by Rick R. Reed
“Chicago’s most notorious killers of young gay men,” I say. “Should I be worried about you?”
“I don’t know. How young are you?”
We compare ages. He’s older than I thought, thirty-eight, and assures me I’m too old to kill.
We discover we have a lot in common. And I’ve enjoyed talking to him so much I’m stunned when one of the bartenders calls, “Last call for alcohol. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
“Is it really two o’clock?” I wonder.
He looks down at his watch. “In five minutes.”
“Wow.”
“Need to get home?” he asks.
I shrug. As much as I like him, I’m not sure I’m ready to open the door to anything more than this easy camaraderie we’ve discovered here at the bar.
“Well, I do. I have critters who are wondering where I am as we speak.” He pulls out his wallet and produces a small photograph. It’s one of those Sears portrait studio jobs, and it’s him with his three dogs. He hands it to me and I stare down at it, heart sufficiently warmed. I figure any man who loves dogs this much and isn’t afraid to show it must be a pretty good guy.
He points to each dog. First, some kind of chihuahua mix on his lap, “That’s Frank. He came to me at an adoption fair at a pet store.” He points to a big German shepherd seated on his right, “That’s Cora. I rescued her from a shelter just before they were going to put her down. No one wanted her because she had lost a leg when she was hit by a car. She gets around just fine.” He grins and I can see the love in his eyes. “And last but not least, here’s Jelly. He’s a mix of Pom and chow chow, I think. People tell me he looks like a little lion, and I guess that’s true.”
“It really is.” Allan looks happy in the picture, like the smile he’s wearing comes not from a suggestion from the photographer, but from a place deep inside, a place where joy lives. “You really love these guys.”
“Love them? They’re huge pains in the ass, each one of them.” He laughs. “But yeah, I do.”
“What about the cats? I don’t see them.”
He laughs. “You’ve never owned a cat, have you?”
I shake my head. “No. Why?”
“If you had, you would never have asked that question. A portrait with cats? Impossible!”
We’re quiet as we rise and follow the staggering few left in the bar out the door. Terry, the bouncer, is still there at his post, and he eyes me as I pass by. He looks over at Allan, next to me, and doesn’t say a word. In my head, I send him a little telepathic message: “Thanks. Maybe next time.”
Out on the street, it’s quiet. I assume most of the Wednesday night revelers have found, or are finding, their way home now, alone or with someone else. I imagine the love affairs that might be sparked tonight, borne of a chance encounter. I imagine too the disappointments, the dashed hopes, and the reality checks some people will experience, especially when the sun rises on another day.
Allan pauses. “You were flirting with me a lot in there.”
I adopt my most innocent expression, stopping just short of batting my eyelashes. “I was?” I ask, feigning shock.
“Come on.” He chuckles. “The sexual tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.”
In retrospect, I realize he was right.
“You wanna come back and meet my extended family?” He leans in, looking hopeful.
Oh John, John, what are you doing? Do you really want to start something up with this guy? You have someone you’re falling for, or already have. Why complicate things even more? On the other hand, Allan seems to be just the kind of man you’re always imagining you want—good, simple, honest stock. And he loves animals. So he’s probably nurturing and kind. And I would have sensed those things even without the pets.
Randy appears, though, in my mind’s eye. Randy in my bed of all places. Randy walking north on Lincoln Avenue on his way to the L on a summer morning, eating a Pop-Tart from my pantry. Randy against the wall at Sidetrack, scared out of his wits, yet hungry. Randy leaning in for our first kiss in Stephen and Rory’s darkened apartment.
Allan cocks his head. “Not a good time?”
I blow out a big sigh, wanting to both curse and kick myself. “Sorry, I have work early in the morning. Otherwise…” my voice trails off.
He nods, smiling despite the sadness in his eyes. “Okay. Maybe another time? Exchange numbers?”
“Absolutely.” There’s no point in completely shutting the door, is there?
Allan takes a receipt from his wallet, tears it in half and hands one of the tattered pieces of paper to me. “Good thing I have a pen in my pocket.” I pull the Bic out.
“Good thing, because I certainly don’t.”
We take a moment to write down our names and numbers and swap.
“Maybe dinner sometime at my place? I make a mean chili.”
“Yeah, that would be great. Sorry I can’t make it tonight.”
“It’s okay. I can tell you have a lot on your mind.”
“You can?” This surprises me.
“Sure. When I asked if you were single, I sensed a little hesitation, and I got an inkling.” He winked. “I’m intuitive like that.”
I neither confirm nor deny. “Well, hope to see you again soon, Allan.” And I lean in to kiss him.
With my eyes closed, I can almost believe it’s Randy.
Chapter Eighteen
RANDY
It’s been two weeks since I came home to an empty apartment. Two weeks of microwaved dinners, watching whatever movies are currently playing on HBO, reading lots of pulp fiction—John D. MacDonald, Raymond Chandler, and Mickey Spillane. And day after day of getting up, going to work, coming home, and falling asleep on the couch with a book on my chest or the TV flickering out its blue-white light. Sometimes both.
But this last week, I’ve taken a staycation (or several mental health days in a row), trying desperately to make myself feel better, to put a little balm on my wounds.
Still, it’s been two weeks of loneliness.
Two weeks of fear.
Fourteen days ago, the process server found me in the plaza outside my office building on Michigan Avenue one day at lunchtime. I don’t know how he knew where I’d probably be, but when he walked up to me—all ginger-bearded and smiling, with muscles for days—I couldn’t resist smiling back.
Until he handed me the divorce papers.
I hurried back to my cubicle with them, an ache in my gut, and my heart pounding so hard, I feared an attack.
Violet’s lawyer is in Lake Forest, a friend of the family. I’ve met him before at their country club. He always seemed like a really nice man, silver-haired, and always smiling, impeccably dressed. Kindness in his blue eyes.
He-they-she are asking for alimony and child support that will take almost two-thirds of what I make (I guess the reasoning is one-third for each of us).
Somehow, I think I could manage even if I can’t get a judge to pull that amount back a bit. It would mean moving out of the apartment and into a studio in a bad neighborhood or finding a roommate, but I could do it, knowing Henry was being taken care of properly.
What sends me into nightmare territory, though, is that he-they-she are asking for full custody of “the minor child.” There’s no provision for any kind of visitation, even supervised.
I know Violet’s parents, and not Violet herself, are behind all of this. I’m sure they’re funding the pricey attorney.
Still, Violet is tolerating it. I both feel for her and fear her.
I’m horrified of what they might have in store. Will my admission about being gay disqualify me from seeing my son? The thought makes me want to puke. And, if it doesn’t, what kind of restrictions will I suddenly be faced with? Why do there need to be restrictions at all? I’m gay and a loving dad, not a pedophile. (Oh, I got the implication in the papers requesting full custody).
Oh Lord, why didn’t I just keep the mask on? Keep my coc
k-sucking mouth shut and just continue to pretend I was the straight hubby and daddy? Everyone liked me better then anyway. I could even say loved me better. But, in the end, who was it they truly loved?
Is it worth all I’ll lose to fully realize myself?
I left my office that afternoon after explaining to my boss I was feeling very sick (true, true, true). I told her I’d be back when I was feeling better.
AND NOW, AS I lie here on a towel on the beach at Hollywood and Sheridan, commonly known as the gay beach, I know I’ll need to return to work next week. My deep tan will belie my illness, but I truly have been sick to my stomach every day.
I’ve talked to a lawyer, some hotshot in the Loop, recommended by Stephen and Rory. He’s an older gay man who’s fought against AIDS discrimination in the workplace, for one, and for all other sorts of discrimination. He’s aligned with Lambda Legal and has done some divorce work with cases just like mine. We’re set to meet in person next week, but he tells me he’ll work hard at depleting all of my savings getting me the rights I deserve, the main one being the right of a father to be with the son he loves.
This past week, I’ve come to this beach every day. It’s August in Chicago, and the weather is reliably hot and muggy, and Lake Michigan’s icy waters have at last turned bearable.
It’s Friday, and people are starting their weekends early. Anyone who lives here knows that winter is always just around the corner, biding its time.
Looking around, I can almost make myself believe that my worries are behind me. Lake Michigan is a shimmering aqua expanse, the beach is powdery, and upon it are dozens of oiled men reclining on beach towels, old sheets, and blankets. A rainbow-colored kite flies high up, dancing with a few thin strands of cloud in the electric-blue sky.
Guys fish from the long pier at the far end of the beach.
There’s an oceanic tang in the air, and the sun is dazzling, golden, warming up every inch of my skin, making me sweat through the suntan lotion I’ve applied.
I turn over on my stomach and reach out to adjust the little radio I’ve brought. I’m listening to a station specializing in dance hits. The upbeat tempos are distracting and somehow manage to make me feel a little less burdened and maybe, just maybe, a tad bit closer to joy.
Until I think of what Violet is doing.
Until I think I could lose Henry.
“Hey, you mind if I move a little closer? Share your music? That’s a good station!”
I turn back over and prop myself up on my elbows. There’s a guy about four feet away from me, on a bright-colored, red-and-white striped beach towel. He’s looking toward me, shading the view with a hand held up at eyebrow level. He’s about my age, wearing a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers and Hawaiian-print board shorts. He’s dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bit of a pudge around his hairy middle. His smile is cute, though, with a little gap between his front teeth.
I think, only for a moment, of how I have only heard once from John in the past two weeks, and that short conversation caused me great pain, so I force it away and say, “Sure. Come closer.” I grin at the guy, and he grins back.
I roll back over on my stomach, knowing exactly how provocative it looks, especially since I’m wearing red bikini Speedos.
I can hear him shifting his stuff so he can get closer. I turn my head and look at him out of partially closed eyes. He’s just about aligned our two towels so close they become one.
He lies on his back, hands folded across his chest. On his back, the little gut flattens itself out. He has an impressive and dark treasure trail that disappears tantalizingly into the waistband of his shorts.
After a moment of listening to Belinda Carlisle singing “Mad About You,” he asks, “You need me to rub some lotion on your back?”
I smile, but mostly to myself. I want to say, “Hey, we haven’t even exchanged names yet,” but I keep that to myself too. Because, see, I’ve had this ploy already used on me twice this week.
And, with all that’s going on, this week has also been several days of asking, “What the hell?”
Without shifting much, I feel downward for the NO-AD lotion, with its piddly number-four sunscreen, and hold it out so he can grab it. “Thanks. I don’t need to get burned.”
He takes it from me, and in no time flat, he’s kneeling next to me, kneading the lotion into my skin, lingering over the bunched muscles in my back, flirting with the base of my spine, just above the elastic waistband of my trunks. “You’ve got a good base,” he says softly, and I notice his voice has a scratchy, velvety quality that’s sexy, despite the fact it might indicate he’s a smoker. “So, you probably don’t really even need this, although I am more than happy to rub you down.” He chuckles. “Want me to get your legs too?”
I nod.
He begins working his way from my calves up to my thighs. I can hear his breath coming a little heavier. A finger slips (accidentally?) under the elastic of my Speedos and lingers on my ass for a moment. “You must be a runner with legs like these.”
“Used to be,” I say, without looking at him.
At last, he’s done and sits back. I look over my shoulder and can plainly see his erection making a pup tent out of his board shorts. In a moment of boldness (a trait I’ve acquired more and more of this week), I point at it and say, “I’ve got a matching one.”
“Huh?” he asks and then, getting it, quickly laughs.
He throws himself down on his own stomach and now our faces are aligned. “You know, we could do something about that.”
“I do know. But I don’t even know your name.”
“Juan. Juan Fuentes.”
“Ah, so you come by your tan honestly. Unlike me. Under this bronze color, I’m fish-belly white.”
He laughs at that. “I live just a couple blocks away in a high-rise on Winthrop if you wanna come by.”
I let out a breath. I’ve been here for a couple of hours now and probably should be getting out of the sun. It’s an almost totally clear day, and the heat of the rays, in the course of that time, has gone from comfortably warm to intensely hot. Lotion or no, I still can burn.
But getting out of the sun isn’t the reason I’d follow him home, like some stray dog, (and, oh yes, that comparison is very deliberate).
No, I’d follow him home because I’ve learned fast how sex with a stranger can blank my mind with oblivion. For the intensity of those skin-to-skin moments, none of my problems exist—no upcoming custody fight, no getting ditched by John, whom I thought I was falling in love with, no worries that I’ll be a pariah to the friends and family I still haven’t come out to.
I’ve learned that lesson almost every day this week, right here on this very beach. Well, not right on the beach, but that’s where propositions get made. I’m discovering fast how easy it is to find sex if you’re a young gay man in Chicago.
The trick (if you’ll pardon the pun) is finding love.
That sucker is elusive. I’m learning that fast too.
Do I want one more encounter in some stranger’s apartment? Do I want to leave, yet again, balls drained but feeling vaguely dissatisfied? None of the guys I’ve left the beach with have compared to that one night with John. And there have been a couple of real hotties! One was a bodybuilder. Another did some modeling and, I suspect, porn. Sex with all four of the guys I’ve been with this week has been satisfying, but only in the way a hamburger or a slice of pepperoni pizza is satisfying when you’re famished.
After, I feel ill-nourished and wanting more.
So, do I want to go home with Juan?
I don’t know. I dodge the question by standing up and announcing, “I’m gonna take a quick dip.” I smile, and so he won’t lose hope, add, “First.”
I dash through the sand and into the water. Despite having said that it’s warmer, the water is still bracingly cold, just a couple degrees above bearable. I wade out into the surf, gasping a little as the waves rolling in hit the dry parts of my anatomy. The shallows extend for
quite a way out, and it’s not until I’m pretty far from shore that I allow myself to dive in.
Submerged, I open my eyes to a darkened world, blue-green. The sun’s rays are diffuse through the water, moving as another big wave crashes over my head. Below me, pebbles and sand shift with the ebb and flow of the waves. A school of small fish swim by.
I hold my breath until my lungs hurt, kicking out farther and farther. When I at last allow myself to push up again to the surface, I turn to see the beach, far off in the distance. I think, for just a moment, of heading farther out into the deep, toward Michigan, swimming and going under until I can’t do it anymore. It seems romantic, now that my body has accustomed itself to the water’s chill, to imagine myself just disappearing in this aqua expanse, sinking down not only into the lake, but into oblivion.
Free. I’d be free.
I turn and head back, knowing that such an idea is, in reality, neither romantic nor realistic. Death by drowning, I know, wouldn’t be a pleasant experience. It wouldn’t be like falling asleep in a wave’s embrace. My own body and lungs would struggle mightily against my betrayal. There would be panic and pain.
Ah shit, why do I even allow myself these thoughts? Because, my dear, you’re feeling alone, isolated, and that no one in this world loves you—the real you, the one who’s hidden behind a mask for most of your life.
As I wade out of the water, I think of my last conversation with John, hoping the whole time he was telling me he couldn’t see me anymore that he’d pause, think about what he was saying, and reverse his decision.