Aching For It

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  “I will be ready, Papi,” Étie assured me as I explained to him what he would face under consulate interrogation.

  “You and Francesca will have to be totally prepared. You’ll have to have long, detailed conversations about very intimate things,” I nervously cautioned him.

  “You think I do not know how this works?”

  “I just want to make sure, Étie. I don’t want you to get tripped up.”

  “Considering what I have already experienced in life and considering what I have to look forward to, nothing can—how you say—trip me up now, Papi.”

  * * * * *

  Over the next few weeks, Étie and Frankie got to know each other, really know each other, over the phone. Some of it, I was able to fill each of them in on. I could tell Étie all about our brothers Andre and Craig, our sisters Desiree and Niecey, our beautiful widowed mother and our wonderful late father. Filling Frankie in on Étie’s dark and Dickensian life—his mother’s death, his father’s cruelty—was not so easy, but oh so crucial. I knew that Frankie was a good enough actress to pull it off, but the very things I so loved about Étie were the very things that worried me most—his honesty, his purity of heart and his unlying eyes.

  But somehow they were able to discuss and retain the details of their invented intimacy, including the details of their invented sexual activities, to their mutual satisfaction, details I did not need to be made privy to. The very idea of the discussion was enough to blush me plum-purple.

  By the time Étie and Frankie were summoned to the American Embassy in Santo Domingo for their interview, Frankie knew as much about Étie as I did and Étie knew more about my sister than I needed to.

  At the small hotel in downtown Santo Domingo where we had booked rooms, I paced back and forth and sweated.

  But it was my nerves, not the humid weather that drenched my forehead, chest and underarms as I anxiously waited for Frankie and Étie’s return from the inquisition. I showered again to kill the time that wouldn’t die and tried to distract myself with the Spanish language telenovela—a Latin soap opera—that filled the TV screen with brimming melodrama.

  Suddenly I heard the sound of familiar voices in the hallway right outside the room. I shot up like a jet just as the door opened. Étie escorted Frankie in.

  I rushed them, giving them both a scare.

  “My God, Junie,” Frankie scolded. “You freaked the living shit out of me.”

  “Sorry,” I said, unable to tell by their demeanor if the interrogation at the consulate went well or not.

  Frankie, more fluent in Spanish than I, was saying something to Étie in his native tongue that I didn’t understand and Étie was answering her in what seemed like a heated debate.

  “What?” I asked anxiously.

  “I know my brother,” Frankie said to Étie in firm English, ignoring me.

  “And I know my lover,” Étie countered with equal firmness.

  “Just look at him,” Frankie insisted, examining me like a corpse.

  “You are okay, true baby?” Étie asked me, staring me in the eyes.

  “Okay?” I yelped. “I’m a nervous wreck!”

  “I told you,” Frankie humphed triumphantly, stretching out her hand to Étie. “Pay up, Mr. Saldano.”

  “God, you guys are killing me!” I growled impatiently as Étie reached in his pocket, pulled out a fifty pesos note and slapped it into Frankie’s open palm. “I can’t take it anymore! Tell me! Tell me before I burst!”

  “Oh baby,” Étie pouted. “Why you nervous wreck?”

  “Because I know my brother,” Frankie chimed in, sticking the folded money in her cleavage.

  “I bet Frankie you be cool as cucumber.”

  “Come on, you guys, how the hell did it go?”

  “It was good,” Étie answered matter-of-factly.

  “It was good?” I begged the question.

  “Piece of cake,” Frankie answered smoothly.

  “Baby?” I looked into Étie’s knowing eyes.

  “It was very good,” his voice and his eyes answered me.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, we are very sure. When officer ask questions about how I love her, I tell him truth.”

  “The truth?!” I panicked.

  “I tell him truth that is in my heart. When he talk to me, I think of you. I tell truth in my heart about my love for you. I just change name to Francesca.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  There was nothing left to do but wait. Wells Caitlin couldn’t say for sure how long it would take for the embassy to make a decision, but he assured Francesca that a decision, either way, would be made soon.

  It was the “either way” that bothered me.

  Nonetheless, the three of us—Francesca, Étie and I—busied ourselves with the routines of our designated professions. Frankie booked three weeks on a Lifetime movie playing evil twins vying for the fortune of a smitten old fool played by Kelsey Grammer. Details magazine hired me to shoot the photo art for a story featuring the guys from Entourage. Down in Santo Domingo, Étie was grooming a young kid by the name of Gael to replace him at the Trujillos’ bodega once, we were cautiously assured, Étie was approved to move to America and wait out his immigration process.

  And yes, I was my typical nervous-wreck self while Étie maintained enough cool, calm and collective for the both of us. He was strong beyond his years, resilient in a way that my rather pampered existence had not prepared me for.

  The ache of a three-thousand-mile divide was the pain I found nearly unbearable, even as a bright and hopeful future hung just above my head, our heads, within an arm’s reach, like a wishing star.

  But for Étie, that three-thousand-mile divide was but a short and final joust, the adrenaline-fueled final sprint to the finish line where true happiness was the winner’s loving cup.

  It was he, Étie, who constantly encouraged me to be strong, to realize that the fulfillment of our dream was just around the corner, even though, more often than not, just around the corner was not close enough for me.

  And then I remembered something he had said to me when, early on, I was about to allow my frustration to get the better of me. That is the difference between our two cultures. Americans demand what they want immediately and usually get it. But we know to be patient, out of necessity and lack of options.

  And so, in spite of my naturally spoiled nature, I began cautioning myself to heed my lover’s gentle words of truth and admonition. Patience was but one of the many virtues he possessed. And patience was what I needed to learn from him among so many other things.

  I then began filling my days not so much waiting for the word to come down, but planning the inevitable life we would share together. And all of those wonderful plans, those dreams, did indeed cause time to pass quickly.

  * * * * *

  I don’t quite remember where I was or what I was doing when I got the call from Frankie. Everything outside that particular call was a complete blur to me. I simply remembered feeling a happiness I hadn’t experienced since the first time Étie and I made love. It was that kind of happiness that filled me, overwhelmed me, humbled me, when I received that fateful call from Francesca.

  “I just got the notice from ICIS,” I remember her saying, although, at the time, I couldn’t read anything in her voice except that nebulous void between hope and dread.

  “And?” I dared to respond.

  “Well…” she teased, invoking the breathless pause always available to thespians and drama queens, both of which my sister was.

  “What, Frankie, what?” I pleaded.

  “I’m afraid…”

  “Afraid?”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to rearrange your medicine cabinet.”

  “Huh?”

  “And make room for another toothbrush. They said yes, Junie. Yes! Étie’s been approved for a K-3 visa!”

  “Oh my God,” I whispered in awe.

  “He can come to America!”
/>   “Oh my God, Frankie!”

  “You guys can be together here!”

  Although I knew we still had a long way to go, whistles, bells, firecrackers and Hallelujah Choruses suddenly went off inside my head.

  After a million thanks, I got off the phone with Frankie, danced a spastic electric slide that twirled me down my hallway, swept me out my back door and skipped me through my garden as I sang thanks and praises to the God whose sunshine smiled down on me so brightly. And then I called my baby.

  “It is true?” he asked when I gave him the news.

  “Yes, baby, yes!” I sang into the phone over and over and over again.

  “Oh my Father God,” he whispered back distantly into the phone, his voice humble and gentle and free. “I must go to church and thank Heavenly Father.”

  And then we were both laughing and crying and planning and laughing and crying and singing and happy in a way so decidedly devil-may-care and yet so foolishly apropos.

  “I’m coming to get you,” I managed to say amidst all the wondrous chaos.

  “I will be here waiting, my sweet,” he answered, his words giggled with love.

  * * * * *

  The next two weeks were filled with glorious madness. Once everything was verified through Caitlin, and Étie was physically in possession of his K-3 visa, I booked my round-trip ticket to Santo Domingo and Étie’s one-way ticket to Los Angeles.

  I cleared my schedule and decided to spend three weeks with Étie in Santo Domingo to help out with his transition—packing, moving out of his room at Señora Vasquez’s place, and preparing him in any way I could for his new life in America—and hell, to just lay up with him.

  With all of his belongings packed and shipped off to America, save for the clothes and incidentals he needed during the remaining time we’d spend on the island before our scheduled flight to the States, we turned those last days into another of our honeymoons. We checked into La Habra Resort, which was nestled against the pristine beaches of Juan Dolio, and celebrated our first night there with sparkling champagne and shimmering candlelight and gentle, thankful lovemaking.

  Our kisses that night were ever so tender. Our lips didn’t tremble with hunger, but were given over to a delicateness. Our tongues were un-darting, soft and relaxed as they slow-danced in the calming moistness of our mouths.

  My fingers slowly caressed his beautiful face, with the reminding scar of his father’s rage, and then they easily found themselves strolling through his glistening jet-black hair.

  His eyes, like mine, couldn’t decide whether to stare longingly or to flutter blissfully or to succumb to the half-open leisure of their bedroom state, even as the gentle kisses ignited a warmth as soothing as cocoa and caramel.

  I kissed all of him; the black curly hair I had lightly tussled, the ears I’d so often whispered sweet somethings into, the beautiful face with the poignant scar no artist could capture. He took my worshipping lips with a sigh. He moaned and muttered soft Spanish as I sucked and bit his nipples lightly. I painted his chest with my worshipping tongue and paid special attention to his perfect navel.

  The feel of his black silky pubes dizzied and dazzled me as I buried my face in their glory only to discover buried treasure galore.

  His beautiful penis was rock-hard now, its glistening head half-exposed above loose foreskin. My tongue worshipped that head with kisses, and as my lips gently devoured him, my tongue in the dark of my mouth explored the terrain between dickhead and foreskin. My mouth and my tongue played with slurping glee all around it, up and down it, sucking the foreskin back over the head, munching the wrinkled opening, sucking it back down, then sucking it back up, then back down again, up again, down again, gagging me lovingly as I took all of him, from the slit of his dick to the top of his balls, over and over and over again.

  Caught up in what seemed like unbearable bliss, he twisted beneath me and took me in his warm mouth like a babe to a bottle and sucked me as deeply as I sucked him. He then scooted down farther and, finding my ass cheeks hovering above him, he grabbed around my waist, and the feel of his tongue as it entered my asshole sent a shiver through my body like glorious lightning, causing me to moan and gurgle and deep-throat him to the point of choking.

  When finally we tore ourselves away from our oral pleasures, we took turns fucking each other in that beautiful way, staring into each other’s eyes, eyes that danced drowsily to the rhythm of each smacking penetration. And we kissed as deeply and as delicately and as divinely as we fucked. It was half past midnight when finally we shot our loads together for the third time and collapsed into each other’s arms, totally spent, totally satisfied, totally in love.

  He kissed me good night and spooned himself into my arms. I kissed his shoulder. His beautiful brown beauty astounded me and in his presence, I realized that I was in the glow of Jehovah’s approval. God is love. And love is for everyone. Thank you, Lord.

  * * * * *

  The next morning we woke up as we fell asleep—in each other’s arms. Only the sudden ringing of Étie’s phone parted our good-morning kiss. With longing regret, he eased away and picked up the whining phone from the nightstand. He then cradled his naked body back into mine and brought the phone up to his ear, his head nestled in my chest, his raven curls soft against my cheek, their sweet cocoa-butter scent my reliable aphrodisiac.

  “Hola,” he softly greeted the caller in the soft, easy voice of one who had been loved all through the night. Then he smiled. “Señor Trujillo,” he continued, snuggling his warm body deeper into my embrace, “Es agradable oír de usted. Como está Señora Trujillo?” And he smiled again, even broader. “Bueno, bueno,” he then said, glad to know that the Trujillos were doing just fine.

  Then a strange and eerie look began to contort his beautiful face. He lifted his head from my chest, slowly sat up and stared out questioningly. “Is everything all right, señor?” he finally asked, his brow furrowed with concern. But as he listened to what Señor Trujillo had to say, the look on his face turned into something I had never seen before—something stoic and cold, something newly frozen by a grimness buried deep inside a place I could not have imagined existed. His stillborn silence scared me. I had no doubt that the chill could be felt on the other end of the phone line. I could barely make out Señor Trujillo calling out his name with a pleading.

  “¿Étie? ¿Étie?”

  “Sí, señor, yo estoy aqui,”Étie answered slowly, ominously.

  And Señor Trujillo continued. But the more Étie listened, the colder he became.

  I touched his hand. He flinched. Then he looked at me, a peek from the trance in which he was submerged. He tried to smile, a weak apologetic smile that still couldn’t disguise or erase the ill tidings that had numbed him so. He slowly pulled the phone away from his ear.

  What I was now hearing Señor Trujillo saying shocked me, saddened me, caused me to feel the pain my baby was hell-bent on not displaying.

  “Su padre está muy enfermo, Étie,” Señor Trujillo said.“Su padre se muere…querría verle.”

  Your father is very sick, Étie. Your father is dying…he would like to see you.

  “Perdón, Señor Trujillo,” Étie answered finally, coldly, yet with a deference for the man on the other end of the line, “pero yo no quieren verlo.”

  “He is your father, Étie,” Señor Trujillo was begging in Spanish. “You must see him.”

  But it didn’t matter.

  “He was never a father to me,” Étie answered mercilessly. “I was only the product of his wasted sperm.”

  “Don’t speak so cruelly of him!” Señor Trujillo scolded like a father to a naughty child. “Whatever happened between you and him should not be held against him anymore. Not now, Étie. Not now in this time of his greatest need. He wants to talk with you, Étie. He wants to make things right. He wants the chance to earn your forgiveness.”

  “Earn my forgiveness?” Étie snapped. “Let him earn my forgiveness in hell.”

&nbs
p; “Étie!” Señor Trujillo cried.

  “Perdón, Señor Trujillo, pero deben ir,” Étie then said, near tears himself, tears that threatened to burst through his hardened heart. “Adios.”

  “Un momento, Étie!”

  “¿Sí, Señor?”

  “I cannot believe that this is the Étie that I know,” Señor Trujillo said sadly, but forcefully. As I did the translation in my head, there grew heaviness in my own heart. “I cannot believe that this is the Étie that I have known all these years, that this is the Étie whose heart has always overflowed with human kindness. That this is the Étie who sits in the holy Father’s house and prays for His forgiveness, yet cannot give forgiveness to his own father, to his own flesh and blood. I cannot believe that this is you, my son.”

  “Believe it, Señor Trujillo,” Étie answered bitterly in his native tongue. “And believe me. That man is not dying. As far as I am concerned, he has already died. He died a long time ago, señor. He died when my mother died. He died when I was born. He took his last breath when I took my first. I have been an orphan all of my life, a child without a mother and father, on my own. All of my life, I’ve been alone.”

  “I thought Señora Trujillo and I were like parents to you,” Señor Trujillo said quietly, hurt weakening his voice.

  “Yes. That is very true.”

  “And you say that you love Jesse and he loves you?”

  “Yes,” Étie answered, looking up at me, a single tear dropping defiantly down his cheek. “That is very true as well.”

  “Then you are not alone, Étie. When you have love, you are never alone. And now you are all that your father has in this world. He needs your love. He does not need to leave here being alone.”