Michael Stamp - Trolls

Marcus took the stairs slowly, putting his grocery bags down while he stopped to rest on the second-floor landing. The fifth-floor climb to his apartment got worse every day. If he'd had any sense he would have changed apartments years ago after Don died, gotten something on the first floor, or at least found a building with an elevator. But somehow he couldn't bring himself to leave the place they had shared. There were too many wonderful memories. And now it was too late. His building was rent-controlled, and if he gave up his apartment he'd never be able to afford another one.

He'd only walked a block from the small Asian grocery store, but his emphysema made him feel twenty years older. That's what three packs a day for thirty-four years could do to you. How many years had Don bugged him to quit, telling him he should take better care of himself? Funny how things had turned out. Here he was, still plugging along, and Don was dead. The tightness in his chest had subsided after the short rest. Marcus picked up the bags and started up the stairs again.

"Need some help with those, Mr. Tyler?"

Marcus looked up to see Kelly, the boytoy from 5C, standing on the third-floor staircase. Marcus smiled. He might be too old to attract boytoys, but he wasn't too old to enjoy the view. Kelly was bare-chested and wearing cutoffs so short Marcus thought he saw the tip of the kid's cock peek out from the frayed denim of his left pant leg. He couldn't help staring at the sturdy legs covered with reddish down, a sharp contrast to the broad chest, which was completely hairless. Of course he might have had chest hair. The kids today got rid of hair in places they didn't want it.

Kelly didn't wait for Marcus to answer. He took the bags and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Marcus craned his neck so he could get a good look at Kelly's bubble butt as he ran. Moments later Kelly was back downstairs, patting Marcus on the arm. "I left the bags outside your door, Mr. Tyler," he said.

"Thanks, Kelly." Marcus looked the twenty-something up and down appreciatively. "You're looking good tonight, boy. Got a hot date?"

"Sure do," Kelly replied. "I'm going to The Roundup."

"Well have a good time," Marcus told him. "And play safe."

"Always, Mr. Tyler," Kelly answered with a big smile, showing off perfect, straight, white teeth. Then he was down the stairs and out the front door.

Marcus shook his head as he watched him go. Getting old sure sucked.

He put a frozen entree into the microwave. Marcus couldn't remember the last time he had actually cooked. He used to love it, but there wasn't much enjoyment in cooking for one, and even less in sitting down to a nice dinner by yourself.

When he still had Don to cook for, he'd spend hours in the kitchen trying out all kinds of new recipes. Don would eat whatever Marcus put in front of him and pretend to like it. His lover had always been a basic, meat-and-potatoes kind of guy, although the meat he liked best you couldn't buy at the neighborhood grocery store.

He swallowed his last bite and finished the second of two beers he allowed himself each night. A smile crossed his lips as he recalled Kelly standing on the stairs tonight, looking like a proud, young stallion. He envisioned the young stud at The Roundup, moving through the horde of other hard young bodies, their sweaty chests rubbing against each other in a male mating dance. Marcus stood up to clear the table and was surprised to find his pants bunched at his crotch. Jesus, he had a boner! That sure didn't happen much anymore. He took out his hard-on and stroked it. He was a respectable six inches, certainly no stud, but he'd always been enough for Don.

Don himself had owned eight inches, but for reasons Marcus could never fathom, his lover had always loved getting fucked more than fucking. Once in a while Marcus would ask to have Don's rod up his ass, and Don would oblige, but he never seemed to enjoy himself as much as when Marcus was inside him.

Too bad they didn't have Senior Night at The Roundup. Maybe he should go down there anyway, Marcus thought. He could picture the faces of the young men when they saw him, potbellied and bald, with desperation written all over him. He probably couldn't even pay one of them to have sex with him. They'd take off so fast it would be as if someone had yelled "Fire!"

What was it Don used to call old men like him when they were young? Gnomes? No-trolls, that was it. Trolls. When he and Don were Kelly's age, Marcus couldn't imagine himself ever turning into one of those ugly old men, yet it happened to everyone. But if you were lucky, you had someone to grow old with, someone who wouldn't be disgusted by your sagging tits and shrunken ass. He thought he'd have Don, but Don had been gone for almost twenty years, a victim of the plague that had somehow managed to pass Marcus by.

Marcus sighed. You can't live in the past, he told himself. He went into the living room, opened the cabinet under the television, and looked through his porn collection, settling on Crotch Rocket starring Johnny King. Maybe he couldn't go to The Roundup tonight, but he was going to be there in spirit.

He slid the cassette into the VCR and sat down, holding his cock in one hand and the remote control in the other. He fast-forwarded through the credits and pushed play just as Johnny King came on screen. The movie had always been one of his favorites. It was amateurish and technically poor, but he and Don both loved it. Maybe because it held such fond memories.

They had seen it for the first time at the MalePlex. It was over thirty years, but Marcus could still remember sitting in the last row of the balcony, with Don kneeling between his legs, deep-throating Marcus's cock. Watching the flickering television screen, he could almost feel Don's breath on his skin, feel Don's black curls between his fingers as he held his lover's head against his crotch. When he closed his eyes he could almost hear the thump thump of Don's hand hitting the bottom of Marcus's seat as he jerked himself off while he pleasured Marcus.

Even now he could still picture the dreamy look on Don's face. He loved sucking cock, especially Marcus's. They'd come together that night, Don's body jerking so violently he'd fallen back against the seat in front of him. Marcus had ended up shooting all over Don's chest while Don's come had sprayed the empty seats around him.

As black-haired Johnny King started going down on a blond Adonis, Marcus spit in his hand and began to stroke himself. He smiled as he remembered doing this with Don. They'd sit together on the couch, reciting the insipid dialogue along with the video while they worked their cocks. They'd always tried to hold off as long as they could so they could come with the porn star, but they'd never lasted. Don would always end up with his head in Marcus's lap, swallowing his lover's cock, then before long Marcus would be on top of Don, sliding that cock into Don's waiting hole. Marcus looked down at his cock, resting limply in his wet hand. Shit! He'd come without realizing it. And he hadn't needed Johnny King. Just the memory of Don.

"Johnny King always did do his best acting with a mouthful of cock, didn't he, Marcus?"

Marcus turned in the direction of the voice. "He sure did-" he began. He sat frozen, then turned slowly to see the figure sitting beside him on the sofa. "Don?" he asked, barely able to generate enough saliva to speak.

"That's right, Marcus, it's me, in the flesh so to speak."

Marcus stared at him, unbelieving. It was Don, all right; there was no denying it. His black curls were as unruly as ever, his smile just as welcoming. But his body was young and strong, the way it had been before the disease had eaten away everything that he was and made him almost unrecognizable.