“So you’re the man who wrote that wonderful play.” I shook hands with the young adult. “Apparently you also can help with some marijuana.”
“Yes, I can,” he replied. “But I think Guy had something else in mind.”
I stared at the angel who had walked ahead of me through the front door. He smirked.
“Advice is what he means,” my winged friend replied.
“Advice?”
“Yes, Allan, advice. Before swimming in uncharted territory, you have to do your research. What better advice is there than from the person who wrote the play?”
I shook my head, feeling like my unrequited love was front-page news.
“He’s right, you know,” said our host. “But your situation is different, Allan. Mine was mutual; yours needs work.”
He ushered us into the lounge room.
“Okay, mine’s not about a blissful threesome, but there is intensity there.”
“And there’s still passion to be had. Why should you miss out on that, no matter the consequences? The fallout can’t all be bad.”
“Now you’re sounding like your own play,” said Guy. “But it’s the fallout that worries me most. You don’t want tears before bedtime.”
“Just the thing Ipan would say,” I commented.
We shared Brady Bunch smiles. Our host sank back into his worn terracotta-colored armchair. The coffee table wobbled as he placed his feet on it. Stale cigarette butts in an ashtray on the balcony and the three-quarter-empty bourbon bottle in the kitchen blended in a scent that shrieked bachelorism.
“Sorry about the state of this place,” he said. “My flatmate smokes.”
“Boys will be boys,” I replied. “Where is he?”
“Out. No idea where. Probably at the Pedestal.”
“Like I said, boys will be boys.”
I gazed at the orange typewriter on their smoky-glass-topped dining table. A box of carbon paper and a pile of clean foolscap sheets sat near the writing machine, as did several bottles of liquid paper.
“Let me guess. You’re from the seventies.”
He nodded.
I wandered over to the typewriter and admired its slightly curved edges. It was a testament to what was once considered modern styling at a time when mission-brown and burnt-citrus shades were considered futuristic. The clattering of keys would pulse in rhythm under the writer’s fingers, only stopping when the clunk of two letters slammed into each other as they raced to make their mark.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “Wait a second. I only know you as Gloria’s son.”
“And that’s all you’ll ever know me as.” He gestured for me to sit down. “Some of my friends call me Glory for short.”
“Eek! I don’t think I could call you Glory. Too weird!”
“Weirder than Gloria’s son?”
“No, I can live with Gloria’s son. Is it a case of an embarrassing first name, or do you have some creative artistic reason?”
“A bit of both. I think Mum named me something embarrassing for artistic reasons.” Guy and I chuckled. “How’s the play going?”
“We’ve only had one rehearsal. There’s still a lot of work to do.” I tried to sound as positive as I could. “How deep did you and the couple get in your relationship?”
“I didn’t lay all my cards on the table, so that’s why the sex is unresolved in my play.”
“I’m not sure that answers my question.”
Gloria’s son winked at me before leaning forward.
“Allow me some discretion, Allan. But you came here for advice on your love life, not hear the ins and outs of mine.” Now I leaned forward. “Does he flirt with you?”
“Lately he has. Or at least he did before he moved in with Pedro.”
“That’s not a bad thing. This way you know he’s interested. Now steal a kiss backstage.”
“But what if he pulls away?”
“Then at least he knows you’re ready to take it further.”
“Hold on,” said Guy. “It’s not Warwick that will get hurt if Allan puts himself on the line.”
“Thank goodness I wasn’t around in the twenty-first century. Allan, you and Warwick sound so uptight!”
“Correction. I’m really the one that’s uptight,” I replied. “Everyone around me had friends with benefits. Even Warwick had little liaisons from time to time.”
“So take a leaf out of his book. Just let love flow. If he doesn’t kiss you back, at least he’ll go away and consider it.”
“But I’ll feel like a total goose.”
“Not if you think of it as just sex. It’s merely an extension of the love you guys already have.”
“So I should just aim for a bit of fun and not romance?”
“Bingo!” Gloria’s son rubbed his hands. “My work here is done.”
The cautious angel flapped his wings several times. “Isn’t it better to kiss him tonight, when he visits you at home, Allan?”
Our young advisor nodded. “Guy has a point. If he’s coming around without Pedro, you can take it further then and there.”
“I’m still scared,” I admitted. “I don’t want to wager too much emotional baggage on the roulette wheel.”
“Allan, if you don’t place the bet, you’ll never win,” advised Gloria’s son. He reached below the coffee table and pulled out a box made of woven bamboo. “Besides, I’ve got something that will help you in your quest.”
Inside was a clear container of marijuana, surrounded by its associated implements. With the expertise of a watchmaker, he rolled a generous joint for me to share with Warwick. By the odor of the dried weed, I could tell we’d be having a fun time even without sex.
“Do you want one as well, Guy?”
“Yes, please. I think I’ll need it after rehearsal.”
* * *
After another uninspired afternoon under Samantha’s direction, Guy escorted me home so we could lick our wounds. Warwick went to Pedro’s, but promised to visit later and run lines. I was desperate for a shower to rinse my clammy self, after sweating all day inside that ludicrous moon suit.
Cassandra Wilson’s slick vocals played on the stereo. The soft patter of bongos and the rich throb of the bass cushioned my stress, making me yearn to share my soul. In time, the transition would be complete. Calm would reign after the play’s chaos, and my love and I would stand together, serene in each other’s arms.
I cleansed myself back to normality with each drop from the showerhead, reflecting on how water, whether observed or experienced, never failed to console. The silky bath towel massaged my scalp as I inhaled an alluring scent coming from the living room. Guy was enjoying his gift from this morning’s visit, spread out on the sofa like a rag doll.
“I couldn’t wait,” he said. “It’s hot in that tunic, and I need to forget about today.”
“There’s a fresh towel in the bathroom. Take a shower. You’ll feel better.”
“Anything to wash away today’s melodrama.”
He took another puff and handed me his joint.
“Don’t forget, tonight is about me and Warwick. I don’t need you hanging around too long after he gets here.”
My friend headed for salvation as I clouded my senses in front of my wardrobe. Should I wear a red T-shirt or a black short-sleeved top? It was such a dilemma.
As I felt the smoothness of a well-worn pair of jeans swallow my thighs, the music filtered through my thought patterns. I wished that my winged music student would be seduced by this type of jazz, as it normally appealed only to diehard fans. If not, there were Vince Jones and Kurt Elling CDs on hand to make the transition smoother or Marlena Shaw to ease him with a camp aesthetic.
I took another puff, aware I was overanalyzing. I considered how Ipan could’ve been such a beautifully vulnerable character, instead of his portrayal being marred by a confused director. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but whenever anyone was hitting their stride, Samantha would direct them off course. Pedro seemed to do whatever he wanted with minimal direction. His portrayal of the open-minded love interest was as believable as a naive pool cleaner in a porn flick.
The shower was running, and I knew Guy was rebooting his soul. As I drifted in front of my mirror, I stood upright as Ipan should, as suggested by the text. He was meant to be a proud man, full of wisdom and old-fashioned values. A kindhearted chap, out to do the right thing. Not a pantomime fool.
Guy peeked into the bedroom. He mouthed “he’s here” and ruffled his wings in slow motion. I passed the joint back to my friend so it could be offered to my visitor. I was already dressed, so all I needed to do was make my way to the living room. I summoned my feet to walk in the general direction, and on second request, they responded.
“I love it when you’re in this state,” said Warwick. He studied my eyes. “They’re as red as raspberries. How many puffs have you had?”
“Just a few. Guy’s clutching onto it now.”
“This is so cool!” remarked our winged companion.
His eyes were closed as he swayed to Cassandra’s crooning.
“Warwick, you might as well finish the joint,” I said. “We don’t need any more puffs.”
I took it from Guy’s fingers. With a deep breath, my friend inhaled what was left of the wacky weed.
“Hmm,” he remarked.
I glanced back at Guy, who was giving me a look I couldn’t comprehend. Was it supposed to be a look of seduction? If so, he needed practice.
I was reminded that before this whole experience, his kind was only something mentioned in religious texts and popular novels. I now took his gray wings for granted, like a friend with a scar or bad acne. The reality of where we were was a little easier to digest in this ethereal state of mind.
“Guy, I have a question for you,” I said.
“Yes?”
“How does an angel have sex? I mean, don’t the wings get in the way?” I stepped closer to examine them. “Are they an erogenous zone? It can’t be comfortable lying on your back, can it? Can you lie on your back?” I stroked them, feeling their fleecy texture. “If you could fly, would it take a lot of effort to remain airborne and still make love? Could it technically be called the mile-high club?”
“That’s more than one question, Allan.”
“I think I’m over Pedro.” This admission from Warwick took a while to sink in, simply because it had nothing to do with the current conversation. “I shouldn’t have moved in with him.”
I gradually turned, jaw wide open, no doubt resembling one of those fairground clown heads you place balls into.
“How does Pedro feel about it?” asked Guy.
“I haven’t told him yet.”
“Are you going to?”
“Hmm.”
“You’re being a coward,” I said. “Are you sure you’re just not over the honeymoon stage?”
“Hmm.”
Warwick was more contemplative than conversational.
Guy turned to us, fluttering and raising his feet several centimeters off the carpet.
“Guy, do you know what you just did?” I said.
The angel looked at the distance he traveled. A goofy laugh followed as he pointed back to where his feet first left the ground. He fluttered again, this time flying back to the stereo in an attempt to change the CD. Cassandra’s vocals ended on impact. The disc tray flung open as the sound system tumbled backward with Guy.
Sprawled out over the music machine, his dopey laugh returned. I was relieved that no first aid had to be administered as, in my subdued state, he could have bled to death before I noticed the red stain on the carpet.
Our angel pal leisurely crawled over to us, staggered to his feet, and encased us with his wings. His intention was clear. Fortunately I had enough social additive under my belt not to freak out. After all this time trying to know Warwick in the biblical sense, I was about to get the “steak knives” thrown in for free.
Guy took one hand from us each and placed them on his butt cheeks. Our hands were snared under his jeans, exploring the supple textures of his underwear. That feel of well-laundered cotton—was there anything more intense? Judging the package from the front of his jeans, it was easy to tell that this angel was the Master’s favorite.
Warwick turned to my horny comrade, opened his mouth, and waited for a response. He got his answer. How I felt about this was all still ambiguous. The weed had buffered my emotions, killing any hint of jealousy while letting a sense of longing take over. If this is what it took to sleep with Warwick, so be it. Now Guy’s lips beckoned me. The moist embrace sent me to another zone. Warwick who?
Guy shot a quick glance side to side at us both, before moseying to my bedroom with our hands still captive to his cotton-clad cheeks. He led us to the waiting bed. All of us lay humbly facedown. My hand journeyed upward to explore the contour of his back, where the base of his wings met. Warwick’s hand took the excursion south, but Guy’s jeans halted any further investigation.
Our angelic love doctor eased his way to a kneeling position, instinctively making us turn on our backs. He gestured for us to sit up. As we did, he placed his hands behind our necks and brought us to his mouth. Our tongues reached out, touching at the tips before sliding in all directions.
Guy smelled fresh and clean, like talcum powder, while Warwick’s musky fragrance made me want to melt with these men into one heaving, throbbing beast. I too clutched the back of their necks, bringing this three-way kiss to an intensely liberating encounter.
Our celestial friend broke away, pushing Warwick and I together. We kissed madly. Our tongues sliding and exploring. My world spinning, blissfully waiting to lose control.
Guy moved his hands from our necks, gently running his index finger from my navel to my crotch. I peeked and saw Warwick getting the same treatment, both of us stiffening as he rubbed. My kissing partner groaned. I joined him in cries of ecstasy.
The angel unbuttoned our jeans, exposing us to his whim. Warwick and I glanced down as Guy tasted what my friend had to offer. With both hands, I forced Warwick to my mouth, kissing him as he moaned in synch with Guy’s rhythm.
Then I sighed as I felt our buddy lick my shaft. His warm mouth taking me in, making my body wilt like a flower long before I was spent. Two sets of tender lips were using me for their pleasure, and I for theirs.
Guy’s moist tongue swirled around my knob as I whined. Warwick kissed me harder. The angel swallowed me whole and drew back before pushing down again. His tempo made me quiver.
I reached around and caressed Warwick’s back, lightly weaving my fingernails around his shoulder blades. He moved his mouth to my nipple and bit gently. He reached down to my balls and caressed them. Guy’s expert mouth moved away as Warwick gripped my cock and held tight.
I kissed the top of his head, burying my face in his thick black curls. His lovely scent refreshing me. Here was the man I was in love with, making me feel special. Making me feel that this was a new beginning in our relationship. From here on, we could never just be friends.
Our angelic instigator watched from the side of the bed, curled up with his hands around his knees. Soon we made love. My goatee beard rubbed my lover in all his private places, before my tongue took over. The starlight peeked through the curtains like a voyeur, casting a soft glow to this overdue ritual.
“Guy left at some stage last night, and we didn’t notice.”
I looked up, peering around the room. Warwick was right. Our angel friend had exited discreetly when we were too caught up to realize.
“How amazingly selfless of him.”
“Well, he is an angel,” my lover replied. “It’s probably his role here.”
“He’s one of the best friends anyone could ask for.”
“He knew what we wanted and made sure we got it.”
I tilted my head.
“He knew what we wanted?”
Warwick stared at me.
“You didn’t know?”
“I had no idea.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” I sat up. “How come I never knew?”
“I have no idea, Allan.”
“I don’t remember you saying anything.”
“Well, that’s because I haven’t actually said anything. I’ve been trying to give you these looks.”
“What looks?” Warwick demonstrated one. It was reminiscent of Rudolph Valentino giving his look of love, all facial expression but without the charisma. “No. What you should have done is more like this.” With bedroom eyes, I did my best Humphrey Bogart.
“Allan, it looks like your sleeping pill is kicking in!”
Warwick tried another look.
“Now you look like a drag queen after she’s realized she’s wearing the wrong shade of lipstick.”
We laughed.
“Do you remember this conversation before?”
“What, about tragic looks of love?”
“No, Allan, I mean between us. We’ve had this conversation before. The details are sketchy, but we’ve talked about romance already.”
Something vaguely rang a bell.
“Warwick, a lot of our former life has faded. Did we actually kiss?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s your problem,” called a voice from outside the bedroom. “Lack of communication.”
Guy swanned into my room with a breakfast tray. Sizzling bacon and softly poached eggs on three plates made my mouth water.
“You’re a cheeky devil for someone who’s an angel,” I said. “Getting our motors running, and then leaving when yours was still idling.”
“This was never about me, Allan.”
“Thank you, Guy.”
“But there’s something I want to know.” He poked his finger repeatedly into Warwick’s collarbone. “If you were in love with Allan, why did you run off with Pedro?”
“Like you said, lack of communication.”
“Oh come on, Warwick, that’s just scratching the surface.”
“Yes,” I said. “Guy’s right. You’re avoiding the question.”
“Allan, you were involved with someone else back in Sydney. So what’s the big deal about me running off with Pedro?”
“Oh please. You were the one who kept asking me if my relationship ever really started. You knew the vultures were circling.”
“Still, I didn’t want to be the home-wrecker.”
“Huh? You were the one who took me out all the time. You socialized with me while my boyfriend did other things.”
“Other things?” Guy asked.
“Yes, other things. I don’t know what he did. He just did other things.”
Our angelic pal let out a frustrated sigh. “Warwick, to go back to my original question, why did you run off with Pedro when you were in love with Allan?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure I know why myself.”
I discreetly put my finger over my mouth, signaling to Guy to stop inquiring. I didn’t want to pressure Warwick if he didn’t want to talk, as I was scared of pushing him away. I would dig for the answer myself once we were alone.
I took my breakfast plate and reminded our angel that he had, for the second time since I’d known him, briefly flown. He showed us the bruise on his thigh from the collision with the stereo. I assured him that regardless of the battle scars, this was a good start. He begrudgingly agreed, and after a little more chitchat, he left Warwick and I to our own devices.
My mouth was hungry but not for the remaining fragments of breakfast on my plate. My lover put his meal aside and jumped on top of me. His silky chest hairs tickled my knob as he slithered his way up my body until his face met mine.
“This should have happened long ago,” I said. “Long before we met Pedro.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about him, Allan. He’s my problem.”
Warwick began to kiss my neck.
“Not quite,” I gasped. “We both have to face him tonight at the theater.”
“Let’s enjoy this calm before the storm,” he replied in between each small delicious peck.
“How can we?” I exhaled in delight. “It’s opening night.” I groaned. “What if he does something rash?”
My man looked up and gave me a cheeky wink.
“Then it will make that dog of a production a thousand times more interesting.”