Bliss

1: Discovery

Having knocked three times, I stood outside Quentin’s door, waiting with diminishing expectations for a response. I was regretting both my decision to make an impromptu visit and my having entered the building without buzzing first. Someone coming through the street door when I arrived had presented me with the opportunity, and I had taken it. With Quentin you just never knew. I stood a better chance of seeing him if I made it to the door of his condo.

It was now with little hope that I knocked yet again, louder—and was startled to hear, from beyond the door, somethingthat might have been a response. Actually, it was just a vague noise.

I considered. It mighthave been someone calling, “Come in!” On the other hand, it might not. It was, therefore, with some hesitation that I tried the door handle.

It turned. I pushed the door open and saw a vestibule and a long entrance hallway.

“Hello?” I called.

This time there came a definite response, though I wasn’t sure whether it was a word, or merely a grunt. Either way, it seemed reasonable to interpret it as sufficient to my entering.

So, I slipped in and closed the door behind me. Now I looked around, and was struck with the impeccable state of the vestibule, with its floor-to-ceiling mirrored closet doors that lined one side wall. The parquet wood floor gleamed and the walls were a subtle and beautiful shade of pale peach. From the end of the hallway diffused daylight streamed

Going down the hallway I found myself in a large and airy living room, painted a cream color. Decorated with simple elegance, suffused with a glow of sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains that covered the windows, the effect was one of peace, suggestive of sleep.

It was therefore not surprising that the room’s sole occupant was a man sitting, motionless and sprawled out on an exquisitely made off-white couch. His head rested against the back of the couch, eyes half closed.

I took a step towards him, and it struck me that it wasn’t just the couch that was exquisite. He was large and muscular, with the build of a weight lifter, and had blond hair. I was slightly entranced by his beauty.

As I stood there, drinking in the sight, he slowly lifted his head, his eyes opened fully, and startlingly pale blue eyes gazed at me in a somewhat vacant manner, from underneath butter-colored eyebrows.

He was, I realized, even more beautiful than I had thought. Even his clothes contributed to the overall effect. Barefoot and wearing only gray sweatpants and a t-shirt, both loose-fitting, I realized for the first time how hot, how teasingsuch clothing could be. Free-flowing folds of cloth, when they rested here and there against the man’s skin, indicated the contours of the body, reflective of muscles that were exaggerations of the usual curves of the masculine body. Broad shoulders were emphasized by prominent, cannon-ball-shaped shoulder muscles, the massive chest sported huge pecs and tapered down through washboard abs to a narrow waist. Below this, two long, powerful legs extended, bulging the fabric at mid-thigh and ending with exquisitely formed feet.

Certainly, a physique built to stir the libido. But there was something more, something residing in the personhimself that produced an overall effect of profound beauty. The face was too rounded to be classically handsome, yet it fairly radiated this beauty, perhaps due to the personality that shone through it.

The man’s expression was one of slight puzzlement, making him look innocent and faintly vulnerable. This produced a desire in me to protect this guy. But more than that, more than any erotic interest, I wanted just to interactwith him, to learn about him, and just plain bewith him.

As I watched, he seemed to come to himself. He sat up straighter and seemed to see me for the first time. He blinked several times, the motion of his pale eyelashes sending shivers of aesthetic pleasure through me. His expression, was not hostile, only curious.

“Who—are you?” he said quietly, his voice deep and resonant. It wasn’t a challenge, merely a question; he just wanted to know.

“I knocked,” I explained. “I thought I heard someone say to come in. The door was unlocked.”

“Oh.”

I smiled in what I hoped was a disarming manner, and found that the smile was genuine.

“My name’s Ian, Ian McQueen. I’m a friend of Quentin’s. I came to see him. Uh, is he in?”

The big man blinked again, another distracting display with the eyelashes, and he lifted his arm and jerked a thumb to his left, indicating a second hallway.

“At the end. On the right.”

I nodded and left with a sense of deliberately wrenching myself back to business. As I walked down the hallway, I fantasized about sitting next to the big man, putting an arm around those massive shoulders, maybe rubbing his belly—

I had to shake my head to dispel these images as I reached the last door on the right. It was slightly ajar. I knocked.