“Talk to me,” I said.
“As you like,” he murmured, a deep, throaty growl. “What can I say that would please you most?”
I’m not even sure what made me think to ask. “Tell me about your first time,” I said.
He was puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“With a man. Your first experience.”
I don’t think he’d bargained for such a request. “Why?” he said.
“Just talk.”
I could almost hear him frown in the dark. He was silent for a long time, and I wasn’t sure if he didn’t remember his first time or simply couldn’t figure out how to put the experience into words. Once the general made up his mind to speak, he sat up in bed and brought me up next to him. He wrapped the sheet around us close, and slowly, navigating his tale with care, he told me about a captain in his late twenties who met one particular major, seven or eight years older. Captain O’Neill was captivated, and he fell pretty hard. The fact that the major admitted right away that he was gay and willing didn’t help matters.
“I knew I was attracted to men and not to women, and it was only a matter of time before I would do something about it,” the general said. “I’d never met a man who excited me the way he did. After a lot of agonizing on my part and none on his we ended up in bed one night, after sharing a six-pack of beer. Once we got that first time out of the way, we wound up in bed regularly, and we didn’t need beer to get us started.”
He was silent long enough that I figured he would tell me nothing more. But without prompting, he finally continued. “Didn’t take me long to figure out he wasn’t interested in anything long-term. ‘No such thing as Mr. Right,’ he used to say. ‘Only Mr. Right Now.’ And I liked him well enough to be his Mr. Right Now anytime he couldn’t find someone he liked better. And I guess I was usually third or fourth in line. Sometimes he’d bang on my door at three o’clock in the morning, but I always let him in.”
The major had been in the service for eleven or twelve years, and he’d been pretty careful. But eventually the rumors started, the wrong word in the right ear, and the talk finally caught up with him. He managed to resign before they could discharge him for conduct unbecoming an officer, the general told me.
“We’d been getting together on the sly for about a year by then. I was scared for both of us,” the general said. “He asked if I’d quit the service with him, but I refused. If I had any confidence he was willing to settle down with me, I might have gone with him, but he wouldn’t even promise next week, let alone next month. I stayed put.”
After quitting the Air Force, the major didn’t have any reason to be cautious, and AIDS caught up with him pretty quickly. “It scared the hell out of me,” the general said. “I got myself tested immediately. When I found out I was negative, I vowed to stay that way.”
They lost contact, though the general was careful to point out that the major had initiated the break. “Once he got really sick, he decided he didn’t want anything to do with me,” the general said. “I didn’t hear from him again until he was near the end—this was nearly twenty years back. When I visited him in the hospital for the last time, I swore I wouldn’t end up like he did.
“John Frederick Buchanan,” he whispered. “I haven’t even spoken his name in years.” His voice hardened. “I never cried for anyone like I did for him. I felt guilty because I hadn’t tried hard enough to make him settle down, as if that could have made any difference.” He shook his head, as if to push away an unsettling memory.
“After Johnny’s death, I lost myself in the service. I kept busy. It was easy. Didn’t have much time to worry about being alone or being anything because I was flying so much,” the general said. I remembered the patch on his flight suit with the “10,000 hours” tab above the major command insignia. How many takeoffs and landings equaled that much in-flight time?
“I was surprised to hear that you were married,” I said.
“After Johnny got kicked out, I panicked—I knew I had to start dating women,” he said, “but I didn’t know the first thing about it. I knew she had to be attractive, someone my pilot buddies would approve of, but I didn’t have any idea how to find a woman like that. Turns out I didn’t have to. She found me instead. We were introduced at a dance at the officers’ club. She was someone else’s date, but she dumped him and came gunning for me. She had a lot more experience with the whole mating ritual than I did, and I guess she thought my naïveté was charming. When she proposed to me, I said yes. We got married not long before I was scheduled to meet the lieutenant-colonel promotion board. Just in time.”
“I guess it worked,” I said.
“It worked.”
He felt sorry for her because she didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into. “I don’t like to admit it, but I was selfish,” he said. “I figured my secret wouldn’t matter, that I could keep that dog under the porch just by force of will, but it didn’t work.” He’d never conquered his yearning for male companionship and was ashamed of himself for blaming her.
“God knows she did her best,” he said. “She was by my side for every ceremony, every official function, every formal dinner or dance, any event that demanded our presence as a couple. Always beautiful, always smiling, always gracious, but the whole thing became a charade.”
He did not tell me her name, and I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t want to know, though I felt sorry for her, too. The role of a senior officer’s wife may be prestigious and glamorous, but it can’t be very fulfilling in private if the marriage is only rank and its privileges. Mrs. O’Neill hung on until he was selected for brigadier general, and when she told him she wanted a quiet divorce, he let her go without complaint.
“She was fed up with the act. I don’t know if she ever figured out my secret. If she suspected, she never let on,” he said. They’d been together for ten years, and the general had come to regard her more as a colleague than as a spouse. He’d treated her with utmost respect, he said, and he was proud of that.
“Surprised the hell out of everyone when we split up. No one had any idea we weren’t perfectly happy,” he said. “At least there were no kids to complicate things.”
“You didn’t want any?”
“She didn’t. And I didn’t argue.”
He offered other details about which I was curious but reluctant to ask, primarily regarding the sexual aspect of their marriage. He’d fulfilled his obligations when he had to, he said, and he’d been relieved he could perform satisfactorily, but she’d never pressed him too much. Perhaps she, too, was relieved he seldom initiated it. He was always self-conscious about sex with her, as he’d learned the first time he took off his shirt in her presence that she found hairy chests distasteful. She’d even asked him to shave it, but he’d adamantly refused.
“It’s damn lucky for me that you like furry men,” he growled. I instinctively crept my fingers into the rug on his chest and found a warm welcome. Thus reassured, he continued his story. After the divorce, his ex-wife had remarried quickly enough that he assumed she’d been involved with him for some time. He’d been surprised but not particularly upset by it. He appreciated her discretion. She deserved whatever solace she could find, he said. He had no idea where she and her second husband had gone. The general himself had transferred bases twice since the divorce, and they hadn’t any reason to keep in touch.
“I was faithful to her all the time we were married,” he said. “Absolutely. When I make a commitment, I keep it.”
“What about other guys?” I said. “After your divorce? I mean, I’m not the first one since your friend the major, am I?”
He shook his head. “Don’t flatter yourself, Saltmine. And don’t flatter me. I’m no saint.” There had been other men, not only before the marriage but after the divorce, too, he said, though not many. “I’ve been careful because there have been a lot of good reasons these last twenty-five years to be careful. Too many men make the mistake of thinking with their cocks. I don
’t. It’s damned hard sometimes, because nothing is as persuasive as cock. But I’m the boss.”
Considering our own vigorous exploits so far, I wasn’t sure I quite believed him, but the stance was commendable. I admired his self-control, just as I wondered how selective he was choosing to be about his sexual history. I hoped he wouldn’t ask me about mine, because I had a few incidents in my past I would prefer to whitewash, too.
“It’s my body,” he insisted, “and I’m in charge, not the other way around. Lately, I’ve gotten out of the habit.”
“Of what? Sex?”
“Yes. I mean, not entirely. I’m not the only general in the club, in case you’re wondering, but I’m an old man, Dustpan, and I never expected anyone to come along and sweep me off my feet. You’re mighty handy with a broom.”
“Why did you hire me in the first place?” I’d never thought to ask such a question before.
“It does a general good to have a handsome sidekick,” he said. “It’s certainly done me good.”
I persisted. “Because I was gay? Is that why?”
“Nope. It never even crossed my mind you might be interested in me,” he said. “I never thought I’d get that lucky. Besides, I was convinced I had outgrown such foolish notions before you came along.”
“I don’t like being equated with anyone’s foolish notions.”
“There’s no place else I’d rather be than right here,” he said, firm. “You’re damned handsome and damned sexy. You could certainly have your pick, and you seem to have picked me.”
“You’re damned handsome and damned sexy, too.”
He laughed. “How did you acquire this fixation for senior citizens?”
“Being half a century old doesn’t make you a senior citizen,” I said.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Careful, now. You make me sound like an antique. Are you trying to undo all the warm feelings I’ve built up for you?”
“All I mean is that you’ve had the time to grow into yourself. You’ve been around.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Atlas,” he said. “Last count, I’ve visited forty-three countries across the seven continents.” He recited his list like a schoolyard braggart: England, Scandinavia, Germany, France, Italy, Switzerland, most of Europe, in fact, before and after the reorganization of the Soviet states, as well as Mexico, Brazil, Peru, Venezuela, Costa Rica, Japan, Korea, Thailand, the Philippines, Vietnam, Indonesia, Guam, American Samoa, Afghanistan, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, even Antarctica. He’d traveled to all fifty states just because he wanted to say he’d done so, and all but two of Canada’s provinces. He had every reason to be proud of himself.
“Aren’t you the traveler,” I said. It wasn’t a question. The word just suited him, not only in tribute to his journeys around the globe but to the long and circuitous path he’d navigated in his career and his life. The road had been rocky, certainly, but somehow along the way, he’d been promoted to general and met me. Something about the word suggested his restlessness, too.
I tried it again. “Traveler.”
“Yes.”
“It’s a good word, isn’t it?”
“Very descriptive. You know, General Robert E. Lee’s horse was named Traveler. I remember that from a Civil War history class I took in college.”
“Tell me more.”
“Some other time,” he said. “Haven’t we had enough talk for one night? It’s late. You’ve got a lot of debt to work off tomorrow, and I’ve got to do my part and rise to the occasion. All I want right now is to wrap myself around you and get some sleep.”
He’d get no argument from me. I settled down next to him and he pulled me in close. I would, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, request more details about his friend the major. So my restless traveler had actually considered settling down with another man at some point in the past. Had considered taking off his hat, folding up his maps, and unpacking his suitcase. Was there reason to hope he might consider it again?
Chapter Thirteen
We’re supposed to wake up first in our own home. I did. When I realized I’d never fall back to sleep, I got out of bed carefully, so as not to disturb the general. The clock read seven, but the sun outlining the closed shade told me a beautiful morning was already in progress. I decided to fix breakfast for him and serve it in bed. Among my commissary purchases from the previous day were pancake mix and sausage, an easy choice, with coffee and juice. Such a spread would make a good impression, too, if he’d just sleep long enough for me to put it together.
Luck was on my side.
I assembled a neat tray—a steaming plateful of golden brown pancakes with melting butter, a pitcher of warm syrup, two sausage links, a glass of orange juice, and a mug of coffee made to his exact specifications—and then went in to wake him up. My turn to sit on the edge of the bed and whisper, “hey, you!” into his ear and watch him yawn and stretch. “You planning to sleep all day?”
“Wasn’t planning to sleep,” he said. “But I don’t see any reason to get out of bed. Climb on in here.”
“I’ll join you right after breakfast,” I said, “which, as you can see, I have already prepared for you.” He sat up, leaning against the headboard, and I rested the tray on his lap, where it balanced precariously.
He examined the spread. “That looks wonderful, Stovetop.”
Breakfast in bed may be a romantic cliché, but it isn’t very practical. Still, he was game. He added syrup to the pancakes and then picked up his knife and fork. Gingerly, he sliced the stack into bite-sized pieces, careful not to tip the tray into the sheets. He tasted a bite and murmured his approval. I pulled a chair up close to the bed and settled down to watch.
“I’ll do my best to entertain you,” he said.
“Just eat. You can entertain me after breakfast.”
When he realized I wasn’t going to budge, he made a deliberate show of savoring every forkful, and sipping his juice and coffee. “Don’t I get to watch you eat?” he asked finally.
“I’ve already eaten.”
“Ah. So you’re just waiting on me.”
“Looks that way.”
His mustache started its own landslide. He cleaned his plate quickly, leaving nothing but a half-full pitcher of syrup. He handed the tray back to me, and I set it aside. I don’t know what made me look twice at that syrup, or what made me pick it up. But only a couple of seconds passed between my upturning the pitcher and the initial impact of the warm, sticky brown stuff as it spread over his chest, slowly making its way downward. In that couple of seconds, he yelped, “Hey! What’s the big idea?”
I gave him no time to get over his astonishment as I climbed into bed with him. I do love the taste of warm maple syrup, and I wasn’t going to let a drop of it go to waste. A quick flex of his eyebrows and a wicked laugh told me he approved. I was in no hurry. This was a meal I was determined to enjoy to the fullest. The stickiness added just enough friction, and the mingling of the rich maple against his tantalizing masculinity on my tongue was all the breakfast I needed.
When I was done, he pulled me up on top of him.
“Log Cabin, where above hell did you learn to do that?” he said.
Actually, I had never done anything like it before, but all I said was, “I guess you just make me hungry. You enjoy yourself?”
He sighed. “You can have me for breakfast anytime. And lunch and supper.” He annexed my maple-flavored mouth to his.
Upon attempting to separate some time later, we discovered that dried syrup exhibits similar properties to airplane glue. The general got the worst of it, and my attempts to be sympathetic as we cautiously pulled apart didn’t convince him. He might have been ripping strips of duct tape from his belly.
I stifled a chuckle, not very convincingly.
“It’s not funny,” he said.
Faced with his injured glare, I dissolved into helpless laughter.
Generals aren’t accustomed to being on the receiving end of such treatment.
And my particular general was furious. And when he realized he didn’t have any honest reason to be furious with me, he became, well, furiouser, and I responded by laughing even harder. After we separated fully, I herded him into the shower and helped him scrub, but I knew he’d feel a little sticky all day. I was thoroughly proud of myself.
After our shower, as we toweled off, I wondered aloud how I could thank him for finding room in his weekend for me.
“You could call me ‘sir’ a few more times,” he said. “Your debt will be paid before you know it.”
I repeated my pronouncement from the night before, that he was a fool to have entered into such an agreement with me, because I’d see to it that he never got ahead of the game. He only grinned, lazy. “Who’s the fool?” he said. “I’ll see to it that you keep your end of the bargain. You’ll be shackled to me for life.”
He got no argument from me. “Promise?”
“Damn right I do. And you know I’m a man of my word.”
That was sufficient. I opened the shade and the windows, too, and let the sun in. “Look at this magnificent day,” I said. “What shall we do with it?”
“Close the shade and get back in bed,” he said.
“You’re overruled,” I said. “We’re not staying indoors on a day like this.”
“You sound like your mom. I’ll put money on it.”
I did, in fact, but no matter. I watched the eager, overachieving breeze riffle through the trees lining my street and had an idea. “Let’s fly a kite,” I said.
“What?”
“And have a picnic. I can’t think of a better way to spend a summer day.”
He groaned. “I can think of a hundred better ways.”
“Oh, come on. When was the last time you flew a kite?”
“That’s easy,” he said. “Never.”
How, I asked him, was it possible for a man to reach fifty-one without even once enjoying the supreme pleasure of flying a kite?
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