Talker's Graduation Read Online Free PDF

going down on his sweet innocent
    Brian some late night when Brian was half-asleep on the pottery
    wheel, dreaming of going home to Tate.
    But that didn‟t mean he wasn‟t wary one night when he
    opened the door, his silence and stealth muffling the usual bright
    sound of the bell. It was in the spring, right before school got out,
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    and Brian had been studying hard for finals as well as preparing for
    a show. It was a big deal—a really big deal. Brian had been making
    extra money by supplying pieces for the gallery, which the gallery
    sold for what Tate felt was a really big percentage, but having a
    show? That was big mojo. If people liked your shit, they bought it
    for really big prices, and then maybe Tate and Brian could afford to
    keep sending Tate to school.
    The thought filled Tate with both a lot of joy and a lot of guilt.
    Send him to school—awesome! To be what? Still didn‟t know.
    But after nearly two years of living together as lovers and
    students, Talker knew that he was more than ready to simply be
    living with his lover and ditch the whole „student‟ part of that lifestyle
    choice.
    And now, school was almost out and Tate was slipping into
    the darkened gallery. He liked it when it was dark and empty—
    some nights he and Brian would kiss, soft and hot, in the back far
    corner where no one could see them, surrounded by shelves upon
    shelves of delicate, grotesque, or stunning artwork. He‟d told Brian
    one night that it made their touches seem like poetry, and he‟d
    been so enraptured by the glowing lights in their little alcoves and
    the graceful, flying lines of the sculptures that he didn‟t even feel
    silly saying it.
    Brian must have liked those words because he sank down to
    his knees, right there in the gallery, and took Talker‟s body into his
    mouth. It was the most daring, public thing they‟d ever done, and it
    didn‟t feel profane or risky or even voyeuristic. It felt… beautiful.
    With Brian, those sculptures were like extensions of his
    beautiful, simple soul, and when Talker drove their beat-to-shit
    Toyota to the gallery from Gatsby‟s Nick, the nightclub where he
    worked, he always entered the gallery like it was a shrine.
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    This night, he heard two voices and winced. The gallery was
    closed, which meant that the side with the sculptures and the cash
    register stand was dark and the other side, the side with the pottery
    wheel and the kiln and all of the clay and glazes, was still well lit.
    The voices were coming from that way, and through the entry
    between the two sides of the shop, Talker could see Brian‟s face.
    He looked extremely uncomfortable.
    Skeezy perv Olenbacher was there, and he was being extra
    persuasive.
    “Come on, Brian, you‟ve rubbed that shoulder about six times
    already. Just let me—”
    “Talker will rub it when he comes to pick me up,” Brian said
    shortly, and then Tate watched him jerk away. Skeezy was right
    next to him, following him with that insinuation into his personal
    space that made Talker want to gag.
    “Brian, come on. I mean… I mean, look at the guy. I know you
    want to be faithful and loyal and everything, but seriously—he‟s just
    holding you back!”
    Tate cringed. Oh God. It was true. Brian with his steady, solid
    perseverance was going to graduate from college and Tate, with
    his mercurial flashes of brilliance, was not. Brian had the job of his
    dreams and Tate was still a bar back for a nightclub, a job that
    didn‟t hold nearly the allure it had three years before when he
    started. What the hell was Brian doing with him anyway, when he
    had this older, wiser, richer man, trying to rub his shoulder and give
    him art shows and—
    “Shut up!” Brian snapped, and Talker flinched, because he
    wasn‟t sure he‟d ever heard Brian that angry before. He‟d known it
    could happen—Brian had been attacked because his buried temper
    had