Cinnamon Sticks: The Last Noel by Kris Klein
Heat Rating: Bonfire
Content Warnings: GLBT-homoerotica
Christmas proves the time for miracles when lovelorn Ryan meets a beautiful, biracial 'Perfect Boy.'
The coffee was awful. The service, even worse. But we sat there for over an hour, talking and laughing, and for me it was like only five minutes had gone by. Never before had I met a twenty-two-year-old who could discuss everything from Obama's healthcare plan and why it wouldn't work, to how Alfred Hitchcock's earlier British films compared to his work in Hollywood, to how overrated David Beckham was in the world of soccer. It was like the eleven-year age difference between us didn't even exist, so much so I had forgotten where we were until Noel suddenly checked his watch and said "Oh, shit! Ssorry Ryan, but I gotta go. It's my dad's birthday, and we're having cake at seven."That brought me back to reality. "Uh--I was going to take a cab home; you wanna share, and I'll drop you off?"
"Sure." He was already putting his coat back on; underneath he wore a smoky-gray suit, with a white shirt and striped maroon-and-gray tie that made him look more mature than his twenty-two years ... and sexy as hell.
"Just let me use the john for a sec," I told him, grabbing my own navy trench coat as I rose. "Be right back."
"Okay." He smiled again, as he had for most of our time together, and my heart jumped in my chest.
I hurried to the tiny men's room, dick so hard it hurt almost as much as the knot in my stomach. After a quick piss, I washed my hands and checked myself out in the mirror, the dull fluorescent bulb overhead barely able to light even this small space. Thank God I was in my work clothes when we'd run into each other; in my navy blue suit and silver-and-blue-striped tie, I was the picture of corporate America. Even my hair had behaved that day, the unruly sandy-blonde thickness still combed neatly into my best Ken-doll style. The man staring back at me from the mirror now, at thirty-three, still had a lot going for him in the looks department; strong jaw, pale green eyes, a smile often called "charming," and I still pretty much had the lean, well-muscled body I'd had when playing ball, as well. So why did I feel like such a pitbull, compared to him? Ugh, my egoņit had taken too many hits in recent years. I buttoned my coat up, hoping to hide my erection.
That was when the door opened behind me, and Noel came into the bathroom.
"We gotta go," he told me, as I turned from the sink. "They're closing."
"I'm coming."
We were both bundled up now, ready for the cold and snow of December in Chicago that waited for us outside. I took a step toward the door to the john--toward Noel.
"Hold up a second," he said. We were face to face again, my breath a sigh in the darkened room, and as I stared into his eyes Noel reached up and nestled his fingers in the hair on the back of my head, pulling my face down to his. Our lips met, my eyes closed... and when his tongue slid into my mouth, mine rolled out to meet his and we were kissing. Not passionately; at least, not with lust. No, our mouths explored each other in that grimy men's room with the sensitivity and patience and innocent hunger of two people only learning to kiss for the first time. It was tender, touching me down to my soul, and before it ended I felt a tear slide slowly down my left cheek in response to the emotion I felt behind that kiss; a depth of emotion I hadn't felt in years.
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