Between Sinners And Saints

by Marie Sexton

  Jaime sighed in exasperation. "It's none of your business."

  "No, then. No boyfriend. So what's the problem?"

  "How does me telling you to mind your own business mean I don't have a boyfriend?"

  "If you have a boyfriend and wanted me to quit hitting on you, you'd just say 'yes.' If you have a boyfriend and didn't want me to quit hitting on you...well, there're all kinds of ways you could handle it. But telling me to mind my own business isn't one of them."

  "And if I didn't have a boyfriend and wanted you to keep making advances, I would have just said 'no.' Therefore, by your own logic, Mr. Binder, me telling you to mind your own business means no, I don't have a boyfriend, but I am not interested in sleeping with you. As I told you before."

  "It's Mr. Binder again now, is it?" Again, Jaime didn't answer, and Levi felt his smile growing. "I think there's another option. I think you don't want me to stop hitting on you. I think if you did, you'd have lied and said 'yes' when I asked about a boyfriend."

  Jaime stopped massaging his leg all together and looked at him with outrage. "Not all of us lie to get what we want. Besides which, I'm skeptical that me having a boyfriend would have deterred you much anyway."

  Well, he had a point there. Levi'd seduced plenty of "taken" men in his time. "I don't see what the problem is, Jaime. You're single. I'm single. Why not have a little fun?"

  "I am not interested--" Levi reached again for Jaime's hand, but Jaime pulled away. "Don't touch me!" He backed up, until he was against the wall, staring at Levi with half-scared eyes.

  Levi sat up on the massage table, pulling the sheet off as he did. He let Jaime get a good look at him, completely naked, his cock half erect. He knew how he looked. He knew how men usually reacted. He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes so he could meet Jaime's eyes. "I don't want to play games any more, Jaime," he said. "I want you."

  "No, you don't."

  "I do."

  "You want to add another name to your list--if you bothered to take names, that is."

  "Is it because I'm a client? Because I'll switch to another therapist if it'll change your mind."

  "That's not it."

  "You're gay, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you attracted to me?"

  "That's not the point."

  "Is it a religious thing? You think it's a sin? Or you only fuck guys you're in a relationship with? What?"

  "I can't."

  "Are you HIV positive?"

  "No! It's nothing like that."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  Jaime was shaking. He'd gone from looking half-scared to looking absolutely terrified. Levi didn't understand how being hit on could be frightening.

  "Levi," he said, his voice quiet and shaky, "I can't. I'm not saying I don't want to. I'm saying I can't."

  "You're not making any sense at all. You know that, right?"

  Jaime closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. And then another. When his blue eyes opened again, some of the fear was gone. But what Levi saw there instead surprised him. Jaime looked sad and beaten.

  "I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Binder."

  "Come on, Jaime! Don't be like that. I don't see why we shouldn't have a bit of fun together. That's all."

  "I need you to leave now."

  "Wait! Jaime, I'm sorry--"

  Now that Levi was back-pedaling, what remained of Jaime's fear seemed to be turning quickly into anger. "I won't charge you for this visit, which I think is rather generous of me."

  "Please don't do this. I'll stop--"

  "I'll go out of the room so you can get dressed--"

  "What about the therapy for my leg? And my back?" Because the truth was, the massages helped. He didn't want to stop treatment now.

  But he could tell Jaime wasn't about to be swayed. "If you're serious about treatment, I suggest you find a new therapist. Otherwise, I'm sure The Zone will provide you with all the therapy you need."

  "Jaime, I'm sorry, okay? Give me another chance!"

  But Jaime didn't even listen. He turned and went through the door leading into his house, closing it firmly behind him. Levi could have sworn he heard more than one lock clicking into place. As if he'd try to bust the damn thing down.

  He sighed. The next nearest therapist on his list had been more than ten miles away. He could have kicked himself for fucking things up so royally with the Boy Scout, all because he wanted to get laid. Jaime was right--he could do that any time. It had been selfish of him to bring his desire here.

  Still, there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it now. Jaime wasn't interested in his apologies. Levi did the only other thing he could think of to do. He got dressed. And he left.

  * * * *

  That night, Jaime lay in his bed, debating. There was an ache deep in his abdomen and he'd been half hard all evening. Levi's advances had stirred something in him he had always done his best to squash--desire. A normal man would have done something about it. A normal man wouldn't have been ashamed. But he was far from normal.

  Jaime knew some people would have said what happened to him had caused his homosexuality. He also knew some people would argue this idea was a load of shit. Jaime wished he knew for sure. He liked men. He knew that much. But he also knew sometimes it was hard for him to believe his attraction wasn't connected to what he'd endured, which made him want to avoid it. In his teenage years, he'd wanted very badly be attracted to women instead. He'd tried to want them. But he'd failed. And for every day that went by when he was sure his homosexuality was something he was born with, there would be another day when he couldn't quite make himself believe it.

  He tried to tell himself it didn't matter. He told himself embracing his sexuality was the best way to leave it all behind--not to let his past ruin his present. But it was easier said than done.

  It had started when Jaime was young. He couldn't even have said how young. Maybe three. Maybe four. His mother worked nights, and would often leave him with his aunt and uncle. Back then, it had been subtle. He remembered his uncle watching him as he played on the floor with his toys. He remembered how sometimes, as he watched, his uncle breathed hard and grunted. Jaime would try not to look at him.

  Later, when Jaime was a couple of years older, his uncle would have him sit in his lap. He remembered the strange sensation of something hard against his leg. Soon afterward it turned into a game. His uncle would say, "Put your hand here." His big hand would close over Jaime's little one as his uncle grunted and groaned. Sometimes he squeezed so hard it hurt Jaime's hand. "It's our secret game," his uncle would say, after Jaime's hand was sticky and wet.

  Jaime thought he was probably eight or nine the first time his uncle came for him in the night. He had put his hand over his mouth and said in his ear, "Don't you make a sound." Jaime had been so scared, he'd peed the bed, but his uncle didn't care. Jaime didn't know how many times it happened. Maybe twice. Maybe four times. What he did remember was the way his uncle's reeking breath on his face smelled as he grunted away on top of him, like beer and stale cigarettes. He remembered the weight against his back, so heavy he felt like he couldn't breathe. And more than anything, Jaime remembered the pain. The pain didn't end when his uncle finally stood up and left the room, either. The pain went on for days.

  He remembered the shame of his aunt finding the wet sheet. He was too old to have accidents, she'd told him.

  It wasn't until years later he thought to wonder about the blood. Certainly she'd seen that, too.

  He remembered having nightmares once he was back at home. The bedwetting started again. He remembered how, finally, he'd locked himself in the bathroom rather than be taken to his uncle's house, and when his mother had used a toothpick to open it, he'd sobbed and sobbed, begging her not to make him go back. He'd kicked and screamed and bitten her, pulling her hair, and finally, she'd spanked him and thrown him into his room. He hadn't cared about being punished. He only knew he was relieved. He wasn't g
oing back.

  Afterward, there were hushed phone calls. Jaime never knew what happened. He never knew how much his mother had learned. He only knew he never spent a night at his uncle's house again. When his mother worked nights, she would send him to the neighbor's or to his grandmother's instead. When he saw his aunt and uncle on holidays, they would both pretend he didn't exist at all. It had been a relief. And yet, his mother still talked to them both. His mother still smiled at her sister. She still spoke to her sister's spouse.

  Eventually, he got his bladder back under control. The pain faded. But some things never went away--the fear, and the nightmares. And the shame. That was the worst part of it: the shame. Even now, nearly twenty years later, it was there. Jaime'd been to counseling as an adult. He'd read books and articles on the subject. He knew it was a common aftereffect. He knew it wasn't rational.

  That didn't change it, though.

  It also didn't change the fact that, regardless of who was involved, he could not stand to be touched.

  That was why he'd said no to Levi. Not because he didn't find Levi attractive--God knew he did. Not because he thought sex was wrong. Not because he believed it had to be about love. But because he couldn't stand to be touched. He knew, in theory, this didn't mean he couldn't have some kind of sex life. Certainly there were plenty of ways to get off. But they would require trust. They would require him to not be ashamed.

  In theory, it was possible. In reality, there was no way.

  Masturbation wasn't something he allowed himself to do very often. He knew most men did it often. He also knew most men didn't have his hang-ups. Sometimes, he felt as if giving in to his sexual desires made him no better than his uncle. If gratifying himself was normal, then it seemed to mean what was done to him was normal as well. He knew it made no sense, rationally. He'd learned, however, to accept that when it came to sex and his past, logic held no sway.

  Masturbation was further complicated by the fact he didn't like the feel of his own shaft in his hand as he stroked himself. It was too similar to something he remembered from long ago. Sometimes he would spread a towel on the bed and hump himself against it. Very rarely, he would fill a plastic bag with Vaseline and slide it between the mattresses of his bed. He would kneel next to his bed and thrust into the bag. On rare occasions, he could induce orgasms simply by tapping his fingers against his frenulum. But the truth was, sometimes it just seemed like too much effort.

  Tonight, though, he knew he needed it. No amount of telling himself no was going to change the terrible tightness in his groin. His erection was almost painful. He debated for a long time, but in the end, he stripped naked. He got an old pillow out of the closet--one that had been washed so many times it was worn and butter soft. He lay on his stomach and put the pillow between his legs, under his pelvis. And he thought about Levi.

  He thought about Levi's body and his tan skin. He thought about the dark hair hanging in his hazel eyes, and the heat he'd seen in those eyes today. He thought about the suggestive timbre of Levi's voice. He thought of the bulge under the sheet, between Levi's legs, and his thrusts against the pillow became stronger. He thought of moving the sheet aside. He thought of Levi's cock. He thought of licking it. He imagined sucking it, and his thrusts became frantic. He thought of Levi's lips. He thought of kissing him. Toward the very end, as his climax was bearing down upon him and he both longed for and dreaded the release it would bring, he even thought of how it would feel to let Levi touch him.

  Not once did he think of letting Levi fuck him.

  Chapter 5

  Levi spent the entire week contemplating Jaime's reaction to his advances, but he couldn't come up with an explanation. He was completely baffled. It wasn't the fact that Jaime had refused him. It was the fear he'd seen in his eyes that gave him pause. His overtures were not just unwelcome. They were, for some reason he did not understand, genuinely distressing.

  "I have a puzzle for you, Max." It was ten o'clock on Friday night, and The Zone was busy, but not overly so. The customers tended to come in waves, and at the moment, they were in a lull.

  "Riddle away, Batman," Max said, leaning against the bar.

  "A gay twenty-something-year-old man who won't have sex. Not, he says, because he doesn't want to. But because he can't. What the fuck's up with that?"

  "He's got a boyfriend and actually believes monogamy's a legitimate lifestyle choice?"

  "That's not it."

  "We talking about somebody you know?"

  "Not really."

  Max grinned knowingly at him. "You met a guy whose pants you couldn't get into and you can't figure out why."

  "No," Levi said.

  "You're a horrible liar, Levi. Must be your good Mormon upbringing."

  "Fine," Levi admitted. "I just don't get the whole 'I want to but I can't' thing. That's all."

  More customers came up then and the conversation dropped for a few minutes as they poured drinks and collected cash.

  Once they were alone again, Max said, "I knew a guy once--well, I didn't know him, but he was my roommate's uncle, so I heard about him. Anyway, this guy was HIV positive and had a latex allergy."

  Levi whistled. "Brutal."

  "No shit. Talk about getting shafted. And not in the way he liked."

  Levi shook his head. "He says it's not HIV."

  "Hepatitis?"

  "I don't know."

  "Who is this guy, anyway?" Max asked, looking around the bar as if Jaime might be there wearing a sign that read, I won't fuck Levi Binder. "I want to meet him."

  "He's not here."

  "Who is he?"

  "None of your goddamn business."

  Max laughed. "Wow, he's got you good, doesn't he? Never had anybody say no before, Levi?"

  Not very damn often, but Levi was saved from answering by another rush of thirsty patrons.

  "So what you gonna do?" Max asked the next time they had a break between customers. "You gonna chalk this guy up as a nut job 'cause he actually can resist you or you gonna obsess on it 'til you can nail him?"

  "I guess that's what I'm trying to figure out," Levi said.

  "Hey, Zeke!" Max said, and Levi turned to see one of the owners enter the narrow space behind the bar he and Max occupied. "Levi's got a puzzle to solve."

  Zeke was fifty, give or take a few years. He owned The Zone with his long-time partner Owen. Owen mostly handled the books and was rarely seen around the bar when it was open, but Zeke was usually around until two or three in the morning and had even been known to cover for some of the bartenders while they took quick breaks in the back room with willing guests. He was quiet and didn't have much of a sense of humor, but he was damn easy to work for.

  "What's the puzzle?" he asked.

  "Levi met some guy who refuses to be swayed by his charming advances and he can't figure out why," Max said.

  Zeke turned to Levi with one eyebrow up and a knowing smile on his face, and Levi felt himself blush. "Must be losing your mojo," Zeke said, and Max laughed. Zeke pulled out a bottle of Jaegermeister and poured three shots. "Is this really the first time in your life anyone's ever said no?" he asked as he handed one to Levi.

  "It's not because he said no," Levi said defensively as he looked down at the shot in his hand. He hated Jaegermeister, but when the boss handed you a drink, it seemed wise to drink it. He swallowed the alcohol, wincing at the licorice taste, and put the empty glass in the sink. "What confuses me is that he got all weird about it. He freaked out a little bit, like he was scared. And he said it wasn't because he doesn't want to, but because he can't."

  Zeke seemed to ponder that. One of Max's regulars came up then, a doe-eyed man who may as well have had "dominate me" tattooed across his forehead. They put their heads together to talk. Zeke watched them, and when Max glanced his way, Zeke shrugged. That was the green light, so they headed for the back room.

  "You know, Levi," Zeke said when they were gone, "Owen dated a guy once, back before we met. This guy freaked ou
t if Owen tried to go down on him. Turned out when he was twelve, he had a foster mother who liked to go down on him, too."

  "Oh God," Levi said in disgust.

  "Exactly." Zeke wasn't looking at him. He was staring into his still-full shot glass as if it was a Magic Eight-ball and was about to reveal the answer. "The thing is, sometimes he wanted it. Sometimes he wanted it so much, Owen said it was all he could think about it. So they'd try, and one of two things would happen: either he'd freak out halfway through and end up in tears, or he'd get off on it. Owen said him getting off was worse because then he'd feel guilty and ashamed, and he'd be depressed for a week. Sometimes more."

  "Jesus Christ," Levi said, shaking his head. "What happened?"

  Zeke shrugged. "They split up--not because of that, but because they were young and stupid and couldn't keep their dicks in their pants. But fifteen years later, Owen found out the guy had taken a bottle of Valium with a giant vodka chaser."

  "He killed himself?"

  Zeke finally threw back his shot. "Can you blame him?" he asked as he handed Levi his empty glass.

  More customers came up, and Zeke and Levi went back to work. As Levi poured shots and mixed drinks, he contemplated what Zeke had said.

  He'd considered HIV, but it had never occurred to him Jaime's problem might be an emotional issue. It changed everything. If Jaime had merely been playing hard to get, or if he was just shy, or even if it was because he had a boyfriend, Levi would have persisted. He would have looked at it as a game. But if it was something like Zeke had described, it was definitely not a game. And the more Levi thought about the fear and the near panic he'd seen on Jaime's face, the more he thought Zeke might be on the right track.

  He wasn't going to mess with that. After all, he liked finding guys to fuck, but he did want them to be willing. And he didn't want to have to tiptoe through an emotional minefield to do it. He knew he was sometimes an asshole, but he wasn't so far gone he'd intentionally fuck with somebody who was troubled like that. It was one thing to be selfish. It was another altogether to be malicious.