a definite “Yes.” But am I really, really?
Andrew answers the question for me,
though I’m sure he has no idea that’s what
he’s doing. I can’t wait to show you the ranch.
Someday it will be your home too. No hint
of hesitation. He’s not only saying his home
is mine, he’s telling me his life is mine.
We turn down a long gravel driveway,
the smell of spring sharp through the windows.
Cattle graze in one field, horses in another.
I know nothing about either animal except
what I’ve seen on TV. But that will change
with time. Time with Andrew. One day,
not far in the future, we’ll have plenty of time
together. Something powerful rises up inside me.
Home
Andrew parks the Tundra and we are home.
A bluetick pup lifts her head from the porch,
and when she sees Andrew, sprints to greet
him, tail stub wagging. I know how she feels.
Andrew bends to scratch her behind an ear.
Here now, little Sheila. Say hello to my Eden.
And now she is my puppy too. She licks
my hand, telling me so, and I cannot believe
that any of this is real. Where is my familiar
home? Where is Boise? I never want to return
to either. I slide my arms up around Andrew’s
neck. “I love you. More than anything in
this world.” And, for a swift-passing moment,
the thought crosses my mind that I love him
more than anything in any world. Torn, always
torn, I throw out a silent entreaty to whatever
might exist beyond this world: “If love like this
is wrong, Lord, go ahead and damn me.”
I Feel Zero
Trepidation as Andrew takes my hand,
encourages me through the front door.
I hold my breath, not sure why. I feel
like a bride on her wedding night, despite
the nag inside my head who insists:
Not married. Not right. Not married …
“Shut up!” I will her, silently. Because,
despite the lack of white gown and cake,
dripping frosting flowers, I know what will
happen soon means Andrew and I are forever
one. Sheila, puppy of honor, follows us
inside. She’s probably not nearly as impressed
as I am. The decor is simple. Real. Wood.
Leather. Antiques, refinished, as if the people
who own them care about their history.
And, of course, they do. “Oh, Andrew.
It’s all so perfect. I love it!” And I do.
“But not nearly as much as I love you.”
We’re kissing. We’ve never kissed exactly
like this, because we’ve never felt this easy
with each other. No one here. No one
to see. Only Andrew and me.
(Sheila doesn’t care. Doesn’t count,
because she only wants what Andrew
and I do. Love.) We could talk, I guess.
But there’s nothing, really, to say beyond
I love you, and we’ve already said that.
Andrew stops kissing me, and his eyes
ask what he’s afraid to, and my eyes answer
in the same way, so he takes my hand, leads
me down the hall to the bedroom that I would
have picked as his without analyzing. It has
a big feather bed, with massive quilts and
pillows I have to fall into. With Andrew.
I Thought It Would Be
So easy. That loving him as much as I do would
conquer any hint of fear. But when he kisses
me, I’m shaking, and there are tears
in my eyes. We don’t have to, he whispers.
“I know. I want to. I’m just …” Unsure.
I’m completely unsure about my body.
What if he hates it? But now he touches
me. His hands are tentative, and I remember
that this is new for him, too. Is this
okay? he asks. Tell me what you like.
He kisses me as he picks me up, lays
me gently on the bed. A slow, mutual
exploration begins. As we learn together,
the fear falls away, and sheer exhilaration—
like standing on the very edge of a cliff,
with the wind in your face—replaces it.
He likes my body, and I love his, and there
are only a few seconds of pain, before waves
of pleasure. Wave after swelling wave of
everything right. Wave after wave of love.
A Poem by Seth Parnell
Nothing’s Right
Not when you know
someone you love
must leave too soon.
The thought of
losing a friend stings.
The pain of losing
a parent revisits you.
The insanity of
losing someone
who has become
your very heart slices
you right in two.
You can’t
eat. Can’t sleep. Can’t
concentrate on simple
things. All you do
is wonder how you’ll
live without
the necessary beat
inside your chest.
The weight of dread
takes your breath away.
Seth
Three Weeks
Until Loren leaves me.
One month until my life
falls into limbo. I never
knew limbo was meant
to be experienced on earth.
I’m halfway there already.
I fake my way through
every day, eating, drinking,
staring off into the classroom
void, with finals fast approaching.
I don’t care about school,
about getting into some
highbrow university.
Don’t care about the price
of seed or serious lack of rain.
Will I care about any of
that when he’s gone?
Maybe it will be easier,
not sneaking off to see
him every stinking chance
I get. Not trying with
every ounce of what’s
inside me to make him
damn well remember
me every minute he’s away.
I’d Be Lying
If I said things haven’t changed
between us already. It’s like
we’ve erected a tall wall
of silence, and neither of us
will break down and be first
to try and scale the stupid
thing. We used to talk for
hours, discuss issues, confess
latent secrets. We used to
have fun. Used to go out.
Now when he opens the door,
I don’t even say hello, just
push my way through,
barely close it behind me
before pulling him off down
the hall to the bedroom.
We have changed there,
too. Especially me. I take
control from the start,
don’t ask, only demand.
I want to hurt him, like
he will hurt me when he
goes off to minister. I only
have one way to do that.
And I’m doing it now.
He Accepts
Every jolt of punishment
without a word or even
a sigh. When I can’t give
any more, when the act
is finished, I stand back,
waiting. Expecting anger.
Tears. Anything but his
soft, Don’t you know how
sorry I am that I have
to go? I love you, Seth.
And the tears that finally
come are mine. “Jesus,
Loren. Why did I have to
meet you at all? What do
I do when you leave?
“Go back to school, back to
farming? Back to the old
me, who was never me
at all?” I look at him, find
his eyes, but no answers.
He comes over to me,
slides his arms up
around my neck, kisses
the kind of kiss that makes
me want more. A lot more.
Just when I think I’m ready
for more, he stops me.
Let’s clean up and go out
for a while. I’m starving.
How about some Italian?
As I start to say no, my
belly rumbles a good one.
I haven’t eaten a darn thing
since morning Cheerios.
“Sure, why the hell not?”
Probably a good idea
to get out of this place
before I start to cry again.
Sometimes, top crust
or not, I feel like a total girl.
Despite That
And despite being an hour
from home, I don’t want
to look like a girl when
Loren and I go out, not
even in this neighborhood,
where many of the people
I see could easily be identified
as “gay.” Not even knowing
most everyone here is gay.
Who knows who might be
cruising this place for
a date or just for kicks?
Hetero couples wander
the sidewalks. Looking
for a threesome? Or just
to be somewhere safe, where
one half of the couple won’t
ask the other, What the HELL
are you looking at? Somewhere
safe? Is there such a place?
Loren Leads the Way
Weaving us in and out
of the Bohemians
crowding the sidewalk.
It’s nice to be out with
him. But it also makes me
sad. We used to do this
more when we first got
together. Restaurants.
Theater. Long walks,
talking about life in general.
Then it all became about
sex. More sex. Better
sex. Unusual sex. Like
most couples, I guess.
Is that what I’m really
afraid of losing? Not
connection or affection,
not the growth caused
by absorbing love? If
so, what have I become?
I Can’t Help
But think about that as
Pietro escorts us to
our favorite table, one
we haven’t asked for in
too many weeks, a fact he
reminds us of. Why have
you stayed away so
long, misters? I was
beginning to think you
maybe got bad fish last time.
Loren always orders the
fresh fish. He responds,
Now you know we’ve never
gotten so much as a single
bad mouthful here, Pietro.
The broad Italian smiles.
Well then, we have on
the menu fresh sea bass
tonight…. He goes on to
describe the specials in detail.
I’ll stick with my usual
mushroom raviolis.
I lost Pietro after sea bass,
wondering if, without Loren,
I’ll ever eat here again.
I Guess I Might
If I ever happen to come
to Louisville again, once
Loren’s gone. The food
is delicious. If the place
was in a different part of
town, I might even bring
Dad along, see if he could
interest Pietro in his supersecret
recipe for venison
sausage, biscuits, and gravy.
The thought makes me smile,
and that makes Loren smile
too. What? he says, the corners
of his mouth still curled in
that oh-so-familiar way.
It’s hard to put him and Dad
in the same place, even if
that place is inside my head.
“Nothing.” Under the table,
Loren’s hand finds my thigh.
So, he says, I thought
we might go out for
a little while after we
finish dessert. There’s
a club not far from here… .
His touch is doing strange
things to me. At least, they
feel awfully strange in a
restaurant. “A club? You
mean …? You’re not serious.”
Completely serious. Tonight
they even let underage guys
inside, as long as they have
a sponsor. I figured I could
sponsor you. How about it?
Right now, my body wants
him to do more than “sponsor”
me. But I have to admit, I’m
a little curious. “I thought
you didn’t like gay bars.”
I don’t. Not alone. But I’m
not alone tonight, am I?
He spies Pietro, bringing
our tiramisu, and his hand
falls away. Leaves me cold.
Cold Becomes Clammy
As Loren and I make our
way past Mr. ID Checker
at the door to Fringe. He
looks at Loren’s license,
nods, barely glances at mine.
I shake my head. “What was
that? He didn’t give a damn
about how old I am. And just
why do you have to show ID
to prove you’re underage?”
Loren grins. You’re supposed
to be eighteen to get in.
But you’re right, he doesn’t
really care. Kentucky
is notoriously lax on
such things. It hasn’t been
all that long since they
raised the drinking age
to twenty-one, and they
don’t very often bust bars
for serving to minors.
Still, I wouldn’t stand
right in front of the guy,
sipping bourbon. He
might decide to get nasty.
Fringe
Is a lot different than I
thought it would be.
I expected sleazy, but it
borders on upscale, all dark
wood and brass and suede.
It’s not that late, as bar
scenes go, so the place
isn’t too crowded. Still,
maybe fifty or sixty guys
are drinking, laughing,
and hitting on other guys,
if they’re not coupled up
already. Loren and I find
cushy chairs in the back,
and he goes to order drinks.
I use the opportunity to
check out the river of faces.
Many are average. You
wouldn’t look twice at
them on the street. A few
you wouldn’t want to look
at. Okay, they’re not very
attractive, and when they
openly sta
re at me, it
creeps me out completely.
There are also some beautiful
men here. Most of them are
younger, yet a fair number
gravitate toward much older
guys. I don’t think it’s all about
love. I watch a decent-looking
middle-aged man, sandy
haired and very well dressed,
head off to the men’s room.
Within three minutes, his young
companion flirts obnoxiously.
Glad he didn’t pick me to flirt
with. When the older guy
returns, he is not pleased.
He slams his fist on the table,
grabs his designer overcoat,
and stomps toward the door,
followed by the younger guy.
If I beat up a table, would
Loren follow me out the door?
Would He Decide to Stay
If I tried coercion instead
of a simple plea? What if
I threatened his family?
Like I could, considering
I don’t know who—or where—
they are. He’s never shared
that information with me, nor
told me where he went to school,
or how (or if) he outed himself.
That’s a lot not to tell me.
He returns now with two
sugar-rimmed glasses,
filled with amber liquid
and some sort of green
leaves. Mint juleps, he says.
Froufrou drinks? I take a big
swallow, fight to not choke.
“H-holy crap. What’s in
these things?” Whatever
it is burns going down.
He can’t help but laugh.
Bourbon. A little sugar
syrup, some mint leaves,
but other than that,
bourbon. Sip, don’t gulp.
I’m Doing a Fair Job
Of sipping, not gulping,
when one of the most
incredible-looking men I’ve ever seen
shakes his butt by. My mouth
must have dropped open,
because Loren turns to see
what I’m staring at. My, my.
He is a fine work of art, isn’t
he? We watch the guy cozy
up to a what might be less
than affectionately termed
“old faggot.” Within five
seconds, the ancient dude is
buying the fine work of art
a drink. “What’s up with that?”
Oh hon, haven’t you ever
heard the term “sugar
daddy”? Lots of young
guys go looking for easy
drinks, easy meals, maybe
even a place to stay. When
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