myself of everything about Danny and my relationship. I never saw eyes with so much empathy. There was no judgement, no condemnation, no disgust. I felt him grieve with me; he took my pain, and it was his. He took it as a gift. He carefully guided me to his shoulder and I wept: it was a soft cry like a wind that shakes a tree but does not break.

        I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my T-shirt.  Sitting back, I said, “Sorry about this. I don’t normally break down in the arms of strangers.”

        “No?” He laughed with a crackling voice. “I am just glad I was here to hold you.” I looked at him expectantly. “I know you want words of wisdom, but I have none. I have, like you, known the pain of loss several times over. I have faced the horror of AIDS as it claimed men close to me, and it never got easier. The hollowness of lovers gone, never to cry at midnight. I come here to remember them and to be thankful for the time I had with them. All I can say is to keep moving, keep living, keep smelling the roses.

“No one will replace Danny, but the heart is a grand hotel.” His smile was worn with past grief, a rock that lost all edges but was still strong.  “Some will come to stay the night, some will take up residence, but it is always a hotel. They are always guests there, and we need to make them welcome.” Then he laughed, effervescent and brilliant. “Sometimes guests leave their baggage. Damn nuisance to dispose of.” I had to join him in the laugh because I knew what bagage Danny left behind for me to clean up.

        “How do you build a bonfire hot enough to burn the rubbish? Danny left me enough to burn down Chicago again.”

        “You don’t burn it.” I loved the kindness in his eyes. “That is destructive. You store it in the attic or deep in the basement for future reference.” He took the card from me, read it and handed it back. “Or maybe put it in lost and found.”  He patted my knee. “Timothy, you may not have Danny’s body or soul, but you still have his heart.” His hand tapped the card. His hands were pale and wrinkled, the blood vessels wormed blue lines under fragile age-spotted skin. It was his badge of survival. I owed it to myself; I owed it to Danny to survive.

        “Thank you, Clyde,” I said, “You make me believe in angels.” He frowned. “I mean meeting you here in the rose garden was like a guardian angel looking out for me and giving me what I need.”

        “It is called divine providence. And you helped me too. I was feeling sorry for myself, that I had outlived any usefulness. But you let me into your life; it felt good. What age misses most is the vibrancy of youth.”

        We met frequently in the rose garden, until winter buried the roses. And Clyde never returned. I put on the welcome mat in the lobby of my hotel “Smell the Roses, All Welcome”.

(The sequel to this story was previously published in Nifty as “Bag of Candy Weekend” under Adult Friends.)