Dimi walked on eggshells around me. He was overly polite, exceedingly considerate, extraordinarily agreeable, giving in without question to any demand I made, no matter how outrageous. In a rare moment of truth, I acknowledged to myself that I was seeking to punish him for what I perceived as a betrayal on his part. But even that epiphany didn't stop me, didn't force me to sit down and talk it out with him.
I did notice that he never used our new sign. If Dimi was getting any, he wasn't getting it in our dorm room.
But the yoke he'd placed himself under was starting to chafe. He became irritable, sullen. Stayed out late, left early in the morning, even on days when he didn't have class. I might have been living by myself, for all that I saw of him.
I stuffed my own anger way down deep, where the only thing it affected was my stomach. If this kept up much longer, I was going to develop ulcers. As it was, I virtually lived on Pepto-Bismol and antacids.
Things came to a head a month later. I don't know what happened to set him off, what I finally did that pushed him over the brink, but when I came home after class one day, he was waiting for me.
When I walked in, I knew immediately that something was wrong. The air was fairly crackling with tension. I felt it just like you'd feel a lightning bolt a second or two before it hit. My back stiffened and my stomach clenched, as if my body were preparing itself for an attack. Three steps into the room, I realized that Dimi had slipped in behind me, closing and locking the door, barring my exit.
Dimi's eyes were dark with an anger I'd never seen in them before. His face was painted with a fury so powerful that it changed him, altering his features until he looked like a stranger. Dimi's nostrils flared with each breath he took, his hands were curled into hard fists at his sides.
If it had been anyone but Dimi, I would have pissed my pants in terror, sure that I was about to be murdered in my dorm room.
When he finally spoke, he said only two words, both through clenched teeth, a small muscle twitching in his jaw. “Sit. Down."
I sat.
Dimi paced.
Back and forth, he was wearing a groove in the dorm room's construction grade carpeting. His hands were clenched behind his back so tightly they gave me the impression that the left was keeping the right from taking a swing at me.
It probably was. Lord knew I deserved it. I'd put him through hell those past four weeks.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?” he finally asked, coming to rest in front of me, glaring down.
What was wrong with me? Was he kidding? “Nothing is wrong with me."
"And that's supposed to mean ... what?” he growled. I could feel his anger rise another notch, along with his hackles.
"Nothing,” I answered, gritting my teeth to keep my opinions safely behind them. I didn't want to talk about it. Talking about it would make it real, and I'd nearly convinced myself that it had all been a bad dream. If we didn't ever speak about it, it would all go away.
"Really? Because I could swear that something crawled up your ass and died, ever since you walked in on Darryl and me."
Oh, God. The linebacker had a name. Somehow that made it even worse. I lost my tenuous hold on my tongue.
"Well, you would be the expert on asses and things that go up them, now wouldn't you?” I snarled as my own anger boiled over in a gush of nastiness.
"Low blow, brother."
"Do you really want to get into things that blow, too? How could you, Dimi? How can you be a fucking queer?” I poured gallons of venom into the epithet, throwing it at him like a dagger.
"Wow. You're on a roll. Want to call me ‘faggot’ or ‘ass jockey’ now and get it out of the way?” Dimi shot back.
I mentally tried both of those names on my tongue but they tasted like poison. As angry as I was, I couldn't get them past my teeth. Sighing, I pushed the anger away. It was one of the most difficult things I'd ever done, but I managed. “No. What I want to know is why, Dimi? Why?"
"Why not?"
"That's not an answer. Don't be flippant. Not now."
He seemed to deflate before my very eyes, as if someone had pulled a plug and let the air out of him. He slumped onto the bed next to me. I noticed that he was careful to keep a distance between us. Looking down at his hands, he sat quietly for a few minutes, his long fingers fidgeting.
"How do I explain it? I like men for all the same reasons you like women. I like the way we look, the way we feel. The deepness of a man's voice, the scratch of his beard, the hardness of his body. The way he knows just how to touch me to make me fly. I like cock, and I like ass better than pussy."
"Oh, God, Dimi..."
"You wanted to know why. I'm trying to tell you, so just sit there and listen,” he hissed. “This isn't easy for me, okay? You're like my brother. Closer than that—you're like my fucking twin. Do you have any idea of how hard it is for me to talk to you about this?"
Yeah. I could understand that much, at least. It was probably about as difficult for him to say as it was for me to hear it. “Sorry. Go on,” I said, although I was cringing on the inside at the picture he was painting.
"Even in high school I knew. I didn't want to believe it then. I was so afraid that people would know just by looking at me. I figured that if I fucked around enough, eventually I'd find a girl who would chase away the fantasies I had in my head. That I'd stop thinking about guys, wondering what they looked like naked, and what they'd taste like. What it would feel like to have a man under me in bed. I don't know, maybe I was trying to convince myself that I was like everyone else."
"Why didn't you ever say anything?” I asked, already knowing the answer but unable to stop myself.
"Because of this, of what happened between us when you found out. I was afraid that after all the years we'd been friends, you'd turn your back on me. This last month just about killed me, you know. And back then I wouldn't have blamed you if you did dump me. Even I thought I was a freak."
"You're not a freak."
He smiled a little at that. “I know that now. When we started college, I found that I wasn't alone. After I joined the GBLT group on campus, I realized that being gay was just who I was. That there wasn't anything wrong with me."
"Why didn't you tell me then?"
"Because I knew you would wig out, and I wanted to spare you that. Look, this doesn't change who I am, you know. I'm still me."
"Yeah, I guess so,” I said hesitantly. “Does your family know?"
Dimi looked stricken at the very thought. “No! Shit, my mother would probably call in a priest to do an exorcism."
I laughed in spite of myself, nodding. She would at that—Dimi's mom was a devout Roman Catholic, of the sort that still thought eating meat on Fridays would buy you a pitchfork and a pair of cloven feet. She went to Mass faithfully every Sunday, rain or shine, wearing a little bit of lace covering her hair, convinced that a woman shouldn't bare her head in Church. As much as I loved her, I knew that telling her that her baby boy was gay would be no less devastating than telling her he was the Antichrist.
"Are we okay?” Dimi asked. He suddenly looked like that skinny little boy in long pants and tie, holding his Transformers lunchbox and worrying that the third graders would beat him up after school. I felt the strongest urge to pull him into my arms and hug him close, to protect him.
That scared the bejesus out of me.
I folded my arms across my chest to keep my hands where they belonged.
"Yeah, we're okay,” I said. “I don't pretend to understand any of this, Dimi, but I'm good with it, I think. Just do me a favor, will you?"
"What?"
"Make sure you use the fucking sign. I felt like I needed to scrub my brain out with steel wool after seeing what I saw. I do not need another picture of your hairy ass in my head."
Dimi laughed, and the sound was like music, light and breezy. “Deal,” he said, smiling that double-dimpled grin of his.
* * * *
Those black clouds over to the w
est look like rain. Wouldn't that just be the icing on the cake? Sitting here, piss-poor and sopping wet? Shit, it can't get any worse, can it?
It was raining the day Holly finally threw me out, too. I went straight to Dimi's, of course. He was living with his boyfriend at the time, Harry, who was not pleased to see me standing on their doorstep, bag in hand.
Not that Dimi even hesitated. He'd opened the door, taken one look at me, and swept me inside, letting me drip all over their deep pile carpeting. I could hear him arguing with Harry that night, as I lay awake in their guest room.
Poor Harry didn't stand a chance against our friendship. Dimi pitched a fit that Harry would even dare suggest that I stay in a motel. I was his brother, he said. Family.
God love him.
Their fight ended with Harry slamming out of the house. I felt like shit on as stick for causing Dimi trouble, but when I tried to apologize, to tell him that I would be fine at a motel, he nearly bit my head off.
"That bastard has caused me enough heartache. This had nothing to do with you, really. It's been coming on for a while. Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he said, then dragged me into the kitchen and took a bottle of tequila out of the cabinet. We spent half the night getting as drunk as humanly possible, and reminiscing.
* * * *
Dimi went through boyfriends like most people went through paper plates. It seemed to me that men were disposable to him, good for a few helpings of sex and then tossed away. He treated dating in college, especially our senior year, the same way he had in high school, the only difference being that this time he fucked everything in pants instead of skirts. It made me wonder what he was trying to hide this time out.
"Who's Ben?” I asked, when Dimi informed me that he wouldn't be home that weekend because he was going to the lake with Ben.
"My boyfriend,” Dimi replied, as if I should have known that already.
"What happened to Theo?"
Dimi rolled his eyes. “Dude, try to keep up, will ya? Theo and I broke up. I'm seeing Ben, now."
This happened on a regular basis. I could never keep up with Dimi's flings. Sometimes I wondered if even he could keep their names straight. Personally, I think he had to use a spreadsheet, and told him so. He laughed, and went on his merry way with Ben or Bill or Pedro, or whoever the flavor of the month was at the time.
I, on the other hand, had found Holly the week after Dimi and I had had our heart-to-heart. Holly was smart, levelheaded, and grounded, if a little rigid. She knew precisely what she wanted in life; had everything planned out and written down in a journal she kept. She was exactly what I needed—or so I told myself. A month after I met her, I married her, against Dimi's strenuous objections.
"Are you crazy? You aren't even finished with school, yet!” he thundered when I showed him the tiny diamond-chip ring I planned on giving Holly that evening. “Don't do this,” he pleaded. “Don't throw your life away."
"I don't consider marrying the woman of my dreams to be throwing my life away,” I huffed, snapping the small, black velvet box shut with a clack. “And here I was, planning to ask you to be my best man!"
Dimi sighed. “You know that I'll be there for you, man. I just think it's a mistake. Its nuts! You've only known her for a week!"
"I know what I feel, Dimi."
"Do you? How can you be so sure so soon?"
"Look, I'm not like you, Dimi. I don't want any more one-night stands. I want permanency. Stability. A family."
"You think that because I'm gay I don't want a family someday? That I want to spend my entire life whoring around? Did you ever think that maybe I'm looking for the right person, too?"
"I didn't mean that,” I said, trying to smooth his ruffled feathers. Damn it! I always managed to say the wrong thing to him lately. “I'm just nervous, and I need your support, Dimi."
Dimi nodded, then smiled, although his grin looked a little too wide, as if he were forcing it. “Holy shit! My best friend is getting married!” he cried. Then, before I could blink, he had me in a hug that left absolutely no space between us. It wasn't one of those stiff, uncomfortable man-hugs, the ones you get from your dad once you pass puberty, or from your uncle at Christmas, where you both sort of lean in and pat each other's backs. No, I felt every inch of Dimi pressed up against me, felt every hard plane and sharp angle of his body from his feet to his forehead.
Suddenly I broke out into a cold sweat.
Because for just an instant, only the space of a heartbeat or two, I'd liked the way he'd felt, and my body had responded accordingly.
I broke away in a flash, backing up as though I was a dried-up piece of kindling and he was a lit match.
"What's wrong?” Dimi asked, frowning.
"Nothing, nothing at all. I'm just excited. About Holly—excited about asking her to marry me,” I stammered.
And that's all it was, I convinced myself afterwards. It was only misplaced excitement, a bad case of nerves on one of the biggest days of my life.
I caught Dimi looking at me oddly a few times after that, but I didn't have the balls to ask him what he was thinking. I wasn't sure I would like his answer.
The wedding was set for a Friday afternoon at the courthouse downtown. Holly and I had both agreed that waiting was unnecessary, and that a big wedding would be a waste of perfectly good money. We were both anxious to get our own place and play house; a quick trip to whichever judge was available, and the deed would be done.
On the night before my wedding Dimi threw me a bachelor party—of sorts. He and at least a half-dozen of his friends showed up after my last class and hijacked me in broad daylight.
Our first stop was my favorite restaurant, a country-themed, hokey establishment that served huge steaks and five-dollar pitchers of beer. It was the sort of place that gave you a bowl of peanuts for the table, and let you chuck the shells onto the floor. Dimi used to say that my love of that restaurant proved that somewhere deep inside me the little kid who loved to make a mess was still alive and well. I just thought it was cool; I liked the music, and the sound the peanut shells made when they crunched underfoot. I loved it, but Holly hated it. She thought it was uncouth, so I rarely got to eat there anymore.
Dimi's friends were a friendly, funny bunch who drank like fish and knew the words to every song ever written. Or so it seemed as they sang along to the jukebox, everything from Patsy Cline's Crazy to Toby Keith's Who's Your Daddy.
By the time we'd finished dinner, we'd gone through three full pitchers of beer, the last with shots of Jack back. I was having a ball, feeling more than fine, and my head was buzzing pleasantly when we left the restaurant.
It was a good thing I was halfway to a full drunk, because we ended up next in The Blue Moon, Dimi's favorite gay bar. If I'd been sober, I'm sure I would have objected. As it was I wasn't really certain where we were until after we'd taken seats at a table and had bent our elbows a few more times. Then something in my liquored-up brain clicked and I realized that for a club, there were surprisingly few women.
And the men were dancing with one another.
Slow dancing.
Then it dawned on me that the women weren't really women at all.
Oh.
Dimi ordered another round, shots of something blue that smelled like cotton candy, burned like hell going down, and made the room spin until my eyes crossed.
After that, things got a little blurry.
The only thing I remember from that point on was Dimi supporting my drunken ass (quite a feat since he was none too steady himself), climbing the stairs to our dorm room. He propped me against the wall as he fished for his keys. That I remember, because I couldn't seem to stand up straight, even with the wall behind me. I kept tilting to the left, and Dimi had to keep grabbing my arm to keep me from falling over.
He found his keys and opened the door, half-dragging my sorry ass inside.
I remember Dimi helping me to my bed, lying me down and removing my shoes. The whole room was spinning, an
d I think I might have been singing YMCA. No, wait ... it might have been In the Navy. In any case, it was some song by the Village People that I vaguely remembered dancing to earlier.
Then suddenly Dimi's handsome face was hovering inches from mine. Damn, but the man was beautiful. The thought kept repeating over and over in my mind like a mantra, except that now I think I might have said it out loud, too. Beautiful Dimi. Beautiful Dimi.
That's when he kissed me.
Full on the mouth, lips, teeth, tongue and all.
Everything up until that moment may have been a drunken blur, but that I remember very clearly.
Just as I remember that I kissed him back.
* * * *
Where in the blue hell is he? I'm wet and now I'm cold, and my ass is going numb from sitting on the hard concrete curb for so long. Knowing Dimi, he's probably lost, even though he's been to my house a thousand times. Dimi never did have a very good sense of direction. I remember teasing him about it when he got his first car. I told him he'd better have a map and a compass with him at all times, or he'd never make it from his driveway to the street.
Holly used to wish that he'd get lost permanently. She truly disliked Dimi, did from the first moment she'd met him. Thinking back, Holly was the only woman I'd ever known who didn't take an instant shine to Dimi. The only one, in fact, who didn't want to get into his pants. I didn't know what it was about him that rubbed her the wrong way, but she hated him on sight. I called her homophobic; she called me every synonym for asshole ever invented. We had a huge to-do over the fact that he was to be my best man at our wedding. It was almost bad enough to make us reconsider the whole thing. Taking into account how things worked out, we would have been better off if we had.
But she caved in eventually. I think she figured that once she was my wife she could put her foot down, force me to end my friendship with him.
Yeah, fat chance. The day I'd set my best friend aside would be the day they put me on the wrong side of the grass.
* * * *
Kill me.
That's what went through my mind when I woke the morning after my bachelor party and the memory of what had happened exploded into my brain along with one of the worst hangovers on record.
The Sweet Side Of The Ropes: Enthralling Tales Of Male-Male Romance Page 8