Crush

by Laura Susan Johnson

  If I had any kind of power, I'd fix them. I'd fix them all.

  But...

  Do something with this, Jamie, Lloyd said. Take this and do something.

  Alright then. I won't waste my time on revenge. I may have a few battle scars, but they didn't win. They didn't kill me.

  I have neither the time, nor the desire, to dwell on the unfairness of it all, how my trauma will outlast even the longest sentence passed down to those fuckers. We're getting married. We're not waiting for the trial to be over.

  I want to live now.

  On the plane to Vancouver, I unbuckle my belt and droop my head and hands over the back of my seat. Watching Stacy watching the snowy Cascades thousands of feet below, I love her with all my might and silently adopt her as my sister, once and for all. I write to her, You're giving me away.

  She blinks away tears of joy and nods, rendered as mute as I am. Tammy tells Ma, "Okay, then you're walking me down the aisle then, Mom." And of course, Ma starts boo-hooing happily.

  When we're checked into our modest, mid-range hotel room, we ask Ma to entertain Tammy while my sister and I steal away to the shops. I have to get Tammy a ring.

  And it has to be perfect.

  forty-three:

  tammy

  (getting married, february 14)

  We fly to Vancouver, B.C., accompanied by Mom, Stacy, Patti, Deanna, Sylvia and her partner Alice, Mr. Bloom and his wife, Mrs. Cooke (dear old lady!), Marilyn (Jamie's friend from work), and my boss from the Davis station, who I invited, but was pretty sure couldn't come. We're surprised and pleased that these people, most of whom are only acquaintances or business associates, plunked down money out of their own pockets to join us.

  And unbelievably, from our old church, one of the assistant pastors shows up, a guy who has always been friendly and receptive to me in the past. Since we've been left thin-skinned and wary by Jamie's near-death ordeal, we think he's gotten wind of our wedding and has come to condemn us, but he hasn't. "I want to celebrate this with you. I don't condone what was done to Jamie, and I'm not here to preach. I have a cousin who is gay, and I love him very much. You and Jamie were always a part of our family, in my opinion. I'm sorry that others have taken a different view."

  He's so nice. We would ask him to officiate, but we didn't know he was coming and we already have a judge.

  We do have friends. There are good, supportive, decent people in the world.

  After getting my approval, Mom has also invited Aunt Sharon and my cousin Natalie. My cousin, who once made me green as Vulcan blood with jealous hatred. How can I face her, after I hated her so much just for being born? How can I ever stop hating myself for butchering her Barbie dolls? How can I live with myself after seeing Uncle Price messing with her and doing nothing?

  Does she know what I'm guilty of?

  Does she remember?

  Does she wish me well, or does she hate me?

  Outside our hotel room, I gingerly approach her and say, "Hello."

  She looks away and I feel my stomach drop like a bomb. But she does say, "Hello," back. We talk. She wishes me well. I give her a delicate hug. She hugs me back.

  I'm going to make amends. I'm going to. It's too late to do anything about Uncle Price. Aunt Sharon says she had to put him in a nursing home in Elk Grove just a few weeks ago because he was leaving the burners going on the stove and nearly setting their home on fire, and he thinks Natalie is his wife, not his daughter.

  But it's not too late for me to have a relationship with my cousin. I doubt she remembers me standing there watching her dad molest her. She was only a baby then. But maybe Aunt Sharon knows that I hurt Natalie's Barbies. Maybe Aunt Sharon put two and two together and knew I was the reason some of the dolls came up missing.

  One day, maybe I'll forgive myself for that, and for not reporting Uncle Price. Jamie says I was only a boy, and that I didn't know how to assert myself and have Price stopped. But I'm an adult now, and I still feel like I should have done something.

  It's true. I'd rather feel bad. I'd rather feel the guilt. I'd rather feel like shit about something I did or didn't do, than be like Uncle Price, just going along, never knowing the damage he's done to us kids.

  Thank you God, for changing me, for never letting me become more vicious than I already was, for making me aware of the wrong in what I did. Thank you for helping me. God, thank you for everything!

  Late in the afternoon the day before our wedding, as a gift to Jamie, I take him to a professional photographer down the street from our hotel, and we have private photos taken of us naked, wrapped only in diaphanous white satin.

  Jamie is apprehensive. I can see the memories in his eyes, the way he looks at the man behind the camera. "This isn't pornography," I inform him gently. "These are portraits, private portraits, of you and me. And the only ones who will share them are you and me."

  "Don't pose," the photographer says as he adjusts his settings and zooms. "Just be yourselves. Just do your thing."

  I drape the sheet of white satin, so snowy pure that the folds and shadows appear light blue, over Jamie's head. "Little White Riding Hood," I chuckle, kneeling naked before him and listening to the hisses and clicks of the camera. Then I pull it away from him and wrap the gossamer fabric around myself like a cloak. A single picture is snapped of Jamie, standing naked before me, shivering, so vulnerable and beautiful it makes my heart (and other places) ache. I wrap my arms and the satin around his body and pull him to me until he's sitting on my lap, his cool buttocks against my hot thighs. We kiss, nuzzle our noses, gaze deeply into each other. My lips drift over the graceful, pale curve of his neck as he stares into the camera for one photo. We go on kissing until we begin to make out. The photographer exclaims as he leaps back and forth, "Beautiful! Beautiful! You're a gorgeous couple. Very beautiful. Beautiful shot!"

  The photos are so intimate, so sexy, so beautifully done, that I hire the guy to do our wedding pictures too.

  "Look at you," I croon to Jamie that evening. My favourite shot is the one where I'm kissing his neck and he's looking right into the lens. Every line so clearly etched, every curve caressed by the lens. And those eyes! Lord have mercy.

  Me?! You're spectacular, writes Jamie, staring at the glossy images. I don't think our wedding pictures will be this good, even if it's the same dude. Even if you're a vision in that tux!

  "How can you hate looking at yourself in a mirror, or in a picture?! How can you feel ashamed? How can you feel dirty? Look at you!" I groan. "You're so gorgeous. Damn, these pics are making me hard. I think I'm going to have to pin you down on that bed before I can make an honest man of you tomorrow!"

  I pause before soberly adding, "I did this for you, Jamie. I did this so you could see how wonderful you are. I don't ever want you to feel dirty about yourself again."

  He scrawls, I don't feel dirty. Except in a good way.

  In spite of how the photos arouse us, we somehow manage to abstain from sexual gratification the whole night before our wedding, taking titillating pleasure instead in acting like two chaste virgins who have never known one another. I stay with Mom in one room while Jamie stays with Stacy in the other.

  Yeah, right! We all crowd into one suite for half the night, watching movies on TNT, ordering in three loaded pizzas, drinking beer and soda, munching on nacho chips, burping, farting, guffawing loudly (all except Jamie, who whisper-laughs) and gabbing about how nervous we are about the wedding.

  I'll probably trip and fall right on my face, Jamie writes to me.

  "I'll probably rip an extra loud cheer the minute I get up there... all this shit I'm eating!"

  Aunt Sharon snorts, and I'm not sure if she's laughing or disgusted. Natalie giggles.

  "Oh, Tammy, for pity's sake," Mom protests.

  "Pizza? Bean dip? Beer?" I howl. "I didn't even think to bring any Beano with me!"

  "It's going to be fun, no matter what," Stacy says, her mouth full of pizza. "We'll all no doubt be honking like se
venty-six trombones!"

  In the morning, we split into two teams. Jamie, Stacy and Natalie vamoose to their room to get ready for our one o'clock ceremony. Mom and Aunt Sharon fuss with me over my hair, my teeth, a single zit which, thanks to the pizza, has sprouted on my chin overnight, my black tux and how to tie the perfect bow at my throat.

  "He sure is a pretty thing," Aunt Sharon remarks when I ask her if she likes Jamie. "If I was about thirty years younger... He's a nice boy. I like him."

  "When I first found out about you and Jamie," Mom murmurs as she works with the tie, "I thought it was weird, I just couldn't picture it—you being in love with another boy. Then, the day he woke up, I saw how he looked at you and you looked at him. It was the sweetest thing I'd ever seen."

  My eyes burn and my throat tries to close. I pull my mother to me and whisper, my voice thick with emotion, "I love you, Mom." She nods, begins to cry. Aunt Sharon stands aside sheepishly, but I grab her. "Get over here."

  It feels so good to be loved for who I am. It feels so good to have a family. I'd thought I didn't need these people, but I was wrong. I do need them. I've always needed them. They were there for us when Jamie was attacked. They're gonna be here when Jamie and I get married. They're going to be here when we need them. They're going to make us strong.

  Just as Jamie does, these people make me real. They make me me.

  We have an outdoor ceremony at a modest chapel only three blocks from the hotel. The patio is completely shaded, and there's still snow smashed up against the fence. It's almost too cold for what Jamie is wearing, a beautiful white shirt, as snowy as the satin we took photos with, and white jeans.

  As I wait for my cue to march with Mom, my boss hugs me. "My son is gay. We had a fight when he came out to me three years ago, and we haven't spoken since... I said things I shouldn't have, but I still love him. I want to call him." He struggles to keep his voice steady. "How do I call him, Tam? How do I tell him that I'm sorry, and that I love him for who he is? I'm so afraid he'll cuss me and hang up."

  "You just gotta take that chance," I tell him. "Do it. I'll bet he wants to talk to you just as badly."

  We have family that has nothing to do with blood or heredity. It's such a wonderful, happy day for me, but I'm sad too. I'm sad that Ray and Lydia were people we never really knew. They won't be sharing this important day with us. Instead, they're going to jail. I'm sad because my biological dad is ashamed of me, ashamed of the way I live and love, and doesn't care to know me. I'm sad because if I had stayed in town instead of moving to L.A., I would have known Lloyd as the dad I never had. I feel like he's up there watching us as Mom walks me down the aisle. When I see Jamie and Stacy coming, I almost lose it. He looks like a spectral waif in all white, his big, wide eyes set off by eyeliner and mascara, his plump lips lightly painted in an earthy, rosy-brown. He got his hair cut a little before the wedding, and his honeyed locks are flowing and curling softly just past his ears.

  Stacy and Natalie, who also has a pretty voice, sing our wedding songs for us: "A Groovy Kind Of Love" and Elton John's "The One".

  I've written out my vows to him. "You and I have been through hell and back over the past few weeks, over the past sixteen years... I know we can do this. I know it. I know I can love you forever, whether we're rich or poor, healthy or sick, for better or worse, whether you're sweet or in a foul mood... I can love you."

  Jamie cries because the judge has to read his vows. When he slips the ring he got me, a simple, wide gold band, over my finger, I cry too. Later, I take it off and read the tiny inscription:

  To my husband, my friend, my lover, my soul-mate. My dream has come true, because you love me. I'll love you forever, Jamie.

  I've given him a ring too, of course, but my real gift I want to give him tonight. It's something I've wanted to do for a long, long time.

  I'm as patient as I can be, but when the sun goes down and they're still hanging around our room, I have to shoo Mom and Stace out. There's no point in trying to be demure, so I just say, "Mom? Stace? Go home!" They chortle and stare from me to Jamie. "Let's go eat!" Mom says to Stacy.

  "Sounds good to me!" Stacy chirps. "Sure you two don't want to come along?"

  "No," I answer for both of us. I see the anxiety creeping into Jamie's eyes already.

  I temper my impatience, trying to be forbearing for as long as it takes for me to talk him into letting me do it. And I know it's going to take a while. "I don't blame you for being nervous," I growl as I slip my arms around him from behind. "I'm planning on giving you a night you won't forget." I turn him around in my arms and he shyly touches my tie, still tied in its perfect bow. The tiniest brush of his fingers against my neck makes me shudder. Slowly, we take off each other's clothes. I can feel my eyes smouldering like coals as I stare at him.

  It's like he is a virgin all over again as he plants both hands on my chest and tries to put some distance between us. "I want to taste you, Jamie. I want to taste you tonight, every part of you. You know what that means, don't you?" He quivers as I nibble his neck, but I feel the struggle.

  "Please, Jamie, let me. Let me do this for you. Let me show you how wonderful you are."

  Only if you let me do it to you first, he scribbles on his notepad.

  "I'll let you do it to me, then you'll say you're too tired to let me do it to you." I argue.

  You've given me more gifts than I've given you, he insists. Let me give you my gift first.

  I don't argue. After all, I'm a man. What man do you know who would refuse a blow job? Sigh! Except Jamie?!

  By the time he's finished with me, I'm panting and wheezing, spent, and very happy, unsure of whether or not I'll be able to muster up the oomph I'm going to need for him. I've never gone down on a man before, but this is something I want as much as my next breath.

  And of course, he tries to back out. If you're tired, you can do it some other time. I don't mind, he scrawls dubiously.

  Yeah, uh-huh! He wouldn't mind if I never did it to him.

  I'd say, Oh, he's so unselfish... to be willing to suck me off and then forego being sucked off by me.

  But that's crap.

  He's afraid, that's all it is...

  I've got to show him what he's missing.

  I want to take him to a place he's never been.

  We end up having a terrible episode with him locking himself in the bathroom and crying. I coax and encourage him for at least half an hour before he begins talking in a croaking frog's voice about feeling like a child molesting pervert.

  From my side of the bathroom door, I gently scold him, "You're not a child molester. I've seen your soul too, Jamie. You would never hurt a child. You're not evil, you're a good, beautiful person..."

  "Am I talking?!" he suddenly cries.

  "Yes," I answer. "You're talking."

  He bursts out of the bathroom and throws his arms around me, and I exhale in relief as I tenderly lay him down on the sea-green satin comforter on our king-sized hotel bed. "Do you want your blanket?" I ask him. He nods, frightened into immobility again, supine, his hands raised over his face as if to prepare for an attack, or to cover his eyes like he does whenever I attempt something sexual he's afraid of.

  Well, he's letting you do this, I tell myself. He might be scared, but he's trying. He's trying to make you happy. That's something.

  I hand him his blue velour blanket. "Do you want it under your bottom?" I ask softly. He nods, and I lift him and slide it into place. He grasps a piece of the velour softness in each hand, holds on for dear life.

  "I can talk to you all through this, Jamie," I whisper. "I don't want you to be afraid. The last thing I will ever do is hurt you."

  He nods, tears slanting towards the green pillowcase.

  Remembering the lessons I've secretly taken from him every time he's given me head, I nibble and kiss my way up and down his body, slowly. There's no rush. "We have all night," I tell him in a smoky whisper. His body shakes as I gently bite his nipples, ki
ss his belly, feeling the muscles jerking and quivering under me. I divert from my due south direction to taste the pale silk of his inner thigh, the soft blonde hairs tickling my lips. "Okay, now remember, I'm not going to hurt you."

  And I go for him, gently, softly. He's so pretty down there, so firm yet so soft, the very tip of him flaring out, like a roseate mushroom, the warm, frenzied blood congregating readily. His mind is reluctant, but his body can't argue and it can't hide from me. I can sense the tiny seedlings germinating within him as I kiss him, like I kiss his mouth, my tongue gently dabbing and sponging over the little cluster of nerves just beneath the pink velvet tip. My own cock throbs joyously against the crook of his knee, in time to an entrancing, ethereal music playing, vibrating in my soul like a bell.

  I hear him sobbing. "It's okay, Baby," I sing between soft, sucking kisses. "God made you, Jamie. He made every part of you. No part of you is dirty. He made the human body to enjoy sex." I suck hard against the side of him, suck his skin against my teeth. His lungs sob deep. I feel him tense like a rope pulled taut. "In fact, this is the holiest place on your body. Did you know that, Baby?" I taste the clear, salty nectar weeping from him like tears. It's sublime. "That's why you thought you were dirty, because they sinned against you. You're delicious, not dirty. You're beautiful, Jamie. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life."

  Now my mouth closes over him to take him deeper, and I say no more, too busy revelling in the taste, the heat, the life of him. He's alive! I cry inside. He's alive... the way he fills my mouth and throat, the way he pulses and swells as more blood fills him, finds its way into the millions of tiny caverns and crevices of him. I feel his hands playing with my hair. I hear his hoarse sobs of anguish and rapture as I increase both the tempo and the vigour of what I'm doing. He squirms and claws at me as my tongue flickers savagely over that little bundle of nerve endings. I hear him beginning to whisper, "Please... please... please... please, Tammy..."