by Tal Bauer
Scattered on the lawn, people gathered on blankets and under trees, picnicking, playing soccer, walking hand in hand. Men and men. Women and women. His people, laughing, smiling, out in the open, having a great time.
Celebrating their lives.
Twenty-five years really was a long, long time.
Tears pricked his eyes, and he swallowed hard, trying to force back a choking panic that seemed to rise within him, a swell of grief that nearly knocked him down. What had he missed? When had all this—all of who he was—become something to celebrate?
Etta Mae pulled at her leash, wanting to run and dive in. “Me too, Etta Mae,” he whispered. “Me too.”
They headed down, passing under the balloon arch on 14th and into the green. Couples smiled at Etta Mae, and a pair of women crouched and scratched her ears, cooing at her floppy face. Three young men passed by and one laughed. “That dog is everything,” he snapped, his voice lilting and full of warmth, of life. “Everything.”
Rainbow flags were sticking out of backpacks and back pockets. Pride screamed from t-shirts and shorts, body paint and rainbows and slogans screaming in defiant joy and painted in vivid colors on bare skin. Music danced on the tree branches, rose and fell through the laughter and the happy voices of everyone talking, shouting, calling out to each other. Waving, smiling, laughing, singing. Drums pounded by the Smithsonian Castle, happy beats, proud beats.
The last time he’d heard bucket drums had been years ago, blocks away in front of the Capitol. The Second National March on Washington DC, in October 1987.
The day had been crisp and clear, an autumn day that hovered between the start of winter and an Indian Summer.
A cold wind and a hot sun, like the world had been those days.
President Reagan, leading society on a frigid indifference to the millions and millions of dead gays, and the fiery passion of a people refusing to die quietly.
In the South, the meeting and mixing of heat and ice birthed storms that created tornadoes, tragedies that killed and wrecked lives, destroyed the present and the future.
That sunny autumn day in DC, the storm had come in the form of bucket drums, skinny sick men shouting at the top of their wrecked lungs, and people who gave their all because that was all they had left. Supporters—so few they could be named and counted in a single list—marched arm in arm with dying men.
He’d sneaked out of his house, telling his parents he was going to a friend’s, and instead went to the Capitol on his own. He watched the protest in front of the Supreme Court, protesting Bowers v. Hardwick, a ruling which criminalized sodomy between two consenting men, even in private spaces, even in homes, and kept his existence—his desires, his life—a federal crime. Breathing in and breathing out, and dreaming his dreams at night, he was a felon-in-the-making, a man destined to go wrong, destined to break the law, and, of course, die for his sins. Wasn’t that how it worked in the movies? The bad guys got it in the end.
Seventeen-years-old, old enough to know, in the marrow of his bones, that he was one of them. He was one of the gay men his mother tsked about and his father shook his head over. He was one of the forgotten, tragic millions, destined to die by a thousand sad sighs and averted eyes. He wanted a man’s hands on his skin, his lips on his lips, his body moving over and around and into his own. There was nothing he wanted more, the summer he turned seventeen, than to drop to his knees and suck a dick, suck it and suck it until he feasted on the come while some man ran his hands through his shaggy haircut, the rage of the late 80s grunge culture.
He watched the AIDS quilt be spread out for the very first time on the National Mall—on this very lawn—in 1987, and felt like he’d soared out of his body. Flying high over the Mall, over the panels and panels of names and faces, the only headstone some men would ever know. He thought he was looking at the future, one long stretch of names and faces, a history of gay men that would lead to the end of their existence. The panels on the quilt, the names, the faces, were all that was left of so many men. They had died, their friends had died, their lovers, their partners, their families. Whole communities, erased.
When would he be on the quilt?
His soul had yo-yoed, then. He was gay, he was one of them. Surely he was destined to die. What would he do with his life until then?
No, he wasn’t going to go out like that. Look at this march, he’d thought. Listen to the drums! Change is in the air! I’ll be fine. I’ll go to college, to law school. I’ll be the change in the world.
When had his back been broken? When had his seventeen-year-old passion been snuffed? Was it his professor’s words? Or was it the hundreds, thousands, millions of side-eyed glares and breathless sneers, the looks that promised a beating, a killing, if he only waited around for the pleasure. The news that told him every day he was worth less than all others. He was expendable. He wasn’t worth saving. His life was measured in statistics, in timescales and chances and tsks and sighs.
He wanted to live and he wanted to die, and he was so fucking terrified of his own soul. His own existence. Too many hormones and too little frontal lobe development of his early adulthood. He’d been a shooting star that burned too bright, breaking apart in the upper atmosphere of life.
He’d given up.
And he’d missed the road to this.
He was a refugee of his own existence, and he walked through the crowd, the pulsing, vibrant, celebration bursting with life that surrounded him. The sun was warm on his skin, on his face, like that autumn day three decades ago. But this was purely warm, warm with life, with future, with happiness. The cold wind, the terror, was gone.
Tom tipped his head back and smiled, his face to the sun. Let osmosis work its magic, let the happiness, the heat, the life seep into his skin and into his bones. Soak this up, this day, this moment, the rainbow colors and the laughter, until his skeleton was wreathed in rainbows and each individual fiber in his muscles pulsed with pride.
Like a sailor lost at sea, he swam furiously for the shore, for this shore, which he never, ever imagined could be.
Etta Mae’s tail kept wagging, and her tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth. He pulled her into the shade and poured some water into a collapsible bowl for her. She drank greedily, making a mess, flinging water from her jowls as she looked up at each new sound or passerby. She was too excited to drink much and spilled most of it by the time she was impatiently done, trying to drag him down the path to the next group of people who cooed at her.
A group of men and women were flying kites off to his left, and ahead, a small group was tossing a frisbee back and forth. It looked like a game, like football without tackling mixed with basketball moves to block throws. Two of the men playing were tall and slender, their long legs pumping out of short shorts. One was larger, bulkier, and shirtless, his shoulders muscled and a light pelt of fur grazing his chest and marching down his belly to his low-slung waistband.
He watched, his eyes wandering over the shirtless player. He had on a backwards ball cap and sunglasses, and he laughed as he flung the frisbee over the head of one of the slender defenders. The defender slapped him on the belly, and he doubled over, grinning, and then wrapped his arms around the other man. The skinny guy, in tiny shorts and a tank top tied in a knot just to the side of his belly button, slapped his arms, but blew a kiss over his shoulder.
Desire slammed into him, like he’d been tackled from behind. God, he wanted that. He wanted a man to wrap his arms around him, smile into the side of his cheek, freely love him in public under the sun, in public in the nation’s capital. He wanted, so badly, so strongly. He wanted someone—a man—to love him.
He really should message Doug. See if he could resurrect that fledgling connection.
The man in the backwards ball cap let go of the other and spun, beaming, laughing, radiating happiness. He turned, facing Tom.
He stopped dead and his jaw dropped. He froze, staring.
Tom looked over his shoulder. Was someone nak
ed behind him? Was there someone stunningly hot walking by, something that could have earned that response?
He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, just the same groups of happy couples and partners picnicking on the lawn, men and men kissing as they shared cheese cubes and glasses of wine, women and women cuddling or playing with young children on their blankets.
When he turned back, the shirtless man was jogging toward him.
Oh shit. It was Mike.
His insides went slippery, his guts like a thousand wriggling jellyfish trying to escape. Mike, beautiful Mike, coming toward him shirtless. God, he was breathtaking. Those shoulders were just as perfect as he imagined, as he dreamed, and—yep, Mike had a perfect stretch of chest hair, marching down his flat belly and forming a trail that disappeared under his waistband. His board shorts were tied low, and his hip bones angled out from his slim waist, tanned skin stretched taut.
Tom’s blood seared his bones, desire like a frisson, a bomb going off in his chest and sparking through him. His mouth went dry, parched, as he imagined running to Mike and sinking to his knees, yanking his shorts down—
“Judge B?” Confusion strained Mike’s voice, and he spoke softly, once he was close enough to be heard over the music and the drums and the clamor of happy voices. He shook his head. “What are you doing here?”
Tom’s gaze fixed to Mike’s chest, to his perfect pecs. Words fled, the ability to speak a forgotten skill of a higher mammalian being. His mouth opened and shut, opened and shut.
Etta Mae barked, howling up at Mike and wagging her tail. She would not be ignored.
Mike crouched and grinned, ruffling her ears and scratching behind her collar. Etta Mae beamed and gazed up at Mike with soulful eyes, full of love.
Another devotee to the worship of Mike. Great. Jealousy flared. Etta Mae had known Mike for two seconds and his hands were all over her.
Jesus, he was jealous of his dog. He was losing it, big time.
Mike looked up, and then seemed to realize he was shirtless. “Uhh, sorry.” He grabbed his t-shirt, hanging out of the back of his waistband, and pulled it over his head, quickly shoving his arms through the holes and tugging it down.
“You don’t have—I mean, it’s fine—I don’t mind—You’re—”
Shut your mouth. Shut your mouth right now. Nothing you say will fix this. Tom’s jaw clamped shut. He swallowed and tried to smile. Tried to buy time. Mike’s t-shirt, at least, had seemed to gift him back some of his brain cells. “I’m just out for a walk. Beautiful day!”
“Yeah.” Mike still stared at him, and even though his eyes were covered, Tom could feel the questions. Of all the parks and all the walks he could go on in DC, and he ended up on the Mall in the middle of Pride?
His confidence, his joyous optimism from moments before, fled. The cold wind was back, sliding up his bones. Words stuck in his throat, crashing into each other like trains piling up, the tracks from his soul to his voice long derailed. He wanted to say I’m here to celebrate, I’m here to party, I’m here because I’m just like you, I’m here because I’m gay.
But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
“I saw a flyer for this last night,” he said quickly. “Wanted to check it out.” Not quite a lie. Not the truth, though, and his soul shriveled.
Mike smiled. “Cool.” He nodded back to the group playing frisbee. “My friends and I came out together. I take it this is Etta Mae?”
Etta Mae was staring up at Mike like Tom wanted to, mouth open, tongue hanging out, panting and wagging her tail, obviously enamored. “Yeah, this is my princess.”
Mike crouched down and petted her again. Etta Mae rolled over and spread her legs, begging for a belly rub.
Tom was jealous. He was so very, very jealous.
One of Mike’s friends, the one Mike had wrapped up in a hug, peered at them. He had a bandana rolled up and knotted around his forehead and his brown hair was artfully spiked on top of his head. Effortless athletic chic. Sophistication. He looked great, so much more amazing than Tom’s boring polo and khaki shorts. His ass also looked stunning, unlike Tom’s. God, he was old.
Mike’s friend jogged for them, his long legs gleaming in the sunlight, sun-kissed skin winking beneath his knotted tank top. He pulled up next to Mike and leaned one arm on his shoulder as Mike stood. “Hey,” he said, looking Tom up and down. His voice, his tone, said so much more than hello. “I’m Kris.” Kris held out his hand, delicately.
Tom took it, smiling politely. “Tom. Nice to meet you.”
“Trust me, the pleasure is mine.” Kris winked.
Mike elbowed Kris in his ribs and turned sharply to his friend. He shook his head, quick, violent shakes that said no, no, stop flirting. Kris frowned at him and pulled his chin back, arching one delicate eyebrow.
Mike spoke quickly. “It was nice seeing you—”
“Are you a friend of Mike’s?” Kris talked right over Mike, stepping away from him and toward Tom. “Cute dog. He’s a hoot.”
“She.” Tom grinned. Etta Mae was back on her butt, watching everything around them, sniffing the air. “And we work together.”
“Ooo, are you a lawman like him? Big, bad U.S. marshal?”
“Kris—”
Laughing, Tom shook his head. “No, I’m—”
“He’s a lawyer.” Mike jumped in, answering for Tom. “We work at the courthouse together.”
Kris’s gaze bounced from Mike to Tom and back again. “Well, you must be one of the good guys, then,” Kris said slowly. “Mike only likes the prosecutors.”
Mike sighed and shook his head, his hands on his hips. Tom smiled. “That’s good to know. And yes, I was in the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”
“Definitely one of the good guys.” Kris winked, a saucy little smile playing on his lips. “Want to join us? We don’t have enough for a full game, but we’re making do—”
“I’m sure he doesn’t want to play with us, Kris—”
“I’d love to!”
Awkward, awkward silence. Kris turned a droll stare to Mike, arching both eyebrows high on his forehead.
“Kris, could you give us a minute?” Mike crossed his arms and stared at his friend, a silent glare hidden by his shades.
“Yeah, sure…” Kris waved, a little wiggle of his fingertips. “Nice meeting you, handsome.” He trotted off, his ass pushing out just a little bit.
Handsome. Huh. Tom puffed out his chest, just a bit. He hadn’t been called handsome… ever. There’d been no one to say it to him. Something tickled his soul, though, some kind of light and pride. Someone, some man thought he was attractive. Kris wasn’t his type, but he wasn’t going to turn down a compliment.
“Sorry,” Mike sighed, groaning. “Kris can be incorrigible. He’s a maneater. He doesn’t know you’re straight. He’s just making assumptions.” He shook his head. “Please don’t be offended.”
I’m not straight. I’m not straight at all. I loved that, that was the first time I’ve felt like a real man in years— Mike’s words caught up with his misfiring brain. “I’m not offended.”
Mike smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “Thanks.” He chewed on his lip. “You’re… welcome to stay, I mean, you can totally play. I just didn’t think you’d want to.” He shrugged again, lopsidedly. “We’re all gay, I mean. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
He’d never wanted something more in his life. A group of gay men, friends, a day in the sun. Could he make friends with these guys, join in the effortless fun, the happiness? Could he steal some of that joy for himself? “I’d love to stay.” A new worry chewed on his brain, munching at the base of his skull. “If that’s okay with you,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to intrude.” His eyes searched Mike’s group of friends, clustered around Kris now, chatting and making no attempt to hide that they were watching him and Mike.
Which one of those men was Mike’s boyfriend? Which one had he been ditched for last night?
“You’re not in
truding. C’mon.” Mike beckoned him over to the group. “Etta Mae can chill with Aaron and Carlos.” He pointed to a blanket stretched out on the lawn, set away from their game. Two men were laid out, shirtless, their skin gleaming with a sheen of oil, shorts hiked up to show off all of their thighs. They were obviously tanning, soaking up the sun. Mike introduced them. “Carlos,” he said, pointing to the shorter of the two, a Hispanic man with a close-cropped haircut, tight, slender muscles, and no body hair. “And Aaron.” Aaron was taller, a runner with grasshopper legs and arms, pale as cream, with a few sprigs of chest hair valiantly trying to poke their way out of the center of his chest. “This is Tom.”
They both eyed him, Aaron even raising his sunglasses to get a better look. Etta Mae trampled them both, crawling over the two men like they were puppies she was destined to play with. Carlos sputtered, but Aaron cooed, baby-talking Etta Mae as her tail went wild.
“Watch her for us while we play.” Mike took Etta Mae’s leash and tossed it to Aaron, then pulled Tom out to the others. He did quick introductions. Kris smirked, Jon—short, but muscular like Mike—squinted, and Billy—tall and slender with delicate features—nodded to Tom.
“He’s on our team,” Kris said, grabbing Tom’s arm and pulling him close.
“Oh, come on. It’s already three to one!”
“Deal with it, Captain America. He’s ours.” Kris flounced away, dragging Tom with him.
Kris, Jon, and Billy force-fed him the rules of the game—like flag football: no touching, no tackling, no running with the disc, and block all throws like you’re a tentacle monster—and their strategy. It was simple. Hem Mike into his end zone and make his life hell. Mike’s end zone was the rough patch of grass between the lime-green cooler and the end of Carlos and Aaron’s blanket.
“You’re about Mike’s size…” Kris eyed him up and down. There was something else in that look, something that made Tom fidget. “You should go play man on man D.” Kris winked slowly after he spoke, grinning, and Billy and Jon snorted.
