He got to his feet. “Pancakes!”
So, we made pancakes, and then sat down at the table. The understanding that he would give his reason for coming to the Arctic was still present. I hadn’t been sure what, if anything, he would tell me. But I was curious, thinking I would be able to make something out of whatever he said.
His look was disturbingly…what? After thinking about it, I decided that the only word I could come up with was: haunted.
Haunted? I shook my head. It made no sense. And yet, conjuring his image in my mind, I had to admit, the adjective fitted somehow.
It was another of Matt’s excellent meals, I decided to bring up the subject.
“I’m guessing there’s more to your story than what you told me.”
He considered, nodded. When I said nothing further, he continued eating, finished his plate, and then sat back and looked at me with those haunted eyes.
“I’m cursed,” he said shortly.
I felt a little taken aback, but when I had recovered, I said, “How so?”
“People around me…get hurt. Because of my…you know.”
“You being a sexaholic?”
He nodded.
“You mean, besides your wife.”
He nodded again.
“There were others?”
He hesitated, and then, lifting up the left sleeve of his shirt he held his arm out, showing me a long, jagged scar, barely healed I thought, that ran from an inch above the wrist to just below the elbow.
“Wow!” I murmured and, reaching out tentatively, touched the white ridge of the scar gently with a fingertip. He winced but did not pull his arm away, and I ran my finger slowly along the scar from end to end. “Nasty,” I said, pulling my hand away reluctantly. He let down his sleeve again.
“But how is that…?” I began.
“I had a—disagreement, I suppose you might call it—with my partner.”
“Partner? Aha! I thought they would have two of you staying here!”
He looked at me, frowning, but then said, “Anyway, I think I got…when we were drunk together…a bit frisky. I had one of my—you know—attacks. Well, he took offense, and kind of attacked me.”
“Kind of!” I cried, looking at his now-covered arm.
“It wasn’t serious. I sewed it up. Then I went after him.”
“You sewed that yourself?” I said. “I’m impressed.” Then I remembered. “What do you mean you ‘went after him’?”
“Outside. It was just evening, and he said he had to get a breath of fresh air. You know…to get away from me.” Matt sighed. “Anyway, it was a while, and when I followed him, with a lantern—it was too late.”
“Too late? Had he frozen or something?”
“Naw. He was dressed right. But he hadn’t taken a gun, apparently. That was bad.”
“How so?”
“Bears.”
“Bears?”
“Polar bears.”
“Ah!” I had heard tales. Polar bears are the only bear that will naturally hunt humans.
Matt shook his head. “I heard his scream, just when I got out. I headed for the sound, but it was too late. He was dead. I drove the bear off with my rifle. Not shooting at it. Just shooting over its head. But when I came up to him, I saw he was dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” He leaned his head forward and sobbed. “I k-k-killed him. Me and my…sickness.”
I didn’t say anything right then. I didn’t even try to comfort him, sensing he would repulse any such effort. I just let him be.
* * * *
Later on, in the barracks room, I lay down on the cot next to his and said, “Matt?”
“Mmm?”
“You know that’s not true, right?”
“What’s not?”
“That you killed him, your…colleague.”
I heard him sit up, the light went on between our bunks, and there he was, sitting facing me, frowning.
“Well,” I said. “You didn’t.”
“Who did, then?”
“Well, the bear for one thing.” I held up a hand to forestall his objection. “And, I mean—come on! He went out without a gun. That was kind of stupid. You admit that, right?”
“He was upset—freaked out. He said he thought we were friends.”
And at this Matt began to sob again. This time I got up and sat down gingerly beside him. Hesitantly I laid a hand on his shoulder, and was surprised when he didn’t shrug it off.
“You probably were,” I said quietly. “You just had that…other thing, too.”
He said nothing, but his sobbing began to subside.
“Did you…did you, uh, force things…when you said you…got frisky?”
He shook his head. “What I did was enough, I guess.”
I considered. “No,” I said at last, in a deliberately decisive voice. “He freaked, you said. That was his responsibility. He could have just told you to keep your hands off.”
“He did. But he freaked too.”
I nodded. “That was unfortunate. But it wasn’t entirely your fault. Surely you see that part of it was his?”
Now Matt looked at me, his tear-stained face glistening in the light of the lamp.
“Yeah, but he’s normal, right?”
I made a disgusted noise, and Matt stared at me.
“Well, he was…right?”
I shook my head. “I had a friend, in high school. Her name was Ginger—it was kind of a translation of her name; she was Sikh. I don’t know whether these were part of her culture or not, but she told me two of the wisest things I’ve ever heard.”
Matt regarded me expectantly.
“She said that I shouldn’t take the world so seriously.”
Matt considered, then smiled vaguely and nodded.
“And she told me that ‘normal’ sucked.”
Matt blinked and frowned. “How’s that?”
“Well, I thought about it and this is what I came up with. If you’re normal, you don’t have to consider, you don’t have to think. You’re just…normal. And so you accept things the way they are, because the world is made for normal people.
“But if you’re not normal…” I paused, and then continued. “You know, being gay, in a way—it was the best thing that happened to me.”
Matt’s eyebrows rose.
I nodded. “You see, I had to try to figure what it was all about. I had to deal with the unpleasant fact. I didn’t want to be gay. And I knew that being gay wasn’t generally accepted. And so on. So, I was envious, resentful, even bitter at times. But it got me thinking about life, and all that.”
Matt seemed puzzled. “So?”
“So! So, by thinking about life, I figured out lots of other things too. Much more than if I had been born straight. And, I had to discover who I was—sexually speaking—myself; because there was no rule-book, I had to find myself, which was rather fun and rewarding in the end.”
“Huh.”
“‘Huh,’ he says! You have no idea—or, maybe you do—” I paused, looked at him, and then shook my head. “No. No you don’t. You never made that discovery. You’re still in the misery stage. You’ve never come out of the woods and found yourself and said, ‘Okay! I can live with this!’”
Matt was frowning at me.
“I think it’s different.”
I threw up my hands. “Of course, it’s different! Don’t you see that that’s the whole point? That that’s the amazing thing about it?”
Matt snorted.
“No, no!” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder again. “Don’t fly off the handle. Look! I’ll help. I had people to help me, and I can help you.”
“How?” He gave me a bitter smirk—the first I had ever seen. “By sucking my cock?”
I gave a small laugh. “I could, if that would help,” I said. “I don’t think it would, would it? Did it help the last time?”
He shrugged, half smiled and said, “Well, I enjoyed it.”
“What was that? Oh yes! It is not the fall that damages, but the reaction to the fall.” I looked at him. “That’s a—I don’t know, saying or something, I heard. And it’s true too. That’s why drunks who fall down the stairs have less damage than sober people: they relax and don’t fight the fall. The muscles are soft, the joints bend, and they bounce around as they fall. Just bruises, no breaks.”
Matt stared at me. Then he looked away, his lips pursed, and I had the impression he was thinking over my words. Finally, he turned back.
“Okay,” he said hesitantly. “What do I—what do we do?”
I nodded. “Good. I don’t know. But the resolution is a first step.”
We both stood up, facing each other, both feeling a little embarrassed. Then I opened my arms and said, “What about a hug, for a start in the therapy?”
He frowned. “What if I get—you know—aroused?”
I nodded, and then grinned. “What if I get aroused?”
“What?”
I shook my head. “Nothing! It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all. We’re both men, both adults. I’m not going to rape you and I won’t let you rape me. Okay?”
He smiled uneasily, and stepped forward. We hugged, awkwardly, for a while, and then stepped back.
“Well,” I said, smiling. “We both seem to have survived that. How’d it feel?”
Matt considered. “Nice, actually.”
“Good!” I said. “What about something to eat?”
He nodded and turned away, heading to the kitchen. I had to adjust myself before I followed him. Thing was: I had gotten hard during the hug.
After the meal we had some vodka, not talking but still in a companionable silence, I thought. Occasionally our gazes would meet, and this time there was much less defensiveness on his part. Finally, after several shots each, Matt turned his gaze full on me and just stared. Then, tilting his head to one side, he said quietly, “You know, when I first saw you—was like—Florida sun had come north.”
I stared at him. “What?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. But I—mean it. The—sun here—sun’s never that bright, y’know?”
“Bright?” I still didn’t know what he was talking about. “You thought I was bright?”
He looked at me, and tittered. “Like: When—I was a kid—was so bright my father used t’ call me—sonny? Right?” And he burst out laughing.
I joined in a bit, but I wondered what he was talking about. I even questioned his sanity for a moment. But he shook his head.
“Naw, naw. ‘s like—you,” he pointed at my face, my beard and my hair, “never s’meone so—so—”
“Blond?” I offered.
“F-fair,” he corrected and nodded to himself. “So f-fair. Like—strands of—light.” His head lolled slightly. “Reminded me of—when I was—kid.”
“In Florida.”
“That’s—right!” He seemed surprised that I had guessed his home state. Then he looked at me, and I now felt that same intensity he had used at first, but saw it now as appreciation, aesthetic rather than sexual. It struck me that that was something I’d ever been aware of before.
“B-beautiful,” he murmured and then grinned. Then he sang, “Beautiful—beautiful—b-beautiful—beautiful boy!”
I smiled. “I think maybe you’ve had enough. Maybe we should get you to bed.”
“I don’t—why?”
“Why what?”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “Why’re you s-so—beautiful?”
“Well,” I said getting up and lifting him with a hand under his shoulder, “since beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, maybe you should tell me.”
He seemed struck by this, his brow furrowing. “G-good question,” he murmured as I led him into the barrack room and lowered him onto his bunk. He lay there and looked up at me, his expression suddenly coy.
“Y’ gonna—undress me?” he asked, and then, clutching his shirt front, rolled away from me, muttering, “Can’t!”
I chuckled, and swatted him playfully on the ass.
“Ow!” Then he giggled and said, “Don’t s-start s’thing—hey?”
I shook my head and left him, turning out the light on my way out. I was in the kitchen cleaning up when his last comment first struck me as odd. Actually, it sounded a bit like projection—the ascribing to another the intentions one has oneself. And that could only mean—what? He wanted something to “start?”
I shrugged. I really didn’t understand the guy, and although as I got to know him better, I was starting to like him, I felt more than ever a sense of disinclination to doing anything that could trigger him. He obviously had layers of issues—the story of his colleague knifing him made me shudder—and who knew what would come out if something were to “start?”
Then I remembered him calling me beautiful. That seemed genuine. It almost seemed to hurt him. I considered this and then shrugged again. Whatever it was, perhaps the only thing was to take it as a compliment and leave it there.
And that’s what I decided to do.
Chapter 6: Showers
The next day Matt had something of a hangover—he seemed less capable than I at “holding his booze.” I was sitting in the kitchen having a coffee when he shambled in. His hair was tousled and he was wearing only those gray sweat pants—which meant I was assaulted by the vision of his chest hair again.
“Morning,” he mumbled.
“Morning,” I said, taking advantage of his bleary-eyed state to stare unabashedly. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I got him coffee, black with sugar as he liked it, and then, while standing over him, deliberately put my hand on his bare shoulder.
“You okay?”
He took a sip of coffee and seemed to consider. Finally, he shrugged, and said, “I guess.”
I kept my hand where it was. I even began to massage his shoulder.
“You feel tense,” I said, and, moving behind him, began to massage both shoulders. He grunted but didn’t object. I noticed, however, that the front of his sweats was beginning to tent noticeably. That didn’t bother me. I was getting hard from the intimate contact as well. I felt a strong temptation to do something about it, but then pulled myself back—and removed my hands. His shoulders drooped slightly when I did that, and he gave a little sigh.
I reseated myself, adjusting myself discretely under the table.
After another sip of coffee, he looked at me. His gaze was uneasy—that was no surprise; but it was also questioning. He put his head a little on one side.
I sat there, and looked back at him, thinking benevolent thoughts.
He frowned suddenly. “I’m not gay.”
I controlled my surprise at this, and merely shrugged. “Fair enough.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I just have this—problem.”
I shook my head. “Remember what I said, that some psychologists believe that it’s not a pathology at all; there’s nothing inherently wrong with it.”
He opened his mouth. “But—”
I shook my head. “I know. It’s frowned on, it causes problems. But like I said, that’s the effect of not just your nature, but the interaction of that nature with social norms.”
He nodded hesitantly.
“And, I think there’s something else. I think that it’s partly your lack of being comfortable in it. Like I said: being yourself.”
He considered, then made a frustrated noise and waved a hand in the air. I reached out and put my hand on the hand that still held his coffee.
“There are ways, you know.”
He looked at me, half hopeful, half suspicious. Then he laughed. “Okay, doc. Help me out, will you?” The words were barely out of his mouth when he turned red and said, “I mean—therapy-
wise.”
I smiled. “Okay. But here’s the first thing: you have to believe—it’s not easy, I know—that I have your best interests in mind. You may not understand, or even like what I’m doing, but if you have trust—well, I think I can help you.” I added “somewhat” in my mind, but didn’t say it.
He appeared to consider, then he nodded. “Okay.” And then he settled into looking at me expectantly, so that I almost laughed aloud. He seemed to be expecting me to pull a rabbit out of a hat or something.
“Okay,” I said, after thinking about it for a while. “The first thing was the trust issue. That won’t be easy. You’ll have doubts, suspicious—that’s natural enough—”
“Especially since you’re gay,” he blurted out and then turned red again.
I considered. “Yeah. I guess that’s a problem—in terms of your belief. Let me think.”
I thought, and said. “You know the blow-job I gave you the other day?”
He nodded.
“It was good for you, right?”
He smiled. “I came, didn’t I?”
I nodded. “Well, just to let you know. Although I kind of enjoyed it, it wasn’t a complete thrill for me.”
He looked mortified, and started to get to his feet. But I grabbed his hand and held it.
“Sit down!” I said. “It wasn’t a problem. I’m just saying that that sort of thing, sex without a sense of emotional connection, well—it’s not really my cup of tea.”
“Oh,” he said in a small voice.
I looked at him and frowned. “I’m not sure if I’m getting through about this. First thing, don’t worry about me: if I don’t like something, if I don’t want to do it, I won’t, okay?”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said. I said it wasn’t great. But it was okay, and besides,” I shrugged, “I kind of wanted to do it for you.” I hesitated. “I kind of—well, think of you as something of a friend now.”
“Oh.” He seemed a little uneasy at this revelation, and again I almost laughed, thinking how simple friendship was an intimacy that discomfited him, while mindless sex was perfectly fine. “Like, giving a friend a hand-job, right?”
I laughed. “Okay. If you like.”
His face brightened, but I shook my head. “No. Not now.” And, when he looked a bit crestfallen, I added, “Sorry.”
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