Flying Home



Copyright January 2002


God, Iím tired. Bone weary tired.

I canít believe I allowed myself to be coerced into going to this workshop. Catherine assured me it was well worth my time and the departmentís money. She was right, of course and my team will benefit greatly from what I have learned. Unfortunately, they will have to wait until I have secured a good nightís sleep. My brain does not appreciate being forced to impart knowledge when itís in the fatigue mode.

The plane is on its final approach and I fasten my seatbelt. Leaning back, I close my eyes and concentrate on the sounds of descent, a soothing exercise for my overloaded mind. Iím almost to the point of dozing off when a finger taps my hand. I open my eyes and find the elderly lady sitting next to me pointing at the book in my lap.

"May I?" she asks.

The book, a nonfiction work by my favorite author, Clive Cussler, is a gift from my lovers, Greg and Warrick. I pass the hardback book over to the inquisitive woman.

She enthuses over it but I am distracted from her comments by the child across the aisle and the teddy bear he has tossed several rows forward. When I turn back to my seatmate, I find her gazing at a photo.

Startled, I stare at it myself, having never seen it before. One of my lovers must have tucked it inside as a surprise. And a surprise it certainly is, not only to me but also to the gray haired grandmother who has suddenly forgotten how to close her mouth.

I feel the heat in my face and realize that I am blushingósomething I rarely do. The photograph is a picture of the three of us in bed, my two lovers sprawled across my body. The image captured is very revealing, not pornographically speaking. AlthoughÖ I lean over to examine the photo and yesÖ if you look closely, you can see the tip of Gregís penis peeking out from under the sheet.

Warrick must have used the remote timer on his camera and taken the picture once I had fallen asleep. He is our resident photographer, dedicated to capturing our love on film. And thatís what is so revealingÖ our love. You can see it in the way we hold each other, even in our sleep.

Iím always amazed that somehow, amongst the tangled arms and legs, we manage to touch each other intimately. And not always with our hands. Many a morning I have awakened and found my mouth buried in the softness of Gregís hair or my lips nuzzling the area behind one of Warrickís ears. And more often than not, Iím being gifted with the same, whether by one or both of my men.

The picture and book are gently returned to my outstretched hand. I maintain my speechless state as the woman brushes her fingers over the photograph. "Very handsome men, those two are. Are you returning home to them?"

I nod my head, my eyes still focused on the sleeping faces of my lovers.

"I imagine youíve missed them very much."

I find my voice and whisper, "More than I thought possible." Leaning my head back, I once again close my eyes.

I have been a loner the majority of my life, a very private person. And to think I would welcome not one but two men into my heart is truthfully astonishing. I have no close friends; have never felt the need to surround myself with people. It is so much easier to deal with life when it is only your thoughts and emotions rambling around in your mind.

And why both of these men, diametrically opposite in every way, would chose to share their love and lives with me, is still something I have difficulty comprehending. I am not the easiest man to work with, much less live with. You wonít find my name on the list of the top ten eligible bachelors in the Las Vegas area. And as far as I know, there are no women or men strolling around this city, expounding on my glorious attributes, the few there are.

But, love me they do, Greg and Warrick. Unconditionally. And thankful I am for their love. More than either one of them will ever know.

I steal another glance at the photo. God, I miss them.

My thumb traces the outline of Gregís face. I have to admit I miss him the most. He was the first to blindside me with his love and it is was his generous heart that brought Warren into our lives. A smile teases my lips as I stare at my young lover. Gregís mouth is slightly open and Iím sure he was mumbling in his sleep when the picture was taken. He does it quite often, his nightly dialogue of incoherent chatter and I find it is something I have missed greatly on this trip.

I sigh softly. There are so many things about my lovers that I miss. Gregís mumbling. Warrick stealing the bacon off my plate at breakfast. Greg peering over my shoulder as I work on my crossword puzzle, his slightly off center brain offering the most improbable answers. Warrick walking naked through our home, dragging his wet bath towel behind him, unconcerned that the windows are wide open and all of Vegas has a view of his ass. And of course the times when both men are crowding me on the couch, wrestling for the best snuggle spot, which ends up being somewhere on my body.

Thatís what I miss. The little things.

A muscle in my neck protests and I am reminded of the sleepless nights I have suffered through on this trip. It seems I now canít rest without my men beside me. Itís hard enough when one of them is missing because of work or such. But on this trip, when faced with an empty bed, my mind rebelled, absolutely refusing to slip into a restful slumber.

My thoughts are placed on hold; the plane has landed and my seatmate needs help removing her bag from the overhead storage bin. I smile apologetically and offer my assistance. Minutes later, Iím making way off the plane, the elderly woman at my side.

I step into Las Vegasí busy airport terminal and am immediately assaulted by the noise of a rowdy group of football players. Itís not until I feel a gnarled hand pulling on my jacket that I realize my companion from the plane is still with me. Sheís pointing ahead of us.

"Your boys are even more handsome in person. And it seems theyíve missed you as much as youíve missed them. That youngun is nearly bursting at the seams to kiss you."

I know my eyebrows have crept up my forehead and possibly my jaw has gone south. To find acceptance of my lifestyle in one whose generation abhorred homosexuals, is startling, to say the least.

The woman obviously is a mind reader. She smiles and pats my arm. "Iím no stick in the mud, Sonny. Not when it comes to love." She smiles as Greg bounds to a stop in front of us. "The heart doesnít pay attention to something as trivial as gender. It loves without prejudice."

Warrick steps forward and eases my tote bag from my shoulder, his fingers detouring slightly to stroke down my neck. The woman notes the subtle caress and smiles again.

By this time, Gregís enthusiasm can contain itself no longer. He throws his arms around me and hugs my breath away. He whispers his plans for the day and, once more, my face feels the heat of a blush.

"I bet heís a wicked boy." An arthritic finger shakes itself at Greg.

My hand passes furtively over my younger loverís ass before I untangle his arms from around my neck. Turning my attention to my gray haired companion, I nod in agreement. "You have no idea."

Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of the womanís family. They surround her completely, whisking her away, joy and laughter following in their wake.

Warrick throws my tote to Greg and chuckles as he fumbles with its weight. "I guess youíll start eating your Wheaties now?"

Greg sticks his tongue out. Securing the bagís strap on his shoulder, he turns and leads the way out of the airport. Warrick walks beside me, his long fingers brushing against mine.

Iím normally not one for emotional displays, especially in public. Greg ignores this or, should I say, heís unable to bridle his eagerness. Warrick is more attentive to my wishes and demonstrates his love with veiled touches. I sometimes wish I was more comfortable in expressing my love openly but Iím not. And my lovers, although they may not understand, they do accept this failing of mine.

I allow my hand to briefly grip Warrickís. He tilts his head to the side and glances at me, acknowledging the significance of the gesture. "Glad to be back?"

Nodding my head, I watch Greg weave in and out of the crowd, my gaze focused on his spiked hair. "Did he deliberately fix his hair like that or did he just forget to brush it?"

Warrick slings an arm around my shoulder and laughs.

Pulling the paperback from my jacket, I wave it beneath Warrickís nose. "Remind me to speak to you and Greg about the enlightening gift you left for me in this book."

Warrick grins, his smile a sure indication of his guilt. Squeezing me tight, he whispers, "Welcome home, Grissom."

The end