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My conversation with Tommy ended with the amazing discovery that we have both encountered Andrew. At least now I know his name, and Tommy’s impressions of him are consistent with the older version I encountered at an airport, though he seemed perfectly healthy, and I saw no signs of his having been horribly burned in a car accident. The temporal anomalies add still another level of incomprehensibility to our strange situation.
I am caught in a whirlpool of mystery and metamorphosis, struggling to find a place to stand. I, or the person I was before Tommy, was an analyzer of facts—financial metrics, design specifications for my home base, etc.—and I used those concrete facts to make decisions. I assumed that my analytical abilities had given me a high degree of control over my life.
And yet, my greatest success, my ability to predict market fluctuations, also depended on intuition. My mind alone cannot analyze the mysteries revealed in Tommy’s journal and the metamorphosis triggered by his presence. Like Tommy, I need to navigate more by intuition than analysis.
Now that I am relying on the market projections I daily receive from the one who calls himself Adrian, my mind has been freed to focus on the mysteries, but it is hard to know where to begin.
I am entangled in a strange fate, and yet I do not know what the word “fate” even means. Deep intentional patterns beyond rational comprehension? That we both encountered this enigmatic person, Andrew, haunts me, but the meaning of it is impenetrable. What am I to make of the time anomalies? Tommy met him only a couple of weeks ago, and he appeared to be another fifteen-year-old. Yet when I saw him at the airport five years ago, he seemed closer to twenty. Is he a time traveler or someone from a parallel timeline?
Adrian said we are part of an experiment in evolutionary metamorphosis. Possibly, there is an unconscious telepathic network drawing metamorphic mutants together. That is the only causal mechanism that occurs to me. And Adrian is his own anomaly, someone able to break into my highly secure network and casually deposit a million euros into my Lombard Odier account to establish credibility. Adrian seems to know far more than we do. How long has he been surveilling and manipulating me? And if Tommy’s encounter with Alex is to be believed, there is a powerful parasitic entity named Viealetta with designs of its own on our evolutionary experiment.
I am not in control. My destiny is being shaped by behind-the-curtain entities. And beyond the shock of that revelation, I, Max, am no longer the person I was only a few days ago.
Intuition is telling me to work with what is presently within my direct influence—my relationship with Tommy. He is the most definite force in my life right now. He is not behind a curtain. He is visible from my office window, working in the intense heat and humidity, building teak bookshelves.
I see that he has taken off his shirt, and it is hard to look away from the sight of him, like an angel with his long, golden hair and brilliant green eyes—a honey and emerald burst of color with high muscle definition beneath his glistening skin.
I desire him, but not just in a crude physical way. I am not merely another hormone-driven adolescent. To be honest, I cannot claim to be entirely free of that aspect either. But this is not simply a relationship between two teenagers. Especially not after the strange state in the hot tub that began with prolonged eye contact and turned into a massive exchange of energy. It caused my sense of myself as a person separate from Tommy to dissolve.
Tommy’s presence is changing me in ways I struggle to understand and accommodate. Even up here in the saucer tower, the telepathic channel between us tingles, though I pick up no specific thoughts.
Tommy is a benign and considerate person who appears nonthreatening, yet he is a threat. Without his meaning to, his very presence has disrupted my most essential equilibrium—my sense of myself, my identity. Strange and intentional patterning has brought me a complementary opposite—an altruistic empath. Tommy is innocent, humble, gentle, kind, and sweet. Though all those qualities are perfectly authentic, he is also a potent mutagen, altering the very core of my being. Such a thing should not even be possible, but it is.
Nevertheless, I am thoroughly addicted to this mutagenic being and I would do anything to protect Tommy and keep him with me.
He is honest in a way I never expected from another anomalous person. He is almost literally an open book—he let me read his whole journal, whereas I dare not even admit to having one. He would be horrified if he saw its contents. Tommy does not deceive, manipulate, or seek power, but instead devotes himself to working for me. Since I saved his life, he believes he owes me “infinite work,” as he put it. While I sit here encapsulated in my air-conditioned office, he is out there sweating on my behalf. Nothing in my life has prepared me to relate to such a self-sacrificing empath.
Whatever social skills I have are all based on control and manipulation. But in his tuned-in way, Tommy would see through such means. Even more disorienting is that I have lost much of the desire to use them on him.
Adrian told me to respect Tommy as an equal, but that advice was unnecessary. I do not choose to perceive him as an equal, any more than I choose to perceive the sun as emitting light and heat. This is part of how, unintentionally, he has shattered my old identity, grounded in my superiority to others.
Tommy is an unprecedented creature. A symbiont who, by his very nature, transforms my nature to serve our symbiosis. I have become merely an ingredient in an evolutionary experiment over which I have no control.
From the first night, consoling a traumatized Tommy, I have felt intense sympathy for him, and a desire to be his protector. I feel like that T-800 Terminator with the Austrian accent sent to kill a boy, John Connor, but then reprogrammed to serve and protect him even if he has to sacrifice himself. And yet, I do not want to change this fundamental reprogramming because it makes me feel more alive than I ever have before.
Tommy has opened new dimensions of experience for me, and my world would flatten and lose color without him. He is uncannily beautiful—his tanned skin radiates health and vitality, especially compared to my pale complexion. His whole being is aglow with wholesome colors. Even his weathered clothing seems imbued with inner light.
Even harder to convey in words is that he glows in a way that seems “mythic.” Another incomprehensible word like “fate” that the presence of the uncanny compels me to use. From the first moment I encountered Tommy, he lit up like a storybook character, a young hero on a deeply meaningful adventure.
But—what nonsense I have just written—what does any of that actually mean? How can I make such perceptions rational and comprehensible?
It is as in a film where a key protagonist is selected for a special destiny. A skillful filmmaker will make such a lead player light up in the audience’s perception. Elijah Wood as Frodo in the first of the Lord of the Rings films is an excellent example. Other hobbits milling about in the background seem silly and inferior, but through clever casting, acting, and various film techniques, Frodo is lit up by a mythic spotlight. Like Tommy, he is altruistic, self-sacrificing, and emotional. Perhaps the gestalt of all these qualities makes Tommy seem alive in a mythic way.
My former life path as an unabashed predatory capitalist does not seem particularly mythic. Have I been conditioned by ancestral Christianity and Germanic mythologies to view as more significant a young hero with altruism, depth of feeling, empathy, and commitment to serve a difficult destiny?
I grew up contemptuous of Christianity, even though my thoroughly mercantile and secular parents never exposed me to religion. No mythologies were imposed on me, though I have avidly listened to Wagner’s Ring Cycle and absorbed the collective mythos through films. Despite my conscious attitude, perhaps I have been successfully conditioned to see one who seeks power and money as inferior to a virtuous young hero.
I have thought of myself as a rational being immune to such mythic delusions, but what if they have conditioned me to perceive Tommy as larger than life while I seem a shadow by comparison?
Perhaps ancestral conditioning is a factor, but such a reductive explanation does not satisfy my intuitive truth sense. I think the greater aliveness I perceive is just him, Tommy—an essential aspect of him, like his glow, that my mind cannot break down into constituent parts to comprehend.
I am mesmerized by his aliveness, drawn to it with a moth’s tropism toward flame. He is at once my elixir and my kryptonite. The old Max seems too hollow and lacking to exist in the same space as Tommy. Although Tommy seeks no power over me, the stronger charge of his life energy dominates the flow between us, exposing my identity as fragile. I fear the shattering he brings, and yet my desire to be near him is even greater than my fear. I feel like a caterpillar squirming in its chrysalis as imaginal cells invade and predominate.
The metamorphosis Tommy has catalyzed is uncomfortable, but the paradox is that I am comforted by his presence. I never wanted to eat my parents’ food, or to eat with them, or with anyone at restaurants, but I love to eat everything Tommy makes, and I enjoy eating with him. He consistently looks out for my well-being and tries to take care of me in everything he does. I never expected, or even wanted, this sort of care from a companion—from anyone. In the past, I would have considered any attempt to care for me in such a way contemptible weakness—weakness in them, and in me if I accepted it. And yet, I am willing to receive such attentions from Tommy, and must admit that it is a pleasing experience.
Even as I type, I monitor Tommy on another screen, a security camera zoomed in on him. He is strapping a completed bookcase to a handcart with bungee cords. And now he is wheeling it toward the elevator.
I am tired of ruminating. I will go to meet him.
I am waiting by the elevator door when it opens. Tommy is still shirtless but does not seem self-conscious about his revealed beauty. In general, he seems not unaware of his looks but lacks any vanity about them. He is simply comfortable in his body, another quality I envy.
I help clear the path to where the bookcase needs to go in my office. Once it is securely in place, I study his work.
“Tommy, the quality of this is stunning. Perhaps it is because I saw it begin as raw lumber, and somehow, through sawdust flying from power tools, the application of stain and varnish, and in such short time, it has become a beautifully finished, permanent object.”
“Thanks, Max,” says Tommy, smiling. “It’s always satisfying to see a project come together. I’m glad you like it.”
“I do. It is flawless, exemplary, perfect,” I say awkwardly, piling up superlatives since I lack a cabinetmaker’s detailed sense of what makes it so meritorious.
“Well,” says Tommy, running his hand across a shelf, “no piece of wooden furniture is ever actually perfect, not in the way that something made from perfectly consistent materials could be. The goal is to build it to the standard I was trained in.
“Every piece of wood has natural variations, and we try to work with them. Once a tree becomes lumber, people assume it is just a dead thing, but it still changes, and I still think of it as alive. It’s woven of hollow tubes that breathe. Sunlight and air will change its color, and it expands and contracts with humidity. This bookcase was made in high humidity, but I took that into account, so these joints should remain tight even as it contracts in the air-conditioning.
“I was also trained to follow a Japanese principle. We align the wood so that the direction it was growing when it was a tree is honored. So if a board was cut vertically from a trunk, we orient it so that the bottom of the tree is at the bottom of what we build, the top toward the top. It’s a way of honoring the life force and flow of the original tree. Reversing a board is called sakabashira, and the old carpenters thought it would anger the spirit of the tree. So we follow the saying, Let what rises, rise.
“Also, by keeping the wood in its original orientation, it is less likely to warp and deform over time. It makes the structure stronger and more durable.”
“Spoken like a true master craftsman,” I say.
“Thanks, Max,” Tommy says with a smile. “Are you hungry? I can get started on dinner.”
“No, I am not quite hungry yet, and I should first exercise,” I reply.
“OK, well, I’m going to go back out and do some more work then. Let me know when you’ve finished your workout. And—if you have a minute, I wanted to tell you something.”
“Of course, Tommy.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about everything that happened last night, and I just wanted to say that I’m open to a physical relationship with you. I think it could be good for both of us. I don’t have any experience with . . . being intimate in that way. But I’m sure I can learn—I mean, it’s not rocket science, right?” says Tommy, laughing.
I’m stunned by his announcement and the casual, easy way he presented it. Though I’m thrown off balance, I manage to say,
“Well, thank you, Tommy. I would love that. I—am inexperienced as well—but as you say, it is not rocket science, so I am sure we will . . . work through any initial challenges . . .,” I cringe at my awkward wording and think of a witty rejoinder, “I mean, I am sure we will find the non-sakabashira way of it.”
“Yes,” says Tommy laughing. “Let what rises, rise. We could even try something this evening if you want.” His expression softens. “Can I give you a hug?”
“Of course,” I say, still dazed, “I would like that.”
Tommy hugs me, only this time, he’s shirtless and holds me tighter. The sensation is—well, astonishing. When we break apart, Tommy gives me a dazzling smile. Then he turns and walks toward the elevator to continue his work outside.
I stand still, watching him go, my heart racing. He’s opened another dimension between us. I could tell he sensed my fear of rejection when he brought up the attraction last night, and I so uncomfortably admitted to it. His announcement sounded casual, but he’d obviously thought it through. Out of consideration for my discomfort, he opened such an immense possibility in a purposely friendly, cheerful, and confident way to put me at ease.
Once Tommy decides on the right course of action, he devotes himself to it. But does he actually want this?
Maybe I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say. He said he thought it would be really good for both of us with such confidence. I just hope I do not disappoint him.
The memory of Tommy’s cheerful smile, and the way he hugged me, eases my nerves and fills me with anticipation.
Tommy is like an unfolding world of wonders.
At dinner, Tommy is more cheerful and talkative than usual. His good humor is genuine, but it is also purposeful—an act of thoughtful consideration.
He is so innocent and wholesome, words I have never before applied to anyone. Yet he is also someone who must never be underestimated. Despite my pride, I would be a fool not to admit that he handles me as skillfully as he does his carpentry. He is working to put me at ease, but it does not feel manipulative because his intentions are good, and his means are so graceful. He is as deft with me as he is with wood, working with my imperfections in a natural, even playful way that hides the underlying skill.
Tommy’s intuitive forethought is only visible with discerning reflection. He applies his Max craft in smooth and subtle ways so that my pride and need for control are not offended. He uses his social skills to make a situation that is unprecedented for both of us appear casual and relaxed. This only makes me admire him more.
We follow our usual custom and report to the hot tub after dinner. This time, when I watch him walking toward it, he’s smiling and already moving with an easy, loose-limbed gait. I am sitting up and alert, my heart racing, but when Tommy gets in, he lies back in the bubbling water, his head resting on the ledge of ceramic tiles, exposing his long and graceful neck.
“Ah, I needed this,” he says, turning to look at me. “Can I sit close to you?”
“Sure,” I reply. He does, and then he puts his arm around me and says, “I like you, Max. You’re such a unique and interesting person, and I’m so grateful for you. I’ll never be able to thank you enough. I owe you my life. You’re the only other anomaly I’ve met in person, and I like that we’re equally strange and unusual—it makes me feel less alone and set apart. I’m always learning from you, and I’m fascinated by all the ways you’re different. And . . . I’m excited to—figure things out with you,” he adds, laughing.
I can tell he is a little nervous beneath his casual demeanor, but he is making an admirable effort to conceal it and put me at ease.
“Well,” I say cautiously, “perhaps we should talk about—like maybe about what is permissible or impermissible and things like that?”
“Sure,” says Tommy. “I’ve watched a few videos just to familiarize myself with what guys do with each other, and I’m open to trying any of the—usual things. I guess if you have something unusual in mind, I might need to hear about it first. But—well, you’ve said a few times that you like to be in control of situations, and I don’t mind if you want to take the initiative or direct me. I think I’d like that too, so I won’t have to worry that I’m doing anything—unwanted,” says Tommy.
He seems relaxed, but I notice him taking care to avoid prolonged eye contact so as not to trigger another paranormal episode. When he speaks next, he is a little less casual and sounds serious and reflective.
“This is totally new to me, too, Max. So, let’s allow ourselves to be a little nervous and take things slow until we’re more comfortable. But I sort of—explored my feelings today, trying to figure out what I want and what I’d be willing to try. And I think my thing is—well, you’ve probably seen it. It’s like my main quality. I like to please people, so if I learn what pleases you . . .
“And I felt good today, thinking about how things could work out between us. At first, when I realized you were attracted to me, I was confused and unsure how I felt. But after we brought it into the open last night, I felt much less confused. And today, the more I thought about it, the better it felt.
“Growing up, people often complimented my looks, but it was more like what you expect to hear as a kid. You’re the first person close to my age to actually say you were attracted to me, so that was a new and exciting thing. Just knowing something was possible. Does any of that make sense?”
I take a deep breath before answering.
“It makes perfect sense. . . and those other things you said . . . about being adaptable . . . well, it’s logically consistent with your being an empath and a people pleaser—”
I pause, feeling stupid for using a phrase like “logically consistent” to talk about sex.
I need to speak more casually.
“I mean . . . I guess I knew, as an empath, you must sense my attraction . . . but it seemed to create an uncomfortable tension between us . . . it never occurred to me that you could find it . . . exciting. It sounds almost too good to be true, Tommy.”
I freeze up as I realize my statement implies something I did not intend.
“Maybe I should not have put it that way. I do not mean to imply it is not true—but theory and practice—”
Damn it, how can I stop myself from talking this way?
“Well, what I mean, Tommy, is that the first time trying something—some things, I imagine, are more like an acquired taste and—well, if something I might want to do—if you should find it is not pleasing—”
“I will speak up, Max. You’re right, and I’m glad you said that. I’m obviously naïve and should’ve thought to say it myself. Thank you. But I interrupted you. Sorry. Is there something else you wanted to say?”
“No, I think we have a good basis—a good understanding. Would you—”
I am about to ask Tommy if he’d like to get out of the hot tub. It’s a warm and humid night, and there are mats and beach blankets in the gazebo. But then I remember that he has expressed a preference for me to take control and initiate, so I stop myself from asking and put my right hand on his chest, wanting to feel his heartbeat. His heart is racing too, and I keep my hand there and . . . waves of intoxication run through me. Tommy surrenders to my touch. He is so yielding and open and . . .
Well, I am not so stupid as to think that a German can write erotica. I will just say that we kissed, and then things went on from there, and soon we were lying together on the mats, and there was no need to rush into any—major things—at first because being intimate with Tommy in any way was ecstatically intoxicating.
I felt his empathic talent for lovemaking like a flower that was just waiting to blossom. He was so warm and welcoming—there was no possibility of awkwardness with someone so gracefully supple and willing. Possibilities—fantasies I had about being with him—unfolded into amazing actualities so naturally, with Tommy so attuned and adaptable to my feelings that I could make no misstep. He knew what I wanted almost before I did. And he was so willing to switch roles as I’ve always wanted. And . . .
Well, I have reached the limits of my ability with words, so I will just say that it was the most . . . ecstatic and wonderful experience of my life.
I am no longer in the same reality, nor am I the same person I was before we made love.
It was certainly not, as I had feared, a matter of Tommy enduring an ordeal for my benefit. So, I think it is reasonable to assume that I was . . . satisfactory. Much as my pride would like to take the credit, I know it was Tommy’s empathic talent that made what should have been a nervous and awkward experiment into something that unfolded so fluidly and naturally, blossoming with molten colors in the summer night.
The simultaneity of our orgasms—something I know is hard for two males to achieve—merged us into a crescendo of rainbow fireworks that seemed to light up the world and was probably visible from outer space.
And now I am just—well, I am still rational enough to recognize that oxytocin has taken over my higher functions. I must have lost a couple hundred IQ points, because there is no room in my mind for anything but Tommy. If anyone tried to hurt him or come between us, I would commit a murderous crime of passion. What I feel for him . . . it is a kind of divine madness, one I could not choose to wake myself from any more than I could choose to interrupt an orgasm to look at railway timetables.
The Max I once was is gone, incinerated in the pyrotechnic fury of polychromatic fireworks. The primal infusion of Tommy’s energy is altering me on every level, but now I only crave more of it. At some point, I will need to regain my reason and ability to function, but for now, in the afterglow of what we discovered, I am overwhelmed. I am infatuated. I am possessed. I am . . . in love with Tommy.
