The Professor's Green Card Marriage

by Heidi Cullinan

  I look back at that now, and I’m angry. Everyone could have done better. Someone could have explained to me that my rules were problematic, could have gently encouraged me into speech. The police officers could definitely have done a lot better. I didn’t even get into the part where they thought I must have been abused and they had me take off all my clothes so I could be examined for bruises. So I guess that was trauma. But I was mute before that, see. They only made it worse.

  Anyway. I really think I said too much. I kind of want to edit this. I’m not trying to get you to give me sympathy. But I feel like you need to know all this. My SM now is less of a driving force and more of a companion. I try to view it as a lens into my feelings and my anxieties. I always look for ways to relax the rules, or make exceptions.

  It’s actually a huge deal that I’m on this date with you. I haven’t done anything like it since I came to Boulder, haven’t honestly had contact with anyone outside my family for over a year. I’ve told myself even if in the next second you decide this isn’t a relationship you want, it was still worth having. I don’t just mean this email. I mean that I say that every time I interact with you. It’s okay to be a disappointment to someone. That I’m okay how I am.

  I do believe that. Which is why I’m going to send this to you even though it makes me very nervous. The rule for you now is that I can write to you even if you’re next to me, so long as you don’t in any way acknowledge me. If I hit Send, that means the rule is absolute.

  Thanks for letting me get this far.

  Love,

  Petrush

  Chapter Ten

  LOWERING his phone into his lap, Valentyn stared out the windshield, seeing nothing, too engrossed in Peter’s words still echoing in his mind. Words he knew he’d never forget.

  Peter himself was still asleep. While driving Valentyn had whispered, just barely loud enough to be heard, that perhaps he should put his head on the console between them, and Peter had obeyed without waking. Now he remained there, his hair brushing against Valentyn’s arm, a hand extended near his face and nearly touching Valentyn’s leg.

  Valentyn still had the engine running, a gentle purr to keep Peter unconscious while he read. It felt like a significant sin to do this in general, but worse to a man so passionate about the environment. He vowed to turn off every electric thing he could in his house tonight and walk to work for the rest of the week to compensate. This was too important. He needed to sort out his feelings.

  Eventually he acknowledged that could only be done with the other party conscious, and he turned off the vehicle. It took less than a minute for Peter to rise, looking around blearily.

  Valentyn smiled at him, feeling naked. “Welcome back.” He gestured out the window. “We’re at one of the first pull-over areas near a midlevel trail deep in the park. I’m ready to go walking when you are.”

  Peter took a sip of water, then passed Valentyn the sunscreen.

  “Ah, yes.” Valentyn applied it to the exposed areas of his skin. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached into the back seat and returned with a floppy hat. “I don’t look at all good in this, but I don’t want a sunburned scalp again.”

  Wordlessly, still making no eye contact, Peter pulled a tan ball cap from his bag and put it on his head. He looked adorable.

  Once Peter had also put on sunscreen, they exited the car, and with Peter leading the way, headed onto the trail. They moved in silence until they were deep into the woods.

  Eventually Valentyn dared to speak. “I’d love to sit and talk with you. To tell you things. Is that all right? Is this too far in the open? Do you know somewhere better? I don’t know how often you’ve come here, so I apologize if I’m being presumptuous.”

  Taking Valentyn’s hand, Peter led them off the path and over a ridge, until they were at an outcropping of rock overlooking a small canyon below. The area was clear—they could see or hear anything coming.

  Peter sat down facing the way they’d come, and Valentyn followed suit. He wiped at his mouth with a shaking hand, then started to speak.

  “I understand it’s more complicated than this, your SM, but I can’t get started without noting the irony. Because I know without question you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. Maybe you don’t see yourself that way, maybe you can’t. But that you can simply share so much about yourself, your weaknesses, your fears—I don’t care that you couldn’t tell me with your mouth. That you could tell me at all leaves me breathless, and a little shamed. I want to tell you things about myself too, yet I don’t know that there’s a medium outside of several bottles of vodka that could lead me to the courage I’d need. So I’m going to do my best. I’m sorry it won’t be as graceful or complete as anything you just wrote to me.”

  Without lifting his gaze from the ridge, Peter caught Valentyn’s hand and squeezed it.

  Valentyn laughed sadly. “Sorry. I’m a bit out of sorts. The part about the police taking you—” His voice caught, and he had to shut his eyes a moment before he continued. “Nothing like that happened to me, not exactly. But I had that feeling too. A similar sort of situation, where I was young and helpless and internalizing everything in ways I can see now were incorrect. I still feel the shame and terror of it, and it affects me.”

  Peter shifted so he held Valentyn’s hand with the opposite one and put an arm gently around his waist, encouraging him closer.

  Valentyn went to him. Inhaled his soft, sharp scent.

  He swallowed before speaking.

  “I was… eight, I think. Maybe nine. We were at my uncle’s house in Crimea. He’s not a nice man, and neither are my cousins. I hated all family gatherings, but going there was the worst. I did my best to stay out of the way, reading my books in the corner of the kitchen, where if anyone bullied me they couldn’t do much because the adults were present. But only to a certain point, because once they started drinking, the adults could be worse than the children. That time I lingered too long, though, caught up in my book, and the next thing I knew, my uncle was talking homosexuals.

  “Pedarasti. That’s the Ukrainian word he used. It means pedophile. To many people, there’s no difference. My uncle ranted about the evil pedarasti. He’d been to Simeiz a few months before and seen something that offended him, and he waved his glass, ranting and raving how gay men were a plague, a disgrace. He angrily declared he’d denounce any of his sons if they told him they were gay. Then he turned to me, his face twisted into revulsion. ‘You look like one. I’m watching you.’”

  Valentyn shut his eyes, stomach churning at the memory. “I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t quite worked everything out in my head yet, but part of me was already starting to understand I was a member of this horrible club. I didn’t sleep that night, and I didn’t eat anything until we left for home two days later. I couldn’t. I threw everything up. They decided I had a virus. My aunt clucked her tongue and complained of my weak constitution. My mother apologized for me. My father didn’t speak to me until we were at home, but then he never said much to me. I was terrified he’d kick me out.

  “I was so afraid of being gay. I believed my uncle and other people when they said I’d be a horrible person if I let myself love other men. I went weak in the knees when police went by because I was sure they would arrest me. Even when the Soviet Union fell and we became independent, even as homosexuality was no longer criminal, I feared I’d be taken away. I cried myself to sleep worrying that it would overtake me and someday I would be a child molester. I withdrew and stopped associating with my friends, too scared that I might harm them.”

  Peter leaned closer, and after a small hesitation, kissed Valentyn’s cheek. Then he awkwardly put Valentyn’s head on his shoulder.

  Valentyn drew a few more breaths, then continued. “As I grew older, I began to understand my family didn’t have it exactly right. We moved to Kyiv when I was in high school, and I learned English. The internet had arrived, and I began to see the outside world. I wondered if perhaps my unc
le was wrong. I wasn’t sure, but there was a glimmer. Then I decided the safest thing would be to go somewhere else and see for myself. I figured out how I could get myself to the place I thought I could be the most free: the United States. There I was in fact quite free, my eyes opened. And yet, at the same time, part of me still clutches my book while my uncle calls me a monster.” His throat became thick, and he shivered. “I’ve never told any of this to anyone, ever.”

  He sat there for a long time, huddled against Peter, focusing on breathing. Then he heard a faint whisper near his ear. “Thank you.”

  Valentyn clutched Peter’s hand so hard he feared he was hurting him, but he couldn’t stop. “You worry you’re too broken for me. You say there’s nothing I can tell you that can convince you that you’re okay, that only you can do this for yourself. Well, koshenya, you’re well ahead of me. No matter what I do, sometimes I’m so ashamed of myself for reasons I can’t put to words that I can barely breathe. I don’t know how to soothe the little boy inside me. But something tells me I can learn a lot from you.”

  Turning, Peter took Valentyn’s face in his hands, then kissed his lips softly.

  I want to marry you. Valentyn longed to say this and so much more. But his throat was tight, his heart full, and the only thing he could do was lean his forehead against Peter’s and allow himself to be soothed with a gentle touch.

  ALL the way back to Boulder, Peter wondered whether or not they were going to have sex.

  He worried all their serious talk had killed the mood. He worried he wouldn’t be as good as he’d been last time, that the coffee shop sex had been a fluke. He worried his SM would be in the way. He worried Valentyn would only want to be good friends after all.

  He’d done his best to not listen to those fears, focusing instead on the bouncy Ukrainian pop. It was pretty good. Most of it was electro pop, but a few songs had a kind of folk edge to them, somehow being dance and folk at the same time. Maybe they weren’t folk but that was just how things sounded in Ukraine. He successfully distracted himself trying to read the Cyrillic. He’d forgotten everything he’d learned the other night about how the letters sounded, and he googled again to learn a second time.

  Valentyn often sang along with them under his breath.

  They’d eaten their picnic earlier, and it had been simple but good. Peter wondered how different Ukrainian food was. He wondered if Valentyn could cook. He wondered if there was a Ukrainian dish Valentyn missed and how he could figure out how to make it for him.

  He wondered how to let Valentyn know he wanted to have sex.

  As they came into town, Valentyn became noticeably more fidgety. At the first stoplight, he let out a shaky breath and said timidly, “Would… you like to come over?”

  Inside, Peter did a fist pump. Outside, he nodded, the slightest of movement of his head.

  Valentyn lived in a tidy little two-level condo. He had a lot of books, several plants underneath the front window, and a small television and a love seat.

  “Sit, please.” Valentyn gestured to the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink?” He stopped short, then blushed. “Ah. Perhaps, come to the kitchen and show me? I have beer, wine, vodka, water.” He smiled at Peter, a devilish grin. “It’s proper Ukrainian vodka. Not the terrible stuff you’re used to.”

  Intrigued, Peter watched Valentyn line up a small selection of local microbrews, an unopened bottle of red wine, and a tall bottle of perfectly clear liquid. Pristine Vodka, the label said.

  He’d never been much of a vodka drinker, but he was curious. He pointed to it, then withdrew his hand.

  Valentyn grinned as he put the other beverages away, then pulled down two small chimney-shaped glasses and filled them each halfway up. “Would you like to sit at the table to drink, or go to the living room?”

  Peter didn’t know. He wanted to be close to Valentyn, but he got the feeling Valentyn’s preference would be to sit at the table. He could feel the decision paralyzing him, and before it could take hold, he shook his head.

  “We’ll start at the table, but we can always move later.” After putting the glasses and bottle on a tray, Valentyn led the way to a table near a sliding door leading to a small courtyard. He opened the door, letting in the cool mountain-evening air. Then he held out a chair for Peter. After getting him settled, he passed over a glass and settled in himself.

  He smiled into his glass after knocking back the entirety of the liquor in his. “This was always my favorite thing to do with my friends in Kyiv. Sit, smoke, and drink good vodka and watch the sun go down. Tell stories, enjoy each other.”

  Peter took a hesitant sip of the vodka. He choked a little, but he also licked his lips. It was strong, but it was good.

  Valentyn was already pouring himself a second glass. “My favorite drink is pertsivka. Peppered vodka. By the end of the bottle it feels like your entire head is full of flames. Head and belly.”

  Peter didn’t drink a lot. He didn’t like losing control and possibly looking foolish. But he didn’t think he’d mind losing a little control with Valentyn.

  Valentyn sighed as he cupped the bottom of his glass in his hand, seeming relaxed and content. “Will the vodka make it easier for you to speak?”

  Peter shook his head. He took a deeper drink, enjoying the burn.

  Valentyn ran his thumb along the side of the glass. “I tell stories when I’m drunk. I also have a tendency to take off my clothes.”

  Excellent. Peter nudged the bottle closer to Valentyn.

  Laughing, Valentyn finished his second glass. “I duže milij,” he murmured. When Peter’s breath caught audibly, Valentyn’s smile tilted sideways. “You like it when I flirt with you in Ukrainian? I can do more.” He winked at Peter. “ lûblû tvoû usmìšku.”

  God, it was so fucking sexy. What was he saying? Peter bit his lip.

  Valentyn leaned in close and whispered, “Ti menì duže podobaêšsâ.”

  Peter shut his eyes and leaned toward him.

  Valentyn brushed a thumb across his cheek, his eyes liquid soft. “ hoču zajnâtisâ z toboû kohannâm.”

  That last one was… like melted butter. Peter breathed as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb the moment.

  Eventually Valentyn drew back, sliding a hand across Peter’s as he retreated. His voice was thick and rough when he spoke. “When I’m with you, I want to run instead of walk.” His fingers tangled in Peter’s and lingered. Not letting go of Peter, he finished his drink and poured another. He gestured to Peter’s glass. “Do you not like it? I can get you something else.”

  Shaking his head, Peter reached for the glass and sipped again. He worried about disappointing Valentyn, and downed the rest. Then he gasped as his esophagus set on fire.

  Valentyn took the glass from him carefully. “Gentle, gentle. Ukrainians drink like fish, but somehow I doubt you do. I didn’t mean to rush you. I only worried you might want something different.”

  The alcohol burned in Peter, in a good way. He felt it loosening his strings, fraying the edges of the rules. That made him panic, but it was mostly reflexive.

  Can I really trust him? a desperate voice inside Peter whispered.

  Peter reached out and touched Valentyn’s cheek. I want to. I want to so much.

  When Valentyn murmured something else in Ukrainian and leaned forward again, Peter’s eyes drifted shut. The kiss hit him like a soft wave, first a sharp force, then an enveloping blanket. Opening his mouth, Peter let Valentyn inside, let himself be drowned.

  Valentyn tasted like the vodka: bright and sharp, slightly sweet.

  With a groan, Valentyn cupped Peter’s face, turning it to the side so he could drink more deeply. The insistence of his hands, the blunt want of his mouth… all of it made Peter feel safe. Made him yearn for more.

  Please, please, can we make a new rule for him?

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the envelope.

  Valentyn held it, smiling patiently.

  Valentyn broke the k
iss to draw a breath, and Peter seized the envelope in his hands. “Valechko.”

  Shuddering, Valentyn cupped the back of Peter’s neck, sucked lightly on his bottom lip. “Petrush.”

  The world became soft and fluid, as if the air around them was water. Valentyn drew Peter out of his chair, led him toward the stairs. They didn’t make it onto one step, though, before Valentyn turned and pressed Peter to the wall, crowding his body around him.

  “I want you so much.” Valentyn made love to Peter’s neck, one of his hands sliding under Peter’s shirt. “May I make love to you, Peter?”

  Peter tugged at Valentyn’s buttons. It took him a moment to seize the word, but he caught it, pushed it gently out of his mouth. “Yes.”

  Groaning, Valentyn dug his fingers into Peter’s hip. “Your voice is like music. Sing to me again.”

  Parts of Peter shuddered, but not in the way Valentyn would have liked. Peter had always hated his voice. It was one of his therapies, to practice accepting his own sound, to learn to accept it instead of finding it repulsive. It sent him backward to hear Valentyn say it was good. Was he lying? Was all of this a lie? Was this a very bad mistake?

  He drew a breath, soothed himself as he’d practiced. It’s all right. You’re safe. Valentyn is safe.

  Valentyn drew back and regarded Peter, tempering his lust as he carefully touched Peter’s hair. “Am I too much? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask you to speak.”