Aching For It

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  Still…very still.

  We lay there oh so still on the floor. Me on top of him, his arms around me, my head on his chest, his heart pounding vigorously, as fast as mine.

  And still it wasn’t over. That first night of our reunion, lovemaking seemed even more intense than that first night we’d shared a month earlier.

  And so all night long we fucked like yard dogs and loved like saints. We found new ways to thrill each other with new heights of amorous gratification, and under the light of the midnight moon, we lay naked on the deserted beach and made love to the rhythm of the flowing and ebbing waves.

  Back in our room, we attempted to wean ourselves from the blistering and bliss-filled heat of our passion in the shower, but even the tepid-to-cool water that rained upon us couldn’t put out the fire we ignited over and over with our kissing and soaping and sucking and cleansing and licking and fucking. We grew dangerously close to the scorch of unbearable pleasure, but our hearts gave us no choice. Our carnal expressions of love new and immortal were commands from our rapture we gladly obeyed.

  Each night we fell asleep in each other’s arms. Each morning we awoke, still embraced.

  That all too brief time together couldn’t quench the thirst we had for each other. Our moments on the beach; during candlelight dinners when knowing mariachi underscored our telling glances; in each other’s arms, minds, bodies, souls and hearts created a pact of eternalness that we knew not even death could tear apart, though time loomed as a too strict overseer.

  “Would you come live with me in America?” I asked him as we lay in each other’s arms two days before it was time for me to leave.

  “I would live with you anywhere,” he answered with a sweetness I had come to know as simply his nature.

  He then kissed me so gently I drew faint and floated heavenward, buoyed by the flutter of an angel’s slow wings embracing us just below my out-of-body soaring.

  Those last two days together suddenly gleamed with hope that we both knew would be a dream come true only with great determination and fortitude. Neither one of us was unaware of the hurdles that stood ahead. The United States immigration laws are hardest on third-world people of color from poor countries, and our government is bloated with litmus that severely limits legal immigration for that targeted group, red-tape landmines designed to cripple a young man like my Étienne.

  But still, we forged ahead. We had to. Our very happiness was at stake.

  Chapter Four

  Upon my return to Los Angeles, I consulted with a lawyer friend, Brando Heywood, who is as hopelessly romantic as I am, and who had great sympathy for my circumstances. Being in a long-term relationship with the man of his dreams, Brando has always been known as the designated yenta of Southern California’s same-gender- loving community.

  But Brando was an entertainment lawyer and it was the first year of the new millennium, the first year of George Bush’s presidency and a new power surge for the evangelical mindset. He was well aware that he could do more harm than good if he were to undertake something as complex as transnational gay men in love versus an unelected president hell-bent on keeping them apart.

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” he confided in me as we lunched on protein shakes and Jamaican spinach patties at Simply Wholesome over on Slauson Avenue and Overhill Drive. “Immigration is not going to let you bring Étie over here as your lover, spouse, partner, significant other, etcetera, etcetera, under any circumstances whatsoever. Bush is totally beholden to the evangelicals, and the chances of you getting him over here under any kind of romantic notion are about as slim as gay marriage in Utah. Now, I have this immigration lawyer friend who’d be perfect for you. He used to be an immigration officer, so he knows the politics of that game. And he thinks he’s Bill Maher, which certainly can’t hurt. He’s straight, but he’s a great ally of the community. His name is Wells Caitlin. I’ll give him a call, set something up for you.”

  * * * * *

  “It’s not quite as bleak as Brando may have made it out to be,” Caitlin assured me when we met a few days later. “But the Dominican Republic is certainly on the US backlist and immigration for your friend, without significant resources, wouldn’t be impossible, but pretty damn close. We’re talking a long, long wait.”

  “How long?”

  “Two years. Maybe more.”

  “Two years!”

  “Maybe more.”

  Although this was not encouraging news, I had a long talk with Étie and we decided to proceed. I gave Mr. Caitlin a retainer and he began filling out preliminary paperwork.

  Even as Étie’s case trudged through the system like molasses through a cocktail straw, we made the best of it. Every chance I got I flew down to Santo Domingo to be with him, and in between my photo shoots back in LA and his work schedule at Bodega Colonial, we managed to make some sense of this long-distance relationship we found ourselves in.

  During those torturously infrequent rendezvous, we lay snuggled on the warm white beach, serenaded by the gentle swoosh of sea to sand, under the saving grace of gleaming stars that hung in the clear blackness of the Caribbean sky, and planned our lives together like good children confident in their Santa requests.

  I found myself telling Étienne about the only city I’ve ever called home, the city that would soon be his home, my city of angels, my LA.

  “The weather is much like the weather here,” I mused as we stared up toward the stars, “only dryer. The Santa Ana breezes rustle the palm trees back home just like your tropical breezes rustle your palm trees here.”

  “I cannot wait to be there,” he said dreamily. “Your city sounds so beautiful.”

  “Our city,” I answered with a kiss. “Our city, my love.”

  We found ourselves in each other’s arms. A pink-orange shard of light suddenly illuminated a tiny piece of sky.

  “Wow!” I marveled. “Did you see that?”

  “It is beautiful, no?”

  “Very beautiful.”

  Then tiny drops of rain began to fall, a welcome cooling balm. We relished the mist. And then it was gone, leaving us refreshed by its brief visit.

  We continued to lie there in each other’s arms, still and quiet, dreaming, taking in the storybook sky above.

  “I have beautiful country,” Étie finally said to me, quietly yet with a deep and abiding pride only native sons know. “We are oldest city in all of Western hemisphere. When Spaniards come to conquer us, we conquer them right back. We have—¿Cómo se dice en inglés?—a fighting spirit, a spirit that fights.”

  And then he went silent again, and when he finally spoke, there was a low, cold steeliness in his voice. Still, the tears that glazed his eyes spoke volumes.

  “The scar I wear my father give me for being gay, is now my battle scar. The streets I lived on when he threw me out is battlefield I fought on. My hate for him is what has killed him in my heart. I have no love for him, the enemy. But unlike what I feel for him, I will always have the love of my country in me, just as I will always have the love in me for you, Jesse. But what is different is I will leave my country that I love. I will never leave you.”

  * * * * *

  “Edgar told me your boy Étie is a lousy lay.”

  “What would you expect him to say, considering the circumstances? And besides, I’m not interested in what Edgar has to say.”

  “Well, is it true?”

  “Listen, Sylvester, I’m not going to even dignify that with an answer.”

  “Well I suppose he had a chance to practice his sexual techniques before snatching you.”

  “You and I are supposed to be friends, Sylvester. So before you piss me off any more than you already have, I’m gonna hang the fuck up.”

  And that’s exactly what I did.

  Edgar’s opinion of Étie’s sexual abilities couldn’t have been more off base as far as I was concerned. I can’t speak on Étie and Edgar’s sexual chemistry or lack thereof. All I know is the beautiful love Étienn
e Saldano and I make. Even when I’m away from him, when he’s in his country and I’m in mine, he remains the singular fantasy that fuels my loins and stiffens me, that fills me with lust, that shivers me with panting and howling, contorts me into grimaces and eye-bulging as I masturbate with a madness, thinking, dreaming and seeing only him. Love makes him the best sex partner in the world. And there is nothing lousy about that.

  Chapter Five

  Six months had passed. The trips I made back and forth between Los Angeles and the Dominican Republic, and the daily phone calls Étie and I shared when we were apart, were not enough to quench our burning need to be with each other, to make love at a moment’s notice, to share a home together.

  I could hear the weariness in Attorney Caitlin’s voice as plainly as he could hear the exasperation in mine whenever I called him, which was often. His response was always the same.

  “I told you, Jesse, it’s going to take a while. You must be patient.”

  “There’s nothing you can do to speed up the process?” I whined.

  “Nothing that I haven’t done already.”

  “If he was a white boy from England, he would’ve been here months ago,” I snapped.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Caitlin surrendered, giving me no fight to fight.

  I even toyed with the idea of moving down to the DR temporarily until Étie’s papers came through. That is if they came through. There was still a good possibility his application could be rejected.

  Still, a temporary relocation would have to be at least eighteen months. And eighteen months unavailable to my Los Angeles-based clients—actors in need of headshots, Hollywood tabloids, book-cover jacket photos, and my production photo contracts with The Center Theatre Group and the Geffen Playhouse—would put a serious dent in my income. Sure, I still had my three tenant-occupied units in the fourplex I owned, but it was mortgaged up to my eyeballs, and with the economy being what it was, Caitlin’s legal fees, and eventually getting Étie settled and supported in the States while he looked for meaningful work meant that I would have to expand, not shrink my nest egg.

  I had to stay in LA and manage this long-distance love affair as best I could.

  I bitched and moaned to anyone and everyone who would listen, especially Étie when I went down to see him for an all-too-brief seven days. He listened to me patiently, surprisingly unsympathetic to my despair and the societal flagellation I was being unfairly submitted to. But when finally he addressed my self-pity, I had to take pause.

  “That is the difference between our two cultures,” he said to me. “Americans demand what they want immediately and usually get it. But we know to be patient, out of necessity and lack of options.”

  His sense of patience would eventually serve me—both of us—well in our relationship, but in my current state, I was still the spoiled Americano. So I did what most spoiled Americanos do. I continued to bitch and moan and grew increasingly frustrated and the frustration was beginning to take its toll. When I attended my brother Andre and his wife Dee’s fourteenth wedding anniversary party, I found myself moody and a little resentful.

  “Junie?” my mom said with a frown when she peeked into Andre and Dee’s den and discovered me with an untapped glass of champagne in my hand, looking out at my nieces and nephews playing in the backyard. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  “I’m all right, Mom.”

  “No you’re not.” I could never get away with lying to my mom. None of us could.

  She came in, shut the door behind her and sat down next to me. Her warm, probing eyes found mine and slowly nudged a small smile out of me.

  “What has that boy down there done to my baby?”

  I tried to smile a bit more, but it was hard, even for my mother.

  “The way he’s got you all frowned up, he must really be as special as you say he is.”

  “He is, Mom. I just miss him so much when I’m not with him. And I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”

  “You’re saying he’s not worth the wait?”

  “Oh no, ma’am, I’m not saying that at all. It’s just that when you love somebody like I love Étienne, it’s so hard being away from him like this, you know?”

  “I know, but instead of concentrating on how bad it is when you’re not together, concentrate on what good times you have when you are together; all the good times you’ve had, all the good times you’re going to have.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  “You miss Daddy, Mama?”

  “Every day.”

  “Me too.”

  “I even miss his bad singing,” she chuckled.

  “Poor Daddy.” I chuckled too, finally. “Couldn’t sing to save his life.”

  “Try telling him that. Thought he was Nat King Cole.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right,” I recalled with a new smile. “He used to sing Unforgettable to you all the time.”

  “Yes he did,” she said softly, a sparkle in her faraway eyes. “And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “When he sang Unforgettable to me, he was better than Nat King Cole.”

  I looked at her as she looked out at her grandchildren playing in the backyard. The look on her face was no stranger than the tiny smile she smiled. Her face, her smile became warmly familiar. I realized what it was. She was seeing my late father doing what he usually did—playing with the kids in the backyard. She was thinking about all the good times she had with the man she loved, and knowing her, she was thinking about all the good times she was going to have with him on the other side.

  “Dreams become life,” she said slowly and softly, more to herself, still staring out. “Life becomes memory. And memory is what fuels you on.”

  Suddenly she looked at me, realizing I was still in the room. I understood. She knew that I did. As she stood, she patted me on the knee.

  “Now don’t you fret too much, baby. If Étienne Saldano is everything you say he is, then he’s certainly worth the wait.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, standing and hugging her.

  As I watched my mother leave the room, I took comfort in her encouraging words. And I thought about Étie. He was indeed worth the wait. It’s just that waiting was something I was never very good at.

  I finally came out of the den and joined the jubilant ruckus my family was known for. I must admit, it did give me a lift watching the Templeton madness in full swing—kids running through the house, Aunt Till whupping my fool brother Craig’s behind in a take-no-prisoners game of dominoes; Mom chasing the lady of the house out of her own kitchen. “The anniversary girl shouldn’t be doing all the cooking!”And Frankie holding court singing badly—our daddy’s daughter—to the latest Mary J. Blige blasting from the speakers of Andre’s Bang & Olfuson stereo unit.

  “So what did you think?” Frankie asked me after taking her diva bows and sashaying over to me like a Grammy winner.

  “About what?”

  “My song!”

  “Honey, for a singer, you’re one hell of an actress.”

  “Chile, please.” She smirked, unperturbed. Just like Daddy, she thought it was her audience who had the tin ear, not her. “So what were you and Mom talking about in the den?”

  “Nothing much. Just me crying the blues again about Étie and me.”

  “You know, Junie, you’re beginning to sound like a broken record.”

  “Oh I’m sorry, but did you not ask me what Mom and I were talking about?”

  “No, look, all I’m saying is quit bitching about getting your man over here and just get him over here.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “No, Junie. Doing it is just as easy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If he’s a relative of an American citizen, he could be over here in a matter of weeks.”

  “So how do we do that?”

  “My God, Junie, for somebody as bright as you, you’re trul
y dense. If he married an American citizen, he’d be here,” she said, snapping her fingers like the drag queen she hoped to play on screen one day.

  “Ah, Sis, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but the United States doesn’t recognize gay marriages yet.”

  “Not a gay marriage, fool, a straight marriage.”

  “Huh?”

  “All he has to do is marry an American woman, file a few papers, and he goes to the head of the immigration line. Didn’t you ever see that movie Green Card with Andie MacDowell and Gérard Depardieu?”

  “Andie MacDowell and who?”

  “Gérard Depardieu. The French actor with the penis nose,” she said without a blink. Typically Sis sees dick in everything. “Geez, Junie, you’re a photographer in the entertainment industry for God’s sake and you don’t know who Gérard Depardieu is?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well anyway, that’s all you have to do. Just find a woman to marry him to get his ass over here. Once he’s here, they get a divorce and you two lovebirds live happily ever Southern California after.”

  “Yeah, but where am I gonna find a woman who’d do a thing like that?”

  “You’re looking at her.”

  “Francesca!”

  “Well, damn, Junie. It’s only marriage.”

  Not only does it still amaze me how cavalier heterosexuals are about rights they possess that are denied to non-heterosexuals, but the idea of my sister marrying my boyfriend, even in a marriage of convenience, seemed just a bit too kinky for my conventional tastes. I mean, technically, I’d be having sex with my brother-in-law!

  I allowed Frankie to calm me down before the rest of my family got distracted from their festivities by my bulging eyes and dropped jaw. Because she’s so flighty most of the time and is such a devil-may-care drama queen, I sometimes forget that when Miss Sister Thing puts her crazy mind to it, she can be quite pragmatic and solution creative. Marriage, something in which Francesca Templeton Chapelle DaSilva is highly experienced, was, in her opinion, but a small favor she could provide her big gay brother.