Guilty Little Secret

by F M Land

Dizzy stopped his bike then, catching the road with his toes. He waited for me to stop, too. “There must be some way you can get him alone.”

  I nodded, thinking of our long rides in my Jag. “But, what do I say? How do I start?”

  “You’ve got to get him in the mood. Have a couple of drinks--”

  “I don’t drink,” I reminded him.

  He looked exasperated for a moment, then went back into his counselor mode. “Well, have a drink or two, to loosen up. Or smoke some dope, whatever it is you do. Get him relaxed and receptive. Then tell him about your feelings.”

  “What if he tells me ‘no’?”

  “That’s the chance you’re going to have to take, Paul. If he says ‘no’ then you know where you stand. If he’s in a relationship, Paul, you’re talking about getting hurt, or hurting someone else. Is this guy worth it?”

  I nodded eagerly, but Dizzy looked unconvinced.

  “Be careful, Paul. There will be other guys.”

  “Not like him. I want him so badly.”

  Dizzy began pedaling again, heading back toward home. “I’ve never felt that way about anyone. It must be a wonderful feeling.”

  “It is.” I pedaled hard to catch up with him. “But, sometimes it hurts so much.”

  “Maybe you’re in love with the wrong person, Paul. Love shouldn’t hurt, it seems to me.” Dizzy shrugged. “But, I’m the wrong person to ask about love.” He slowed his pace a bit and began weaving left and right on the path in front of me, cutting me off on either side of the path. He was being a big-brother asshole, and the grin on his face told it all. “You know,” he said, “you’ve hit all the milestones before me. You’ve fallen in love before me. How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

  My mind flashed to a vision of gorgeous Brian lying on Jeff’s bed. “I was 16.”

  “We’re even then. I was 16, in Anjoie.”

  “I remember.”

  We exchanged a long look. Dizzy slowed down to let me ride beside him.

  “You know, I was there when you were born.”

  I frowned to let him know I didn’t know where he was going with the conversation. “I know. What’s your point?”

  “What a scene! Maman was crying and moaning. Dad was holding her head, sobbing, telling her he was sorry he did this to her and that he’d never do it again. Drew and the midwife were working on the other end of Maman, between her legs. I was freaked out by all the parental theatrics, so Terry took me aside and let me help him get ready to bathe and dress you.

  “When you came out, you were so long and so thin. Everyone exclaimed at how tall you were. Terry held out a blanket and took you in his arms. He held you while the nurse tied off your umbilical cord. You were crying, but then you looked Terry in the eyes like you recognized him, and you stopped crying, just like that.”

  I tried to imagine that scene in my parents’ bedroom in Anjoie. “Is there a point to this story, Diz?”

  “Well, Terry and I gave you a bath. You were covered with mucous and blood, and you kept looking at Terry, watching his face. Terry let me wash your back and your legs and arms. I exclaimed over how tiny your fingers and toes were. Terry asked me to count your fingers and toes to make sure they were all there. I counted your fingers in English and your toes in French. Ten, et dix. Then you peed and pooped in the bath. Terry and I both laughed like crazy over that. And I remember thinking, ‘This kid has so much to learn.’” Dizzy smiled at me. “And here you are today, you’ve learned so much more about life, about love, than I have.”

  We were quiet after that for several minutes. I was thinking about Terry holding me and bathing me right after I was born, thinking about how much he loved me, about how much he had always loved me. As we neared the house, I turned to my brother. “Thanks, Diz. Thanks for listening.”

  He flashed me a quick smile. “Watch this. Uphill, no hands!”

  I thought about Dizzy’s advice for the next few days. I needed to get Terry alone somewhere, somewhere where he would unwind and listen, really listen to me. One lonely afternoon in Valhalla, after my tutor left for the day, I picked up the latest Village Voice, looking for ideas for a getaway. I spied an article about Chet Steele. I loved Chet Steele. I loved his music. I suspected he was gay. He was married to a beautiful woman at the time, but the way he moved, the way he sang, I just knew he had to be gay. According to the article, Chet was going to be performing at the Jazz Fest in New Orleans at the end of April, on the Riverboat President. What a cool venue.

  I reached for the phone and dialed Terry’s number. I hummed a Chet Steele song, “Only for You,” as I waited for Drew or Terry to answer the phone.

  Terry answered.

  “Hi, Ter. You know how I love Chet Steele?”

  “Are you calling to give me more evidence for why you think he’s gay?”

  I giggled. “No! He’s going to be headlining at the Jazz Fest in New Orleans in two weeks. Let’s go!”

  “Are you kidding, Paulie?”

  “Why not? Please? He doesn’t perform that much anymore, and he never comes to New York. He’s playing on a riverboat! How cool is that? We can stay in the French Quarter, go to some nightclubs. What do you say?”

  “Chet is Drew’s age, can you believe it? They played together when Chet was in Paris in the 50’s. He was a big fan of Blaise Morgon. They got together a lot.” Terry called to Drew, “Drew, you want to go to New Orleans to hear Chet Steele at the Jazz Fest the week after next?”

  I couldn’t hear Drew’s response, but I was hoping it was negative. Drew never liked to travel, except to go to Paris or visit Maman and Dad. I held my breath while Terry processed Drew’s answer.

  “Nope. Drew’s not interested. Why don’t you ask Jeff to go with you?”

  “I really wanted to go with you, Ter. We haven’t done anything fun in a long time. We can take Jeff with us. What do you think? It will be a blast!”

  Terry was silent for a moment. “It would be fun. I wonder if your parents would want to go. Maybe they can convince Drew to go.”

  Already it felt like the fun was seeping out of the plan. “Do you want me to ask them?” I asked, totally deflated.

  Terry exhaled loudly. “Davy will get you backstage with Chet. Will that be cool?”

  “I guess,” I replied, feeling suddenly shy.

  “Davy hasn’t seen Chet since Elvis died. He might like to go.”

  Dad didn’t want to go, it turned out. He had a lot of work to do in the gardens that time of year, and he didn’t want to travel to New Orleans for a week. But, he did put in a call to Chet to ask for VIP tickets for Terry, Jeff, and me.

  In response, Chet made a request of his own: He wanted to perform “You, Me, Too” at the Jazz Fest. And he wanted me to sing back-up on the song with him.

  “I told you he was gay!” I chortled to Terry. “He wants a piece of this butt!” I shook my butt at Terry.

  “He’s not gay, and he doesn’t want your butt,” Terry replied glumly. “But, he does like your music, and that’s very cool, Paul!”

  Chet was performing on two nights of the Jazz Fest, and he wanted me to sing with him on both nights. We had to get to New Orleans a couple days before the Fest, so I could rehearse with him and his band. His voice was so amazing. I sat in rehearsal, my mouth hanging open, watching the master at work. My father had a great voice, but Steele’s voice set my hair standing on edge.

  “He and Elvis are country boys,” Dad told me once. “They learned to sing in church.” I’d never been to church, but I could imagine Chet and Elvis singing with angels there.

  Chet and I worked well together. When I indicated that I would be more comfortable playing rhythm guitar than merely standing in front of a mike, Chet understood immediately and got me set up with a guitar and amp. Our voices blended beautifully. We both sang falsetto, and the effect was mesmerizing. I floated on air during the rehearsal and during the two performances. Chet introduced me as “the hottest new star in America today�
�� when I came onstage both nights.

  Dad flew in with Drew and Maman to hear my two nights onstage with Chet. My parents were nearly as elated as I was by my appearance with Chet Steele. They went home after two nights, leaving me alone with Terry and Jeff. Dad called every night after they left, reading rave reviews of the concert, from various news outlets, to me. “You’re a star, son! I am so proud of you!” Dad kept repeating to me.

  Terry and I planned to spend an extra week in New Orleans, renting bikes to ride around the bayous. Jeff stayed for a day after my parents and Drew left, but he had to return to his job at NYU, where he was going to school. Terry and I went to some gay clubs with him on the evenings before the Jazz Fest, but he had to leave on Sunday night, the last night of the Fest, to be at work and class on Monday. Jeff was reluctant to go back to New York and leave the bon temps in New Orleans. He kissed me for a long time before he boarded his taxi to the airport in the late afternoon. I was sorry to see Jeff go, but I was savoring my time alone with Terry.

  Terry had been extra attentive since my performance with Chet. “You were so amazing,” he purred when I walked offstage the first night into the wings, where he was waiting. We danced backstage at that first concert with Chet’s other guests. The second night Terry sat in VIP seating with Drew, my parents, and Jeff. He held out his arms, and I sat on his lap briefly, kissing him excitedly, when I joined them in the audience the second night. I planned to cash in on the post-Chet high we were riding.

  First thing, after Jeff’s taxi pulled away from the curb, I went to my hotel room and ordered a bottle of champagne and a Cajun appetizer plate. Then I called Terry’s room, located down the hall from mine. “When are you coming over?” I asked.

  “Be there in a few. Is Jeff gone?”

  “Yeh, poor Jeff. He really wanted to stay with us. Come over soon,” I told Terry.

  Terry arrived within minutes after that, looking gorgeous in gym shorts and a teeshirt. I laughed, because I was dressed the same way. We had nowhere to go, no place to be, so gym shorts and tees seemed very appropriate. Terry was wearing sandals, which he kicked off as soon as he sat down on the couch in my room.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Well, I ordered champagne and some appetizers. I figured we could go out to dinner later.”

  Terry nodded and smiled broadly. “There are so many great restaurants in this city. You could stay here for a month and not go to all of them.”

  A knock on the door announced the arrival of the champagne and food. I handed the waiter a twenty and asked him to open the champagne for us. The young man looked at me briefly and smiled, expertly popping off the champagne cork before taking his leave from the room.

  I poured two glasses and handed one to Terry before sitting beside him on the couch.

  “You don’t drink alcohol normally,” Terry observed as he took his glass from me.

  “I know, but I’m in a mood to celebrate. This has been an amazing week. Onstage with the sweetest voice in America! That’s what Elvis called him.” I clinked glasses with Terry and drained my first glass pretty quickly. The champagne tasted delicious, citrusy and cold. I wondered in that moment why I didn’t drink it more often.

  When Terry finished his glass, I refilled both of our glasses without hesitation. We were making small talk about our planned bike excursions for the next few days. For the first two days, we had hired a tour guide to take us around some popular sites. After that, we planned to ride around on our own, with the aid of some bicycle tour books. I opened one book to show Terry a route I liked. I could feel the champagne going to my head, and I sipped my second glass more slowly.

  I snuggled close to Terry, and he put his arm around my shoulder. I closed the book and sighed. “It’s been a great week, hasn’t it?”

  Terry took a long sip of his drink, then smiled at me. “Yes, it’s been magical. I really enjoyed dancing with you and Jeff at that gay bar on Bourbon Street the other night.”

  “I liked the place on St. Louis better. I’m not much into male pole dancers.”

  “Yeh, but Jeff was really into it. It was fun to watch.” Terry drained his glass and smiled at me.

  I pulled the appetizer plate closer to us and poured Terry another glass of champagne. Watching him, I nibbled on a spicy puff pastry.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk, Paulie?” His eyes met mine. He smiled.

  “Yes.” I figured this was where the conversation needed to begin. “I want us to relax and enjoy this moment.”

  “Are you relaxing and enjoying this moment, Paulie?”

  “Of course. I’m with you. I always enjoy being with you. I never want to be with anyone else, but you.” I raised my eyes to look into Terry’s.

  Terry seemed uncertain what to do or say. He took another sip of champagne and turned his head, to avoid eye contact with me.

  I sat there and studied the gorgeous features of his face. His perfect nose, his red eyebrows, red eyelashes, his freckles. His lips. I leaned over and kissed his lips.

  “I’m not a child anymore, Terry,” I told him. “I know what I want, I know what I need.”

  Terry put down his champagne glass and turned to me. “What do you want? What do you need? What could you possibly need, Paul?”

  “You, Terry. I want you. I need you.” I looked entreatingly into his eyes.

  He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, then turned back to me. “What more can I give you, Paul? I give you all my time, I give you all my attention. Here we are in New Orleans because you wanted to go.”

  “I wanted to be with you, Terry. I thought long and hard about how I could get you here by yourself. I’m a man now, Terry, not your little boy anymore. I am 18. And I have the desires and needs of a man.”

  “Ugh. Paul--”

  I cut him off. “I love you, Ter. I want you. I can’t believe you don’t feel the same way.”

  He looked me squarely in the eyes. “Please stop pretending that there is not a third person in this triangle you are proposing, Paul.”

  This time I looked away.

  “I want you to say his name, Paul.”

  “Drew,” I said in a small voice.

  “Drew,” Terry repeated, firmly and loudly, making me flinch. “I want you to say his name and imagine him crying, Paul.”

  I shot him a frustrated look. “What are you, a fucking therapist, Ter?”

  Terry laughed. “You’re close! These are my therapist’s instructions to me.”

  “Since when have you been seeing a therapist, Ter?”

  He lifted my chin and gazed into my eyes. “Ever since I decided that I needed help sorting out my feelings for you. After our bike trip. It took all of my self-control to get off that bed with you in South Carolina, to stop kissing you, Paulie. I was disgusted with myself, and I asked Gabe to hook me up with a counselor.”

  “The therapist, is he--”

  “She.”

  “Is she helping?”

  Terry shook his head, looking bewildered. “I thought so, until now. Now, you have me so --”

  I took his confusion for encouragement. Reaching out, I grasped his face with both hands and kissed him tentatively. I stroked his cheeks with my thumbs. I loved him intensely at that moment.

  When he didn’t resist, I placed my mouth on Terry’s again. Pressing with greater insistence, I forced Terry’s mouth open. I began to kiss Terry with my mouth open, pressing my open mouth against Terry’s. In my excitement, I threw my leg over Terry and pulled Terry down on the couch with me. My heart was pounding, really thumping in my chest.

  I had my mouth open as wide as I could, but I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted more. I wanted to devour Terry. I forced my tongue into Terry’s mouth, with each kiss giving him more and more. At one point, Terry half-gasped, half-moaned. My tongue was so far back in Terry’s throat that I felt Terry’s noise rather than heard it. I jerked my face back to give Terry some air.

  “Jesus!” Terry exclaimed. “Jesus, Paul!
” His eyes studied my face. “You’ve got me very turned on, babe.” There was wonder in his voice. There was wonder in his eyes.

  Without replying, I took control then. I ran my hand lightly across the front of Terry’s gym shorts, admiring his erection, then reached into my own shorts to pull my zizi into a more comfortable position. I pulled Terry closer still, pressing my hips to Terry’s, and resumed my open mouth kisses.

  Each kiss brought me to a fresh peak of excitement. I could feel the pleasure gathering at the base of my zizi, becoming sharp and focused there. My presses against Terry’s hips were relentless, beginning and ending with each kiss. I got to a place where the kisses didn’t end, where one kiss followed another so quickly that there was no beginning and no end to them. Through my shorts I could feel every inch of Terry’s zizi. I rode it in my excitement, rode up and down it.

  Then Terry offered up his tongue, smearing it against my hungry mouth. I seized his tongue and sucked it. Sucked it until my pleasure splintered into sharp shards that melted away in the recesses of my pelvis. Sucked it while Terry moaned and rocked and gasped and pressed against me with a sudden fury.

  Then I released Terry’s tongue. And removed my leg from over Terry’s hip. And waited for Terry’s response. I watched while Terry lifted the waistband of his shorts and studied the mess underneath. “Love juice,” I observed, smiling at Terry hopefully.

  Terry giggled, then tried to scowl. “Nice work, genius,” he told me. “What’s next?”

  I studied Terry’s face anxiously. I hoped Terry wasn’t too angry at me. “Don’t be mad at me, Ter.”

  “I’m not mad at you, Paulie,” Terry replied. “I’m pissed at myself. Letting myself be seduced like this. Man, what’s wrong with me?” Terry suddenly looked miserable. “God, Drew will be so angry! At both of us!”

  “Hey, Ter, we don’t have to tell him.”

  Terry nodded vigorously, contradicting me. “Oh, yes, we do, man!” Then he launched into a discourse on fidelity, on not keeping secrets from one’s partner. “Drew and I don’t hide anything from each other,” Terry told me. “We made a vow to be faithful to each other. I’ve broken that vow now, and I have to tell Drew.”