Negotiations 24
The process: I write - revise - reread - walk away for days, maybe a week - come back to reread - clip the dead branches - I write - the finished feeling creeps up - I reread again - if the feeling is the same - I post - if not - start from step 1. Thank you for your comments; they keep me in the process.
Go back to Negotiations 23 or start from the beginning.
BRIAN’S POV
It is an unfortunate yet scientific fact that going on a shopping spree is more fun without Justin’s permission than with it. I lose interest quickly, both in the sales staff fussing over me and in the clothes themselves. This is a bit unprecedented and Justin becomes concerned that I’m under the weather. “Let me feel your forehead,” he says, and I bat his hand away in the dressing room. “Stop that,” I snap at him; it comes off nastier than I intended. He gives me a look that means you’ll pay for that later and exits the tiny space. I don’t mean to be ill-tempered with him; I’ve just got an old memory surfacing....
The first time I let someone fuck me, I was seventeen. I was bent over the hood of an Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera by this kid, Tom Hawkins. It was early in November in our senior year of high school. We were at a bonfire after some big football game that neither of us gave a shit about. His car was parked about half a football field away from everybody, and I wonder to this day if anyone saw me like that. The car engine was still a little warm, the air was freezing, the fuck was uncomfortable. I couldn’t relax. I stared at the bonfire and tried to externalize the burn I felt inside me. I’d only agreed to it because I felt guilty. I’d fucked him the night before at his house because his family was out for the evening. It was my first time inside someone and I came upon penetration. After it was over, he told me that he didn’t really want to get fucked up the ass; he was more interested in doing the fucking so I felt like I owed him one.
But I know that part of that memory is a lie.
I tell the lie at the very beginning to keep another memory that’s buried deeper inside me where it needs to stay. I’m fastidious about storing that memory in exactly that way. It’s a game I play with myself to distract from any emotions that might dare to surface without my permission.
The lie? That wasn’t the first time I let someone fuck me.
I let Mr. Morris, my gym teacher, fuck me about two weeks after I blew him in the shower. I was fourteen, and I went to his house after school. It was completely obvious upon taking one step inside the house that he was married. The decor was way too feminine and overdone. The towels were some horrendous pink color and folded and layered perfectly in the bathroom. I saw no evidence of kids around.
(Well...except me.)
He fucked me in their bed. The room smelled like lavender and body odor; the sheets were mint green. The bedspread was a tacky floral and slid onto the carpet while he was telling me that the only way this was going to work was for me to get on my hands and knees. I knew the minute I felt that split-me-open pain that this would be the last time I’d fool around with him. He came really quickly; he’d barely had a full thrust. I got away from him and ran into the bathroom, and started wiping myself to see if I was bleeding. I wasn’t but I couldn’t believe it and kept checking. I didn’t lock the bathroom door, so, eventually, he came in and determined that I was freaking out. “You ran away too fast,” he said, “You didn’t let me get you off.”
“I don’t ever want to do that again,” I said, and my voice was trembling.
“It won’t ever feel that bad again,” he tried to reassure me. “You should be happy; you lost your virginity.”
“I thought you were gay.”
“I am.”
“You’re married.” I said, pointing with disgust to the makeup on the bathroom counter.
“Girlfriend. She knows. It’s okay. Let me suck you off. You’ll feel better,” he offered getting down on his knees. He took my half-hard cock in his mouth and tried to suck me stiff. I couldn’t concentrate; he just held my hips and moved his head up and down my dick while I tried to make sense out of the experience. I felt no pleasure at any point. I was numb, probably in shock. Up to that day, making out with him in the locker room and his gym office had been a fun risk. I wasn’t as attracted to him personally as I was to this emerging part of myself, figuring out who I was, and to the thrill of knowing that I was doing something wrong. Seeing who Mr. Morris really was killed all of that. Not because he wasn’t gay or had a girlfriend, but because once we left the school, we went from being teacher and student to just two guys weirdly hanging out. I didn’t like him as a friend; he wasn’t even good looking or smart or rich. He was nothing. I came in his mouth, first time for that, too; he got up quickly, spit it into the toilet like my splooge was burning his tongue. “It’s getting close to five so you should go,” he told me. I was way ahead of him and looking for my clothes. I got dressed and left; I walked two miles back to the school, called my mom on a pay phone and told her my practice was over. I checked my underwear for the next two days before throwing them in the hamper just to be sure there was no proof of what I’d done; at fourteen, I already knew that who I was becoming was not going to be okay with my parents, especially my father.
After my night on the car with Tom, our forty-eight hour liaison had run its course. I stole his cigarettes when he dropped me off later that night. After that, I obsessed a bit about topping and bottoming and how to signal what I wanted. Ultimately, I got a honorary degree in homosexual men and their microexpressions in the backroom of Babylon.
I suppose a good education is never wasted.
I’ve never told Justin either of those stories, and telling him isn’t even a thought I’ve ever entertained. The second story would have no effect on him, but the first would. He would take it super seriously, and ultimately feel pity for me. He would probably tell me that I was molested, assaulted, or raped. I wouldn’t be able to make him understand that I didn’t see it that way then and don’t really see it that way now. Back then, I thought that rape was something boys did to girls, men did to women. It didn’t apply to me. He would rail at me about consent; ultimately, he would ask me how I would feel if something like that had happened to Gus. The giant chasm in my mind between myself at fourteen compared to Gus at fourteen would reveal a strange but very real hypocrisy I harbor. And finally, he would drag me back to Jon’s office, plop me on the sofa, stand on a soapbox and tell Jon all of it. I can hear him talking, see him gesturing wildly, “Jon, this is why Brian is the way he is. This is why his emotions are buried deeper than King Tut. This is why he could leave his mother dead on her kitchen floor for twenty four fucking hours and not tell me about it for five months!”
And Justin would be right because he’s right about ninety-eight percent of the time anyway. Justin’s always the first one to win the race to the truth; often, I never even make the finish line.
I am, however, very cognizant of the fact that from the night I met Justin, he has been pushing me, revealing me, exposing me. Sometimes I lurch forward a few steps and sometimes, I end up dangling off a cliff and begging for my life. He’s never stagnant, and he cannot be stopped. If a part of me starts to whither, he plucks off the leaves that are still green, replants them, waters them and waits. I suppose that’s why I married him. No one has ever taken such good care of me.
He’s waiting for me now; he sits in the windowsill of the store we’re in and texts. Every so often, he looks up at me tracking my progress through the merchandise and then bows his head again. He didn’t want me to come in here; he says the clothes in here are beneath men like me. I came in anyway because sometimes I want to see if I can still pull off the slutty look. The employees in here are ignoring me, and that’s why Justin is not interfering with my browsing. He knows that they think I’m ancient and that, eventually, the fact that they are ignoring me will piss me off, and I’ll leave.
“Do I look that old?” I ask him once we’re back outside. I light a cigarette as we stand under an overhang. It’s still fucking sleeting which is pissing me off. “Tell me the truth, please,” I say.
“You don’t look old. You look too established to wear those clothes. Your shoes cost more than their entire underwear section.”
“And their underwear is really pricey.”
“That’s because there is an entire subset of gays who are beyond obsessed with their underwear on Instagram.” He rolls his eyes, “It’s exhausting.”
I try another point of contention, “But they don’t even want me to fuck them. That doesn’t make sense to me.”
Justin shoves his phone in the pocket of his pea coat and stares up at me with incredulity, “You have a ring on your finger, Brian, and I walked in with you. You’re a married man of a certain age--”
“Okay, okay. I get it--”
“--Of a certain age, and there is no way in hell those little twinks can compete with the indelible beauty I radiate.”
“Wow.”
“Well, I had to go there. Now, do you want to go to a store where we can find a tailor who will fondle you or can we go somewhere else because I am fucking freezing?”
“Yeah, this is the wrong day to hang out in the city.”
***********
Within an hour, we’re sitting in a recently remodeled movie theater in NYC where we’ve decided to see a film that will never ever screen in our neck of the woods. Justin says he’s been to this theater before the renovation, and he greatly approves of the changes. I’m sitting on the far end of a deep red loveseat; his head’s in my lap. If this movie sucks,” I tell him, “We can fool around.”
“This movie’s not going to suck. I read the reviews,” he replies.
Justin will remember the name of this movie,whether or not we liked it, whether or not there were sufficient homosexual plots, subplots, and/or context for his high standards. He will tell people about it someday, and I will stand next to him nodding, agreeing with all of his opinions. We end up making out halfway through because although there’s sufficient homosexual context, it’s leaning far too lesbian for our tastes. We already saw one gay couple walk out. We leave shortly after, and Justin’s very affectionate in the lobby, informing me that, “Anytime I see an unexpected vagina in a movie, I feel like I need to spend an hour watching porn to scrub it from my brain.”
“They should have warnings when a gay movie is Lawrence of La Labia,” I offer.
“I read the fucking reviews; there wasn’t a word about lesbians.”
I tell him I think he read the reviews for a different movie and got confused, and he actually concedes that that’s a possibility. “But,” he says, an ardent expression on his face and a tight grip on my hand, “I have an idea of something we could do to banish that film from our minds forever.”
“Please don’t say sneak into a different movie.”
He shakes his head, “No, this would require your active participation.”
“How active? I’m sort of tired.”
“Just come with me,” he declares, tugging on my hand. We walk briskly thru the persistent sleet as tiny frozen spikes ricochet off our heads.
Negotiations 25
Go back to Negotiations 23 or start from the beginning.
BRIAN’S POV
It is an unfortunate yet scientific fact that going on a shopping spree is more fun without Justin’s permission than with it. I lose interest quickly, both in the sales staff fussing over me and in the clothes themselves. This is a bit unprecedented and Justin becomes concerned that I’m under the weather. “Let me feel your forehead,” he says, and I bat his hand away in the dressing room. “Stop that,” I snap at him; it comes off nastier than I intended. He gives me a look that means you’ll pay for that later and exits the tiny space. I don’t mean to be ill-tempered with him; I’ve just got an old memory surfacing....
The first time I let someone fuck me, I was seventeen. I was bent over the hood of an Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera by this kid, Tom Hawkins. It was early in November in our senior year of high school. We were at a bonfire after some big football game that neither of us gave a shit about. His car was parked about half a football field away from everybody, and I wonder to this day if anyone saw me like that. The car engine was still a little warm, the air was freezing, the fuck was uncomfortable. I couldn’t relax. I stared at the bonfire and tried to externalize the burn I felt inside me. I’d only agreed to it because I felt guilty. I’d fucked him the night before at his house because his family was out for the evening. It was my first time inside someone and I came upon penetration. After it was over, he told me that he didn’t really want to get fucked up the ass; he was more interested in doing the fucking so I felt like I owed him one.
But I know that part of that memory is a lie.
I tell the lie at the very beginning to keep another memory that’s buried deeper inside me where it needs to stay. I’m fastidious about storing that memory in exactly that way. It’s a game I play with myself to distract from any emotions that might dare to surface without my permission.
The lie? That wasn’t the first time I let someone fuck me.
I let Mr. Morris, my gym teacher, fuck me about two weeks after I blew him in the shower. I was fourteen, and I went to his house after school. It was completely obvious upon taking one step inside the house that he was married. The decor was way too feminine and overdone. The towels were some horrendous pink color and folded and layered perfectly in the bathroom. I saw no evidence of kids around.
(Well...except me.)
He fucked me in their bed. The room smelled like lavender and body odor; the sheets were mint green. The bedspread was a tacky floral and slid onto the carpet while he was telling me that the only way this was going to work was for me to get on my hands and knees. I knew the minute I felt that split-me-open pain that this would be the last time I’d fool around with him. He came really quickly; he’d barely had a full thrust. I got away from him and ran into the bathroom, and started wiping myself to see if I was bleeding. I wasn’t but I couldn’t believe it and kept checking. I didn’t lock the bathroom door, so, eventually, he came in and determined that I was freaking out. “You ran away too fast,” he said, “You didn’t let me get you off.”
“I don’t ever want to do that again,” I said, and my voice was trembling.
“It won’t ever feel that bad again,” he tried to reassure me. “You should be happy; you lost your virginity.”
“I thought you were gay.”
“I am.”
“You’re married.” I said, pointing with disgust to the makeup on the bathroom counter.
“Girlfriend. She knows. It’s okay. Let me suck you off. You’ll feel better,” he offered getting down on his knees. He took my half-hard cock in his mouth and tried to suck me stiff. I couldn’t concentrate; he just held my hips and moved his head up and down my dick while I tried to make sense out of the experience. I felt no pleasure at any point. I was numb, probably in shock. Up to that day, making out with him in the locker room and his gym office had been a fun risk. I wasn’t as attracted to him personally as I was to this emerging part of myself, figuring out who I was, and to the thrill of knowing that I was doing something wrong. Seeing who Mr. Morris really was killed all of that. Not because he wasn’t gay or had a girlfriend, but because once we left the school, we went from being teacher and student to just two guys weirdly hanging out. I didn’t like him as a friend; he wasn’t even good looking or smart or rich. He was nothing. I came in his mouth, first time for that, too; he got up quickly, spit it into the toilet like my splooge was burning his tongue. “It’s getting close to five so you should go,” he told me. I was way ahead of him and looking for my clothes. I got dressed and left; I walked two miles back to the school, called my mom on a pay phone and told her my practice was over. I checked my underwear for the next two days before throwing them in the hamper just to be sure there was no proof of what I’d done; at fourteen, I already knew that who I was becoming was not going to be okay with my parents, especially my father.
After my night on the car with Tom, our forty-eight hour liaison had run its course. I stole his cigarettes when he dropped me off later that night. After that, I obsessed a bit about topping and bottoming and how to signal what I wanted. Ultimately, I got a honorary degree in homosexual men and their microexpressions in the backroom of Babylon.
I suppose a good education is never wasted.
I’ve never told Justin either of those stories, and telling him isn’t even a thought I’ve ever entertained. The second story would have no effect on him, but the first would. He would take it super seriously, and ultimately feel pity for me. He would probably tell me that I was molested, assaulted, or raped. I wouldn’t be able to make him understand that I didn’t see it that way then and don’t really see it that way now. Back then, I thought that rape was something boys did to girls, men did to women. It didn’t apply to me. He would rail at me about consent; ultimately, he would ask me how I would feel if something like that had happened to Gus. The giant chasm in my mind between myself at fourteen compared to Gus at fourteen would reveal a strange but very real hypocrisy I harbor. And finally, he would drag me back to Jon’s office, plop me on the sofa, stand on a soapbox and tell Jon all of it. I can hear him talking, see him gesturing wildly, “Jon, this is why Brian is the way he is. This is why his emotions are buried deeper than King Tut. This is why he could leave his mother dead on her kitchen floor for twenty four fucking hours and not tell me about it for five months!”
And Justin would be right because he’s right about ninety-eight percent of the time anyway. Justin’s always the first one to win the race to the truth; often, I never even make the finish line.
I am, however, very cognizant of the fact that from the night I met Justin, he has been pushing me, revealing me, exposing me. Sometimes I lurch forward a few steps and sometimes, I end up dangling off a cliff and begging for my life. He’s never stagnant, and he cannot be stopped. If a part of me starts to whither, he plucks off the leaves that are still green, replants them, waters them and waits. I suppose that’s why I married him. No one has ever taken such good care of me.
He’s waiting for me now; he sits in the windowsill of the store we’re in and texts. Every so often, he looks up at me tracking my progress through the merchandise and then bows his head again. He didn’t want me to come in here; he says the clothes in here are beneath men like me. I came in anyway because sometimes I want to see if I can still pull off the slutty look. The employees in here are ignoring me, and that’s why Justin is not interfering with my browsing. He knows that they think I’m ancient and that, eventually, the fact that they are ignoring me will piss me off, and I’ll leave.
“Do I look that old?” I ask him once we’re back outside. I light a cigarette as we stand under an overhang. It’s still fucking sleeting which is pissing me off. “Tell me the truth, please,” I say.
“You don’t look old. You look too established to wear those clothes. Your shoes cost more than their entire underwear section.”
“And their underwear is really pricey.”
“That’s because there is an entire subset of gays who are beyond obsessed with their underwear on Instagram.” He rolls his eyes, “It’s exhausting.”
I try another point of contention, “But they don’t even want me to fuck them. That doesn’t make sense to me.”
Justin shoves his phone in the pocket of his pea coat and stares up at me with incredulity, “You have a ring on your finger, Brian, and I walked in with you. You’re a married man of a certain age--”
“Okay, okay. I get it--”
“--Of a certain age, and there is no way in hell those little twinks can compete with the indelible beauty I radiate.”
“Wow.”
“Well, I had to go there. Now, do you want to go to a store where we can find a tailor who will fondle you or can we go somewhere else because I am fucking freezing?”
“Yeah, this is the wrong day to hang out in the city.”
***********
Within an hour, we’re sitting in a recently remodeled movie theater in NYC where we’ve decided to see a film that will never ever screen in our neck of the woods. Justin says he’s been to this theater before the renovation, and he greatly approves of the changes. I’m sitting on the far end of a deep red loveseat; his head’s in my lap. If this movie sucks,” I tell him, “We can fool around.”
“This movie’s not going to suck. I read the reviews,” he replies.
Justin will remember the name of this movie,whether or not we liked it, whether or not there were sufficient homosexual plots, subplots, and/or context for his high standards. He will tell people about it someday, and I will stand next to him nodding, agreeing with all of his opinions. We end up making out halfway through because although there’s sufficient homosexual context, it’s leaning far too lesbian for our tastes. We already saw one gay couple walk out. We leave shortly after, and Justin’s very affectionate in the lobby, informing me that, “Anytime I see an unexpected vagina in a movie, I feel like I need to spend an hour watching porn to scrub it from my brain.”
“They should have warnings when a gay movie is Lawrence of La Labia,” I offer.
“I read the fucking reviews; there wasn’t a word about lesbians.”
I tell him I think he read the reviews for a different movie and got confused, and he actually concedes that that’s a possibility. “But,” he says, an ardent expression on his face and a tight grip on my hand, “I have an idea of something we could do to banish that film from our minds forever.”
“Please don’t say sneak into a different movie.”
He shakes his head, “No, this would require your active participation.”
“How active? I’m sort of tired.”
“Just come with me,” he declares, tugging on my hand. We walk briskly thru the persistent sleet as tiny frozen spikes ricochet off our heads.
Negotiations 25