bystander."
Tony and Jason laughed weakly. "Not bloody likely," Jason told her.
Kate looked at the two men she loved so deeply. Jason had both arms around
Tony, hugging him tightly, and Tony's hands rested on his forearms, while
his head nestled in Jason's neck. She could see that Jason's cock was still
in Tony. They were the perfect picture of the sweet afterglow that making
love produced.
"Perhaps. Perhaps I needed this as much as you did. I need to be surrounded
by love, mine for you, yours for me, and yours for each other. It makes me
feel safe, complete. Is that wrong?"
Tony reached out a hand to her, and she came up and into his embrace, her
arms going around him and Jason.
"No, darling, it can never be wrong to love another the way we love each
other. I thank the gods that you two found me, every day."
"About that goat," Jason murmured into Tony's hair. They all burst out
laughing.
The End
27) Lightning in a Bottle
The following story is autobiographical, although names have been changed
to protect those who made the wrong choice.
I like hearing from readers. So, feel free to reach out to me at
[email protected].
And, please donate to Nifty, so we can all keep reading.
Lightning In A Bottle
Prologue
Regardless of the clues to the contrary, I always thought of myself as
straight. I always had a girlfriend. I was a devoutly Catholic boy in a
devoutly Catholic family in a devoutly Catholic Missouri town. This is the
story of how I figured out I was gay. I was 22. It was a long journey, so
be patient.
Part One
Mid-way through my first year of law school at Northwestern, I landed one
of the coveted summer associate positions at St. Louis' most prestigious
firm. I was the only 1L the firm hired.
I was not quite sure how I had threaded the needle. I thought I had botched
the interview. I was from a hoosier Missouri river town just outside the
ring of St. Louis suburbs, and I was out of my element. I didn't talk the
talk. Even after four years of college, there were hints of small town
poverty in my speech, both in grammar and in substance. I had tried but
failed to purge the "ain'ts" and "don't got no's" and "done seen's" from my
vocabulary.
I also didn't walk the walk. I did not have or wear the right clothes. I
should have worn a blue suit, white shirt, yellow tie, and wing tips, all
from Brooks Brothers. Instead, I wore a greenish double-breasted suit, a
striped shirt, a tie that was too shiny, and tassled loafers, all from
Men's Wearhouse.
I didn't know the etiquette. I didn't stand when women left the table or
when they returned. I didn't precede them down the stairs or follow them
up. I had no idea what fork to use or that I was to keep my elbows off the
table. I didn't send thank you cards. I had never owned stationary.
I also offended my last interviewer, a litigation partner. Unbeknownst to
me, she had gone to Missouri for law school. So, she was unimpressed, to
say the least, by my response to why I had chosen to go to law school: "I
was getting a history degree, and I couldn't think of anything else to do.
I didn't have a burning desire to be a lawyer. I mean, I wouldn't have gone
if I had gotten stuck somewhere like Mizzou."
As I finished the sentence, I noticed the black and gold diploma on the
wall over her head. I blushed crimson. Seeing no way out, I doubled down.
"Of course, you went to Mizzou. If you have pictures of your children, I'll
tell you what's wrong with them. I have the special gift of almost always
saying the wrong thing. If you want, I can teach it to you. It comes in
really handy at funerals and weddings."
To my surprise, she laughed. I had stuck the landing.
When I got the offer, it was from her. She told me the way I had handled
the incredibly awkward moment had impressed her. The Cave was betting on
who I would become, not who I was.
I had not improved my walk by the time the summer program started, the
Tuesday after Memorial Day. I was one of 10 summer associates, although
only 9 of us started that day (the guy from the University of Chicago would
be in school another three weeks, the victim of trimesters). I was the only
one not dressed "the Bryan Cave way." I did not notice, but others
apparently did.
At the end of that day, my mentor -- a very kind, gentleman lawyer --
offered to take me for a drink at the Missouri Athletic Club. On the way,
he hustled me into a Joseph A. Bank, and he bought me two suits (blue and
grey), 5 shirts (all white), 5 ties (all striped), and a pair of cordovan
wing tips and matching belt. I told him I'd pay him back as soon as we got
our first paychecks (we were making $1,000 per week, which was more than
twice what my parents earned, combined). He insisted I would not.
By the time John Frederick (or, as we referring to him, "Chicago") started,
the summer program was in full swing. I was in the library doing research
when I first saw him. The recruiting coordinator -- redolent very much of a
praying mantis -- was giving him a tour, and he raised his eyebrows at me
as he passed by. Twenty years later, I remember that fleeting moment
vividly, as if it were yesterday, and I was again 22. Chicago was about 6
feet tall, parted his thick brown hair on the right side, and had
extraordinarily bright blue eyes behind square'ish, wire glasses. He was
wearing a tan poplin suit, a heavily starched white shirt, and a blue and
yellow striped tie. The blue in the tie hit his eyes hard. Other than those
eyes, he was attractive, but not extraordinary. In all the years since, the
best referent I have come up with is Ron Livingston, the from Office Space
who, when accused missing a lot of work, responded that he hadn't "missed
it" at all.
But, there was something about that moment. It was fraught, at least for
me. He moved in slow motion as he went past and raised his eyebrows at me.
We all went for drinks after work to welcome him to our group. I was
uncomfortable, as I was still out of my element. Everyone else seemed from
old St. Louis money. I was from no St. Charles money.
I had not known about subletting, so I was living with my parents for the
summer and commuting 45 minutes each way. I was frugal, so I was not
comfortable with the free spending of young people making more money than
they could spend and whose habits had never been shackled by a lack of
money.
I was insecure, worried that my speech and manner betrayed my humble
background (I was one of four children who my alcoholic parents had raised
in a two bedroom duplex in our town's dingiest neighborhood. My clothes had
come from garage sales. Our food had often come from a government program.
We often drank powdered milk and ate toast and gravy for dinner.).
John was none of those things. He was a blue-blood. He had gone to a snappy
St. Louis high school (once St. Louis's schools were integrated, everyone
who could sent their children to private sc
hools; the rest moved to St.
Charles County, which was overwhelmingly white and not part of the
desegregation plan). John went to Yale for college, using my school --
Washington University -- as his safety school. He was now at U of C, one of
the nation's top law schools, and the leader in the "law and economics"
movement. He had already landed a clerkship on the D.C. Circuit Court of
Appeals, to begin the Fall after his graduation. After that, he would be
one of the select few considered for a Supreme Court clerkship.
He was certain and confident. His voice was deep and cultured. He formed
words perfectly. He settled easily into the conversation at the bar, slowly
moving to the center and taking it over. He had a mordant, observational
sense of humor. He touched people as he spoke to them, leaning in and
looking them straight in the eye. He made each person feel like they had
his undivided attention, like they were special. It was a gift, and I
didn't have it.
I was the first to leave. As I said my good-bye's, John again raised his
eyebrows at me, and smiled. He smiled easily, and it was a big, broad smile
that animated his face and revealed deep dimples and perfect teeth.
I did not smile easily. I had always been serious. I had always been old,
even when I was young. I was set on escaping my origins, and I thought that
required focus and a seriousness of purpose. I sat in the front row. I
raised my hand. I followed the rules. I was hidebound, and I had wound
myself so tightly around the idea of striving that I could not unwind. I
was constantly competing, constantly trying to move up and out. I was
tighter than two coats of paint..
*****
My girlfriend, Ellie, was visiting for a wedding the following weekend. I
had met Ellie the first day of NULS orientation, in line for lunch. She was
a little shorter than me (I am only 5'7"), but fit as a fiddle before being
fit was a thing. She had unruly brown hair, big brown eyes, a button nose,
a big smile, and dark, ethnic skin. She was a dynamo, dominating every
encounter she had.
I was the opposite. I did not work out. I was carrying about 10 extra
pounds. I had thick blonde hair, which I had worn short and parted on the
left side since fourth grade. I had green eyes. They had a noticeable
circle of orange around the pupil, and the whites were as clear as milk. My
smile was too rare, but it dimpled my cheeks when it appeared. Those
dimples matched the dimple in my chin. I always looked younger than I was.
I was the "cute" guy who never got the girl. I looked like a young
Mark-Paul Gosselaar, when I wanted to look like Max Caulfield.
"Who are you?" she had asked me, exaggerating the "you."
"I'm Max. Actually, Mason, but people call me Max. I'm not sure why. It
doesn't make sense. It seems like it'd be Mace, not Max. But it's Max." As
I finished, I felt like a fool, babbling about my name like a nervous girl.
"Well . . . Mace," she said, exaggerating the gap between the two words.
"I'm Ellie. Short for Elizabeth. Which makes total sense. Because Elizabeth
starts with El. Anyway, have lunch with me."
I did. I didn't say a word. There was no room. Ellie never stopped talking.
If there was something about her I wanted to know but did not by the end of
lunch, I'd have been hard-pressed to figure out what it was.
After lunch, I walked Ellie to her room, she invited me in, and -- as 22
year olds are wont to do -- we wound up in bed, oral sexing each other. She
was live and loud as I made her come, shifting and writhing under my hands
and tongue. She gave great head, deep throating me and swallowing all I had
when I came. When it was time for me to go, she insisted, "Come back
tonight. And, bring condoms."
I did. Ellie liked sex. A lot. And, she liked me. And my dick. I was
average in almost every way but there. Like my father and my older brother,
I was swinging a nice piece of meat, disproportionately long and thick for
someone my size.
We dated the whole year. I basically lived in her room. When we weren't
eating or studying, we were sexing. She hated condoms, so she got an IUD
over Christmas, characterizing it as my Christmas present.
Ellie had also developed her vaginal muscles, and she had complete control
of them. When she clamped them around me, I couldn't move. When I was
coming and she clamped them shut, the pleasure was so intense it made me
light-headed.
As the year wore on and the Chicago weather turned brutal, we got
experimental, buying books and toys and using both to pleasure each other
and ourselves as much as we could. By the time I headed to St. Louis and
she headed to New York for the summer, there was almost nothing we had not
done to each other. I had fucked and been fucked. I had eaten ass, and had
my ass eaten. I had eaten cum and had my cum eaten. We had worked our way
through myriad positions. It had been an awesome year, and I couldn't wait
to see her.
I got a downtown hotel room for the weekend of her visit (we obviously were
not going to stay at my parents'). We checked in, and we picked up where we
had left off. Masturbation is no substitute for sex, I had gotten a late
start (I had gone to college a virgin and had gotten laid less than ten
times in those four years), and I had some making up to do.
We fucked through the rehearsal dinner, which -- as a groomsman -- was a
douche move on my part. But, I was pretty sure Todd would understand, once
he knew why.
We fucked the next day until we had to leave for the wedding. It was
mid-June, and hot even for St. Louis. So, we got chocolate and whipped
cream delivered with our breakfast and spent the morning and early
afternoon in bed covering each other with both, and then fucking and
licking each other clean.
By the time we had to check out on Sunday, I could not get hard, and Ellie
was raw. It had been a great, sexy weekend.
I drove Ellie to the airpot. As we parted, Ellie said "When I come back, I
want to meet the John you talked about all weekend."
All weekend? I hadn't realized.
Part Two
I was happy the next day when John visited my office. His girlfriend had
visited that weekend as well, and we compared notes. I was surprised by his
casual attitude toward sex, as he was an observant Catholic who had skipped
lunches to go to the Cathedral for mass.
As we talked, he noticed a particularly strong review I had received on a
recent project.
"Well done, Mr. Davis" he said. "You must be smarter than I thought."
It was a reverse accolade. It sounded like a compliment, but it wasn't one,
once you thought about it. I decided to chide him.
"Nope, I'm just a dumb hoosier from Chucktown who gets lucky every once and
again. Even a broken clock is right twice a day."
Chastened, John apologized for the unintended slight.
"I did not mean to suggest I did not think you were smart. It is just that,
you do not come across as a law geek. I was surprised you are at
Northwestern. I thought you were somewhere like Mizzou. You
just seem . . .
remarkably normal."
I had no idea what he was talking about or how to respond. But, I did not
think I should say "thank you" to "remarkably normal." I thought maybe I
should use two words, one of which was "you" and the other of which ended
in a K, but was only four letters and did not rhyme with spank. Instead, I
said nothing.
Later that day, all of the summer associates received a memorandum from
John through interoffice mail (there was no such thing as email, much less
texting, in 1990). It read "Mason Davis has become the carrot. Please react
accordingly."
I ran into John later in the library. "The carrot?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "The mule chases the carrot. With that review, we are the
mules, chasing you, the carrot."
From that moment on, he called me "Carrot." It stuck, and soon the rest of
the summer class followed his lead.
*****
Two days later, I received another interoffice memorandum from John. It
read:
To: The Carrot
From: John C. Frederick III
Re: Friday
Date: June 20, 1990
Vi is not visiting this weekend. So, here is an alternative plan for your
consideration/participation: Leave work at 5:30. Travel to my apartment to
change into casual clothing. Travel to the Delmar Loop to meet Mark and
Jennifer (friends from CODASCO) at Blueberry Hill. Eat greasy burgers.
Friend Bangs My Wife in Front of Me Page 29
