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How To Fill The Gaping Hole In Your Psyche With Gay Sex: A Guide, as told by Howard Hamlin Or: Portrait of a Man Losing His Mind
Howard acted like it wasn't obvious.
And it wasn't, despite the feeling in his gut that all eyes on him bore directly into his soul; he could get through an entire business luncheon or graduation party for a colleague's child before people started to smell blood in the water. They'd realize that there's something wrong with him, whether they were his colleagues in the courtroom or prostitutes Jimmy hired to embarrass him. He had termites in his scaffolding. Mildew in his fucking milk curds, yes, he knew.
He was twitchy, first and foremost. Had been since he was a little kid. The doctor called it an acute anxiety-related something or other disorder, and his dad, well, had more creative names than typically graced the DSM-5. Excellent casting on Kim and Jimmy's fault, he thought, of him as a washed-out yuppie, walking into business meetings with coke residue dusted on his suit like he just finished eating a particularly enthralling jelly donut.
He was also desperate to make everyone around him comfortable. He laughed at jokes that aren't funny, gave people chances when he shouldn't have. Part of being a lawyer, he thought, is being a good diplomat. Switzerland. Plain, room temperature water.
But the whole Robin-Hood-LARPing bit wouldn't have worked for Kim and Jimmy if people couldn't have seen it in him, like a prism one had to shift just right for the sunlight to start burning up ants. Yes, he had more than a piece missing.
Howard knew he was gay when he was in high school. He missed the boy he was back then, with blunt, blond bangs hanging in his eyes. A looseness relayed throughout his posture that could only be attributed to the late seventies, paisley and Bowie on every radio. Despite the physical obstruction, he saw things more clearly back then. That HHM didn't have to be a dynasty. That he didn't have to marry a girl, be a lawyer. He even had a stint in engineering courses at the advice of his counselor.
That's all his little escapade was in search of satiating, he told himself. How could he know that this isn't what's wrong with him if he's never tried to fix it? And if he's going to do it, why not do it right?
Step 1: Pick a Location
Howard scoped out a bar in downtown Santa Fe, El Osito . It was sandwiched between a dry cleaner's and law office, appropriately. All needs bar-fight and wine stain to be met in a few steps.
It was a gay bar, the operative word being bar. He's certain he wouldn't last five minutes in a club, chock-full of young guys all ready to point and laugh at him. Look at that asshole, they'd say. There's something horrifically and esoterically fucked up about him that I can't quite place. It burns my soul like pure silver and I must run immediately.
No, he'd be far more comfortable at a bar, somewhere he could simply sit hunched over a rum-and-coke and pray someone saw his Valentino suit and smelled money or worse, actually found him attractive.
Step 2: Dress The Part
Howard thumbed through his closet, assessing each suit in its practicality, deviation from his normal attire, how guilty he would feel if it were to rip or lose a button. He settled on a navy blue suit, a shade a touch too cool-toned to be immediately snuffed out as lawyer wrapping paper. That, and it didn't match his signature work attire, the collar and body of the shirt matching in color.
He was going to wear the cologne he typically sported for special events: Acqua de Gio by Armani, until he conveniently remembered that Cheryl had bought it for him.
Then there was the matter of his hair: a blond mop atop his head like a mowed wheat field, abrasive and thick. He ran a hand through it and it stuck up straighter.
His father had an intricate hair routine while he was alive. Howard remembered gels, sprays, and pomades lining his bathroom counter as a kid. Appearance mattered; to George Hamlin, it often mattered more than substance. Maybe that's why he followed his father to HHM like a dog with his tail between his legs.
Either way, it got him to where he was that day: a closeted sad sack in a stiff suit, clicking a pen manically like enough putting effort into the fervent yet useless motion might save his miserable life.
The clock to his right read 5:30, and the lobby clock 5:45. He scratched a line up and down his neck with the nail of his index finger. But fuck, then my skin cells will be trapped in my fingernail to cast all over the place like the world's worst fucking murderer. Maybe his guilt was worth some psychoanalysis, but Howard didn't have the time. The last of the firm's employees trickled out of the building while the sun slipped out of the sky.
Step 3: Get Your Story Straight
Howard was spending the night at a friend's house in Santa Fe. That's what he told Cheryl, anyway, as if she would've noticed his absence. It was true, somewhat- within every good lie is a minute truth . Thoreau said that. Or something. Howard didn't pay attention in Introduction to Philosophy.
He would be in Santa Fe regardless, if anyone spotted his regrettably recognizable car in the area. Plus, he'd park his car adjacent to the law offices. Not his fault the practitioner neighbored a gay bar.
He'd bought makeup in lieu of hickeys, and a change of clothes in the trunk of his Jaguar; returning home in the previous day's attire was far too amateur a mistake for someone as fastidious as him. At least in theory. Often he found he looked so closely at details that whatever the big picture was eluded him.
Howard sped out of the HHM parking lot while his thoughts bubbled in his head, letting his foot fall forward on the gas pedal, taking him up to a comfortable ten over the speed limit. As he pulled onto the I-25, he realized he was enduring the ride in silence, accompanied by his sweating palms and shaking knee alone.
He flicked through the preset radio stations, settling on a mellow tune from the indie station with steady bass that shook him lucid every time a note was played. He normally would play jazz, or rehash his cultish loyalty to the local talk radio station, an orchestra of faceless, familiar voices. But that night was for trying new things, and Howard wasn't one to half-ass a persistent effort at his happiness.
The further he got from Albuquerque, the more frequently he had to lift his sweating palms off of the steering wheel. The gentle tune of the freeway entrance became static on the exit as he drove away from the station's signal. God, he was out of his element. The bar entered his line of sight and his heart skipped and ran faster than he could control.
If it was a bad idea, he was in far too deep to abandon the project. Save Howard Hamlin? Special Operation Get This Asshole Laid? Working title. And something about the sunk costs fallacy.
Howard did a last once-over of himself in his rearview mirror, adjusting his collar and tie, his knuckles rubbing against the glistening indentation between his collarbones. Jesus, I've already sweat off the cologne. He pulled his pocket square from his breast pocket and dabbed himself dry.
So this was it? A curtain call for his self-control? He supposed there were worse things to indulge in. He flung his pocket square into the passenger seat, wrung out like a cried-in handkerchief.
The bar was surprisingly tasteful, not unlike one he'd frequent with the sole intention of getting wasted. The walls were mainly bare, the floor polished concrete. A smooth wooden counter lined the back, dotted with men in various throes of drunkenness.
He walked toward the bar as smoothly as he could, at least, with an attitude resembling a quality of smoothness, with both hands in his pockets.
Step Four: Sit Pretty and Wait
The bartender approached Howard's stool.
"A whiskey sour, please?" Howard asked, trying not to sound self-conscious.
"Coming right up."
If Howard wanted to escalate the night faster, he could have very well taken a seat next to any of the other men sitting alone, but he was a little shy to say that none of them truly piqued his interest. At least, not cheat-on-his-wife interest.
Yes, it was possible Howard Hamlin had a type. Tall, typically. Taller than him. He stood just over six feet, so the preference was not always easy to meet, but persisted nonetheless. And there may or may not have been a rumor circulating him in his youth that he liked bad boys. Anyone to make his parents squirm, really, was his M.O. Even in their death, he still found a rebellious spirit exciting, enchanted by something so opposite himself he was forced to love it.
No, it would take a particularly enthralling specimen to convince him to go through with it. So he took a seat alone.
The bartender nudged Howard his drink over the counter. The chilled glass almost slipped in his sweating palms and he pressed them on his pant legs, wincing at the sharp noise his palms made every time they rubbed against the stiff fabric.
Against his better judgement, he ordered a second drink half an hour later when he found both seats next to him retaining their vacancies. It wasn't like he couldn't put it away—his high tolerance from his college drinking days hadn't diminished—but he knew any chips in his armor could make the whole mission go south.
He glanced around the bar, which had gotten slightly busier since he arrived. There were even a few people dancing, mostly middle-aged men like him with no dance skills to speak of, and Howard felt more at home than he'd have liked to say.
The scene was almost enough to make him stand up and leave. He could only tolerate a certain level of happiness before the feeling became too alien to live with comfortably. But he bore through the belonging nonetheless, like standing so close to a fireplace he could feel the flame lap at his knees.
He turned back to the bar and saw a third drink join the lineup of his glasses, completely full, with the liquid inside still shaking in a perfect circle from the gentle motion of the glass across the countertop. I didn't order this.
"You don't look so happy to be getting a free drink."
Howard's neck jerked to his right, where the words came from, said through a gruff yet amused voice. He flinched.
The stranger let back a controlled laugh, like his chin was pulled up and down on a taut string. "Jesus, man, I'm not gonna hurt you," he smiled through furrowed brows. "You new around here?"
Step Five: Reel Him In
He was far more handsome than Howard could've asked for. Jarringly handsome, sporting the classic looks of James Dean and slicked back, wavy hair. Dark brown with a gray streak adorning his temple and light locks throughout, shining in the dim light. He couldn't tell he was wrinkled until his face contorted into a smile, and his skin folded to the push-and-pull of his lips like the crinkle of an ancient text found in mint condition.
Stranger wore a light button up, vastly inappropriate for the weather; something floral, pastel, almost Greek in the sweep of the linen against his skin. Nevermind that it was forty degrees outside. Out of the shirt extended his forearms, muscular, yet delicate, with veins that looked like a papercut might've made him die of blood loss. A snippet of an intricate tattoo wrapped around his arm just below his elbow.
"What?"
"You must be. I'd remember a guy like you."
Howard flushed. He was supposed to seem like a regular; he desperately hoped he had a youthful air of ease, appearing comfortable. But his problems from earlier stalked him, like gulls circling his head. This man could see it too.
"Oh. Yeah."
"So? What's your name?"
Step Five-A: Wield Your Super-Secret Cruising Identity
Brainstorming in the car, Howard realized he had never really played pretend before. 'Howard Hamlin, Lawyer' was all he'd truly ever been. The thought of giving himself a new name to use for whatever unlucky bedmate he fell in with excited him, too many possibilities to start anywhere. Douglass...?...Finch? Howard thought. Accountant ? Jesus, in the wildest extent Howard's fantasy, he was an accountant.
All of this planning escaped him staring at the stranger: eyes that met his gaze from a few inches above, daring.
"Howard," he said with a sigh. "And you?"
Howard didn't expect the stranger would flatter him with a reply. His tone was clearly too bothered at what the stranger would think was disgust pointed outwards, when Howard felt all of that disgust toward himself. This was a stupid idea. I'm finishing this drink and then I'm driving home-
"I'm Lalo," he smiled. His left hand was coiled around a daiquiri, and his right hung off the counter, with his tattooed elbow planted firmly on the toned wood. His eyes squinted in amusement, and it made Howard feel like a spectacle. "So? You gonna make me pry it out of you? Tell me about yourself."
Step Five-B: Engage in Jovial Conversation
Howard tore his eyes away from Lalo to focus. "I'm, erm, a lawyer." Howard glanced down at his drink, fizzling out to room temperature. "What do you do?"
"Accounting. What kind of law do you do?"
Howard sighed again. "Mainly contract law," he said, lifting up his glass and letting it down with a thud to punctuate his words. "Not much to write home about, I dunno."
"You look a little nervous, amigo ," Lalo frowned.
Howard rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "No, no, I'm sorry," he shook his head. "I mean, I am..." his voice quieted. "I am a little nervous, to be frank." He took a sip of his drink, staring lasers into the counter.
"Oh, I see," Lalo grinned. Howard didn't like how Lalo seemed to have him figured out, and yet, there was a strange allure to feeling seen.
"What?" he asked, and nearly choked when Lalo pointed to his wedding ring. I fucking forgot to take it off.
"I know how it is," he said assuredly, yet smug.
"Oh, do you?" Howard said as a simperous smile crept into his cheeks.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Are you kidding me? Closeted, married assholes from the finance district are a dime a dozen." Lalo sipped his drink, looking satisfied.
"Then why'd you buy me a drink?"
"I must admit, you're definitely a cut above all the rest," Lalo admitted while rolling his eyes. "But that is the extent of your ego stroking for tonight."
"So be it," Howard sighed with the ripples of a smile still grazing his face. "You don't think I've got you figured out?"
Lalo leaned back with his entire body, looking at Howard quizzically, and the playful air surrounding him persisted. "Do you, now?"
"Of course I do," Howard said, gesturing his hand outward as if it should have been obvious. "Look at you. You're coated in charm like a fucking disco ball. But that's just to hide something too, isn't it?"
Howard downed the last of his drink, tipping his head back, half-expecting Lalo to slit it because he couldn't stand anything he wanted.
"I don't think we're so different, you know," Howard said and leaned into Lalo's space. "And if I knew better, I might flag you as a serial killer and stay away. Though they usually go for younger ones...". The smell of his cologne flooded Howard's senses: smelling vintage, antique, and rich, like a cigar put out in a crystal glass of scotch.
Lalo cleared his throat and adjusted his collar. "I'm not sure if that's a complement or not."
"It's just your share of ego stroking," Howard's tone shifted upward as he leaned on his elbow against the bar. "You're charming, yaknow." Howard scratched his nail up and down his glass.
"Ted Bundy was charming."
"Call it even?" His face formed a propositional frown he could only muster when drunk.
Lalo stared at him with his lips slightly ajar. "Maybe I was wrong about you," Lalo slipped into a smile.
Howard wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his suit jacket which had began to gather sweat. "I think I've had enough to drink for the night."
"Me too," Lalo said carefully. They were both aware that his single glass was still half-full. They eyed each other carefully, testing to see who would break first.
"I've got a place about ten minutes away," Lalo said as his controlled frown turned into a hungry grin.
"And you're mentioning this because you want me to come with?" Howard asked, voice dripping with pride. He knew he'd won.
"Do you?"
"Sure," Howard shrugged, though they again both knew an unspoken truth that his muscles were tense from holding back his want.
The stars were out when they stepped outside, winking from the sky. Howard glanced down at his watch, which read 11:00, as he glanced around the oddly quiet road.
“My car’s just next door,” Howard gestured toward the lot with his neck. He exhibited an inconspicuous restraint: he fastened an additional button on his shirt and tucked his hands into a shrug.
Lalo took no such measures. He stared at Howard from a close range, head tilted down from the height difference. Howard resisted the urge to uppercut him in his firm jaw.
Lalo reached into Howard's pants pocket without breaking eye contact. Oh, god. This is how my reputation dies—
Lalo withdrew his hand, spinning Howard's car keys around his finger. "Alright if I drive? I think you put away a little more," Lalo frowned. He quickly stroked Howard's cheek, like he was brushing away a runaway eyelash, but it had the same stinging effect. "Yeah. Yeah, that's fine."
Howard climbed into the passenger seat of his own car, bouncing his knee up and down nervously, shaking the car.
"Stop that," Lalo mumbled while turning the key. The engine growled like a sleeping beast awoken.
Lalo fiddled with the radio as he backed out of the small lot. He drove like he did everything else: cockily certain he would come out on top.
Lalo drove deeper into the heart of downtown Santa Fe. The harsh lights competed for Howard's attention: neon signs, car headlights, and skinny street lamps. People still bustled about the city, a great deal of them young people in their clubbing attire.
Lalo pulled the car into a parking garage neighboring his building. Cars on par with the luxuriousness of Howard's Jaguar lined the lot: Porsches, Bimmers and the like. Howard smiled to himself, amused at his worst fear coming true. Lalo didn't want something from him.
He just liked him.
"C'mon," Lalo looked back at him with a light smile, already walking toward the elevator. Howard unbuckled his seatbelt and followed suit.
Howard had no idea how he should be behaving. He glanced around the lot nervously, but they were the only ones there; something, anything convince me not to do this; he knew he wasn't strong enough to deny himself this great enough a temptation.
"Howard."
Howard swallowed thickly. "Yeah?"
Lalo's face fell slightly from its typical amused state. "You okay?"
Step Five-C: ...Freestyle?
Howard made his aim carefully and kissed him, soft and shallow.
He tentatively brought a hand to Lalo's cheek. His skin was surprisingly soft where his face was bare, and he smelled of aftershave. Lalo held Howard's neck still with both hands. Underneath his thumbs, his pulse erupted.
Howard pulled back quietly with soft eyes.
Lalo glanced down at his lips, then met his gaze again, wanting. "I take that as a yes?"
Howard stared at his feet awkwardly during the elevator ride, his original ideas about what the ascent would entail foiled by the presence of a bellhop. A fucking bellhop .
Howard let out a small chuckle, rapturing the silence. He threw a hand over his mouth, embarrassed, but Lalo chuckled too.
He turned to look at him, and it was the funniest thing in the world.
Lalo quietly took his hand exiting the elevator, a show of tenderness that caught Howard by surprise. His grip was loose, but Howard followed like he was held with a vice. "Have a nice night, Mr. de Guzman," the bellhop nodded, and Lalo nodded back.
Lalo pulled Howard into his apartment, grinning with unfounded pride. Howard still smiled too, because he had nothing if not this anomaly in his life which took so much from him, looking at him like something he wanted to eat.
Howard didn't get a chance to get a good look at the apartment before Lalo backed him into the door, kissed him, holding his wrists together in his grip. Howard leaned back into the door and let it support him as the tension left his body.
Lalo licked at his bottom lip before he sunk in with his teeth. Howard kissed him back as aptly as he could while flicking his eyes open in intervals. Even though his position remained stagnant, the images came to him as if he were spinning on a carousel: glimpses of an ornate kitchen and long, bay windows obscured behind Lalo's focused face. Through the windows, odd rays of light danced in the room.
Lalo wrapped a hand around half of Howard's ass to keep his upright hold.
"I didn't know you were left handed," Howard said breathily as he detangled their lips with a lewd pop . Lalo led out a low chuckle and pulled him off of the door.
Howard felt an even further shortness of breath, noticing Lalo was tugging him by his tie down the hallway. He stumbled over his feet and silently cursed himself, another onslaught of embarrassment for the night that Lalo didn't seem to mind at all.
Lalo helped Howard undo his two-piece suit to allow them to get on a more level playing field. All that was beneath Lalo's singular shirt was that tawny expanse of skin, picking up a light sheen of sweat from arousal.
Howard glanced down at the scene below them and it was almost too much: his jacket, dress shirt, and tie all strewn about the room, destined to bear the marks of this encounter until he got them formally laundered again. He wouldn't.
Lalo began to work Howard's fly down with no restraint, still kissing him; his hands split duties cupping Howard's cheek and slipping his pants to the floor. Howard wished he would've thought to wear sexier underwear than his pale blue boxers.
Howard thumbed clumsily with Lalo's shirt buttons, wishing he had what he could only surmise was experience on Lalo's end, the man undoing clothes like it was an Olympic sport. All his wishes and thoughts came to a screeching halt when Lalo wrapped a fist around his cock, stroking up and down in minuscule motions.
"Fuck," he mumbled, letting his head fall back. Howard immediately realized this was the wrong course of action because Lalo had no preoccupations about letting his lips fall to his neck, sucking the skin in a manner that could only make Howard's mind wander.
Howard fumbled for Lalo's jeans, palming him while he waited for his own hands to catch Lalo up to his naked state. His jeans were annoyingly tight, and Lalo let him struggle for a while before deciding to help him tug them off. Howard shifted his jaw, pulling Lalo off of his neck, looking down at him with glistening lips.
Howard let Lalo push him onto the bed, landing on his back with a comedic bounce. Lalo straddled his lap, ignoring Howard's erect cock in favor of his lips, drawing sweet sounds of need out of him and tasting them on his tongue.
Howard spit in his hand and grabbed Lalo's cock in hopes of encouraging him. He rubbed his thumb over the tip, flicking his wrist, giving him what he hoped was a show; and though he did see initial success in drawing out a moan from the recesses of his throat, Lalo pulled off completely shortly after, offering him a blank stare.
"What?" Howard scoffed, unamused.
His hubris still failed him, however, because Lalo sunk down until his head rested between his thighs, taking Howard's remaining self-restraint with him.
Howard winced, praying his preemptive tensing would lessen the shock, but Lalo still looked far more pleased than Howard would have allowed him when he let out a sharp, guttural noise the instant Lalo's tongue hit his cock. He didn't stop there, either, taking the reaction as a green light; he tilted his head forward as to take as much of Howard's length down his throat as he could, which as both of them rationalized, was all of it without issue.
Howard bucked his hips into his mouth unintentionally, but Lalo handled it unbothered. He clasped Howard's hipbone between his thumb and the joint of his index as to set the pace himself with as little force as necessary.
"Jesus," Howard moaned, weaving his fingers through Lalo's soft hair. Lalo allowed it, following the light push and pull of Howard's lead, bobbing up and down in an obscene fashion.
Howard pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to delay coming for as long as he could. Lalo picked up on this astutely and met the challenge, making swipes around his tip with his tongue with no reserve.
Howard tried to warn him, letting out a groan and tugging on his hair, but Lalo was relentless, picking up the pace. He spilled down Lalo's throat clumsily, his grip on his hair faltering as his vision blacked out.
Lalo continued until he was satisfied, sucking him dry until he heard Howard's mewls into oversensitivity.
Howard dared to look down and met Lalo's unwavering gaze. He looked proud, but his eyes maintained and expanded upon their earlier hunger. No doubt he was hard.
He reclaimed his position straddling Howard, framing his face with a hand on either side holding him up.
"Can I fuck you?" he asked breathily.
Howard's brows raised in surprise, but didn't betray his enthusiasm: "Uh... Yeah. Yeah, go ahead."
Lalo's brows furrowed in focus, highlighting his wrinkles in the dim light as he rummaged through the drawer of his nightstand, still straddling Howard while leaning as far as he could, his erect cock pressed into his thigh. A dim lamp in the corner lit his undone mop of hair from behind, grayer in the light than before, glowing like a fallen angel.
Howard's moments of post-orgasmic rumination on the heavy, unforgiving presence above him were interrupted as Lalo pushed a slick finger into his asshole, bending at the knuckle, lighting Howard aflame.
The image was enough to make him hard again; Lalo's face, sculpted with the tools of diligence, eyes expanding and contracting with every indulgent noise Howard gave to him: gentle scrapes to his resolve amounting to a death by a thousand cuts.
Lalo slipped in a second finger, using pulling it in the opposite direction of his index, truly beginning the end. Howard threw his hips up again, wanting. He wouldn't call it a decision , but either way the action elicited Lalo grabbing his waist and turning him over. He held his back firmly as if he were pressing him to the bed through his ribcage.
Step 6: Cling to the Fleeting Contentment
Lalo fucked into him, slow and deep, and Howard was only slightly embarrassed to say it was a memory he'd preserve for the rest of his life. He'd think about it sitting at his desk, lying alone on the stiff guesthouse mattress, driving his car. It would be a glimmering memory, like sunlight off of chrome, too bright and brilliant to see comfortably, yet a truth too intertwined with shame to be false.
Yes, he would remember, remember the way Lalo gripped his ass and the bruises didn't fade for weeks, how while pursuing his orgasm he called him dear and cutie and darling , no matter if these words were only applicable to him because he got Lalo off, because he had been someone's dear at some time in his life.
Maybe it was just his second round fading as Lalo pulled out of him, heaving with his muscular chest, looking like he'd conquered something. He wrapped an arm around Howard aimlessly, a silent invitation as he closed his eyes. Howard did too, cheek against the cool, satin pillowcase, and let sleep wash over their bodies, granting them rest they so indisputably earned. Boxes checked, new ones written in, Howard glanced over his list in his head, being the last thing he saw before he fell asleep.