Date: Sat, 12 Oct 2002 21:16:13 -0400 From: Tom Cup Subject: Terms Of Living - Chapter 7 Gay/Bi - A/Y Copyright 2000, 2001, 2002 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except in the case of reviews, without written permission from the Paratwa Partnership, Inc, 354 Plateau Drive, Florissant, CO 80816 This is a fictional story involving alternative sexual relationships. If this type of material offends you, please do not read any further. This material is intended for mature adult audiences. Names, characters, locations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ************************************************************************ Terms of Living By Tom Cup Chapter 7 Ritual Shores It was Easter, and fitting that during a celebration dedicated to rebirth and new life that I should introduce Andrew to some of my fondest memories of Connie. We were not religious folk, Connie and I -- If by religious you mean the type that close their minds to reason and cultural development, and cleave to irrational dogma in an effort to make themselves appear superior -- but, in truth, we found comfort in the continuity of religious ceremony. For Constance and I, Easter was an expression of the joy that the winter was over; we loved the Druid nature of Easter that had crept into the celebration as much as it had into Christmas. At both times, we celebrate more than normally thought of when one mentions those two holidays -- we celebrated the continuation of humankind at Easter and the hope of the future at Christmas (But in truth, I think far and away Connie's favorite holiday was Halloween. I remembered the fuss she put into the event -- planning for her costume beginning a day or so after Easter celebration was complete -- and the smiles and laughter she offered the children as she greeted them, they eager to see what treats and preparations she had prepared). "I don't know if I'm going to like this," Andrew whispered as I rose from my genuflection. I nodded and patted his thigh reassuringly. I understood his concern. He asked of my fondest memories and it appeared I was giving him a long dead religion, one that frowned heavily on the love we shared. He had a right to be cautious, suspicious, even leery of where this road might lead us. I imagined that he saw the event as a turning point in my thinking, a way for me to turn away from him and on to the path that would take me back to the comfortable past in which I once dwelt. I could understand the sentiment, though I knew it was incorrect. Though I had once thought I was rooted in the mundane world of social graces, I had been reborn to a new world. I was celebrating my new birth, and new love, while remembering the love of my past life. The ritual of the service was to me as much a honoring of Connie's spirit as the maintaining of her flower boxes, or my preoccupation with Halloween, or making sure that Thursday's dinner meal included fresh flowers and lighted candles -- life, I found, to a great degree is made of small rituals. What is it but ritual when each day we rise and move through the time honored activity of the workday? The day's work may vary somewhat from day to day but the formula is the same. Our work is ritual. So to, I discovered with increasing regularity that Andrew and I were creating our own rituals, memories of each other that we could look back on with smiles and say, "Do you remember..." "I just don't get it," Andrew said once the service was done and we were headed toward the car, "I mean, all that talk about death and resurrection and coming again. It's a fairy tale." "Yes," I offered, "but there is meaning and hope in fairy tales. It's why they endure." "Don't tell me you believe that stuff John." "I some ways, yes, I do Andrew. I don't mean that I buy that a man can be dead for three days and then rise again or that someday that same man will appear in the sky to whisk his true believers away but I do believe in the spirit of the teaching; that death is not an end to living, that good can come through a bad situation, that there is forgiveness in the human spirit and that ultimately love wins. Those things I believe." Andrew smiled. "OK," he said, "I can buy that." Our theological discourse was interrupted by Father Reynolds' voice beckoning me to have a moment with him. I introduced Andrew as a friend of mine. Father Reynolds' nodded cordially and shook Andrew's hand. Andrew offered a familiar, "Nice to meet you," but I could tell he was slightly annoyed at the Reverend's intrusion into what he considered our time together. "And you young man," Father Reynolds responded, "I hope this won't be the last time we see you." Andrew fidgeted and nodded, not quite knowing how to respond to the invitation. Father Reynolds turned to me. "John," he said, "I fear I have be neglectful in my duties where you are concerned. I do apologize for not getting out to see you since Connie's funeral. How are you holding up?" "Well," I answered truthfully, "Much better than I would have expected, do in no small part to the hand holding of my young friend here." Andrew blushed and Father Reynolds nodded. "That's good to hear John," he continued with a sigh, "You see, I was hoping to enlist your help. Gillian Stewart's husband died a few month's ago and I fear she is not handling the situation as well as you. I was hoping you might be willing to visit her with me some time, show her that there is life after losing a loved one." I could feel Andrew anxiously eyeing me. I knew he wanted to confer before I gave consent to the arrangement but, alas, in this case social graces prevailed upon me. I agreed and with many thanks Father Reynolds returned to the others he needed to greet. Andrew was pensive as we began our drive home. ********* "I don't understand why you have to do this," Andrew argued when we had finally settled in at the cottage. The statement came without prompting. I sat on the couch watching him pace agitatedly, his hands conducting his cacophony of arguments, his eyes moist with desperation. "He didn't even come to see you when Connie died and now he wants you to go and help him comfort some woman." "I know," I agreed. "And who is this woman anyway?" "She is one of the parishioners of the church." "His church. It's his responsibility not yours!" "Andrew." "I knew we shouldn't have gone there. I knew it. I knew something bad would happen." He began to cry and I understood his fear. I rose slowly and went to him. He made a pretense of not allowing me to hold him before collapsing into my arms. I shushed him, whispering my love for him. I tried to reassure him that nothing could separate me from him. He wiped the tears from his eyes, stood away from me, before saying, "Don't you know what he's trying to do John? He wants to set you up with that woman. Two widowers brought together to comfort one another." "That's not going to happen Andrew. I love you." "That's doesn't mean you won't fall in love with her." "Andrew," I protested, "How can you say that after all we've been through." "Because I'm gay John and you're not." I stared in disbelief at the statement. My mouth opened to defend myself. I wanted to ask how he could say I wasn't gay knowing what we had done, were doing, together. We sat staring at each other as I digested what Andrew was telling. He had no desire to be with a woman. He knew that he would, could, never have such a relationship. I, on the other hand, could and did. I loved Connie and still did, and so the possibility that I could love another woman existed. In denying that possibility I was merely deceiving myself. Andrew was not deceived, partly because he knew my love for Connie and, partly, because he understood his own feelings. Again, I was struck by how much better Andrew grasped our situation than I. I believed that it was more likely that Andrew would out grow our physical relationship. I had visions of him meeting some young girl at school and coming home aglow with the fever if puppy love. I believed his first heterosexual infatuation was inevitable. I watched for it knowing it would signal the fading of your time together. "I'm not gay," I whispered. "No," Andrew agreed, "You love me but it doesn't mean you're gay. It scares me." I nodded. I was learning again. Most of my life I thought of myself as heterosexual, if I thought to classify my sexuality at all, then I fell in love with a boy and thought of myself as homosexual. I shook my head and gaffed. Being a heterosexual or homosexual were only temporal states of being in my life, like standing on one side of a shore verses the other. I was the man in the middle, set adrift by the death of my first life's mate and the love of my second. Andrew was correct. How could either of us know which shore the currents of life would set me to beach? Yet, I had set a course with Andrew though I knew of smoother sailing. Yes, I had a choice. I smiled. Having choices doesn't mean one lacks of commitment. I loved Andrew, as surely as I had loved Connie and had remained faithful to her. What was to prevent me from remaining faithful to Andrew? Were not the temptations the same? As in my former life would there not be chances to stray? Would not the same answer apply, I have made a commitment to another? I knelt before Andrew and waited for him to look into my eyes. "I am committed to you Andrew," I said. He shook his head. I continued, "You're correct to say I am not gay but that is not to say I will let anyone else come between us, male or female. I am committed to you." "John," he said hoarsely, "I knew this might happen. I ..." "Hear me out," I interrupted wanting to express my deepest convictions, "We both have fears of losing one another. I have them because you are so young to be making the kind of commitment to me that you have voice. You have them because I am... bisexual... for lack of a better term. But love is more than corporeal. Sure the eroticism and ... and ... warm fuzzies are nice but they are not what bind a relationship together. Love without commitment is merely a fling and ultimately empty. One loses more than one gains in such relationships. I love you Andrew and with all my heart I am committed to you." Andrew smiled and then broke into hysterical laughter. I laughed with him at my grave proclamation of love for him. But I meant it, every word. In the first years with Connie there were consent doubts, insecurities, as to whether we would remain together. I suppose all couples entertain such musings. When you first make your commitments to each other you may wonder if the commitment will last a year. Once you are past that year, you wonder if you will make five years, then ten years, then twenty years and so on. You sustain each other with your physical presence during those times, you simply refuse to leave each other; you renew your commitment day after day, until the commitment no longer needs to be renewed; it simply exists. It is tangible in your physical, mental and emotional support of one another. Love is a renewed commitment, it is never stagnant, it refuses to die. "You crack me up sometimes John," Andrew said smiling at me. "And you me," I answered. "I'm sorry for acting like a jealous asshole. I trust you. I really do." "Andrew, I'm flattered that I mean so much to you that you would feel jealous of losing me. The truth is I often have those feelings also." "Why?" "You're so young and beautiful. I'm sure that there are hundreds of guys, and girls, in our future that will be throwing themselves at you." "That doesn't mean I would ..." Our entire discussion had surrounded issues of trust. In many ways it was an abstract discussion. I could see in Andrew's eyes that the discussion had become personal. I was no longer talking about his feelings or my feelings; the same was true for him. We were talking about our feelings. "OK," he sighed, "I get it. I'm sorry John." "It's OK, Andrew. Lovers go through times like these. Those that make it hold hands and walk through them together." "You're being so corny today," he said smiling. "Am I?" I asked, "I thought I was dispensing pearls of wisdom." Andrew nodded. "You are. I just wanted to change the subject." "Ah," I said, "Easily done. What subject would you like to broach? "When are you going to see that Gillian lady?" I sighed. It wasn't exactly a change of subject. ************************************************************************ Send comments to: comments@tomcup.com To support this and other writings by Tom Cup, become a member of http://www.tomcup.com Recent updates to TomCup.com: Blair Manor - Added 10/10 Stepbrother - Added 10/10 In Memory of Steve - Chapter 8 Added 10/06 David's Destiny - Chapter 8 Added 10/3 Lion of Bolognia - House Bolognia Chapter 8 Added 9/30 Worth a Shot - Added 9/27 Fair Tales Come True - Added 9/23 Coming soon to TomCup.com KOA Boy - Chapter 2 The writings of Dr. Chuk Private Lessons - Chapter 3 Of Our Teenaged Years - Chapter 4 David's Destiny - Chapter 9 Check out the complete list of stories, articles and commentaries at http://www.tomcup.com ************************************************************************