Chapter Six

Milt Weinsap lived alone. He was the kind of man to whom appearances meant everything. The way he had decorated his little one-bedroom apartment was demonstrative of his love of appearances. The Edgewater apartment, just blocks from Lake Michigan to the east and the domiciles of several gangs to the west, had the look of a place one would expect to come leaping from the pages of some interior design magazine, its glossy pages bearing testimony to an almost slavish devotion to style and cleanliness.

As Milt fluttered around the living room, straightening magazines and making sure the bleached oak furniture and white sofa and chairs revealed not even the tiniest speck of dust or dirt, he kept one ear alert for the sound of the buzzer downstairs, the one that would let him know his gentleman caller had arrived. He stood back and surveyed the living room, liking the way the deco sconce light fixtures gave a muted glow to the room, filling it with a warmth that at once flattered the almost minimalist design of the furniture and imbued the room with the kind of warmth that seemed sensual, almost erotic. Milt tiptoed into the bedroom, where the overstuffed goose down white comforter had already been pulled back, revealing beige pinstriped sheets and a pile of matching pillows. The cherrywood Jenny Lind furniture bore a high gloss. The miniblinds had been opened enough to admit a dull yellow light from the sodium vapor lamp outside his window. Candles had been placed around the room, pillars, columns, and tapers on almost every available surface, awaiting the touch of Milt’s sterling silver lighter. Milt knew then the room would dance with light and shadow, flickering and giving it the coziness of the private den of some wild beast.

Milt happened to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror by the bed and was pleased with what looked back at him. Milt was a small man, but recent workouts had toned and hardened his five ten frame, giving definition to his abdominal muscles, enlarging and separating his pecs, and subtracting the love handles from his sides. His short red hair, buzz cut, complemented the goatee he had completed growing only a month or two before and the jade green contact lenses he had just put in.

He was forty-five years old and had no intention of letting Mother Nature make him look any less appealing.

Milt crossed the room and pressed the key to shut down his Dell laptop. He didn’t like the thought that it was this very device that was bringing him his gentleman caller. It was like some sort of electronic fishing lure. Milt would have preferred to have been discovered on a walk along Foster Avenue Beach, just blocks away from his apartment, the wind off the lake giving his face a ruddy glow, irresistible.

But sometimes, Milt thought, we do what we have to do to make our dreams come true. Who said that one’s true love couldn’t be met in cyberspace? Why, Milt knew that while he was busy prospecting online, someone as desirable as he could be doing the exact same thing.

Milt slipped into his paisley silk robe and slid into a pair of black Calvin Klein boxers.

He had been through the routine before, so many times the routine had been fraught with disappointment. No one who showed up at his door was ever appreciative of all the care he took in making sure his apartment was clean, or even the care he took with his own personal hygiene, making sure he smelled of soap and perhaps just a hint of Tuscany cologne. All they ever wanted to do was copulate like animals, sometimes leaning against his front door, pants down, waiting to be serviced.

And Milt would comply. Hoping, always hoping, that after it was over and the animal was tamed, his suitor for the night would stay on and share a cup of Earl Grey with him, the two basking in a warm afterglow while the CD player spilled out Oscar Peterson.

But they never stayed. In fact, they often were out the door before their pants were completely zipped, leaving Milt alone to clean the semen from his chest.

And yet Milt considered himself an optimist. Each time he made a new “date” online, he hoped this one would be different. This would be the one who would compliment him on his refined taste, his mannish good looks, the one who would take him in his arms and stare into his eyes and tell Milt how fortunate he was to have logged on to Men4HookUpNow—his first time!—and gotten so lucky. Perhaps he’d even say they should wait to consummate their new relationship, because Milt was special, and he wanted it to be much more than a quick sexual encounter.

And then there were the other online experiences, so many of those other experiences, where he’d get an instant message or email asking for specific directions to his apartment, even giving Milt an estimated time of arrival, and then the man would never show. Many nights, Milt had waited anxiously by his window, ears perking up each time a car parked in front of his building, sometimes even watching with enthusiasm as a lone male exited his car, and then his enthusiasm would sink as the male would walk to another building.

About this caller, Milt felt different. He knew he wouldn’t be one of the game players. He knew this caller would show up. He recalled the manly voice, with just a hint of boyishness, asking him all sorts of questions before he made a decision as to whether he should pay Milt a visit. The kinds of questions designed to get to know Milt better, to make sure Milt was conveniently located, in short the kinds of questions someone serious about getting together would ask.

The buzzer sounded, and Milt’s heart gave a small lurch.

Everything was at the ready. Everything was perfect.

This time it would be love, Milt was certain.

Milt hurried to quiet the buzzer, letting the person below in without asking for identification. No one else would be coming to call at this late night hour. He leaned on the Listen button, hearing the metallic bark of its release downstairs and the creak and slam of the glass-and-wood-framed door down below. Butterflies beat against his ribs as he imagined the heavy step of carpenter’s work boots coming up his stairs, rounding the landing.

Milt stood poised at the peephole, watching. Soon a distorted figure appeared in the glass. For a moment, Milt’s heart sank in disappointment. The man outside was not the burly blue-collar man Milt had hoped for, but a short boyish-looking man whose face was topped with a mass of messy blond hair, in need of a comb and a dollop of gel.

But Milt knew it was the inner soul of the man that counted, and he turned the deadbolt so his caller would realize he was now on the right floor.

Milt took a breath and swung the door open. He smiled.

“Milt?” The voice that came out of the boy/man was higher than the one he had been enraptured with on the phone. No matter; the same thing had happened several times before. The fact that the voice was pitched slightly higher than the voice on the phone proved only one thing: that the caller wanted to make a good impression.

And this was a quality Milt admired in a man. After all, impressions were so important.

“Hi,” Milt said and swung the door open wider.

The man was shorter even than Milt, almost elfin. He looked harmless as he swung by. With him came the smell of cigarettes and beer, and in spite of his usual aversion to such scents, Milt was enchanted with the scent, conjuring up as it did images of men in bars, smoking and swilling beer while balls on a pool table cracked in the background, overlaid with the voice of Patsy Cline singing “Crazy.”

Milt closed the door. “Ray?”

The man smiled, and his face was lit up by it. His teeth were two perfect rows of white, glorious. The smile changed his entire face, bringing out a radiance and, Milt thought, a depth and decency not immediately apparent.

“Hello,” Milt said. “Can I get you something to drink? I have a nice bottle of chardonnay chilling in the kitchen.”

“Chardonnay? My favorite. Bring me a glass, would you?”

“Coming right up.” Milt hurried into the kitchen, where two Waterford crystal wineglasses chilled in the freezer. He removed them and took the wine, already uncorked, from the top shelf of the refrigerator. Milt listened to the glug-glug sound of the wine as he filled each glass.

“Here you are, Ray.” Milt handed him his glass and thrilled at the electricity that went through the two of them as their fingers briefly touched.

Ray clinked his glass against Milt’s. “Cheers,” he whispered, and his pale blue eyes met Milt’s for the first time. Milt could see a quiet fire dancing in those eyes and was certain it spoke of an intelligence and grace he had searched for all his adult life.

Maybe, just maybe, this was the one.

“Would you like to sit down?”

In response, Ray grabbed a coaster and set his wineglass on the coffee table. “What I’d really like to do is kiss you.”

Milt closed his eyes for a moment, then set down his own glass. He noticed his hand was trembling, ever so slightly. Milt moved closer, wondering how the faded jeans Ray wore would feel pressed against the shimmering fabric of his robe.

When Ray’s arms encircled him, Milt was pleasantly surprised. Even though the man was small, his grasp and reach were those of a much larger man, all encompassing, engulfing.

Milt surrendered to the embrace. The hot touch of Ray’s lips on his neck blocked out all thought, and the stubble of Ray’s beard on the sensitive skin of his neck caused Milt to feel flushed.

He was sure love had arrived. After they finished their wine, Ray took Milt’s hand and led him into the bedroom. Quickly, Milt dropped his robe on a Queen Anne chair in the corner of the room, then hurried about, lighting all dozen candles. When he was done, he switched off the overhead and stood back, satisfied, as the room filled with a warm, flickering glow.

He stared into Ray’s eyes with what he hoped was a meaningful expression, conveying more than mere lust. He hoped his look said, “You are special. You are the one I could be happy with.”

He felt that Ray picked up on his meaning as he crossed the room to take him, once more, in his arms. Milt surrendered to the tight embrace, surrendered as he felt Ray’s thumb hook into the elastic waistband of his shorts and slide them slowly down over his thighs, his knees, until they were in a heap that Milt kicked away.

And then the passion rose, and Ray was kissing him all over, wetting his face, throat, chest, and stomach with his tender, fluttering kisses.

“Lie down on the bed while I get undressed.”

Milt lay across the pale comforter, his ass white in the flickering glow of the candles. He watched himself in the mirror, trying to imagine how inviting he must look to Ray.

And Ray was there in the shadows, slowly removing his clothing, revealing a body whose definition was sharpened by the half-light. His tousled blond hair was a warm glow in the flames.

Milt couldn’t wait for the moment when he would feel the lithe yet manly form stretched out on top of him, his sex pressing insistently against him.

This time would be like no other.

This time would be making love.

Ray bent over, fumbling in the pocket of his jeans. Milt closed his eyes for a moment, appreciating the consideration of this man. Obviously, he had brought his own condoms, unlike so many of his other suitors, who defiled his ears with terms like “bareback” or “fucking skin on skin.”

This one, however, was thoughtful, considerate. Milt wiggled against the comforter, feeling its downy warmth beneath him and, he hoped, making him look more inviting.

Milt glanced into the mirror once more and froze.

He let out a little groan and tried to right himself but for a moment was paralyzed.

Ray did not have a condom in his hand but a large hunting knife.

Milt twisted over, drawing his knees to his chest, covering his quickly withering erection. His mouth had suddenly gone dry, and it was with great effort that he formed the words, “What are you doing?”

Milt saw the face he had seen as kind twist into the face of a demon with a simple yet demented smile. “Just getting my knife out. My trusty Bowie.” Ray winked. “It’ll make things more fun. A little role-playing is all. A little rape scene.” He barked out a short laugh. “You didn’t think I was gonna hurt you, did you?”

Milt’s throat felt constricted. His heart pounded. “No, uh, of course not. Y’see, I’m not into anything like that.” With a mighty effort, Milt managed to work some spit down his throat. “I think you better go now.”

“Why, sweetie? When the party’s just beginning?” Ray moved closer to the bed, weighing it down at one side with the pressure of his knee.

Milt scooted backward, making himself into a little ball, spine rigid against the headboard. He was panting now; perspiration trickled down his sides from his armpits. The bed was against the wall, and the only way he could get off was to go toward Ray, something he desperately did not want to do.

“I want you to go. Please.” Milt hated the way his voice had suddenly become so whining. There was no authoritativeness, no force behind it. It was the voice of a scared little boy: high, wheedling.

“I wouldn’t hear of it. The party’s just beginning.”

“Put the knife away. You’re frightening me.”

“Come on. A boy like you… You probably appreciate a big old knife.” Ray lifted the knife so its stainless steel took on added brightness in the candlelight. “A big old piercing knife.” He chuckled, and Milt cringed at the sound of the laughter, unconnected to anything he had known as human.

Why hadn’t he listened to himself when he had first started going online? He had told himself then that these were strangers, and you didn’t know who you were letting into your house. But in a year of such dalliances, nothing bad had happened. The fear had disappeared, proven wrong by scores of no-shows and men just wanting to get off quickly and without involvement.

And now the fear was twisting inside him, an unwelcome parasite, making his stomach churn and his heart race, blood pounding in his ears.

With one deft motion, Ray sprawled across the bed, knife aloft. He plunged the knife downward, just missing Milt’s thigh as he scurried away, the knife buried in his comforter and mattress, sending up a spray of feathers and foam dust. Milt managed to get to his knees, crawling and grunting, heading toward the footboard.

The second time the knife came down, it glanced off Milt’s shin, and the warmth of his own blood set off new alarms. For just a moment, he thought of how the blood would stain the $300 comforter and the sheets beneath it.

He gripped the footboard, trying with desperation to use it to hoist himself out of the bed, and screamed as the knife plunged in deep this time, just at the top of his buttocks. “Please, no,” he whispered.

But Milt managed to propel himself somehow over the footboard and landed in a heap on the hardwood floor. Something cracked in his wrist, and he winced but ignored it. He scrambled to his feet and ran for the door.

The next knife blow hit him as he reached the front door. He felt it break through the skin and muscle of his back, the blade’s penetration white-hot, searing, delivering a pain unimaginable and breathtaking.

Milt slid to the floor, curling into a little ball, right there by his front door. His breath was ragged and wheezing. “Please, sir,” he whimpered. “Please don’t hurt me.” Milt scrunched his eyes together as he watched Ray raise his knife once more.