You Can't Tell by Looking

by Russell J. Sanders

  “Okay, now I’m dying to know what you did your senior research on,” he says. Is he teasing me with the hand thing?

  I don’t want to continue this line of conversation. What I want to do is smother him with kisses, feel every part of his body, let him take me. I smile at my ultraromance-novel thoughts. But I can’t have these thoughts. Not as long as I keep from him my secret. The secret that could bring this all crashing down. I can’t let that happen, so I get back to the research paper thing.

  “That’s an abrupt change of subject. We go from wedding dress to happy cousin to research paper?”

  “Just thought we could use a respite from family, family, family. My research paper kicked my butt, but I got it done.”

  “Topic?”

  “‘The Importance of Early Testing and Treatment for Breast Cancer.’ My mother is not a lady-parts doctor for nothing.”

  “So Mommy wrote her baby’s paper?” I tease, glad to be back on solid ground.

  “She certainly did not,” he answers with pretend indignation. “She may have been a valued resource, but I sweated blood over that thing.”

  I smile at him.

  “Why are you smiling? Are you finding comfort in my pain?” There is play in his voice.

  “Nah. I was thinking about what you said. I think I’m rubbing off on you. I’d bet before you met me, you would never have called your mom a ‘lady-parts doctor.’”

  “Don’t make fun of me just because you’re a bad influence. You’re right. Before I met you, I was pretty straitlaced. I was a good Muslim son who would never have called his mother such an unseemly thing.” I hear false formality.

  “Or—I’d bet—call a couple of swans ‘motherfuckers.’” I let out a huge belly laugh that would wake those MFs if they weren’t huddled far across the pond.

  “You’re just a bad influence, Gabe, a bad, bad influence.” But he doesn’t mean it. I know. I feel it. Ker and I are made for each other. Now if only I can quit playing around and lay my cards on the table. But it’s hard to get serious when you fear the response.

  “So what’d you get on this magnificent treatise?” I ask, trying to make myself change the thoughts plaguing me.

  “I got an A.”

  “Good for you! Is now when I tell you I got an A-plus?”

  “Rub it in, rub it in. And what, pray tell, was your topic? Wait. Let me guess. Continuing the mommy theme: ‘How To Sew a Perfectly Straight Seam Without Puckering.’ Or how about, ‘The Way to Bake a Perfect Six Layer Fudge Cake.’”

  “You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’. My mother was no help whatsoever with this one. I chose a topic that I’ve recently embraced. Near and dear to my heart.” I add the last because it’s part of my “working up the courage” thing.

  “And what is that, pray tell?”

  I sit. Waiting. Not knowing how he will take it in. Hoping he will like it.

  “Are you going to tell me or not?”

  “Don’t get your panties in an uproar. I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

  “Would you please get on with it? It’s freezing out here.”

  It’s now or never. I lay it on him. “‘Homosexuality in Islam.’”

  He’s speechless. The silence is a frozen cloud between us.

  Say something. Please. I need a reaction here.

  He puts his hands on either side of my head, leans in, and kisses me. A beautiful, long, loving kiss that tells me I’ve honored him.

  It’s now or never. He’s revealed himself to me. Now it’s my turn.

  “Ker….” I hesitate, staring into his eyes. “You may take that back when I tell you what I need to tell you.”

  I see hurt.

  “No! That was wonderful,” I say. Then I pause to formulate my words. Confession may be good for the soul, but it’s gut-wrenching. “I’ve wanted you to do that for almost as long as we’ve known each other. Hell, who am I kidding? I wanted to kiss you from the moment I saw you across the commons that first day of school.”

  He caresses my cheek, which makes this even harder to say.

  “But here’s the reason why we’ve barely talked in the last three months. It wasn’t Shaun, it wasn’t swimming, and it wasn’t my research paper. That fucker taught me a lot, but it only fueled my irrational fears. I was afraid, Kerem. Terrified.”

  “About what?” he says quietly and gently.

  “Of loving a Muslim. Horrifying thoughts would form and keep me awake at night. Me—who’s never cared one whit about what people think—would fantasize all sorts of scenarios where we’d be out together, and some idiot would want to stab us, shoot us, obliterate us from the face of the earth. And I didn’t know if I could deal with that.”

  He listens. I see nothing in his face. No questioning. No judgment.

  “And so I let Shaun’s stay at my house be my excuse. I could cool it with you. But my fears drew me to that research topic. In many ways, it scared the shit out of me. But it also made me realize something: I could face whatever crap the world dealt us, if I were with you. I need you to give me life. That’s sounds like romance novel bullshit, but it’s true, Ker. I don’t think I can live without you, and I hope you feel the same way. That’s why I wanted this walk today. To clear the air. To see if there’s hope for us. To confess. And now that it’s all out in the open, I wouldn’t blame you if you cut me out of your life.”

  “What? And lose a good dressmaker? Aysel would kill me if she found out I tossed out her seamstress just because her son had doubts.” He smiles.

  And then, once again, he pulls my face in and kisses me.

  Life.

  Chapter 11

  Kerem

  MY FIRST kiss.

  My first actual kiss—if you forget about that time after mosque when Selimah Abdul grabbed me and smacked my lips so hard with hers that it hurt. She thought we were making love, but her lack of technique was brutal. What does a seven-year-old girl know? I backed away in horror. She definitely offended my sensibilities. Boys that age don’t want to even think a girl can be so bold. And Muslim girls never are. Except for Selimah.

  But here I am, the icy wind whistling around us, huddling with Gabe, holding on for life like the swans hiding in the rushes, and my first amazing, beautiful, comforting, warming, rapturous kiss happens.

  And I kissed him. Not the other way around like I had imagined it would happen. Three months of virtual separation had produced countless fantasies. Gabe was always the initiator. He would lean into me, whisper some sweet thing in my ear, and then press his lips on mine as I melted.

  I never, ever thought that I would be sitting here, with the courage I never thought I could muster, now having done the deed and immediately wondering how he’d react.

  Then that revelation. Poor Gabe. Agonizing all these months. Over something I face and know is real but can be dealt with.

  And so I kissed him again. This time for reassurance. And because I wanted to feel his lips again.

  I wait for his reaction, wait to hear an affirmation. Have I just shown that I’m with him, that I will protect him, that his fears can be conquered?

  I get my answer as he kisses me back. His tongue touches mine. It is electric. Forget that this is something I’ve never felt before. It is something I never knew could happen. How can I be as old as I am, as gay as I am, and not have at least read about this? I’m a gay Muslim, and Gabe knows more about being gay and being a gay Muslim than I do, thanks to that paper he wrote.

  I banish all these thoughts and tell myself to shut up and enjoy. He wants me.

  His hands caress my face, and each touch of his fingertips leaves me wishing for more. I wonder when he had the chance to remove his gloves. Again, I will myself to stop thinking and continue feeling.

  He kisses my forehead, my eyelids, the tip of my nose. I am on fire.

  He kisses my gloved fingers, and I feel the warmth of his breath through the layer of wool between his lips and my skin. I feel it rising in me, wanting
to burst forth.

  He returns to my lips, and his tongue probes deeper. It leaps inside me.

  Still with our lips locked together, I begin to moan, tiny little yelps at first, but as the eruption starts, my cries get louder.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” I shout, louder and louder. Somewhere deep inside, I fear that my voice is being carried by the wild wind, across the pond, through the freezing cold, alerting the neighbors, Gabe’s mom, Baba, Mama, Timur, Aysel, that Kerem Uzun is breaking out of his shell, enjoying life for what seems is the first time, and feeling the call of prayer. Thank you, Allah.

  “Salaam Alaykum,” Gabe whispers.

  “Wa-Alaykum,” I answer back.

  Then there is silence. We sit. Perfect contentment.

  Finally Gabe brings us back to reality. “Uh, is it noticeable?”

  I look at him, wondering what he is talking about. “Huh?”

  “Your jeans. Is there a wet spot? That was quite an orgasm, my friend.”

  I panic. Everyone will know. I hide my head in my hands.

  Gabe laughs at me. “Don’t worry. I don’t see anything. Your secret’s safe.” He pulls my hands down. And kisses me again. Lightly this time.

  “All’s right with the world,” he says. “And with me. I can’t say my fears are totally gone, but I can say that I will face them with you. And this? Do you know how many times I wanted this to happen? Probably since that first day I saw you, standing like a god across campus. But the new boy wasn’t about to make a move on the Muslim boy anytime soon. I waited, keeping my dick in check. We got to know each other, and I thought, ‘Now. Now it will happen. I’ll finally get to taste those gorgeous lips.’ Then Shaun happened, and our lives were put on hold. I felt, just now, that we were connecting, but I was riddled with guilt. I couldn’t make a move without my confession. So I knew I’d wait to give you that first kiss, wait until you knew me before I made my move. But you made the move for me. Whatever possessed you? I know from my research that being gay, generally, is frowned upon in Islam.”

  “That’s why,” I say quietly.

  “I don’t understand, Ker.” He leans in and honors me again with a tiny kiss.

  “You cared enough about me to find out how my religion felt about it all. You didn’t brazenly jump in and let the consequences happen, you wanted to know how it all might play out. And it gave you doubts, but you told me of those doubts. That’s love.”

  “But my research told me there was no way of telling how you’d react. Like I said, Islam frowns upon it, and modern Muslims have a mixed reaction, as do Christians and Jews and probably even atheists. And don’t forget, what happened to Shaun and then my research confused me.”

  “But you quashed your confusion. Told me all about it. And you cared enough to try to find out how Muslims would react. And for the record, in theory my parents are okay with it. The world is changing and so are Muslim attitudes. I’m not like you, though. I’ve never told them about these feelings I have. Your parents embrace you and your homosexuality. I don’t know if my parents would be okay with mine.”

  “I told my mom not long ago I refused to love a man who wasn’t open and out in this world. I really believed it at the time. But having gone through my own coming-out experience, I know how personal it is. So I will wait for you to find the right time. Your family needs to know, but I won’t be the one to tell them.”

  “I promise I will tell them. Soon. When the time seems right. And they will be fine with it, inshallah.”

  “All I can tell you is that God will be willing for them to be fine with it. But what God wills and what man does can be two different things entirely. Be prepared.”

  And he kisses me again.

  “Well,” I say, rising from the bench. “I must get home. Mama probably needs help for tonight before sunset prayers.”

  “What’s tonight?” Gabe says, now beside me, walking.

  “Big, big dinner. The meeting of the parents. Hasan is bringing his father to discuss the mehir with Baba, and we will meet Hasan’s mother and the infamous grandmother for the first time. She’s the maternal grandmother. The paternal grandparents are the ones coming from Lebanon.”

  “Mehir?” Gabe asks.

  “Usually called mahr. Mehir is the Turkish word for it. You know what a dowry is?”

  “Yeah. The girl’s father pays the groom’s father to get the girl married.”

  “Uh-huh. Only in Muslim culture, the groom pays the bride. Supposed to be insurance if he dies young. Sometimes the groom negotiates the payment; sometimes the groom’s father. Tonight, it will be the battle of the patriarchs.”

  “I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that.” Gabe laughs.

  “Could get bloody,” I quip.

  At my front door, Gabe says, “Salaam Alaykum.”

  “Wa-Alaykum,” I answer. “I wish I could kiss you goodbye.”

  “It’ll happen eventually. Your parents will approve. You’ll see.”

  I nod. But I’m not very convinced.

  “And Gabe, I’m not sure Salaam Alaykum is approved for after-talk.”

  He looks guilty.

  “The imam might frown on it.” I smile at him.

  “You’ll have to teach me some Muslim bedroom talk sometime,” he says.

  “I’ll have to read up on it,” I say. “Oh, don’t forget to ask your mom.”

  In the seclusion of my doorway, he touches my cheek. “Will do.”

  Then he runs across the street.

  My thoughts are in the clouds as I enter the house. Soon, hearing Mama and Aysel chattering in the kitchen and Baba’s conversation with Timur wafting from the family room, I return to earth. How will they react, when and if?

  Those grim thoughts are broken by Gabe’s ringtone.

  “It’s on. She not only said yes, but she started across the street immediately to discuss it with your mom and Aysel. Don’t worry, I held her back. Told her about the big shindig tonight. She agreed that your mom could phone her in the morning. Or tonight after evening prayers is okay too.”

  “I’ll tell Mama right now. She and Aysel will be ecstatic. And Gabe—thank you. For this, and for before. I love you.” I whisper the last.

  “Thank you for loving me, despite my myriad faults. Now get in there and break the big news. You’ll be the hero of the Uzun clan, my man.”

  I stuff my phone in my pocket, look down to make sure there’s no trace of what happened before, and then head for the kitchen.

  Mama sees me. “Where have you been, love? Your sister, here, wanted to file an Amber Alert. She is so afraid everything won’t go perfectly tonight.”

  “I was taking a walk with Gabe.”

  “How is he doing? You haven’t mentioned him in weeks,” Mama says.

  “He’s been helping his mom nurse his cousin back to health, and between his swim team and that, he hasn’t had much free time.”

  “His poor cousin. How is he doing?”

  “He’s almost recovered and moving back to his own home. That’s why Gabe had some free time this afternoon.”

  “Well, I’m so happy all is well. Gabriel’s mother has had her hands full with all this. I inquired early on, asking if I could help, and Mary said she was fine. I worried, but then all this with your sister came about, and my own plate became full very fast. I’ll have to phone Mary and have her over, now that she has more free time.”

  “Actually you’ll be phoning her for a different reason.”

  “Kerem,” she says, scrutinizing me. I present a solemn face, a mischievous holding back. “Is something going on I should know about?”

  I break into a grin. “Gabe’s mom has agreed to make your wedding dress, Aysel.” Aysel’s eyes get very wide. I turn back to Mama. “Gabe says she’s an amazing seamstress and can look at a picture and make a dress at warp speed. He just asked her if she’d do it, and she said yes. She wants you to call her tomorrow. Or after evening prayers tonight, if you want. The only payment she wants is an invitat
ion to the wedding.”

  Mama grabs me and hugs me for dear life. “She would have gotten that anyway, love. You’ve saved the wedding. My prayers today will be filled with praise, thanking Allah for my beautiful son. And for His bringing this wonderful family into our lives.”

  “So she can do everything I want? She can combine my pictures?” Aysel asks, still not believing.

  “Yes, yes, yes.” My sister pulls me away from Mama and envelops me in her own hug. “Show her the pics, Aysel, and she’ll work miracles, inshallah.”

  “Allah better be willing,” Aysel spouts.

  “Hush, daughter. That is no way to talk. I’ll phone Mary this evening. Now, Kerem, can you lend a hand with this dinner? Daughter here’s afraid everything won’t be letter perfect.”

  “Have no frets, benim küçük kızım; all will be well.” Baba has entered the kitchen, and he obviously has heard the last comment.

  “Oh, Baba,” Aysel gushes, “Gabriel’s mother’s going to make my gown.”

  “Is she now? I surmise from your happiness that she will meet all your demands?”

  “I’m not demanding, Baba,” Aysel counters. “I just want everything my way.”

  Baba’s belly laugh fills the room.

  “You could be marrying in our living room, you know,” Timur, who has followed Baba, says. “A simple statement of vows is all that is needed.”

  “I know, Tim.” There is a bit of disgust in Aysel’s voice. “But what’s needed and what’s wanted are two very different things. I want to say my vows in the mosque, with family and friends surrounding me, and a giant party afterward. Hasan’s family agrees, even if they are orthodox. Even orthodox Muslims enjoy a party.”

  “I’m just saying you don’t need all this stress,” Timur says.

  “It’s not stressful; it’s fun.” Aysel actually says that with a straight face.

  Mama gives Baba a “she’s your daughter” look.

  “So what can Timur and I do to help? Sunset prayers are fast approaching. We need to finish the preparations so we can get this party tonight started.”

  We all scurry about. The table is set with Mama’s finest crystal, china, and silver. In Mama’s cherished bowl from her mother, Timur arranges the flowers Baba hastily purchases on a run to Kroger’s flower department because Mama had forgotten to go earlier. The arrangement is lovely, and I discover one more talent my cousin possesses.